Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) (12 page)

“Oh no.”

“What did he do with them, then? I know he’d had at least a dozen of them here over the past couple years.”

“A dozen? Are you sure?”

“He kept their shoes. They’re upstairs in a cabinet where he could look at them whenever he wanted.”

Joanna made a strangled sound. “That bastard.”

“You shouldn’t swear,” Neth said. “It doesn’t become you.”

She shot him a glance sharp enough to draw blood. “I heard him say once . . .”

Frank waited, knowing how difficult this must be for her. He tried to soften his expression, although he thought it was probably too late to win her confidence.

She cleared her throat. “I heard him say that he’d taken a girl to a madam once.”

“Did he mention the madam’s name?” Frank asked, keeping his voice calm and even so as not to alarm her.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t matter, though. He said . . .” She had to close her eyes for a moment and draw on some inner strength to go on. “He said the madam wouldn’t take her because she was too . . . too ugly. He said that was the trouble with fooling ugly women. Nobody wanted them when you were done with them.”

So what did he do with them? Frank wondered. Did Neth even know?

Before he could ask, Gino Donatelli stuck his head in the door. “Broghan is here, and he’s drunk.”

F
rank sighed. “Stay here,” he told Neth and Joanna.

He found Broghan standing in the parlor doorway, taking in the bloody scene. He turned when Frank approached.

“A fine mess you’ve made here,” he said.

Frank could smell the liquor on him, but aside from his bloodshot eyes, Broghan gave no other sign of being drunk. Frank suddenly realized he’d probably never seen him sober, so he really had nothing with which to compare his behavior. “I didn’t make the mess.”

“But you found it, which you wouldn’t’ve done if you hadn’t been interfering in my case.”

“I told you I’d sent Pendergast a letter. He replied to it and wanted to meet the girl this afternoon. I didn’t want to miss the chance to catch him.”

“You could’ve told me.”

This was true. Frank had no reply that didn’t insult Broghan, so he made none.

Broghan shook his head. “So that’s Pendergast?”

“It is.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Frank told him, starting with their plan for Maeve to meet Pendergast in the park, how Livingston had spoiled it, and how they’d ended up here to find the real Pendergast dead and Grace Livingston in shock near his body. Then he described who and what else they’d found in the house.

“So the Livingston woman killed him,” Broghan said.

“I doubt it.”

Broghan scowled. “From what you said, there were three people in the house—the woman locked in the basement, the Livingston woman, and Pendergast. Maybe you don’t think I’m as smart as you, Malloy, but even I can figure out she’s the only one could’ve done it.”

“Did I mention the front door was unlocked? Anybody could’ve come in and done it, or maybe somebody else was here and left after killing Pendergast.”

“You said his blood was all over the girl, though.”

“Yeah, because she was standing in front of him when his throat was cut, but would you let somebody walk up to you with a knife and slit your throat? Especially somebody smaller and weaker and female? Seems like he could’ve stopped her pretty easily.”

“Unless he didn’t think she’d really do it. Would you? Expect a female to slit your throat? Maybe he just laughed at her and that made her madder and she caught him by surprise. I’ve seen crazier things and so have you.”

“What did she do with the knife, though?”

“Huh?”

“The knife she slit his throat with. It wasn’t in the room anyplace.”

“You sure?” Broghan glanced around as if to see for himself.

“Yes. I haven’t found it yet, anyway.”

“You search the whole house?”

“Not for the knife, but if it’s not in this room, Grace Livingston didn’t kill him.”

“How do you figure that? She could’ve hid it someplace after she did it.”

Frank frowned. “So you really think she cut his throat, stood there while his blood squirted all over her, then ran out someplace—without managing to drip any blood along the way—hid the knife, came back here and slumped down in front of the dead body in a faint?”

“Like I said, people do strange things.”

Frank knew that. Broghan was proving it. “She didn’t kill him.”

“She tell you that?”

“I didn’t ask her. She wasn’t in any condition to answer questions when I found her.”

“Well, let’s ask her now. Where is she?”

“She . . . Her father took her home.”

Broghan raised his eyebrows.

“Like I said, she wasn’t in any condition to answer questions, and we know where to find her. You can talk to her later.”

“What about the other woman? The one in the cellar?”

“She, uh, she left.”

“What do you mean, she left?”

“When nobody was paying attention, she snuck out of the house.”

“You didn’t have anybody watching her?”

“Donatelli was outside the kitchen door, but she went out the back way. She wasn’t in any shape to go very far. We think Pendergast had been starving her, and she didn’t have any shoes. Nobody figured she’d leave.”

“And yet she did,” Broghan observed.

Frank really hated not being a cop anymore. If he were still a cop, Broghan wouldn’t dare make him feel like he’d messed up. In fact, if he were still a cop, Broghan wouldn’t even be here. He decided to change the subject. “We found about a dozen pair of shoes that Pendergast had apparently been keeping as souvenirs of the women he kidnapped. I also found where he kept the letters from the women. Most of them have addresses.”

“Why would I need that? Can’t prosecute him for kidnapping when he’s already dead.”

“The families might want to know what happened to the women if they never made it back home.”

“And maybe they wouldn’t.” Broghan looked around the room again. “Did you send for the medical examiner?”

“Of course.”

“Where the hell is he, then?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Yeah, well, I got here, didn’t I?”

“Malloy?” A voice called from down the hall.

Frank looked out to see Neth and Joanna standing there expectantly. Once again he’d almost forgotten about them.

“Who’s this?” Broghan asked.

Frank introduced them, choosing not to add that Joanna had once been one of Pendergast’s prisoners. “They identified Pendergast’s body. I thought you might want to ask them some questions.”

Broghan nodded. “Were either of you here when he was killed?”

“Of course not!” Neth said.

“Then you can go.”

Frank glared at him. “You might have more questions when you’ve finished looking around.”

“If he does,” Joanna said, “Andy can answer them.”

“Who’s Andy?” Frank and Broghan asked in unison.

“He’s Milo’s man,” Neth said. “Takes care of the house.”

Joanna gave an unladylike snort.

“Donatelli!” Frank called.

Gino came scrambling up the stairs. “Yes, sir?”

“You don’t need to call him sir anymore, boy,” Broghan said with a nasty smile.

Frank ignored him. “Did you find anybody up in the attic?”

“No, sir,” Gino said with a defiant glance at Broghan.

“Any trace of anybody?” he continued, trying to be patient.

“Well, one of the rooms looked like somebody lived there. We thought maybe he kept one of the women up there.”

“Did you look in the drawers? Check for clothing?”

“Uh, no . . .” Gino’s glance at Broghan was sheepish this time.

“So where could this Andy fellow be now?” Broghan asked no one in particular. “Oh, maybe he just left like everyone else who might’ve helped solve this case.”

“If he did, he’s probably the one who killed Pendergast,” Frank said. “He could’ve taken the knife with him, which would explain why we didn’t find it.”

“Or maybe he ran away when the Livingston woman killed Pendergast,” Broghan said. Frank was sure he was just trying to make him mad. He couldn’t possibly think Grace Livingston killed Pendergast, not with the knife missing.

“Can we go now?” Neth asked. “We’ve told you everything we know.”

“And I assume Mr. Malloy has your address,” Broghan asked with just a trace of sarcasm.

“I know where he lives,” Donatelli said.

“That’s convenient,” Broghan said, still sarcastic. “So yes, you can go.”

Neth and Joanna hurried away, down the stairs and out the front door as fast as they could go.

Broghan turned to Frank. “You can go, too.”

“What?”

“I said you can go. I don’t need your help, and you’ve already done enough damage.”

“I didn’t do any damage!”

“You let the two women get away when one of them might be a killer.”

“If one of them killed Pendergast, it was justified.”

“Only if he was trying to kill her. Do you think he was trying to kill her?”

Frank didn’t even know what to say to that. “Grace Livingston did not kill Pendergast.”

“And the other woman was locked in a cage. So who did?”

“Maybe this Andy fellow.”

“If he turns up,” Broghan said, “I’ll ask him. Meanwhile, you can go, Mr. Malloy, and let the
police
do their work.”

Frank thought he might choke on his rage, but he knew better than to challenge Broghan. He’d already insulted the man’s pride by interfering in the case. If Broghan got mad, he might lock Frank up just for spite. He’d done that himself a time or two to annoying citizens who had needed a lesson in respect.

Gathering as much dignity as he could manage under the circumstances, Frank nodded to Broghan and Donatelli and made his way down to the first floor and out the front door. The Maria still sat where it had before, abandoned by the driver, who had probably joined his fellows in the house while they explored the horrors within. They would, he knew, find the idea of having naked females as prisoners at least somewhat appealing. Young men like them would seldom consider the horror and anguish those females must have endured. In fact, few would. Society in general would blame the women first for being foolish enough to have fallen into Pendergast’s trap and then for not having the courage to take their own lives rather than endure his abuse.

Without conscious thought, Frank had instinctively headed for Sarah’s house. He needed to discuss all this with her to see if they could make any sense of it at all. Then he would have to figure out if he should call on Mr. Livingston one last time or if his responsibilities to the man were complete. Would he even want to see Frank again, since he’d be a reminder of all that poor Grace had endured? Sarah could probably advise him on that. At least he hoped she could. He doubted her finishing school had taught any etiquette rules for calling on the family of a kidnap victim.

• • •

S
arah and Maeve had been sitting at her kitchen table for a long time going over and over what they had learned about what had happened at Milo Pendergast’s house. Neither of them had even given a thought to fetching Catherine from Mrs. Ellsworth’s house, since they needed time to recover from their afternoon’s trials, and they couldn’t speak about them openly with an innocent child in the house.

When someone rang Sarah’s bell, however, she realized Mrs. Ellsworth’s patience must have finally ended, and she had come to find out how their efforts to trap the kidnapper had gone.

Sarah gave a cry of joy, however, when she found Malloy on her doorstep, instead. She pulled him inside and threw her arms around him, absurdly grateful for his mere presence. She wanted to weep out her anger and frustration against his chest, but she’d never been the kind of woman to weep about anything. Instead she drew back and looked into his eyes. “What happened after we left?”

He looked past her, and Sarah realized Maeve had followed her out. She discreetly stepped out of Malloy’s arms. “Broghan got there finally. He heard what I had to say and then sent me on my way.”

“I don’t suppose he was grateful for your help,” Sarah said.

“He didn’t seem to be.”

“Come into the kitchen. We’ve got some coffee,” Maeve said.

When they were seated at the table and Maeve had found a cup for Malloy, he told them what little they had missed.

“Did you see the room upstairs where the Andy person supposedly lives?” Malloy asked Maeve.

“No, I didn’t go up to the attic with Officer Donatelli. I stayed with Miss Livingston while Mrs. Brandt went downstairs to help with the woman they found in the cellar. Miss Livingston didn’t want to be alone.”

“So Gino searched the attic himself. That explains why he didn’t realize a man was living in that room. He’s smart, but he still has a lot to learn.”

“But you think I would’ve figured it out if I’d gone with him?” Maeve asked, obviously pleased.

“Yes,” Malloy said with a ghost of a smile. “Women are just naturally nosier than men.”

Maeve stuck her tongue out at him.

Sarah shook her head. “So this Andy person might well be the killer.”

“The fact that he’s missing seems to indicate something isn’t right, at least. He could have killed Pendergast and run out, still holding the knife without even realizing it. That would at least explain what happened to it.”

“But there’s no explanation for what happened to the knife if Grace killed him,” Sarah said. “And even if Grace did kill that man, surely no one would consider it a crime after what he’d done to those women.”

“I hope not,” he said.

Maeve frowned. “Does that mean that you’re not sure?”

“It means Broghan is a drunk, and he’s mad at me for going behind his back and trying to trap Pendergast myself. He might do any stupid thing just to annoy me.”

“That’s horrible!” Maeve said.

“Yes, it is, and we won’t let him get away with it,” Sarah said.

Malloy just took a sip of his coffee, reminding Sarah with his silence that they couldn’t depend on the police to do the right thing in any circumstance.

Before anyone could think of something else to say, someone tapped on Sarah’s back door. Mrs. Ellsworth had, at last, reached the end of her patience. She came in with Catherine and a roast chicken that reminded everyone it was suppertime.

No one mentioned a word about the afternoon’s activities during supper, and Malloy took his leave shortly afterward. He wanted to see his son, Brian, before he went to bed. Sarah saw him to the door so they could enjoy a good-night kiss in private.

“I think I should call on Mr. Livingston tomorrow,” he said. “What do you think?”

“That would be very nice. He’s bound to have some questions, and he won’t want to upset Grace with them, I’m sure.”

“I probably don’t know the answers to his questions.”

“No, but you can at least hear him out. He’ll be angry and upset. Which makes me think I should go with you. Grace might welcome some female company who can understand what she’s been through.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll . . .” He frowned.

“What is it?”

“I started to say I’ll try to get away early, but I just realized I don’t have anything to get away from anymore. It’s hard to get used to.”

Her heart ached for him. As much as he’d had to compromise in his job as a police detective, the position had given him a measure of pride in doing his job well. Now that the Livingston case was solved, he had nothing challenging to do anymore. She realized that she would most likely find herself in the same position after having supported herself as a midwife for all these years. “I suppose we’ll get used to it, or find something to do with our time.”