Chapter Thirteen

WHO IS LUCY MALONEY?

St. Clair and Murray were sitting across from each other in the interrogation room at police headquarters, where Madame Philippe had been questioned the day before. Murray was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and sipping on a mug of cold coffee, his second cup of the day and it was only eight o’clock in the morning.

“Charlie, it looks like you ran head first into a brick wall.”

“It only hurts when I smile,” replied St. Clair, “but I’ll take one of those cigarettes.” His nose remained bandaged and black and blue circles had formed around both his eyes.

“And how’s Tom?” Murray asked, handing over a cigarette. “I read the police report. The doctors at Bellevue aren’t certain he’ll make it.”

“He’ll make it, trust me. Tom Fox is about the most obstinate old coot I know. When it’s his time to kick the bucket, he isn’t going to do it lying on a cot at Bellevue.” St. Clair struck a match.

“You don’t have any idea who the attacker was?”

“None. Never seen him before.” St. Clair lit the cigarette and then blew a puff of smoke toward the ceiling.

He had already decided that he would keep his suspicions about Victor Fowler’s possible involvement in the attack to himself for the time being. There was no point riling Murray—or Murray riling Inspector Stokes—if there was no hard evidence against Fowler. He also did not want to do anything to distract Fowler further. This was crucial.

“I stared him right in the eyes,” St. Clair continued. “If I see him again I’ll recognize him. Let me look through your rogues’ gallery and I’ll try to find him. One thing I can tell you with confidence is that he’s dangerous. He would’ve killed me and Tom, if Sutton hadn’t come along when he did.”

“Yeah, I wanted to ask you about that. Don’t you find it more than a little coincidental that Sutton happened to arrive at your office like a white knight?”

“You think Ed had something to do with this?” St. Clair frowned at his brother-in-law.

“I don’t know. It strikes me as odd that he’d be visiting the office at that late hour. Who knows? Perhaps,” Murray shrugged, “perhaps he was there to ensure that your attacker didn’t kill you.”

“Why on earth would Ed be mixed up in such a plan? That doesn’t make any sense. He’s a good man, Seth. I think it was just my luck that Sutton arrived when he did.” St. Clair inhaled sharply on the cigarette.

“I’m sure you’re right.” Murray sipped his coffee. “Now, you said you had something else to tell me. What is it?”

St. Clair reached into his pocket. “I received a message last night unsigned with this name on it.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “It’s the name of the victim from the depot—”

“You mean Miss Lucy Maloney?” Murray interjected, twisting one end of his moustache.

“How do you know that? And I thought I’d proven my worth as a detective,” said St. Clair.

“You’re a fine journalist, Charlie, but as a detective I’m afraid you’ll always be a little green,” Murray chided him. “The truth is, Madame Philippe finally talked. The appointment was on August fourteenth. She says that Miss Maloney insisted on meeting her at the Broome Street office. And that she was quick with child, or at least she thinks so.”

“She thinks so? What the hell does that mean? Didn’t Doc Draper’s examination confirm that she was with a child?”

“Yes, but listen, Charlie, here’s the queer part. She claims that before she could perform the abortion, Miss Maloney changed her mind and left her office . . . alive. She didn’t even have time to talk her out of it. Just stood up and ran out.”

“Hogwash! That woman’s a liar.”

“That’s her version of what happened and her Negro servant told Westwood the same story.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose so.”

“Don’t tell me you believe this rubbish?”

Murray pulled his gold watch from his vest and checked the time. “At this moment, Madame Philippe is having breakfast at the Tombs with all of the other female inmates.”

“You’ve charged her with the murder?”

“Stokes got direct instructions from the district attorney, Richard Cady himself. He told me to go ahead, so that’s what I’ve done.” Murray flung his cigarette on to the floor close to the heel of his boot. “To be honest, I thought Cady might charge her with causing death through medical malpractice, as he’s done with other abortionists in similar circumstances. Stokes, however, says Cady insisted that it be murder in the first degree and not manslaughter. Philippe’s supposed to be brought before Recorder Beatty later today or early tomorrow and it’s my impression that they want to deal with this quickly. But there’s something else, Charlie.”

“I’m all ears.”

“She made only one personal request of me. She wants to speak with you as soon as possible.” Murray shrugged his shoulders.

“With me? What the hell for?” St. Clair threw up his hands. “Why in God’s name would that woman request to see me?”

“I’ve no idea. Didn’t you mention to me that you wanted to interview her about her life for your story? So here’s your chance. You should be thanking me.”

St. Clair mulled over the idea. Of course, Murray was right. He would be a fool to turn down such an invitation. And he had wanted to speak with her for the next installment of “Evil of the Age.” The attack last night had not changed his plans, although Murray’s description of Lucy Maloney’s murder appalled him. Still, whatever anger he felt towards Madame Philippe for her involvement in Miss Maloney’s death, he knew that as a seasoned journalist he would have to put it aside.

“Do me a favor, Seth,” said St. Clair, taking a last deep drag on his cigarette. “Let whoever has to know that I’ll be visiting the Tombs in the next couple of days.” St. Clair threw the cigarette on the floor and crushed it with the heel of his boot. “Now, what about Miss Maloney? What do you know about her?”

“Not much. Only that she lived in the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

“The Fifth Avenue? The woman had style and money.”

“Or, she had a rich benefactor.”

“You think Miss Maloney was being kept?”

“I’ve no idea. A hunch that’s all. I was planning to go by the hotel this morning.”

St. Clair’s ears perked up. “Mind if I join you?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask. It’s not quite up to regulations. You know that?”

“And since when did you follow all of the rules? Besides, I might be able to find out a few things for you.”

“Such as?”

“Who the father of her baby was, for one,” St. Clair replied. “And, why he didn’t accompany her to Madame Philippe’s? The people who work at the hotel will likely talk to me a lot quicker than you.”

“I’ll grant you that.” Murray smirked, then added provocatively, “Isn’t Miss Cardaso a guest at the Fifth Avenue?”

St. Clair ignored the question. “Seth, I need some coffee. How about a visit to Tiny Jim’s across the street before the day begins in earnest?”

“I got a lot of paper work, Charlie, and don’t you have to visit Tom?”

“I can’t do much for Tom right now. He’s in good hands. Tell you what, I’ll pay. I’ll bet Jim is cooking his flapjacks.”

“How can I refuse the invitation of a man who got walloped last night?” Murray rose from his chair. “I have only one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You tell me all about that lovely Miss Cardaso.” Murray grinned, as they crossed the room.

St. Clair laughed. “As a matter of fact, you won’t believe what happened on the way back to the Fifth Avenue last night, before I ended up looking like I was run over by a horse and wagon.”

But Murray’s mind seemed to have shifted elsewhere. “Charlie, in all the commotion, I forgot to ask if you’d heard about Frank King?”

“What about him?”

“He’d dead, that’s what. Some sort of racing accident up at Harlem Lane. He worked for Fowler, didn’t he? His bookkeeper, I think.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s all you’ve got to say about it?”

St. Clair affected a shrug. “Nothing much to say. The man was a fool to be racing and he got killed for it. The Ring’s got one less grafter on its payroll. Are the police investigating?”

“I think Stokes sent a few men to find out what happened. I haven’t heard anything yet. Why, are you curious?”

“No, not at all. I didn’t know King very well.”

St. Clair hated lying to Murray, but this was not the time or place to tell him about his relationship with King.

“I guess he took all of his secrets to his grave,” said Murray, as they crossed the street.

“Yeah,” mumbled St. Clair, “I guess he did.”

By eleven in the morning, the temperature had reached ninety degrees of mercury and was rising fast. With St. Clair riding beside him in the police carriage, Murray turned his two black horses up Broadway, past Washington Square Park, and then on to Fifth Avenue. He let the horses go at their own pace, not wanting to push them any harder than he had to in the heat. Every once in a while, he stopped to water them at buckets set out by friendly merchants.

“Can you smell the stink, Charlie?” asked Murray, as the horses trotted by Union Square.

“Yeah, even through these bandages. It’s going to be a long day.” St. Clair cast his eyes over the street. “Someday, Fowler might really want to clean up the garbage and the manure.”

“A fact of life, I’m afraid,” Murray grimaced. “In this damn heat, I worry more about the young children. I’d wager that by the end of the day there’ll be a dead kid somewhere in Five Points or the East Side. Happens every time it gets this hot. Those tenements are like a wood stove.”

Murray reached Twenty-Third Street and stopped the carriage at the Fifth Avenue Hotel’s main door. Three doormen, all Negroes, came running to greet him and St. Clair.

“It’s the word Police on the side of the wagon,” Murray remarked. “I always receive the best of service.”

“Bad for business, I’d guess,” said St. Clair climbing down. “This carriage’ll scare guests away faster than a gunshot.”

“Sir, would you mind it very much if I pulled your rig around to the delivery entrance?” asked George, the hotel’s doorman.

“What did I just say?” laughed St. Clair.

Murray waved his hand. “That would be fine.”

“Thank you, sir,” said George, maintaining his mask of deference.

Murray and St. Clair weren’t in the hotel’s grand lobby a moment when they were set upon by the manager, Samuel Buckland, in a well-cut, beautifully tailored black suit.

“I’m Detective Seth Murray, this is Charles St. Clair of Fox’s Weekly. Ignore the bandages . . . the other guy looks worse.” He shook Buckland’s hand. It was soft and delicate, like a woman’s.

“Gentlemen, please come this way,” Buckland ushered them toward his private office. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I have some questions about one of your guests,” said Murray, “Miss Lucy Maloney.”

“I am not in the habit of speaking to the police about . . .”

Murray cut him off. “She’s dead. Her body was found in a trunk at Hudson Depot.”

Buckland’s face turned white. “I read about that horrific crime. That was Miss Maloney?” He shuddered.

“It was,” said Murray, growing impatient.

“Of course, I will assist you in any way I can, but we must be discreet. There’s no need to upset the other guests and residents,” he added nervously, wiping his brow. He looked askance at St. Clair. “Is it wise for the press to be investigating this unfortunate incident alongside the police?”

“And why not?” snapped St. Clair.

“Why not indeed, Mr. St. Clair? I’ve found that my guests require the utmost discretion and consideration . . . about the last sentiments I would expect from a man of your vocation.”

“Discretion, in my view, Mr. Buckland, is highly overrated. But I promise you, whatever I discover here today, I will exercise good judgment.”

“I do hope so, Mr. St. Clair. I truly do hope so.” He studied St. Clair’s face for a moment. “Tell me, did I not see you in the dining room with one of our lady guests the other morning? It was with Miss Cardaso, I believe.”

“That was me, yes. Why do you ask?”

“I was told the two of you had a noisy disagreement and you stormed out of the hotel.”

“I don’t think I stormed out. However, if I did anything to offend the other guests, please forgive me.” He bowed his head slightly. “Also, you’ll be happy to know that the matter with Miss Cardaso has been settled.”

“I’d like to see Miss Maloney’s room,” Murray interrupted.

“Of course, right this way, gentlemen. We can use the stairs or the elevator. Her suite is on the fourth floor.”

“Stairs will be fine,” said Murray, before St. Clair could respond. “Never had much faith in these contraptions.”

“They’re the future, Detective. Only one way to go in this city and that’s up.” Buckland, pointed skyward with one of his lean, long fingers. “Buildings will be high in the clouds in no time. At least that’s my view. The property in this city’s too expensive. There’s no room for expansion other than up.”

“I tend to agree with you,” said St. Clair. “Still, any building more than four or five stories is high enough for me.”

“It’s going higher than that, Mr. St. Clair, I assure you.”

The trio reached the fourth floor and narrowly missed bumping into Ruth Cardaso.

“Terribly sorry, Miss,” said Buckland.

“Bless my soul, Mr. St. Clair, what’s happened to you?” she exclaimed.

“He was hit by a runaway wagon,” snorted Murray.

“A runaway wagon?”

“Don’t listen to a word he says.” St. Clair gave his brother-in-law a dismissive glance. “There was an altercation last evening after I bid you farewell.”

Ruth’s blushed. “An altercation? Please tell me more.”

Buckland excused himself for a moment as St. Clair quickly related the story of the attack on him and Fox, the arrival of Sutton, and his close encounter with death. As much as his nose and other injuries pained him, he took a great deal of satisfaction in recounting the tale, with some embellishments, and enjoyed the look of distress that crossed Ruth’s face.

“And Mr. Fox, will he recover?” asked Ruth.

“I’m no physician, but I’m certain he will. I was planning on visiting him at the hospital later this morning or early in the afternoon.”

“Please do give him my best regards.”

“I shall. And where are you off to at this hour?”

“I was on my way to an appointment and then to the magazine to speak with Mr. Fox. Since Madame Philippe has been arrested, I assume our ruse has been well publicized.

Only the most foolish of abortionists will speak to us now. So, I was going to tell Mr. Fox—” She stopped herself and deliberately averted her eyes from St. Clair. “I was going to tell Mr. Fox that I was leaving the city in a day or two.”

“Leaving the city?” exclaimed St. Clair. He wanted to say so much to her, although this was not the time or place. After last night, he had assumed that they would draw closer together. His astonishment quickly turned to irritation.

She could not look him in the eyes. “You will excuse me, gentlemen. I’m late for my appointment.” With that she scurried down the stairs.

“Do you want to go after her, Charlie?” Murray raised an eyebrow.

In fact, he did. He had convinced himself that Ruth Cardaso was his future. It mattered little that he knew almost nothing about her or that they had spent only a few hours together.

“No, let’s continue with the search,” he responded, as Buckland returned. He followed Murray and the manager down the wide carpeted hallway. His head swirled with a hundred questions—Why was Ruth leaving? Why now? Did their encounter last evening mean nothing?

“Here it is. Suite Forty-Two. Miss Maloney lived here for about seven months,” said Buckland pulling a key from his pocket.

“From what I understand, residing in your hotel for such a length of time would be steep.”

“It all depends on your point of view, Detective. Or, rather, on who you are.”

“And who was Miss Maloney?”

“Miss Maloney was a respectable guest whose credit was impeccable.” Buckland fitted the key into the lock.

“I’d figure a monthly charge here would be about one hundred dollars or so? Is that right?”

“Something of that sort, yes.”

“And did Miss Maloney pay for this herself? I know she was not employed—”

“That’s a matter of privacy, Detective,” Buckland interrupted sharply. “How long could a hotel remain in business, if it revealed its guests most personal affairs? All I can say, again,” he added turning the lock, “is that Miss Maloney’s bills were always paid in a timely fashion.”

“Yes, but by whom?” St. Clair asked. “That’s the question, Mr. Buckland. Who was the father of Miss Maloney’s child?”

Buckland’s face immediately flushed. “That, most of all, is absolutely none of my concern. Or, yours, I would venture to say.”

“Just open the door, Mr. Buckland.” Murray commanded.

The hotel manager did as he was ordered and Murray pushed past him.

“My Lord, what’s happened here?” Buckland stared over Murray’s shoulder.

The suite had been turned upside down. Every shelf had been emptied, every pillow cut open, and every piece of furniture thrown about.

“I must call a housekeeper immediately.” Buckland turned back into the hallway. “Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.”

“I’d say that someone had the same idea as we did,” said St. Clair, picking up a chair that had been turned on its side. “Whatever was here to be found is surely gone.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Murray narrowed his eyes. “In all my years as a cop, you’d be astonished at how careless some thieves and hustlers are. Look around you, Charlie. What do you see?”

“A hotel suite that’s been smashed and rummaged through.”

“Exactly. And how would you judge the actions and behavior of the perpetrator of this crime?”

St. Clair contemplated Murray’s question for a moment. “Desperate, no, not desperate. Frantic, I’d say.”

Murray nodded. “Charlie, I’ll make a detective out of you yet. Whoever did this likely did not find what they were looking for. Somewhere in this room or in the hotel is an item, a gift or perhaps a letter or a diary, that will reveal Miss Maloney’s secrets to us.”

“So let’s begin.”

“We could do that, despite the amount of time it’ll take. Or . . .” Murray paused.

“Or what?”

“I can’t force Buckland to let me see his books without an order from the court and who knows whether or not that would tell us anything under any circumstances. If, as we both suspect, someone other than Miss Maloney was paying for this suite, then I’d guess the gentleman in question likely took necessary precautions to protect his good name. There’s someone else we could speak with, however. Someone who knows every bit of gossip in this hotel . . . which husbands are cheating on their wives and vice-versa, which businessmen and merchants are crooked, and who’s got money.”

“One of the doormen?”

“Yeah, but I was thinking of that doorman who showed us in. I’d wager he knows a lot. He just needs a little encouragement.” Murray sneered.

“Don’t hurt him, Seth.”

“Show a little more pluck, Charlie. I won’t hurt him, you know me better than that,” said Murray. “I’m not like Stokes, for Christ’s sakes. But I might scare him out of his black skin a little. Do you want to know more about Miss Maloney or not?”

St. Clair did not answer. At that moment, he was not sure what he wanted.

Across the city at the Hudson Depot, a tall man in a black suit and bowler hat paced back and forth, awaiting the arrival of a cart and carriage. About fifteen minutes later, the cart, hauled by a lone dirty white horse stopped at the side of the platform. There was a pine wood casket on its flat bed. Right behind it was a carriage pulled by two brown geldings. Its only passenger was Amanda King. Despite the heat, she was dressed in an ankle length, long-sleeved black linen dress and wore a bonnet with a lace veil. The veil, however, could not hide her puffy red eyes.

“Papa, I’m so glad you’re here,” said Amanda to the tall man in the bowler hat. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Simon Struthers, a general store merchant from Albany, put his arm around his daughter.

“The train is ready to go, we just have to load the casket onto the back car,” said Struthers. “You sure you want to bury Frank in Albany?”

“That’s where you live and that’s where I’ll be living now. I want Frank close by.”

By this time, four more burly men had arrived on another wagon. “Mrs. King,” the driver said, tipping his hat.

“Pete, thank you for coming. Papa, these men worked for Frank. They’ll help us.”

The men grabbed hold of the casket and with considerable ease heaved it up on to their shoulders. They then climbed up on to the platform and placed the coffin carefully inside the railcar.

“Come, Amanda, we’ll find our seats.”

She was crying again, as was right and proper in the circumstances. She followed her father, and as she stepped into the passenger car, she turned her head ever so slightly. She caught a glimpse of a man behind a shed on the other side of the platform. He nodded to her and she felt both more at ease, and exhilarated. As she sat down beside her father, she knew that Frank was proud of her.