Murder on Pleasant Avenue

by Victoria Thompson

  Maeve couldn’t think of a reason why he would have killed Mrs. Esposito, but she could certainly see the woman admitting him to her home. She would also have considered him harmless. Poison, they always said, was a woman’s weapon, but a man who had been raised to revere women might hesitate to use violence against one. Poison would be a neat alternative.

  Having convinced herself that it was a good idea, Maeve locked up the office and hurried out to catch the El for Italian Harlem.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sarah arrived at Mrs. Cassidi’s house that afternoon with her medical bag and a list of questions. The list of questions was in her head of course, so she wouldn’t frighten the boy or his mother. Mrs. Cassidi answered her knock and admitted her to the house.

  “How is the boy doing?” Sarah asked in a whisper after they had greeted each other.

  “Children are so . . .” She gestured, trying in vain to find the right word. “Things do not bother them so much.”

  Or the children just didn’t show it. Sarah didn’t say that, though. Let Mrs. Cassidi think the boy was fine after his ordeal. Mrs. Cassidi took her into the parlor.

  The drapes had been drawn, even though it was the middle of the day. Sarah thought perhaps the mother didn’t want anyone to see her son. She’d naturally be protective.

  Indeed, she was sitting beside him on the sofa with one arm draped around his shoulders, and she jumped to her feet the moment Sarah and Mrs. Cassidi entered the room.

  “Mrs. Malloy, this is my friend, Mrs. Gallo, and her son, Fabio.” Fabio was a handsome boy of about twelve, with large, dark eyes and curly black hair.

  Sarah told them how happy she was to meet them and shook hands with Mrs. Gallo and the boy. Fabio thought shaking hands with a strange lady was amusing, and Sarah was happy to see he didn’t seem too upset, at least at the moment.

  “I explained to Mrs. Gallo that you are a nurse and that you examined me after I came home to make sure I was in good health,” Mrs. Cassidi said, although they both knew Sarah had done nothing more than give Mrs. Cassidi a sympathetic ear.

  “Do you speak English, Mrs. Gallo?” Sarah asked.

  But Mrs. Gallo shook her head and gave her apology in Italian.

  “Mama can’t speak English,” Fabio said without a trace of an accent, “but I can tell her what you say if you need to talk to her.”

  “Thank you, Fabio, but I mostly just need to talk to you. Have you ever been examined by a doctor before?”

  “No,” he said in wonder. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m a nurse, but I can check the same things a doctor would. Is that all right? I’ll explain everything I’m going to do.”

  The boy nodded, obviously intrigued. Sarah opened her medical bag, the one that had belonged to her first husband, Tom, who really had been a physician. The boy and his mother and even Mrs. Cassidi watched with avid interest as she pulled out the implements she would use.

  “This is a stethoscope. I’m going to use it to listen to your heart.” Sarah showed him how the curved parts fit into her ears and how she would press the bell at the other end to his chest. “When I’m finished, I’ll let you listen, too.”

  Fabio and the two women watched closely, with Mrs. Gallo obviously ready to snatch her son away if Sarah tried anything untoward. She listened to the boy’s heart and then had him turn around so she could hold the bell to his back to check his lungs. Then she let him hear his own heart and he insisted that his mother listen as well. Having completed this part of the exam without incident, Sarah could see Mrs. Gallo had relaxed a bit.

  Sarah started rummaging in the bag for the next instrument and said as casually as she could, “I understand you had quite an adventure, Fabio.”

  “You mean when I was kidnapped?” he said with an odd note of pride.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. It must have been hard, being away from your family all that time.”

  “I missed them,” he admitted, “but there were other boys there to play with.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “Yes. Tony and Alberto and Caesar.”

  Oh dear. “Did you know any of them already?”

  “No, but we are friends now.”

  “And they stayed behind when you left?”

  “Except Tony. He had already gone home.”

  Sarah nodded. “You see this? It’s an otoscope. I’m going to use it to look in your ears, but first I’m going to put this on my head.” She showed him the round mirror with a hole in the middle that was attached to a leather strap. Everyone watched, fascinated, as she fastened the strap around her head.

  “What is that for?” Fabio asked in wonder.

  “We’ll go over to the window and I’ll try to catch the light with the mirror and shine it into your ear. Come along, I’ll show you.”

  Sarah chose the window that faced the side of the house, in case Mrs. Gallo was worried they’d be seen from the street. Mrs. Gallo followed them anxiously but made no attempt to interfere. Sarah moved the mirror over her eye, so she could see through the hole, and demonstrated how the light could be reflected from the window. “That will let me see inside your ear.” Then she showed him, checking both his ears. They repeated the exercise after Sarah fetched the metal tongue depressor from her bag and checked Fabio’s throat.

  She let him play with the otoscope for a few minutes. “Do you remember the place where you stayed when you were on your adventure?”

  “Sure.”

  “What was it like?”

  “It was an old house. We were upstairs. We each had a cot, and there were two more cots that were empty.”

  “What could you see when you looked out the windows?”

  He peered at her through the otoscope. “We couldn’t see out the windows. They were painted black.”

  “You couldn’t see anything at all?” Sarah scoffed.

  Fabio grinned. “We could see a little. We scraped some of the paint away with our fingernails.”

  Sarah grinned back. “What did you see?”

  “A tree. A really big tree, taller than the windows and right beside the house. We could’ve reached the branches and climbed down it if we could’ve gotten the window open.”

  “Was it locked?”

  “No, they nailed it shut. You could see the nails. We tried to open it but it wouldn’t move.”

  “That was very clever of you to at least try.”

  “We all wanted to go home.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Sarah pulled a small hammer out of her bag. “Now I’m going to test your reflexes.”

  “What are reflexes?”

  “Sit down on this chair and I’ll show you.” Sarah took him to a wooden chair that sat against the wall. She tapped his knee and he laughed out loud when his foot automatically kicked out.

  “How did you do that?” he marveled.

  “Like this.” She tapped his other knee and his other foot kicked out. Even the women laughed that time.

  Sarah had to explain how reflexes work and demonstrate on both of the ladies as well, much to everyone’s delight.

  “Did someone watch over you when you were at the house?”

  “Some men.”

  “Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  “We never saw their faces. They always wore masks.”

  “What about their voices? If you heard them again, would you know them?”

  The boy shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Can you remember anything else about the house? Did you hear any strange sounds?”

  Fabio’s nose wrinkled as he tried to remember. “A train sometimes, but it was mostly quiet. Not like here.”

  Just as Mrs. Cassidi had said. They exchanged a knowing glance.

  “Fabio,” Sarah said, �
��you can tell your mother that you are in good health.”

  His mother smiled gratefully when he had translated Sarah’s message.

  “Grazie,” she said with heartfelt thanks.

  But Sarah couldn’t help thinking about the two boys who were still being held and any other children who might have joined them. How on earth would they ever find them?

  * * *

  * * *

  On the ride uptown, Maeve had considered how best to approach McWilliam. He’d never met her and would have no idea of her connection to the Donatellis or the Malloys, so she could be whomever she wanted to be. She decided to be Jane Harding’s friend again.

  Maeve glanced around when she entered the settlement, glad to see the entrance hall was practically deserted. Classes were in session and most everyone seemed to be occupied. Maeve hurried up the stairs before anyone could notice her, fingers crossed in hope of finding Christopher McWilliam in his office.

  The door was open and she saw him at his desk, his back to the door. She watched him for a moment and noticed he seemed to be just staring out the window, which overlooked the street. Maeve rapped sharply on the door jamb, startling him.

  He jumped a little and turned, rising to his feet when he saw her in the doorway. “May I help you?”

  “Are you Mr. McWilliam?”

  “Yes, I am.” He looked distracted and oddly haggard. Guilty conscience?

  “I’m Maeve Smith. I’m sorry to bother you, but . . . Well, I had a friend at school who told me about the work you’re doing here, and I’m interested in volunteering. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to answer some questions for me.”

  He forced himself to smile, which she could see took some effort. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Smith. Please have a seat.”

  Maeve sat down on the worn sofa at the other end of the room from his desk, and he dragged his chair over and set it down so he could face her. Now that she’d had a chance to study him more closely, she realized his shirt looked like he’d slept in it and his suit was wrinkled. He looked like a man who had given up. “Who was the friend who told you about our work?”

  “Jane Harding.”

  He winced at that, a spasm of pain contorting his otherwise handsome face. “I see.”

  “Yes, I came by the other day to see her, but they told me she wasn’t here.”

  “Uh, no. She left, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s what the girl I spoke to said. Miss Westrop was her name.”

  He smiled weakly. “You said you had some questions.”

  “Yes, I do. Miss Westrop said I would need to apply if I wanted to volunteer, and that I would need references.”

  “That’s right. We require three references as to your character.”

  “Could Jane be one of them? I thought she would be especially good since she works here.”

  “She doesn’t . . . That is, she’s gone . . .” To Maeve’s horror, his voice broke and he looked as if he might actually weep. He quickly pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Obviously, he was still devastated by Jane Harding’s desertion.

  How wonderful!

  “Mr. McWilliam, are you all right?” she asked, not even having to feign her concern. “Can I get someone for you?”

  He shook his head, unable to speak, and Maeve jumped up and closed the door. He wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this, she was sure, and she didn’t want anyone to interrupt them. She cast about for something to do to help and she saw a carafe of water on his desk with a glass next to it. She poured some water into the glass and took it to him.

  “Here, drink this,” she said, holding out the glass.

  He looked up in surprise, his red-rimmed eyes squinting in confusion until he saw the glass she was offering. He accepted it obediently and drank it down. She took the empty glass from him and set it on the floor, then resumed her seat opposite him.

  “Something has happened to Jane, hasn’t it? Please tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  He tucked away his handkerchief and gave her a sheepish look before lowering his gaze again. “I’m terribly sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It must be something awful, and I know it concerns Jane. You can trust me, Mr. McWilliam. If anything has happened to her . . .”

  “She’s fine,” he said without much conviction. “I mean, she . . . she went to stay with her cousin.”

  “With Lisa?” Maeve marveled, thus proving she knew Jane well indeed. “It really must be something bad if she’s with Lisa. They don’t get along at all, do they?”

  He blinked in surprise. “They . . . I believe they have made up their differences.”

  Maeve frowned skeptically. “Was that even possible? And why didn’t Jane just go home? Oh my, is she sick? Or hurt?”

  “No, not at all . . . That is . . .”

  “Please tell me! It can’t be as bad as I’m imagining.”

  “She was . . . kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” Maeve echoed in amazement. “But she’s not . . . I thought that only happened to millionaires who could pay ransoms.”

  “This was . . . different.”

  “How was it different?”

  McWilliam rubbed his forehead as if it ached, and it probably did, because obviously he knew who had really kidnapped Jane and why. Had Jane told him or someone else? But who else even knew?

  “Mr. McWilliam, if Jane was mistreated in some way . . . Well, I’d like to help, if I can.”

  He just shook his head.

  Maeve cast about for some other way to get through to him, and then she found it. “Mr. McWilliam, I know about you and Jane. That is, I know she was in love with you and that you two hoped to marry.”

  He looked up in surprise. “She told you that?”

  “Oh, I know you weren’t engaged yet, but—”

  “No, I mean she told you she was in love with me?”

  Maeve knew she had him then. She smiled with as much tenderness as she could manage. “Yes. I don’t think anything else could have brought her to New York.”

  “She seemed genuinely excited about working at the settlement house, at least at first,” he said sadly.

  “Why did she change her mind . . . ? Oh, I see. After she got kidnapped, I suppose she was afraid to stay here.”

  “Yes, she . . . That’s what she said.”

  Maeve could see he was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth. “But surely she . . . Oh, now it all makes sense. Miss Westrop told me that Jane had disappeared from the settlement house for a few days. That must have been when she was kidnapped.”

  McWilliam blanched. “Is that what people are saying? That she disappeared?”

  “I can’t remember exactly what Miss Westrop said, but she knew Jane was gone for a few days and hadn’t taken anything with her.”

  “We were so careful not to tell anyone about the kidnapping. I shouldn’t have even told you.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul, and how kind of you to keep it a secret, or at least try to. No lady wants people to know she was taken away by gangsters and held against her will.” Maeve managed to shiver with horror at the very thought.

  “You mustn’t say a word to anyone, Miss Smith. Swear to me,” he said, almost desperate.

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want to hurt Jane, although I imagine you want to hurt whoever did this to her.”

  His eyes widened. “Yes, well, I do but . . .”

  “But what? Do you actually know who did it?” she asked, amazed again.

  “Yes, I do, but . . . he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Maeve hoped she looked suitably horrified. “He deserves it of course, and . . . Oh my, is it the man Miss Westrop was telling me about? The fellow from the Black Hand?”

  McWilliam gasped. “She told you about him?” />
  “She said he . . . Well, she mentioned that Jane had admired his house or something like that and then he was murdered.”

  “What else did she say?” he asked, leaning forward to impress upon her the urgency of his question.

  “Oh dear, I’m afraid it was some scandalous gossip,” Maeve hedged, trying to look dismayed at the prospect of relating it.

  “What did she say?” he insisted.

  “That he was murdered in the apartment where he kept his mistress,” she confessed.

  McWilliam reared back as if she’d struck him. “She wasn’t his mistress. She was his captive. She hated him. She told me!”

  “Now, now, you mustn’t upset yourself. What does it matter in any case? You can’t possibly care . . .” She stopped herself as she pretended to consider what he’d said. “Was Jane the mistress? I mean the captive he held there?” she quickly corrected herself. “Of course she was! The poor thing. How will she ever stand the shame of it?”

  “That’s why you must never tell anyone,” he said. “Swear it to me, Miss Smith. We have to do whatever we can to protect Jane.”

  “You’re right. I’ll never breathe a word of it, but . . .”

  “But what?” he demanded when she pressed her fingers to her lips as if to hold back what she had been about to say.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me. What were you going to say?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Mr. McWilliam. I know how much you care for Jane, and this can only hurt you.”

  “Nothing can hurt me now. What were you going to say?”

  Maeve sighed in despair. “Miss Westrop told me that people are saying the mistress—because that’s what they think she was—that the mistress is the one who killed this gangster.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I’m sure Jane couldn’t have done that. In fact, Miss Westrop said Jane locked herself in her room when she got back.”