“I don’t . . . Nothing. He asked me some questions, and then he went away. I didn’t talk to him, though. I didn’t know what he was asking me.”
Maeve knew the attorney well. He’d know what to do about the bruises. People might feel sorry for Una if they knew her husband beat her, but that also gave her a reason to kill him. Maeve wasn’t going to tell anyone else about it until she’d talked it over with the attorney.
“What happened that day?”
“What day?” Una asked. She seemed perfectly sincere.
“The day your husband died.”
She winced. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know or you don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember.”
“The servants said someone was arguing with Mr. Pollock.”
“Really? I don’t know who that could have been.”
“Did he have a business partner?”
She frowned. She looked even more helpless when she frowned. Maeve would never understand the appeal. She wanted to slap Una. “He had business associates.”
“That’s what he called them?”
“Yes. He would tell me he was meeting with his associates and I wasn’t to bother him.”
“Do you know their names?”
“I met a few of them. We had them to dinner sometimes. He wanted them to see what a lovely wife he had.”
She seemed proud of this, although Maeve found it disturbing. Had Pollock literally shopped around until he found a woman who would look nice sitting at the dinner table? He’d hardly known Una when he proposed to her, so he couldn’t have chosen her for any other reason.
“Was there anyone in particular who was . . . ?” How could she phrase it? “Who was there more often? Or who was more important than the others?”
“I don’t . . . Well, maybe Mr. Truett.”
“Who was he?”
“He was . . . I guess you could say he was more like Randolph’s friend. He never came to dinner, but he would visit Randolph in his study. He came almost every week.”
“Do you know his first name? What did Randolph call him?”
“He called him Truett. He was very nice to me. Randolph didn’t want me to talk to him, but sometimes I would see him, and he always had a kind word to say.”
“That’s nice,” Maeve said, although the words wanted to stick in her throat. Who was Pollock to tell her she shouldn’t talk to someone? “Did he visit Randolph the day he died?”
Una stared at her with sad eyes. “I don’t remember.”
“I’m sure it will come back to you. Now I’m going to talk to your attorney, and he’ll come to see you again. This time, you need to answer his questions and do whatever he tells you to do.”
“Are you going to leave me here?” she asked in alarm.
“I have to. You’ll be safe here.”
“But these other women—they don’t like me.”
“Don’t worry about that. They don’t like anyone.”
“But they’re mean to me.”
Maeve felt a small stab of pity, although she knew it was wasted. Still, she couldn’t leave Una here unprotected. “If anyone tries to hurt you, call out for the matron.”
“But she doesn’t pay any attention to me.”
“She will now.” Maeve knew exactly how to get her to protect Una. “And you have to eat. Eat everything they bring you, no matter how much you might not want to. You have to keep up your strength.”
“All right.” She didn’t look happy about it, though.
Maeve had one more question. “Why did you talk to me when you wouldn’t talk to anyone else?”
She looked up in surprise, her blue eyes so wide and innocent that Maeve believed her. “Because I was afraid of you.”
“Good,” Maeve said, meaning it completely. “Now do what I tell you. I’ll be back when I can.”
She found the matron dozing in a corner of the gathering room. The woman jolted awake when Maeve bumped her chair.
She looked like a weasel in a uniform, and she glared up at Maeve suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“I want you to look after Mrs. Pollock. Make sure she eats and don’t let any of the others bother her. The redheaded woman stole her clothes. That better not happen again.”
“I can’t watch them all the time,” she said and settled back into her nap.
“You can watch Mrs. Pollock all the time,” Maeve said, slipping five dollars out of her purse and holding it up. This was more than the woman earned in a week, Maeve was certain.
The matron’s eyes widened. “Well, she does seem like a decent sort.”
“Nobody hurts her or bothers her or steals from her. If she calls for help, you see that she gets it. If she gives me a good report, you’ll get more.”
The money disappeared into the weasel’s claw. “You can trust me.”
Maeve was sure she could.
* * *
Felix Decker looked at his wife for an explanation, but she was as puzzled as he.
“Did this Mr. Yorke say his sister is Mr. Pollock’s wife?” Elizabeth asked the maid.
“Yes, ma’am, he did.”
“But why is he here? He’s come all the way from Chicago. And why would he want to see you?” Decker asked his wife.
“Because I gave the servants at Pollock’s house my card in case they needed anything. I suppose they sent him here. What confuses me is how could Una O’Neill be his sister?”
“Why don’t we ask him?” Decker said, knowing full well they should send this Yorke fellow on his way and not get more involved in this than they already were. But common sense was no match for curiosity, he was learning.
“Bring Mr. Yorke up, will you?” Elizabeth asked the maid, who hurried to obey her.
“Who could this man possibly be?” he asked when they were alone.
“Perhaps he’s one of the people listed in Pollock’s ledger.”
He hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t recall that name.”
“We should have copied the names so we’d have a list.”
“In case one of them happened to show up on our doorstep?” he asked.
“When you’re working on a case, you must be ready for any eventuality, Felix.”
He was still gaping at her when the maid announced Mr. Yorke.
He was a respectable-looking man in his thirties. His waistline was still trim, although his hairline had begun to retreat. His clothes were well tailored, but his face was haggard. “I’m sorry for bursting in on you like this, missus—” he began as if reciting a speech he had prepared, but the sight of Felix, whose presence he could not have anticipated, stopped him. “Sir,” he said with a curt but uncertain nod.
“This is my husband, Mr. Yorke,” Elizabeth said. “He just happened to be here and is as interested as I in learning your business with me.”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Decker, and I must apologize to you both for my intrusion, but it is a matter of some importance, and I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Then by all means have a seat and tell us why you’re here,” Decker said, indicating a chair.
“May I offer you something, Mr. Yorke? Some coffee perhaps?” Elizabeth said.
“Thank you, no. I don’t wish to inconvenience you.” He sank down into the chair as if he were grateful to rest. Now that Felix had had an opportunity to study him for a moment, he realized the young man appeared to be under a great deal of strain. His hands gripped the arms of the chair and his lips seemed nearly bloodless.
“So tell us, Mr. Yorke, what brings you here today?” Elizabeth said.
“I need to see Randolph Pollock, but his servants told me he wasn’t available and I would have to speak to you. Please, if you’ll just tell me where I can find him, I’
ll be on my way.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Pollock really is unavailable, but if you’ll tell us what your business is with him, we’ll assist you in any way we can.”
He drew a breath as if to calm himself before he replied. “As I said in the message I sent with your maid, my sister is married to Randolph Pollock.”
“Your sister is Una O’Neill?”
“No. My sister is Cecelia Yorke.”
Felix and Elizabeth exchanged a startled glance. “We were under the impression that Pollock was married to a young woman named Una O’Neill,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, it is my understanding that he has married a second time.”
“While he was still married to your sister, Mr. Yorke?” Felix said.
Yorke hesitated. “Pollock claims that Cecelia . . . that she died.”
“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said.
“You sound as if you doubt that claim, Mr. Yorke,” Felix said.
Yorke closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply, as if reaching for some inner strength. “We haven’t seen Cecelia for almost two years. Since right after she married Pollock.”
“Why not?” Elizabeth asked when he didn’t go on.
“It wasn’t our choice, if that’s what you’re thinking. My parents approved of the match, and even though Cecelia hadn’t known him very long, he seemed genuinely devoted to her. But shortly after they were married, Cecelia stopped visiting our parents, and when any of the family tried to visit her, they were turned away. She wrote us a letter, telling us that Pollock didn’t think our family was a good influence on her, and he preferred that she not see us.”
“Not a good influence?” Elizabeth echoed. “In what way?”
“She didn’t say, and our family is perfectly respectable, so there was no legitimate reason to cut off contact. I think Pollock just didn’t want us knowing what was going on.”
“And what was going on, Mr. Yorke?” Felix asked.
“I don’t know, but I do know Cecelia wasn’t herself. Occasionally, she’d send a brief note to let us know she was fine and we weren’t to worry, but I could tell that she wasn’t fine at all. She seemed frightened, but I never could find out of what.”
“And then Pollock told you she died?” Elizabeth said very gently.
“Only after we finally ran him to ground,” he said bitterly. “We hadn’t heard from Cecelia for several months, so my father and I went to the house. We were going to demand to see her, but the place was empty. They’d moved out. It took us several more months to find Pollock, and when we did, he was living alone in some rented rooms. When we confronted him, he told us Cecelia had died. In childbirth, he said.”
“How tragic,” Elizabeth said.
“Except her death was never reported in the newspapers, and he wouldn’t tell us where she was buried. My poor mother was hysterical. She just wanted to be able to mourn her daughter properly, and that cad wouldn’t even tell us where her grave was. This led us to suspect he’d lied to us about Cecelia and that perhaps she was still alive. We were afraid he might have turned her out and she’d been too embarrassed to return home. But when we went back to try to find out, he’d vanished again. It’s taken months, but we finally traced him to New York.”
“And what do you want from us, Mr. Yorke?” Felix asked again.
“I just want to know where Pollock is. I confronted him the other day, and that’s when I found out he’d remarried, which was a shock, as you can imagine. He still refused to tell me anything, and he threw me out of his house, but we still hope to find my sister or at least find out where she’s buried if she truly is dead. But when I tried to call on Pollock again today, the servants said he wasn’t home and I’d have to speak with you, Mrs. Decker.”
Felix exchanged another glance with Elizabeth and saw her distress. “The servants didn’t tell you what happened?” she asked.
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“Mr. Pollock is dead. Someone murdered him.”
* * *
Henry Nicholson, Esq., had his office across the street from the Tombs, which was convenient for him and his clients. Maeve climbed the stairs to the second floor, where his name was stenciled on the glass window of one of the doors along the long, dusty hallway. Inside, half a dozen clients waited in wooden chairs lined up against the walls—gang members, madams, and bunco artists—while several young men escorted them in and out of the adjoining offices of the various partners. A harried-looking fellow in a green eyeshade sat at a desk, and he looked at Maeve suspiciously as she entered.
“May I help you, miss?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Nicholson. He’s an old friend of my family’s. Tell him Maeve is here.”
Frowning doubtfully, he went into an inner office, and in a moment, Henry himself bustled out of his office, his fleshy face wreathed in smiles. As usual, he wore a too-flashy vest and violently checked pants that made him look even fatter than he was. His vest was stained with whatever he’d had for lunch, and his shirt needed a fresh collar, but a solid gold watch chain stretched across his broad belly, and enormous diamonds flashed from every finger on his hands.
“Maeve, my darling girl! How wonderful to see you.” He took both her hands in his and squeezed them tightly as he looked her over. “I see you’re doing well. I’m so glad of that.”
“I’m doing very well, and I’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”
“Then come inside and do it. Freddy, don’t disturb us,” he added to his clerk, who plainly disapproved of this disruption to Henry’s schedule.
Henry escorted her into his office and sat her down in one of the worn client chairs placed in front of his battered desk. Henry, she knew, could have afforded an elegant suite of rooms in the most expensive building in the city and he could have worn tailor-made suits of the finest fabrics, but fancy lawyers got fancy clients, and Henry didn’t like fancy clients. His bread and butter were the successful criminals who considered competent legal assistance a necessary business expense. These men weren’t impressed by fancy offices. They needed a smart lawyer who knew how to maneuver the system and keep them out of jail. For that they were willing to pay handsomely.
“What have you been up to, girl?” he asked when he’d taken his seat behind his bare desk. Henry kept no paper in the office. He’d been raided by the police more than once, and they’d found not one scrap of incriminating evidence against any of his clients. “I hope you aren’t here because you need my services.”
“I do, but not for myself. I’m the one who sent you Una Pollock.”
“Oh, that unfortunate Irish girl who smashed in her husband’s skull.”
“She didn’t do it,” Maeve said.
“Of course she didn’t, if she’s my client. But I don’t know how I can help her. I went to see her yesterday, and she wouldn’t say a word to me. I could probably get her out on bail if she’d tell me what happened . . . or at least give me a good yarn to spin to the judge.”
“She’s talking now, or at least she was when I saw her a little while ago. She claims she doesn’t remember what happened, but I’m sure you can coax it out of her.”
“And just how did you get yourself mixed up in a murder, Miss Smith? Your grandfather wouldn’t be pleased.”
Maeve smiled. Her grandfather would never have understood her involvement in any of this. “I’m not mixed up in it at all. After the old man died, I went to stay at a mission.”
“You? At a mission? Did they make you go to church?”
“Of course they did, but they kept me off the streets. The old man didn’t want me in the game, so I was trying to stay honest. Then a lady offered me a job taking care of her little girl, so that’s what I’ve been doing.”
“Not the lady who killed her husband, I hope.”
“I told you, she didn’t kill him, and no, this
lady was a widow. She had a gentleman friend who was a police detective, though—”
“Police! Good God, Maeve. Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with the police.”
He looked so horrified, she had to smile. “Not anymore. He got fired.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
“Mr. Malloy was too good for them. He solved several really tough cases, and Mrs. Brandt would help him when she could, and so did I. Then he came into some money, and they got married. They’re on their honeymoon now, but when they get back, Mr. Malloy is going to open a detective agency.” She didn’t mention that Malloy didn’t know this yet.
“Malloy, you say? Wait a minute, is this the copper who inherited all that money? The one in all the newspapers?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Henry seemed to sag. “Are you working a con on him, honey?”
“Oh no! I told you, the old man didn’t want me in the game, and Mr. Malloy wouldn’t be a good mark anyway. He’s too smart.”
“The old man used to say the smart ones were the easiest to fool.”
“I told you, he was a copper. He’s seen it all.”
Henry shrugged. “So if you’re not running a con, what are you doing?”
“I told you, I have a job as a nursemaid, but sometimes I help out when Mr. Malloy is working on a case.”
“So you think you’re going to work in his detective agency?”
“Yes, and in the meantime, we’re helping Una Pollock. Her mother is a friend of Mr. Malloy’s mother from their old neighborhood.”
“Who is this ‘we’?”
“Me, of course. And Mr. Malloy’s in-laws, and a policeman named—”
“Wait a minute. Who are these in-laws?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Felix Decker.”
“And who are they when they’re at home?”
“They’re society people, but—”
“Rich?”
“I suppose.”
Henry’s frown frightened her. “Are you sure you aren’t running a con?”
“No, I told you! The Deckers are just helping out because they’re nice people. Well, Mrs. Decker is nice, and Mr. Decker likes to be in charge.”
Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue Page 7