Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) (18 page)

“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I know about Andy and his death while we wait for the medical examiner.”

Doc Haynes finally showed up, long after Frank had finished his story, the sun had moved into the western half of the sky, and they’d sent one of the patrolmen for something to eat. They’d been over the house once more in the vain hope of finding something helpful, too.

“Malloy, you’re like a bad penny, aren’t you?” Haynes asked with some amusement when Frank greeted him at the front door.

“He’s a private investigator now,” Broghan reported sourly.

“Are you? That’s interesting. You’ll probably want to know what I found out from Pendergast’s autopsy, I guess.”

“Yes, I would,” Frank said, pretending not to notice Broghan’s disgruntled frown.

“And when were you going to tell
me
?” Broghan asked.

“I just finished him up this morning,” Haynes said. “And I would’ve told you when you came by my office to get the report. But that can wait. Now, where’s the new body?”

Frank let Broghan take charge, following at a discreet distance so he could hear what was said without being accused of interfering.

Haynes took a good look at everything, then knelt by the body and began testing the joints for rigor mortis. “When did you find him?” he asked Frank.

“I guess it was around ten o’clock, maybe a little later. Oh, and I was here last night around five or six, but nobody answered the door. He might’ve been dead by then, but the doors were all locked, and when I got here this morning, the front door was open, so somebody had been here between last night and this morning.”

“Did you touch the body?”

“I checked for a pulse. He was cold to the touch, and the blood was starting to dry.”

Haynes nodded. “So he was probably killed sometime after five o’clock last night and at least a few hours before you found him. All right. You boys can run along and leave me to my work.”

T
he two orderlies Haynes had brought came in with a stretcher. They claimed the two chairs in the entry hall and started to smoke. Frank and Broghan went upstairs to wait in Pendergast’s study, since Andy had apparently made no attempt to clean up the bloody mess in the parlor. Frank supposed that would be left for whoever took possession of the house next. He wondered idly who that might be. Did men like Pendergast have family? Heirs to inherit his cursed house with its cages and obscene wallpaper and bloody carpets? Or maybe he was only renting, leaving his landlord with an unholy mess.

“Where do you suppose he got those cages?” Broghan asked, lighting a cigarette himself.

“I don’t know, but I hope he lied about what he was going to use them for.”

“Probably. He wouldn’t want to raise any suspicions.”

“Do you know anything about Pendergast? How he made his living?”

Broghan shrugged. “The neighbors said he didn’t seem to work. He got money every month from somewhere, according to his bank.”

“Like an allowance?”

“Something like that, I guess.”

“Maybe his family knew what he was like and paid him to keep away,” Frank said.

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter now.”

Frank didn’t suppose it did.

Haynes didn’t take long with the corpse. He found them in the study.

“Well?” Broghan asked.

“Your fellow was stabbed with a large knife in the lower abdomen. Whoever did it was mad, because he plunged it in up to the hilt, then jerked it out again. It made quite the mess.”

“How’s that, Doc?” Broghan asked.

“See, if you stab someone who’s conscious, it’s virtually impossible to pull the knife out at exactly the same angle because the victim is going to react, instinctively jerking back, trying to get away or what have you. The knife was sharply pointed at the tip, so it went in pretty easy. No bones in that area to worry about. But the killer pulled it out, too, and the edge of the knife near the handle was big, about three inches. With the victim jumping around, the knife got twisted and came out in a new place, tearing the wound wider.”

“How do you know all this about the knife?” Broghan asked.

“I could’ve figured it out at the autopsy, but the knife was under his body, so that made it much easier.”

“Could it be the same knife that killed Pendergast?” Frank asked.

“It’s possible. It’s got a smooth edge, and it’s sharp enough, but I don’t think I could prove it. You never found that knife, did you?”

“No,” Broghan said.

“If it was the same knife,” Frank said, “maybe the killer brought it back with him.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Broghan said. “Nobody carries a butcher knife around with him.”

“Or maybe the killer knew where it was hidden,” Frank added.

“We searched this house from top to bottom,” Broghan said. “It wasn’t here.”

Frank gave up on that. “So Andy bled to death?”

“Yeah. It looks like he got stabbed there in the kitchen and, instead of running out into the street where somebody might’ve seen him and called for help, he tried to stop the bleeding himself with a towel.”

“If he’d run for help, would he have lived?” Frank asked, earning a frown from Broghan.

Doc Haynes shrugged. “A wound like that, bleeding like it was, I don’t know. If he got to a hospital really fast, maybe, but the knife would’ve done a lot of damage inside. Maybe a surgeon could’ve fixed it and sewed him back up and maybe not. He probably would’ve died of infection eventually anyway. Not much we can do about that.”

“So what can you tell us about Pendergast?” Frank asked, earning another frown from Broghan.

“His throat was cut,” Haynes told them with a small smile.

“We know that!” Broghan said.

“With a large, straight-edged knife,” Haynes continued as if Broghan hadn’t spoken. “The cut went from his left to his right.”

“How do you know that?” Broghan scoffed.

“I can tell by several factors. How deep the wound is at each end, how clean. The start of a wound like that looks different from the end, too, so it’s easy to tell. The knife just nicked the jugular vein on the left side and missed the right one entirely, but it did enough damage to kill him.”

“And to spray a lot of his blood all over Grace Livingston,” Broghan said with a degree of satisfaction.

“Which probably means she didn’t wield the knife,” Haynes said.

“What? How do you know that?” Broghan asked.

“Because.” Haynes took Broghan by the shoulders and turned him until the two men stood face-to-face. “We know she was where I’m standing because she was covered with blood. The cut went from here”—he pointed to a spot on the left side of Broghan’s neck—“to here.” He traced a line to the other side of Broghan’s neck. “Now, if I’m standing in front of you and I go to cut your throat . . .” He lifted his fist as if clutching an invisible knife and went to slash it across Broghan’s throat. “You see, it would go from your right to your left, the wrong direction.”

“And besides,” Frank said, “how many men would let somebody slash at their throat with a butcher knife if they could see it coming?”

“Good point,” Haynes said. “Especially if that person was a female who is smaller and weaker.”

“She could’ve caught him by surprise,” Broghan muttered.

“Maybe, but you’ve still got the problem with the cut going the wrong way. I’m going to say that I think the killer was behind Pendergast.” He moved behind Broghan. “He might’ve grabbed him by the hair or maybe he just sneaked up while Pendergast was busy with Miss Livingston.” Haynes reached over Broghan’s shoulder with his imaginary knife and demonstrated how a cut made from this angle would be in the exact direction he had described.

“Being behind Pendergast has the added advantage for the killer that he wouldn’t get any blood on him,” Haynes said, stepping away from Broghan.

“None at all?” Broghan asked.

“Maybe a drop or two on his hand, but nothing to speak of.”

“So Grace Livingston isn’t the killer,” Frank said, trying not to sound too happy about it.

“I’d say it’s unlikely.”

“Did you find out anything that would help us figure out who
is
the killer?” Broghan asked.

“Not much. I did note that his trousers were unbuttoned.”

“Pendergast’s?” Broghan asked with a leer. “Not surprising. We know why he kept the women prisoner here, don’t we?”

“I only mention it because Andy’s trousers were unbuttoned, too.”

“That’s not surprising either,” Frank said. “He probably did it himself, trying to get at his wound.”

But Haynes shook his head. “No. His trousers were unbuttoned before he was stabbed.”

• • •

S
arah thought the early-morning knock at the door would be a summons to a delivery. She hadn’t been called in almost a week, and she should have been worried. She supported three people on what she earned as a midwife, after all, but since she would soon be marrying a millionaire, she couldn’t bring herself to be too concerned.

She was wrong, though. The visitor was a young man in a Western Union uniform, delivering a telegram.

“What is it?” Maeve asked as Sarah tore it open. She and Catherine had come to the door, too.

“I almost forgot. Mr. Livingston was going to give me their address so Malloy can contact them when it’s safe to return to the city.” She glanced over the cryptic message. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?” Catherine asked, pulling Sarah’s arm so she could see the telegram, too, even though she couldn’t read.

Sarah smiled and let her see. “The address. Malloy told them to go to the shore, but this is a hotel right here in the city.”

“I thought they wanted to get away so the police couldn’t arrest Grace,” Maeve said.

“I did, too, but . . . Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter where they are so long as the police can’t find them.”

“Are you going to tell Mr. Malloy?”

“He doesn’t want to know, so if the police ask him, he doesn’t have to lie.”

They were still puzzling over the Livingstons’ decision to stay in New York when Mrs. Ellsworth arrived.

“Good morning to you all,” she said, breezing in with a napkin-wrapped plate. “Nelson asked me to bring you the leftover shortbread cookies so he won’t be tempted to eat them himself. He’s gotten very conscious of his appearance since he started keeping company with that special young lady.”

“Your son might get married before Mr. Malloy and Mrs. Brandt if they’re not careful,” Maeve said with a smirk.

“It’s possible,” Mrs. Ellsworth said, not realizing Maeve was teasing. “We were eating hazelnuts the other evening when Miss Pringle was visiting, and Nelson cracked one that had two kernels in it. He gave one to Miss Pringle and ate the other one himself.”

“That’s just being gentlemanly,” Maeve said.

Mrs. Ellsworth smiled slyly. “It also means he’s going to marry her, although I’m sure neither of them had the slightest idea it did. Miss Pringle would have dissolved in giggles and Nelson would have nearly died of embarrassment.”

“So you didn’t tell them?” Maeve asked.

“Of course not. I’m waiting until they announce their engagement. So, Mrs. Brandt, you and Mr. Malloy had better not wait too long if you want to be married first.”

“They have to start making plans pretty soon, too,” Maeve added. “Or it’ll be Christmas before they’re wed.”

“It won’t take that long. We’re not planning anything elaborate,” Sarah said, certain this was true even though she and Malloy hadn’t discussed it. She couldn’t imagine him willingly donning a morning coat and standing up in front of hundreds of strangers in a cathedral. That didn’t even sound appealing to her. Widows didn’t wear white gowns and veils either. No, it was a second marriage for both of them, which was more than enough reason to keep things simple.

“Which means you won’t need much time to plan, either,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “Once you’ve found a suitable place to live, that is.”

“I suppose not,” Sarah said, not sure she should be admitting anything to Mrs. Ellsworth. The woman needed so little encouragement.

“In that case, I’m sure Mrs. Brandt and Mr. Malloy will precede Nelson to the altar,” Mrs. Ellsworth informed Maeve. “Nelson hasn’t even proposed yet.”

“But they still need a place to live,” Maeve said, still smirking because she knew how irked Sarah was at being discussed as if she weren’t even present. “Have you made any progress with that?”

Mrs. Ellsworth pretended to take offense. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering in such an important matter, although if I heard of anything suitable, I’d let them know, of course.”

“Of course,” Maeve echoed with a smile.

To Sarah’s relief, someone did finally knock on her door, and this time it really was a summons to a delivery.

• • •

A
ndy’s pants were unbuttoned before he was stabbed?” Frank asked.

Haynes nodded.

“How can you know that?” Broghan challenged.

“Because his drawers have a big gash in them where the knife went through and came out, but his trousers do not.”

“Which means . . . ?” Broghan said.

“Which means,” Haynes replied patiently, “his trousers were open when he was stabbed.”

Broghan frowned. “Why would he be walking around with his trousers open?”

“Figuring that out is your job, but maybe for the same reason Pendergast’s trousers were open,” Haynes said. “You said yourself, we know why Pendergast was kidnapping these women.”

“But the women aren’t here anymore,” Broghan said. “And Andy was waiting for
men
to come and bring him some money so he could leave town.”

Haynes wagged his head in despair. “I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess that this Andy fellow’s visitor was not a man and that he expected a much more pleasant outcome when he unbuttoned his trousers.”

Finally, Broghan’s eyes widened with understanding. “Then the killer is probably a female!”

Frank almost winced. He’d been hoping against hope Broghan wouldn’t catch on, but trust Haynes to make sure he did.

“I think that’s a possibility, yes,” Haynes said.

“I knew it,” Broghan said, turning to Frank. “Grace Livingston came back here to make sure he didn’t tell us she killed Pendergast.”

“Grace Livingston isn’t even in the city,” Frank snapped. “I already told you that.”

“Yes, you did, but you also said you don’t know where she is, so she could be anywhere. And what about that other woman, the one you let escape? She could’ve come back here, too. Or maybe one of the others he’s had here. I knew it was a female who killed Pendergast, and now she’s killed this Andy, too.”

“There’s no proof it was a female,” Frank said, even though he had to admit it seemed likely. In fact, from what he’d heard about Andy, he would’ve taken great delight in forcing one of Pendergast’s former victims to satisfy him. On the other hand: “Why would any of those women come back here in the first place?”

“I told you why, to make sure Andy didn’t tell anybody what he knew,” Broghan said as if explaining something to a particularly dull pupil. “Whoever killed Andy also killed Pendergast. You mark my words.”

“I’ll let somebody else mark them,” Haynes said. “In the meantime, I’ll take this Andy fellow . . . Does anyone know his last name?”

Frank and Broghan exchanged a glance.

“No,” Broghan said.

“Well, I’ll take this Andy to the morgue,” Haynes said. “You can check back with me day after tomorrow for the autopsy results.”

When Haynes had gone, Broghan turned to Frank. “You need to tell me where Grace Livingston is.”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Then how are you supposed to solve this case?”

Frank sighed wearily. “Grace Livingston’s father hired me to find the real killer. That makes me think Grace isn’t the real killer, so I’m going to try to figure out who else it could be.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know yet, but when I do, you will be the first to know.”

He bid Broghan a good afternoon and made his way out of Pendergast’s house. In truth, he did know how he was going to find out, or at least where he was going to start, but first he had to get Sarah, because he was surely going to need her help.