4

Benny the Monk

Though Washington Square had once been a potter’s field, it later became quite fashionable. Some of New York’s most distinguished families lived in the red brick buildings on the north side of it, which was probably why Sara and Andrew had so little trouble finding a policeman. For, like London and most other large cities, it was the neighborhoods where the wealthiest and best connected citizens lived that were most carefully patrolled. The two young people had barely convinced themselves that they were not imagining things and there really was a body in the fountain when they heard slow, heavy footsteps and saw a policeman, wearing a helmet very much like a London bobbie’s, walking west on Fourth Street.

They ran over to him. Busy swinging his night stick—no, not swinging it; making it dance and pinwheel at the end of its leather thong—he did not notice them until they were in front of him. He started, listened skeptically to what they had to say, and then walked over to the fountain.

“Holy jumping Moses!” he said, then beat a rapid tattoo on the pavement with the end of his club. Apparently this was an established means of communication, because almost at once they heard an answering rapping from somewhere over on West Third Street, and a few minutes later another policeman came running down Broadway toward them.

“What is it, Joe?” he called. Then, as the first policeman jerked his head at the fountain. “Saints above! Dead?”

“Well, now does he look like he was taking a midnight swim?”

“Who found him?”

“The kids here.” Then turning to them, “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Meeting someone,” said Sara. “At least…”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live?”

“The Hotel Brevoort,” said Andrew.

The policeman looked at him, at Sara, and reassured by their appearance, said to his partner, “You stay here and keep your eye on the corpus. I’ll walk them to the hotel, then go on to the station house and report it.”

“You don’t have to walk us to the hotel,” said Sara.

“Yes, I do. I’ve got four of me own at home, and I wouldn’t want any of them traipsing around by themselves at this hour. Besides, it’s on me way.” Then as they started across the park toward Fifth Avenue, “Are you British or something?”

“Yes,” said Andrew.

“Well, I was born in Cork, but I’ve been here long enough to lose most of me justifiable prejudices. What are your names and how long have you been here?”

They told him and managed to answer his questions without having to tell him any of the things they preferred not to—such as who they were meeting and why—until they reached the hotel. They were afraid that he might go in with them, which would be awkward, but as they paused under the canopy, a hansom drew up and Wyatt got out.

“Well, what’s this?” he asked, looking from them to the policeman.

“Was this who you went out to meet?” asked the policeman.

“Not exactly,” said Sara evasively.

“My name’s Wyatt. I’m a friend of theirs and of young Tillett’s mother and I’m staying here at the Brevoort, too. Now can you tell me what this is all about?”

“They were out in Washington Square Park, and they found a body in the fountain there.”

“A body?” He stiffened, looking sharply at Andrew who returned his glance with significant intensity.

“There was a note for you,” he said. “But since you weren’t here, we went out to take care of it.”

“I see,” said Wyatt, reading him correctly and understanding that there were things he did not want to say. “Do you know Inspector Sam Decker?” he asked the policeman.

“I know who he is, sir.”

“Well, will you get word to him that Peter Wyatt thinks he should know about the body in the fountain and that I also think he should stop by here tomorrow morning and talk to me and my friends here.”

It’s unlikely that the policeman knew who Wyatt was, but he would have known he was someone of consequence even if he hadn’t mentioned Decker’s name.

“I’ll do that, sir,” he said, saluting. “Good night to you. And to the two of you,” he said to Sara and Andrew and went off up Eighth Street toward the station house.

“Where’s the note?” asked Wyatt.

“Upstairs, under your door,” said Sara.

“Let’s go up.” He got his key at the desk, led the way upstairs, opened the door and picked up the note.

“How did it get up here?” he asked.

“We brought it up,” said Sara. “Jim McCann said there was a note for you, and we thought it might be important.”

“I assume you also read it,” he said, reading it himself.

“Yes,” said Andrew. “The envelope was open, and we thought if it was important, we could get word to you at the theatre. But when we saw the time, we thought we wouldn’t have to. That you’d be back by then.”

“But when I wasn’t, you thought you’d go meet the anonymous informant yourselves.”

“That’s right,” said Sara. “Do you think he was the man who was killed?”

“How do you know he was killed?”

“Well, as the policeman said, it’s not likely he was taking a midnight swim.”

“No. But that doesn’t mean either that he was the man who wrote the note or that he was killed. It’s possible that he died of natural causes and—”

“Well, well,” said Verna, appearing at the top of the stairs. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” said Andrew. “Not really.”

“Then could you tell me what’s going on? I’m not inflexible about your bedtime, but even you will admit that this is a bit late for the two of you, unless there’s some special reason for it.”

“There is a reason for it,” said Wyatt. “I don’t know whether it’s a good one or not, but … let’s go inside, and we’ll tell you about it.”

They went into the sitting room of the suite, and taking off the shawl she wore over her ivory silk dress, Verna sat down and listened while Sara and Andrew told her what had happened, just as they had told Wyatt.

“Does this have anything to do with one of your cases?” she asked Wyatt.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then who sent you that note and why?”

“I think I can tell you why if not who, but I’d rather not. I’ve asked a friend of mine, Inspector Decker of the New York City Police, to come here tomorrow. I think he should be told about the note and how Sara and Andrew got involved, and I suspect he’ll be able to answer many of our questions as well as yours. So, especially since it’s so late, why don’t we hold them all in abeyance?”

“That sounds sensible,” said Verna. Then, looking at Sara and Andrew with a frown that was only partly in jest, “As for you two.…”

“Yes, mother,” said Andrew, and he and Sara both kissed her and went off to their respective rooms and beds.

Decker came to the hotel at a little after eleven the next morning. Sara and Andrew were in the sitting room with Verna at the time. She was going to Mark Russell’s studio for her first sitting that afternoon—as a matter of fact, they were all going—and they were discussing what she should wear for the portrait when Wyatt brought Decker in. Though he was a fairly sophisticated man, his reaction was one that Andrew and Sara were used to, especially from men who had seen Verna on the stage. He did not stare, stammer and become much too courtly as some men did, but he did seem to find it hard to tear his eyes away from her and get to a discussion of the facts that was the supposed purpose of his visit.

“Yes,” he said in answer to a question from Wyatt. “We’ve been able to identify the fellow in the fountain. He was generally known as Benny the Monk.”

“The appellation, Monk, I suspect, was not used in its religious sense.”

“No. It seems to have been short for monkey. If you had a chance to look at him, you’d know why.”

“What did he do?” asked Andrew. “Was he a criminal?”

“It’s hard to say. He was never booked for anything major—just vagrancy and drunkenness—but he hung around with known criminals, especially two who were suspected arsonists.”

“Then he could have had something to do with setting fire to the investigators’ office,” said Sara. “Was he killed?”

“Just a second,” said Decker. “Why do you connect him with the fire in the investigators’ office? And what were the two of you doing out there at the fountain anyway?”

Sara and Andrew looked at Wyatt and when he nodded, they told the inspector about the note—which Wyatt gave to him—and then went on with everything that had happened after that.

“I see,” said Decker thoughtfully. “To answer your question,” he said to Sara, “yes, he was killed. With his history, we thought at first that he might have fallen into the fountain while drunk and drowned. But our surgeon said no. There was a wound on the back of his head. He’d apparently been hit there—that’s what killed him—and then thrown into the fountain.”

“That means that someone must have known about the note,” said Andrew, “and killed him to keep him from talking.”

“That’s the way it looks,” said Decker.

“May I ask a question?” said Verna. “Is this the case that brought you to New York?” she asked Wyatt.

“No, it’s not. It’s something I have absolutely nothing to do with.”

Andrew tried to catch Sara’s eye. For the first time Wyatt had not equivocated about whether he had or had not come to New York on a case. Which meant that he was on one.

“Then why did that Benny the Monk send you that note?” asked Verna.

“Tell her, Sam,” said Wyatt. And somewhat awkwardly, Decker did so, not going into all the details, but covering all the important ones and especially the story about Wyatt that had appeared in the World.

“I see,” said Verna. “I’m sure you know why I’m interested.”

“Of course,” said Decker. “You’re worried about Sara and Andrew. While it was nothing that anyone could have foreseen, I’m sorry about what happened last night and I can’t see any reason why they should have anything more to do with the case—or any other case—from now on.”

“Good,” said Verna, ignoring the young people’s disappointed looks. “You’ve relieved my mind considerably. And now that we’ve straightened that out, would you like to have lunch with us?”

Though it was obvious that Decker would have liked to, he pleaded press of work and left. The four of them had lunch in the Brevoort restaurant, and a little before two they left for Russell’s studio.

As the theatre was being readied for the dress rehearsal, which was to take place the next afternoon, there was no rehearsal that day. Nevertheless the carriage was at Verna’s disposal, and they used that to go to Russell’s studio. Andrew was the last one in, sitting on the outside with his back to the coachman. As he got in, he noticed a man standing near the hotel entrance, staring at them. He was in his thirties, powerfully built, and wore rather rough clothes: corduroy trousers and a short jacket over a checked shirt. He made no effort to avoid Andrew’s eye, and as the carriage moved off, Andrew saw him step out into the street and hail a hansom.

Russell’s studio was on Twenty-Third Street, a short distance east of Fourth Avenue and the National Academy of Design, a striking building that was by no means to everyone’s taste, for it was built of marble and blue stone and was modelled after the Doge’s Palace in Venice. The studio, on the other hand, was in an unpretentious brownstone with a street-level entrance. As Andrew helped Sara and Verna out of the carriage, a hansom drew up a short distance beyond them and the man in the checked shirt got out. Again he made no effort to avoid Andrew’s eye, seemed in fact to be seeking it out. He paid off the cabby, then as Andrew hung back, letting Verna, Sara and Wyatt walk ahead of him toward the building, he came up to him.

“Got a nickel for a cup of coffee, mister?” he said. The contradiction—calling Andrew mister and asking for a nickel when he had just gotten out of a cab—were too pointed to be accidental.

“I think so,” said Andrew. He took out a nickel, handed it to the man and felt something pressed into his palm.

“Thanks,” said the man, then he turned and walked away. Andrew watched him go, then went after Verna, Sara and Wyatt. What the man had given him was a note, folded small. But since, in spite of his seeming openness, the man had passed it to him secretly, Andrew did not look at it then, but put it in his pocket.

Russell’s studio was on the second floor, in the rear. Wyatt, who had been there before, directed them to it, knocked and then stood aside when Russell opened the door. He was wearing a white shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, and he greeted them warmly as they walked in.

The studio was large and high ceilinged, with a big north window. Since Russell had leased it from a friend who had gone to Maine for the summer, it was furnished with a sofa, several low tables and comfortable chairs. A stack of paintings leaned against the wall in one corner of the room, and on a shelf above the wainscot that ran around the room were plaster casts of Greek and Roman heads.

Russell showed them the small bedroom and the kitchen and then, when they returned to the studio, he looked closely at Verna for the first time and broke off in the middle of a sentence. After her discussion with Sara and Andrew, Verna had decided that, since the portrait that Russell was doing was to be used in the theatre lobby and in advertisements, she should wear one of the costumes she wore in the play. The one she had picked was the one she wore when she first met Mr. Rochester on the road near Thornfield Hall; a black bombazine dress, black merino cloak and a black beaver bonnet, the only touch of color a cameo brooch that she wore at her throat.

“We never discussed what I should wear,” Verna began, a little tentatively.

“No, we didn’t, but we didn’t have to,” said Russell. “What you’re wearing is perfect, exactly right! The black will bring out your coloring, which is wonderful, and the cameo brooch will give us just the note of contrast we need. I couldn’t have done better if I’d thought about it for weeks. And now, if the rest of you will excuse us, can we get started?”

“Of course,” said Verna.

He led her to the low platform in front of the window, sat her in a rather shabby armchair and then stepped back behind the easel he had set up to the side of the platform.

“Would you turn your head just a little to the left?” he said. “Just a little more. There. That’s fine. Hold it for just a minute and then you can relax, talk, do. anything you like.”

He had a prepared canvas on the easel. Picking up a stick of charcoal, he began roughing in her face with sure, quick strokes. Sara, Andrew and Wyatt had seated themselves on the other side of the studio. They watched for a few minutes, admiring Russell’s skill and assurance. Then Andrew took out the note that the man in the checked shirt had given him and unfolded it. While not exactly Spencerian, the handwriting was better than that in Benny the Monk’s note to Wyatt. Andrew had a feeling—perhaps because of the unevenness of the letters—that it had been written in the hansom while the man in the checked shirt was following them.

“If you want to know what I think you do,” it said, “write down where and when we can meet on the back of this and leave it for me. I’ll be waiting to pick it up when you leave.”

Sara glanced sideways at him. “What’s that?” she asked.

Leaning close to her, Andrew told her and gave her the note. She read it, looked at him, then at Wyatt, mutely asking Andrew if she could give the note to the Inspector. Andrew nodded, and Sara touched Wyatt on the arm, whispered in his ear and gave him the note.

Wyatt read it, then looked thoughtfully across the studio. Andrew was fairly sure he knew what he was thinking. Decker had apologized to Verna for what had happened the night before in Washington Square—not that it was his fault that Sara and Andrew had gone out there—and Wyatt was trying to decide whether this note concerned that case or something else. Perhaps the case, whatever it was, that had brought him from England. More important, there was the question of whether there was any danger involved, not for himself, but for Sara and Andrew. Finally he made up his mind.

“What time is your dress rehearsal tomorrow?” he asked Verna.

“Two o’clock.”

“How long will it last?”

“Probably until about five. Why?”

“I want to make an appointment and I wasn’t sure what time to make it.”

“Five thirty would be safe.”

Nodding, Wyatt took out a pencil, wrote something on the back of the note, folded it up again and gave it to Andrew, who put it back in his pocket.

“You’re going to the rehearsal?” said Russell.

“Yes. We’re all going,” said Wyatt.

“Would you like to come too?” said Verna. “Or would you rather wait till we come back from the Boston try-out and open officially?”

“I already have tickets for the opening,” said Russell. “But I’d like very much to come to the dress rehearsal too. It would give me a chance to make some sketches, which I won’t be able to do on opening night.”

“I’ll leave your name at the door,” said Verna.

“That would be very nice,” he said somewhat abstractedly. He had put down the charcoal, picked up his palette and was studying Verna, then looking down as he mixed his colors. When he had what he wanted, he began laying the pigment on the canvas, starting with her face and painting as surely and quickly as he had when he was doing the rough charcoal drawing.

It was the first time Sara and Andrew had ever seen an artist at work, and they watched with great interest. After about ten minutes, Wyatt got up and walked to the corner of the studio where the canvases leaned against the wall.

“Are these yours?” he asked.

“Some of them,” said Russell, continuing with his painting. “The ones on the outside. The rest are Thompson’s, the chap I rented the studio from.”

“May we look at them?”

“If you like.”

“I’d like to see them, too,” said Verna. “Bring them over here.”

One by one, Wyatt brought the paintings over and set them up so that Verna could look at them at the same time that he, Sara and Andrew did. They were quite different from the kind of paintings that Andrew was used to; they were vivid in color and very strong. Yet with all their vividness and strength, much was left to the imagination. It was as if Russell was giving his impression of what he was painting rather than trying to reproduce it as a camera might. For instance, there was one painting of the Thames on a foggy day in which it was almost impossible to tell where the fog ended and the water began. And still it caught the essence of the river at such a time perfectly.

“Do you like them?” Andrew asked Sara quietly.

“Yes. Very much.”

“So do I.”

They stayed at the studio until a little after five. About four thirty, Russell looked at Verna and, though he himself seemed as full of energy as ever, decided that she’d had enough and made her get up and stretch. He made tea for them, which he served with some cakes from a local bakery, and talked very straightforwardly about his painting, what he’d done that he liked and where he thought he had not been completely successful.

Russell told Verna that he felt he’d made a good start on the portrait and would work on the background until she got back from Boston. He told Wyatt, Sara and Andrew that he’d see them at the dress rehearsal the next day, and then they left.

Verna had dismissed the carriage, and it took Wyatt a few minutes to flag a hack. While they waited, Andrew saw the man in the checked shirt standing in a doorway across the street. When they had come out of Russell’s building, Andrew had lagged behind and, holding the door open, had ostentatiously pushed one corner of the note that Wyatt had returned to him into the slot of Russell’s letter box, leaving the rest of it sticking out. As they got into the hack, Andrew saw the man with the checked shirt start across the street toward Russell’s house.