Murder on Fifth Avenue: A Gaslight Mystery (9 page)

Frank considered this information, giving Pitt an opportunity to remember anything else that might be helpful.

After a moment, Pitt said, “Did Angotti really kill Mr. Devries?”

“I don’t know yet, but they had an appointment on the day he died. I need to see Angotti.”

The prospect seemed to alarm Pitt. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

“Do you see Angotti alone?”

“Yes, but…I have business for him.” Pitt wiped his forehead again.

Frank wondered if Pitt sweated like this when he went to see Angotti. “Can you arrange for me to meet with Angotti?”

“I…I wouldn’t like to get involved in something like that.”

Frank could easily understand his reluctance. “Then tell me where to find him.”

“You won’t mention my name?”

“Why would I?”

Pitt snatched a scrap of paper from his desk and picked up the pen he had discarded when Frank had burst into his office a few minutes ago. He dipped it carefully into the inkwell and scratched out an address.

Frank took the still-wet message. He recognized the neighborhood, which wasn’t too far from Police Headquarters. “Do you think Mr. Devries wanted Angotti to kill someone for him?”

Pitt’s shock was almost comic. “I…I have no idea! I can’t imagine Mr. Devries wanting someone killed at all.”

“And now Mr. Devries himself is dead.”

Pitt had nothing to say to that.

F
RANK DIDN’T HAVE TOO MUCH TROUBLE LOCATING OFFI
cer Gino Donatelli. As one of the few Italians in the New York City Police Department, he worked mostly in Little Italy, and everyone there knew him well. Frank distributed pennies to some street urchins and sat down in a café to wait, although the other patrons eyed him suspiciously over their pastries. The place smelled pleasantly of anise and baking bread.

Before he’d finished his first cup of coffee, Donatelli appeared.

The handsome youth grinned broadly when he spotted Frank sitting at a table with his back to the wall. “I heard you were looking for me,” he said, taking a seat.

Before Frank could answer, the owner of the restaurant had brought Donatelli something that looked like coffee but in a tiny cup. The two exchanged some pleasantries in Italian before the owner slipped away again.

“Aren’t you old enough to drink a full cup of coffee?” Frank asked, eyeing the miniature cup.

“This is espresso. Extra-strong Italian coffee. You’re only supposed to drink a little. Want to try some?” Donatelli raised a hand to catch the owner’s eye.

“No, I’m fine.” Frank thought he’d feel silly drinking out of a cup that small, no matter what was in it.

Donatelli grinned again and took a sip of the mysterious brew. “How can I help you, Detective Sergeant?”

“What do you know about Salvatore Angotti?”

Gino’s grin vanished, and he glanced around anxiously. “Don’t say that name too loud around here. Why do you want to know about him?”

Frank leaned forward and spoke softly. “A man died yesterday after he had a meeting with this Angotti. He was stabbed with a long, thin blade, like a stiletto.”

“He probably deserved it, then.”

Frank couldn’t argue with that. “The dead man was a friend of Felix Decker.”

“Mrs. Brandt’s father?”

Frank didn’t like the way Donatelli’s face lit up when he said Sarah’s name. The boy adored her. “That’s right, and he was just as rich as Decker, too, so a lot of people want to find out who killed him.”

“Why would a man like that be meeting with Mr. Angotti?”

“Devries owns a lot of tenements. Angotti’s goons help get rid of tenants who don’t pay their rent.”

“Which means Mr. Angotti has a good reason to keep this Mr. Devries alive and healthy.”

“Up until a month ago, Angotti never even met Devries. He just dealt with Devries’s goons. But Devries had a job, something personal, he wanted Angotti to handle. I need to find out what it was.”

Donatelli was already shaking his head. “You can’t go to a man like this and accuse him of murder, Mr. Malloy.”

Frank bristled, even though he knew Donatelli was right. “I’m not going to accuse him of anything. I just want to know why Devries wanted to see him.”

“He’s not stupid. He’ll know what you’re trying to do. If this rich fellow was murdered, the police would love to get an Italian for it.”

“If he did it, he deserves it.”

“I don’t think he did.”

Angry now, Frank forgot to whisper. “You don’t know anything about it.”

Donatelli glanced around to see if they were attracting any attention. Frank realized everyone in the café was watching them intently even though they couldn’t have overheard much of the conversation.

Donatelli leaned over the table, practically whispering. “I know Salvatore Angotti isn’t going to stick a knife into some rich man in this city no matter how much he might want to. Something like that would ruin him.”

“One of his goons did, then.”

“Nothing that could be traced back to him. I told you, he’s not stupid. The police, we don’t care what he does to his own people so long as he doesn’t scare the legal citizens who vote, but if he raises his hand against somebody important …” Gino shook his head.

“Then he needs to help me find out who really killed this Devries fellow, because if I don’t, sooner or later somebody is going to figure out how easy it would be to convince a jury he did it.”

Plainly, Gino didn’t like any of this. He sipped from his tiny cup, probably trying to decide if he could refuse to help. “That might work.”

“What might work?”

“Telling Angotti you’re trying to help him.”

The very thought made Frank wince, but he said, “Would he believe it?”

“No, but it would get you in to see him. After that, it’s up to you to find out what you need to know.”

“Can you arrange it?”

Frank waited patiently while Gino thought this over. If necessary, Frank would remind him of the way he’d let Gino assist him on cases when no other Irish detective on the force would have worked with an Italian. But Frank didn’t think that would be necessary. Italians never forgot a slight, but they never forgot a favor, either.

“You’ll have to show him respect,” Gino said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can’t slap him around or insult him. They’ll kill you if you do.”

That was plain enough. Frank couldn’t help wondering if this was even worth the trouble. “So you’re saying I should treat him like I’d treat Felix Decker.”

Gino’s grin flashed again, and he nodded. “That’s right. You’re asking for his help, because his name came up, and if he can help you find the one who really killed this rich fellow, you can keep the police from poking around in his business.”

“He should appreciate that.”

“He won’t appreciate anything you do for him, but he understands how the city works, and he’ll know it’s in his best interest to do a favor for you. He might need one in return some day.”

The knowledge that he would be in debt to a man like Salvatore Angotti left a bitter taste in Frank’s mouth, but he said, “How soon can you set up a meeting?”

F
RANK MADE HIS WAY TO THE CITY MORGUE THROUGH THE
crush of late afternoon traffic that clogged streets and sidewalks alike. The winter chill had seeped into his very bones by the time he reached his destination. So, glad to be someplace warm, he didn’t even mind the smell of death that always hung so heavily in the air. He found Doc Haynes in his office, writing out autopsy reports.

Frank flopped wearily down into the single chair available for visitors in the Spartan room. “Did you finish with Devries yet?”

Haynes frowned and started shuffling through the stacks of papers on his battered desk. He looked as if he needed a long rest in the country someplace. Frank probably did, too.

“Just like I thought,” Haynes said, pulling the report from the mess. “Stabbed with something long and thin. The blade
punctured a kidney, and he bled to death internally. It was a lucky punch, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean whoever did it managed to slip it in between two ribs. A fraction of an inch up or down and it would’ve just nicked the skin. Instead, it slipped right in.”

“Any idea what he was stabbed with?”

“Something small.”

“You said it was long.”

“Maybe six inches at most, but narrow, much narrower than a regular knife.”

“A stiletto, then?”

“Maybe.”

Frank sighed. “What do you mean,
maybe
?”

“I mean, I’ve never seen a knife—not even a stiletto—make a hole that small.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “You think it really was a hat pin?”

“I think something more like an ice pick.”

An ice pick? That opened up all sorts of possibilities. “But it could still be a stiletto?”

“A small one, I guess. I’d have to see it.”

Frank was trying to imagine how Devries could’ve been stabbed with an ice pick. Every house had one, of course, but they weren’t just lying around handy, in case you got mad and wanted to stick one into somebody. An ice pick would normally be in the kitchen, and Frank didn’t think Devries spent much time in the kitchen. “Did you find anything else?”

“Yeah, and I’m surprised you didn’t notice it yourself. No holes in his clothes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he wasn’t wearing those clothes when he got stabbed.”

Frank blinked. Of course. He
should
have noticed that himself. He’d been too busy worrying about Felix Decker and his damn Knickerbocker Club. “So he was naked when he was stabbed.”

“At least from the waist up. Or else he was wearing different clothes when he got stabbed.”

Remembering what Devries had been doing that morning, he most certainly would have been in some stage of undress when he was with Norah English. He’d bathed at his home and changed his clothes, so he’d been naked around Roderick. Frank couldn’t imagine how Roderick could’ve stabbed his employer without Devries noticing, but it was still a possibility. And then there was always the possibility that Devries had cozied up to Lizzie the maid in the kitchen and she’d stuck an ice pick in his back.

Frank almost smiled at the ridiculous image.

“I guess I’ve got to go back to the man’s house and find out if he’s got holes in any of his other clothes.”

“I guess you do. He was in good health otherwise. Might’ve lived to a ripe old age if he hadn’t died.”

Frank pushed himself wearily to his feet. “You could say that about anybody.”

S
ARAH AND
M
AEVE WERE CLEANING WHEN THEY HEARD
the doorbell the next morning.

“This time I hope it’s a delivery,” Sarah said, pulling off the kerchief she’d been wearing to protect her hair from dust. “I do have to earn a living, you know.”

Maeve grinned. “Especially now that you have a family to support. I’ll get it.”

Sarah removed her apron and made a few repairs to her hair before following the girl out to the front room, where she found Maeve making Garnet Devries welcome.

“Mrs. Devries,” Sarah said. “What a nice surprise.”

“I’m sure you didn’t expect to see me so soon, but my mother-in-law went to see her dressmaker this morning, so I took the opportunity to slip out myself.”

“I’m glad you did. Have you met Maeve? She helps take care of my daughter, Catherine.”

“Yes, and this must be Catherine,” Garnet said, smiling at the child who had crept silently down the stairs to see their visitor.

Maeve took Garnet’s cloak while everyone made the proper introductory greetings, and then Maeve and Catherine went back upstairs.

“Would you like some coffee? I’m afraid we’ll have to sit in the kitchen.”

“That would be lovely,” Garnet said. “I haven’t sat in a kitchen since I got married.”

“You sound sorry about that.”

“I’m sorry about a lot of things.”

Good manners forbade Sarah from asking what she meant by that, but she had a feeling that if she gave Garnet Devries the opportunity, she would explain herself without being asked. Sarah led her to the kitchen, where she poured them both coffee from the pot left over from breakfast.

“Would you like some pie? Maeve and Catherine have become very good cooks since my neighbor took them in hand.”

“No, thank you. I …” She pressed her fingers to her lips for a moment, a gesture Sarah had seen before. Suddenly, she understood why Garnet Devries had been so anxious to see her.

“Are you with child?”

Garnet’s eyes widened. “Can you tell simply by looking at a woman?”

“Not exactly, but you put your fingers to your lips, as if the thought of the pie nauseated you.”

“Not the pie in particular.”

“No, just any food at all, I expect. It’s called morning sickness. Many women suffer from it during the first few months. How far along are you?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t even sure…I’m still not.”

She hadn’t touched her coffee, and Sarah noticed how pale she had grown now that the ruddiness from the cold had faded from her cheeks. Sarah saw no spark of joy in her lovely eyes at the thought of a new life, either. But perhaps she was just frightened. Childbirth could be terrifying.

Sarah began asking her the routine questions about her menstrual cycle and other changes she would have noticed in her body. Her answers confirmed Sarah’s suspicions. “It’s still very early, but I think you can expect a baby late this summer.”

“You couldn’t be mistaken?”

“I don’t think so.”

Garnet frowned. “If it’s still early, then there’s a chance I might miscarry, isn’t there?”

“Have you ever miscarried before?”

“No.”

“It’s possible, of course, but it’s much more likely you’ll have a healthy baby.” Sarah smiled to reassure her, but Garnet didn’t look reassured. Instead she glanced around the room, as if noticing it for the first time.

“How nice that you have your own home. Do you support yourself completely?”

Sarah blinked. “Yes.”

“How long did it take for you to learn to be a midwife?”

“I took training as a nurse, and then I worked with another midwife for a year or so. About three years total, I guess.”