“Nelson wanted to hire me to investigate Mr. Pritchard’s death,” he began.
“It was actually Theda’s idea,” Sarah added.
Mrs. Pritchard looked alarmed again, but she nodded her understanding.
“I explained to Nelson that it was wise to allow the police to handle the matter and that he should use the money he would have paid me to offer a reward instead.”
“Ah yes,” Bergman said with a trace of irony. “The police do need encouragement, don’t they?”
Malloy chose not to respond to that. “But when Nelson and I went to Police Headquarters today to speak with the detective in charge of the case, the detective informed us that he had been ordered not to investigate the case at all.”
Both Mrs. Pritchard and Bergman exchanged a look of astonishment. “Not at all?” Mrs. Pritchard asked after a moment.
“Not at all,” Malloy confirmed.
This time when she turned to Bergman, she actually smiled.
Before Sarah could figure out what that meant, Bergman said, “Why would that happen?” He was not smiling.
“We assume someone used their, uh, influence with the police chief.”
“Who would do such a thing?” Bergman asked.
“We don’t know, but we assume it was whoever killed Mr. Pritchard.”
Bergman frowned, and he and Mrs. Pritchard exchanged another glance. Sarah thought they both looked very alarmed.
“But you don’t have to worry,” Sarah quickly assured them. “Because Nelson and Theda have hired Mr. Malloy to investigate after all, since the police won’t.”
Now Bergman and Mrs. Pritchard looked even more alarmed.
“Is that wise?” Mrs. Pritchard said. “I mean, is it safe? If someone doesn’t want the police to . . . you might be in danger or . . . or something.”
“I don’t think so,” Malloy said, “but I’m willing to take the chance.”
“And we couldn’t refuse to help Theda,” Sarah added. “She’s extremely anxious to find out who killed her father and see him punished.”
“She and her father were very close,” Bergman said flatly, as if he didn’t approve.
“You mustn’t . . . I mean . . .” Mrs. Pritchard shrugged helplessly. “This is all so . . . so unpleasant, and I don’t want to see her hurt.”
“Do you have an idea why Mr. Pritchard was murdered, Mrs. Pritchard?” Malloy asked. “Something that might hurt Theda, for example?”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Bergman said too quickly. “But sometimes people have secrets they don’t want their loved ones to know.”
Mrs. Pritchard made a little sound of distress. She pulled a hankie from her sleeve and pressed it to her lips.
“If Mr. Pritchard had a secret, you should tell me now,” Malloy said. “I promise to protect Theda if I can.”
But Mrs. Pritchard only shook her head and began to weep softly into her handkerchief.
* * *
• • •
Gino was impressed. The Pure Milk Dairy took up a whole city block. The first floor housed the milk wagons and the horses that pulled them, while the upper floors contained the offices and the pasteurizing and bottling plant. The stables on the first floor were quiet this afternoon. The horses dozed in their stalls and the wagons were parked neatly in their rows. That seemed reasonable to Gino, since milk was delivered in the predawn hours, before the streets became impassable with traffic and pedestrians. A few men were working now, mucking out stalls and cleaning wagons, but none of them paid the slightest attention to Gino, so he decided to try his luck upstairs.
The bottling plant was bustling, and Gino blinked at the blinding whiteness of it all. The walls and floors were all tiled and scrubbed immaculately clean. The workers also wore all white and their reflections loomed large in the shiny metal vats that towered over them. This time one of the workers noticed him, a dark spot in all the gleaming brightness.
“You can’t come in here without a uniform,” the worker shouted over the din of the machinery.
“I’m looking for Harvey Pritchard,” Gino shouted back.
The man made a face that might have indicated disapproval and pointed. “Upstairs.”
Gino nodded his thanks and went back to the stairwell. Upstairs he found a suite of offices where a few clerks were busy doing whatever clerks did. A young man sitting at a desk guarded them against intrusion. Gino told him he was looking for Harvey.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I’m investigating Mr. Pritchard’s death, and I need to ask him a few questions.”
The young man’s attitude changed instantly. “I’ll tell him, uh, I’ll just, uh, do you . . . ?”
Gino took pity on him and handed over his calling card. The young man frowned over it, probably expecting Gino to be a cop, but he carried it away to one of the private offices and returned shortly to escort Gino back.
Harvey sat behind a desk that obviously belonged to the owner of the dairy, and he looked somewhat lost behind it, as if even the desk knew he wasn’t up to the job.
“Donatelli, I didn’t expect to see you,” he said, rising to his feet a little uncertainly.
Gino waited until the receptionist had left and then closed the door. “Nelson and Theda have hired our agency to investigate your father’s death.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because when Nelson went down to tell the police he was offering a reward, they told him the chief of police had ordered them off the case.”
This news obviously shocked Harvey, who plopped unceremoniously back down into his chair. Since Harvey was apparently too stunned to remember his manners, Gino pulled a chair over from where it stood against the wall and sat down facing Harvey across the desk. “Do you have any idea why the police would stop investigating?”
“What? Me? No, I have no idea at all,” Harvey claimed, although Gino was pretty sure he was starting to sweat, even though the room was comfortably cool.
“I didn’t either, so I’ve been trying to figure it out for a couple hours now. I used to be a cop myself, you see, and the only reason I can come up with is because your father was involved in something illegal, so if we find out who he was doing business with, we’ll also find out who killed him. That person must have a lot of, uh, influence and they ordered the cops off the case.”
“Oh no, that can’t be it,” Harvey said, shaking his head vigorously. “My father would never . . . He was the most honest man alive. Ask anybody.”
“Are you sure? Because this looks very suspicious.”
“I’m positive. He’d never do anything illegal. I’d swear to it.”
But for someone who was so positive, he looked very nervous. “I guess we all want to think our fathers are the best men who ever lived, but you can see how I’d think something wasn’t right. I mean, somebody bribed the chief of police to make sure nobody investigated your father’s death.”
“Bribed?” Harvey cried, obviously horrified. “You didn’t say anything about a bribe.”
“Didn’t I? I guess that’s because everybody knows that’s the only reason the police do anything. Mr. Roosevelt tried to clean up the department when he was the police commissioner, you’ll remember, but then he went to Washington and now he’s the governor, so everything he did is being undone by Chief Devery and his cohorts.”
Harvey pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face, because he really was sweating now. “That’s very disturbing.”
“Yes, it is, especially when it means murderers can get away, but you don’t want your father’s killer to get away, do you, Harvey?”
To Gino’s disappointment, Harvey had to think about that. Then he looked around, as if checking to make sure nobody was lurking who might overhear, even though they were the only two people in the room. “I ordinarily
wouldn’t say anything about this, but . . .” He looked around again.
“But what?” Gino asked with genuine interest.
“Well, you know how fanatical Pop was about the milk.”
“He did seem to take great pride in how pure his is.”
“Yeah, well, not everybody does.”
“Not everybody does what?”
Harvey swallowed. “Not everybody keeps their milk pure.”
Now, this was interesting. “Really? Isn’t there a law now about how milk has to be pasteurized or something?”
“Oh yes. They have inspectors and everything, but that doesn’t mean everybody follows the rules.”
“And do you know somebody who doesn’t follow them?”
Harvey leaned forward, as if confiding a deep, dark secret. “Pop found a dairy out in Brooklyn that still uses swill milk. That’s when the cows are fed the mash that—”
“I know what swill milk is. What was he going to do about it?”
Harvey frowned. “I don’t know. He didn’t say, but he was plenty mad, and I think . . . I think he went to see the owner.”
Now, this was really interesting. “What’s the name of this dairy?”
“I don’t know.”
Gino managed not to sigh. “Can you find out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I could.”
“What would happen to this dairy if your father reported them?”
“I don’t know that either, but they’d be in trouble. Maybe they’d even have to shut down.”
Gino could see that Harvey was just guessing, but it was a logical guess. At a minimum, exposure would surely result in lost business and maybe some fines. Did people kill over that?
People killed for all sorts of silly reasons, so why not that?
Gino gave Harvey his friendliest smile. “Could you find out the name of the dairy for me, Harvey?”
“I’ll . . . Yes . . . Well, I mean, I’ll try.”
“Good. And Harvey, where were you on New Year’s Eve?”
“New Year’s Eve?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, the night your father was killed. You went out to celebrate, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did.”
“Were you alone?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, was somebody with you? Did you meet some friends? Where did you go?”
“Oh, I . . . Uh, yes, I met some friends.”
“And where did you go with them?”
“I . . . To a saloon. I . . . More than one saloon, I think. We drank a lot that night. So I really don’t remember.”
“Maybe your friends will. Who are they?” Gino pulled a notebook and pencil from his pocket.
Harvey found that alarming. “I can’t have you bothering my friends. What will they think?”
Gino flashed his smile again. “They’ll think they are helping you prove you didn’t kill your father.”
Was Harvey looking a little pale? “That’s ridiculous! I didn’t kill my father. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why anyone would kill him, but if I can cross you off my list of suspects, that makes my job easier.”
“I’ll have to think about it. I don’t know if my friends would appreciate being questioned.”
Gino nodded his complete understanding. “Maybe you’d like to check with them first. That’s fine. I’ll come back tomorrow and you can give me their names and also the name of that dairy, while you’re at it.”
For some reason, Harvey didn’t seem very excited by that prospect.
* * *
• • •
Frank waited to consult with Sarah until they were well away from the Pritchards’ town house and he had managed to flag down a cab to take them home. Once securely inside the cab, they could speak freely, and he was glad to see Sarah still looked as baffled as he had felt in dealing with Mrs. Pritchard and her friend.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“I don’t know what to think.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “She isn’t too happy that you’re investigating the murder, though.”
“I noticed. Bergman isn’t happy either.”
“And who is he? And what gives him the right to be happy or not?”
“A childhood friend, she said.”
Sarah frowned at such nonsense. “I had many childhood friends, but I didn’t summon any of them to comfort me when my husband was murdered, especially not the men.”
“So you don’t think he’s a childhood friend?” he asked with interest.
“Maybe he is or at least he once was, but he’s more than that now. Did you see the way they looked at each other?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But what?” she prodded.
“They didn’t act like lovers, if that’s what you mean.”
She smiled smugly and leaned back against the seat.
“What did I miss?”
“They didn’t act like lovers in the first flush of desire, it’s true.”
Frank winced. “Is that the way we act?”
“I’m sure we did on our honeymoon, but fortunately, we were in Europe so no one we knew saw us.”
“And how do we act now?”
“Like a married couple who are very comfortable with each other.”
Frank considered this for a long moment, remembering how Mrs. Pritchard had turned to Bergman time and again during their conversation. “You’re right. But they’re old friends. Wouldn’t that account for it?”
She sighed in dismay and shook her head at his naïveté. “Imagine for a moment that I and—oh, whom shall I choose? Oh yes!—that I and Black Jack Robinson were closeted together after your death but before you were even in the ground, and that we were on such intimate terms that he felt comfortable questioning the authorities on my behalf about the details of your death.”
Frank understood immediately. “I can’t imagine it at all.”
“Of course you can’t, because women simply don’t have that type of friendship with men, particularly married women with men to whom they are not married or otherwise related.”
“So you think they’re lovers?”
“I certainly think they are very close, and they have been very close for a long time.”
“But wouldn’t Pritchard have known? If it was going on for a long time, I mean?”
She gave him a pitying look. “Not all men are police detectives, Malloy. And I’m sure she and Bergman are very discreet.”
He took a few minutes to consider this startling theory. “That could explain why the maid was so flustered.”
“Servants always know everything, and this might have been the first time they had met alone at her house.”
“Because it was the first chance they’d had, and now that she’s a widow . . .”
“There’s nothing to keep them apart, except the fear of gossip,” Sarah mused.
“And maybe she no longer even cares about that,” Frank said. “Her daughter is safely married off, and Harvey will be rich enough that a little scandal won’t scare away too many eligible young ladies.”
“And they must have been waiting for years already. I don’t suppose Mr. Pritchard would give her a divorce.”
“No, he didn’t strike me as the type who would be understanding about his wife’s desire to leave him for another man.”
“Are there any men who are that understanding?”
“Maybe a few, but probably not many.”
Sarah nodded sagely. “Which means she and Bergman could only wait around for him to die.”
“And maybe they got tired of waiting and decided to help him along.”
“Just what I was thinking. That would certainly explain their lack of enthusiasm at lea
rning you are going to investigate. Where did Mrs. Pritchard say she’d spent New Year’s Eve?”
Frank had to think back. “Didn’t Mrs. Ellsworth say she was home alone and went to bed early, so she didn’t even know her husband hadn’t come home until the next morning?”
“I believe so. And if her husband wasn’t home—which he wasn’t because he was murdered that night—then there’s no one to confirm that.”
“Except the servants,” Frank remembered. “They know everything.”
* * *
• • •
What do you want?”
Gino nearly jumped at the unexpected question. He’d been wandering through the dairy’s stable on his way out of the building to see if he could spot anything out of the ordinary, and he hadn’t realized anyone was near. He turned around to find an older man in dirty work clothes glaring at him. “I was just . . . I was upstairs meeting with Harvey Pritchard, and I thought I’d just . . . This is a really impressive operation you have here.”
“Why were you meeting with Harvey Pritchard?”
Gino took a few seconds to size up his interrogator and decided he didn’t look threatening, just concerned. “I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find out who killed Mr. Pritchard.”
The man winced and dropped his gaze for a moment. Was he mourning Mr. Pritchard?
“Have you worked here a long time?” Gino asked kindly.
The man looked up at that. He swiped a hand across his nose before he said, “Almost twenty-five years.”
“You must’ve known Mr. Pritchard pretty well, then.”
“I knew him from when he used to help load the milk wagons himself.”
“He was very proud of the quality of his milk.”
“Oh yeah, he never sold anything but the best.”
“I don’t suppose he had much patience for people who tried to cut corners, then.”
The man frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean other dairies that aren’t as careful.”
Murder on Trinity Place Page 7