“What are you two doing here?” barked Steven Phelan, one of a select group of detectives assigned to investigate crimes in what was supposed to be a part of the city where no crook dared ply his craft. “Who let you in? I’ll have his badge for this.”
“We have a client, Detective Phelan,” Geoffrey said, his voice confident and smooth as silk.
“You always have a client,” Phelan rasped. He’d had run-ins with Hunter and MacKenzie, Investigative Law, before, but he’d been reminded more than once that it was in the department’s best political interests not to shut them out of an open case when they were already involved. He followed orders begrudgingly, even though there was nothing about the elite private inquiry agents that he liked. He especially didn’t relish the idea of a woman butting into men’s business. He’d tried before and failed to rattle the society girl’s calm demeanor, but he wasn’t above having another go at her. “You can take a look at him, if you’ve got the stomach for it. According to the shopkeeper next door, it’s James Carpenter, the owner of the store, but we don’t have an identification from next of kin yet. We’re going on the theory that it was probably a burglary and our victim unwisely tried to stop it. Took a bullet in the belly for all the good it did him.”
Prudence stepped forward and to one side, careful to avoid the pools and streams of blood that already bore the careless footprints of policemen conducting anything but a well-organized and careful search. Her throat tightened and her stomach threatened to surge up against her teeth when she saw what had been done to James Carpenter. White feathers lay all over and beside his body, a damaged display pillow tossed to the floor where it floated in a puddle of red. He hadn’t died right away. That was obvious from the anguished expression on his face and his hands clutching the gaping wound from which coils of intestine spilled out.
“Looks like he was doing his damnedest to stuff his guts back in his belly,” Phelan said, never taking his eyes off Prudence. “I make it out that the gunman shoved a pillow up against him and shot right through it. Deadened the sound, and there’s enough noise out on the street so nobody heard it.”
“Any idea when it happened?” Geoffrey asked, rounding the corner of the display case to stand beside his partner. Prudence was pale but steady. He would have given anything to have been able to put an arm around her, but Phelan was waiting for just that type of gesture. He’d read it as a sign of feminine weakness. And Prudence herself would bristle at the implication that her partner thought she needed shoring up.
“I’ll leave that to the medical examiner,” Phelan answered. “The body is flaccid, so either rigor hasn’t started yet or it’s passed off.”
“It doesn’t look as if any jewelry has been removed from the window displays,” Prudence said, turning her back on the late Mr. Carpenter’s remains. She noticed a space where a small pillow might have cushioned a garnet necklace and matching earrings that lay slightly askew in the window. She wondered if Phelan would point out the obvious.
“The killer gained himself some time. Locked the door when he left and pulled down the shades so a casual passerby wouldn’t glance in and notice anything wrong.”
“Then who found him?” Geoffrey asked.
“A customer who had an appointment to pick up something he was having repaired. When he couldn’t get the door open and nobody answered his knock, he reported the problem to a beat cop.”
“It doesn’t look as though Mr. Carpenter put anything in his windows that was of exceptional value,” Prudence remarked. “Semiprecious stones at best, silver instead of gold.”
“It’s about time you told me about this client of yours,” Phelan said. Hunter and MacKenzie took on cases for some of the city’s biggest names. Their political connections were the only reason the chief insisted his detectives had to play nice with the ex-Pinkerton and the late judge’s daughter. You never knew whose foot you might trod on if you weren’t careful, and what the repercussions might be.
“You know we can’t do that,” Geoffrey told him.
“If you won’t give me a name, at least tell me what the case is about,” Phelan insisted. “You’re here for a reason. I want to know what it is.”
“I’d like to take a look at Carpenter’s workshop,” Geoffrey said, ignoring Phelan’s demand. “I assume it’s a room in the back.” Without waiting for permission, he walked toward the open door connecting the display area and the rearmost part of the store where the jeweler worked on his clients’ commissions.
Nodding at Phelan, Prudence followed.
There were no glass-fronted cases in the workroom, but every delicate tool on the workbench had been swept to the floor, the loupes and large magnifying glasses smashed, furniture overturned, and gas lamps broken. Just as in the outer room, it looked as though the killer had determined to leave nothing behind him that was untouched or undamaged. Not a single expensive piece of jewelry or valuable unset gemstone remained.
Bloody boot prints tracked across the floor. From the size of them, Prudence decided they had most likely been made by the police. She heard Geoffrey sigh, and knew he was deploring what passed for good investigative work.
“Unless Carpenter had an assistant, he would have had to close the shop every time he needed to work on a piece of jewelry or made a delivery,” Prudence said speculatively. “I don’t imagine he’d leave the sales area empty for anyone to walk into.”
“From what Ned was able to find out from his source, our man wasn’t depending on the casual buyer coming in off the street.”
“But he did go to the trouble of displaying a number of items in the front windows,” Prudence insisted stubbornly. “I’ll go ask Detective Phelan.”
“He had someone, according to the shopkeeper next door who identified him,” Phelan answered her question. “Young fellow with yellow hair and a squint. He hasn’t been seen around for a while, so either Carpenter let him go or he quit on his own. We don’t have a name yet.”
The morgue attendants had placed the jeweler’s body on a stretcher and covered it with a sheet of stained canvas. One of them lit a cheroot against the smell of ruptured intestines, waving the smoke around as he waited for instructions.
A wooden crate stood by the door to the street. Prudence watched as a policeman showed a black apron to Phelan, then threw it haphazardly onto a small pile of other items collected in the box. According to what Geoffrey had taught her, every piece of what might be evidence should be tagged with the time and precise location it was found. It looked to her as if whatever might prove useful in building a case was being randomly tossed into a container that could easily be misplaced itself.
She drifted over to the door, waiting until no one was looking her way before stooping down to rifle quickly through the contents of the box. No accounts book that might contain a record of clients and transactions, perhaps the name and amount of money paid to the missing assistant. Not even any loose receipts.
Why would a burglar bother to take casual paperwork or Carpenter’s accounts book? Unless Phelan’s men had already found it. Or it was lying in some hiding place in the workroom, safe from prying eyes. She could hear the sound of breaking wood. If an accounts book existed, and Prudence was sure there had to be one somewhere, Detective Phelan’s men were obviously looking for it, too.
Geoffrey came out of the workroom and stood for a moment watching as the morgue attendants carried James Carpenter’s body out of the store. Sawdust was being sprinkled over the blood to keep it contained, and planks of wood had been leaned against the door frame. The shelves of the Eighteenth Street display windows had been emptied, the contents presumably carted off to police headquarters. As soon as Phelan gave the word, his men would nail the rough wood planks across the front door whose lock the beat cop had broken to gain entry. And if there was a back door into the alley that couldn’t be secured, that would be nailed shut also. Eventually whoever owned the premises would rent it out to another retailer. James Carpenter and his jewelry shop
would be as forgotten as the hundreds of other victims of unsolved crimes. New York City moved on.
“Our client will appreciate your cooperation, Detective Phelan,” Geoffrey said, extending his hand. Don’t burn any bridges behind you, had been a Pinkerton watchword. Phelan might not be a very good cop by Pinkerton standards, and he was certainly deep in the graft that permeated the police department to its core, but he was the face of officialdom for this murder. Don’t burn your bridges behind you.
Prudence had taken out a lace-edged handkerchief and lightly pressed it to her face. The odor of death was strong, despite the overlay of cheap cigar smoke. The handkerchief suddenly fluttered to the floor, and before either Geoffrey or Phelan could retrieve it for her, Prudence had bent and picked it up with an odd, scooping motion as though she’d almost lost her balance and had to brace herself before being able to rise again.
“Are you all right?” Geoffrey asked, reaching out to support her.
“Perhaps some fresh air?” Prudence murmured, clutching the handkerchief as she fumbled to open her reticule. Every lady carried a small vial of smelling salts wherever she went, and many of them couldn’t brave the city streets without a calming dose of laudanum as well. The handkerchief disappeared inside.
Phelan touched the brim of his hat as they made their way toward the door, but he didn’t trouble to hide the smirk that passed as a farewell smile.
Once outside on the sidewalk, leaning on Geoffrey’s arm as he steered her toward Fifth Avenue, Prudence’s steps steadied. “Is he watching us?” she whispered without turning around.
“Who? Phelan?”
“Is he watching?” she hissed.
“No, he’s still inside the shop,” Geoffrey said, after a quick look over his shoulder. “What is it, Prudence? What’s wrong?”
“Just get me to Danny’s hansom cab,” she said, leaning more heavily on his arm.
Mr. Washington stood on the corner, stolid, placid, and immovable as other cabs edged their way past him. The big white horse had been known to take a bite out of lesser beasts who challenged his right to plant his hooves wherever he chose. High above, Danny Dennis perched at the rear of the cab, hat raised to signal his whereabouts, whip at the ready.
With Geoffrey’s help, Prudence climbed into the hansom. She leaned back into the concealing shadows of the cab, waited until he had settled himself beside her, then opened her reticule and took out the handkerchief she’d dropped onto the filthy floor of the ruined jewelry shop. She held out a fisted hand and slowly opened it. Nestled in the folds of the lace-trimmed square of fine linen lay a diamond.
“Tiffany,” Geoffrey ordered through the trapdoor above them. “As fast as you can get us there.”
* * *
“It’s definitely a diamond from the French Crown jewels lot,” the appraiser told them. “And I’m equally certain it’s one we set in the necklace Mr. De Vries commissioned for Mrs. De Vries.”
“How can you be sure?” Prudence asked.
The appraiser took the jeweler’s loupe from his eye and set it down on the counter where the sparkling gem lay on a flat velvet cushion. It was impossible to explain to an amateur how distinctive one precious stone was from all the others that looked exactly the same to the unschooled eye. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word for it, madam,” he said. “Shall I inform Mr. De Vries of what we’ve found, Mr. Hunter?”
“I’d rather tell him myself,” Geoffrey said, cocking one dark eyebrow at the we. “I’d prefer you say nothing at all for the moment. Circumstances being what they are.”
The Tiffany appraiser had no idea what circumstances the gentleman meant, but one didn’t question one’s clients too closely, and especially not when confidentiality had already been invoked. Mr. De Vries had informed Tiffany that Mr. Hunter was to be given every cooperation, by which the appraiser inferred that a private investigation was underway. It would be worth his job and his skin if anything leaked out, especially to the press. He reached for the diamond, intending to place it with the rest of the De Vries jewels that were being studied, but a tapered female finger nudged his hand aside.
“We’ll take it with us,” Prudence said, rolling the diamond into the stained handkerchief from which she had presented it, dropping the small bundle into the embroidered reticule hanging from her wrist.
The appraiser blinked and then sighed. At least this ladies’ purse had a clasp. Some of them had nothing but drawstrings to hold them closed.
“Do you remember what you said when we were talking about whether or not to take the case after De Vries left the office?” Geoffrey asked as they climbed into Danny Dennis’s hansom cab again.
“I was wrong,” Prudence said. “Now it’s definitely murder. And you were absolutely right. It’s going to get very, very messy.”
CHAPTER 5
The plan was for Prudence to question Lena De Vries while Geoffrey tracked down the missing shop assistant.
“Do you think he was involved in planning the burglary?” Prudence asked. The description of a young fellow with yellow hair and a squint didn’t fit her notion of what a man who could commit such a vicious murder would look like.
“Possibly. Or he might have been paid to supply information and then panicked when he realized what he’d done. If he didn’t have the sense to run, he could be as dead as James Carpenter.” Geoffrey shrugged. “Nevertheless, I’ve got to try to find him.”
“You’ll need Danny’s cab tomorrow, especially if you’re going into the tenements. I’ll use my carriage to visit Lena,” Prudence decided. “It will look as though I’m paying a social call in case anyone is curious.”
“Be careful,” Geoffrey warned.
“You’re the one who will need to watch out for himself,” she admonished, smiling.
“I’ll go armed,” he promised. “And if Ned is free, I’ll take him along with me. There’s something about the look of a city cop that marks them forever, at least as far as the criminal element is concerned. If I need a little extra persuasion, Ned will supply it just by being there.”
* * *
“You can’t possibly be paying a call at this time of the morning,” Lady Rotherton said. She poured another cup of coffee from the imported French pot she’d insisted was the only remedy for the weak American brew that was unfit for drinking.
“It’s not exactly a call,” Prudence hedged. She’d hoped to be out of the house before her aunt came downstairs, but Lady Rotherton had been waiting in the breakfast room for her, the first time Prudence had known her to be up and dressed before eleven o’clock. “Then Josiah is expecting me at the office.”
“Have I met him?”
“No, Aunt Gillian. Josiah is our secretary, though he has helped out occasionally when an extra operative was needed.” And was nearly killed for it in the underground works of the Central Park merry-go-round. She didn’t think it wise to elaborate on the details of that case. Geoffrey’s advice on how to endure Lady Rotherton’s chaperonage had been to smile, smile, smile. And say as little as possible.
“You’re dressed for paying calls.”
Once Lady Rotherton took hold of something, she didn’t let go until she was satisfied she’d bested it.
“Will there be more decorators coming today?” Prudence asked brightly. “I think you’ve already done wonders with Victoria’s rooms.” Victoria was her deceased father’s unlamented second wife and the source of some of the most difficult moments in Prudence’s young life. Victoria had favored pink satin and heavy perfumes. Lady Rotherton’s taste ran more to pale French furniture upholstered in cream and blue.
“The last delivery was made yesterday. If you’d been home where you should have been, you would have known that.”
“I do have to be on my way, Aunt. I’ll try to be back in time for tea.”
“Not to bother. I’m coming with you.”
“But you don’t know where I’m going.”
“All the more reason. You’re not
yet twenty-one, Prudence. And we both know that for some unfathomable reason you’re determined to avoid even the slightest brush with any eligible suitor. In my opinion, that makes it doubly important that you be properly chaperoned at all times.”
“Does this have anything to do with Lena De Vries’s diamonds?” Prudence asked. She might as well get straight to the point. So far, Aunt Gillian had been remarkably immune to attempts to dissuade her from pursuing a quarry right into the ground.
“I assume Tiffany agreed with me that her necklace had been tampered with?”
“William De Vries has hired us to get to the bottom of the theft.” There didn’t seem to be much point keeping that bit of information secret. Prudence suspected that Lady Rotherton had been behind their new client’s visit in the first place.
“I told William he needed to have the rest of her jewelry reappraised as well. I presume you and Mr. Hunter recommended likewise?”
“Tiffany will submit a report as soon as all of the pieces have been examined.”
“Well, that’s settled then.”
Prudence reached for the gloves and reticule she had set on the table beside the morning edition of the New York Times. There was a short story about the burglary of James Carpenter’s jewelry shop yesterday and the tragic death of its owner, but nothing to connect it to the De Vries name. Detective Steven Phelan assured the reporter that the crime would soon be resolved and the guilty party locked away behind bars.
“You never did tell me what made you think there was something wrong with Mrs. De Vries’s necklace in the first place,” Prudence said as they settled themselves into the MacKenzie carriage. It was a short ride up Fifth Avenue to the De Vries mansion, but chauffeur James Kincaid had provided warm bricks wrapped in flannel for the comfort of his passengers. Like so many of Prudence’s servants, he’d been hired by her father when she was a child; fiercely loyal, he sometimes thought of her as the daughter he never had.
Death, Diamonds, and Deception Page 4