Murder on Lexington Avenue (2 page)

“It was sitting over here,” Sullivan informed him, pointing to a credenza that sat against the wall. Sullivan was enjoying being the one with all the information, Frank noted.

When Frank stood up, he saw that the credenza was covered with various large and heavy trophies from Mr. Wooten’s athletic youth. His killer would have had his pick.

“Is anything missing?” Frank asked, looking around for signs of a robbery.

“He didn’t have any money in his pockets, but his watch is still there,” Sullivan said with a shrug.

Which meant that the beat cop who got there first probably took whatever ready money Mr. Wooten had on him. He’d have left the watch, since it would be too hard to get rid of without attracting attention. A real thief would have taken the watch and anything else of value. Frank could see some fancy pieces on the desk that looked like they might be silver. A real thief would’ve taken that stuff, too.

“I don’t suppose anybody else was working in the building this afternoon,” Frank mused.

“Not that we know of yet.”

Frank walked around to the other side of the desk. Wooten probably had an appointment book. Maybe he’d noted the name of this killer in a neat, businessman’s handwriting that would make Frank’s job very easy. He rummaged through the drawers.

The top one contained several sheets of paper with columns of numbers written in a neat hand, added up with some of the sums circled. Beneath it was a ledger of some kind. Wooten must have been looking at the accounts. Beneath the ledger, he found what he was looking for, an appointment book, but the page for today contained only one entry—an appointment to meet Higginbotham at two o’clock. Frank sighed and tossed it back into the drawer where he’d found it, and replaced the ledger and the papers. The desk yielded nothing else of interest except a half-empty bottle of very good Scotch whiskey. Frank tossed it to Sullivan, who caught it deftly.

“For your trouble,” Frank explained. Sullivan grinned, and dropped the bottle into his baggy coat pocket.

Frank rose from the chair and started back around the desk when his foot hit something on the floor and sent it rolling. “What’s this?” he asked, bending to pick it up. It was a small tube that appeared to be made of ivory with a brass tip on one end. The other end appeared to have been broken off something.

“What is it?” Sullivan asked, coming over to examine it.

“Looks like part of a mechanical pencil,” Frank said, giving it to him.

“Broke in half. Where was it?”

“Here on the floor,” Frank said, looking down to see if he could find the other half.

“Wooten didn’t seem like the type to leave broken pencils laying around on the floor,” Sullivan observed.

“No, he doesn’t. Help me look for the other half.”

Sullivan found it on the other side of the room where it had rolled up against the wall. “That’s funny,” he remarked, handing it to Frank. “How did it get way over there?”

“It’s almost like somebody threw it there,” Frank said, “but why throw part of it in one direction and part in the other?”

“If you wanted to get rid of it, like this,” Sullivan said, pretending to toss something away in opposite directions with both hands.

“Funny way to get rid of a broken pencil, though,” Frank observed, examining the broken ends. It had separated where the brass top fitted into the ivory grip.

“You’re right. Maybe he broke somebody’s pencil, and they got mad and clocked him in the head,” Sullivan joked.

“Yeah, that’s probably what happened. I’d kill somebody for breaking my mechanical pencil,” Frank agreed, dropping the pieces into his pocket. “Do we know where Wooten lived?”

“Higginbotham gave me his address.”

“He have any family besides the deaf daughter?”

“A wife and son. Somebody needs to break the news to them.”

“I’m surprised Higginbotham hasn’t done that already,” Frank said.

“He wanted to, but I made him stay here.”

“Thanks,” Frank said sincerely. Seeing the family’s initial reaction to a murder could tell a lot.

A commotion in the corridor heralded the arrival of the medical examiner. Doc Haynes appeared in the doorway and stopped, taking in the entire scene with his world-weary eyes. “What have we got here?” he asked of no one in particular.

“Just what you see,” Frank said. “Sullivan here will fill you in. I have to question a witness before he decides he wants to go home.”

He left the two men to examine the body and found Higginbotham in the room where he’d left him. Somebody had brought him a glass of water, but he looked like he needed something a lot stronger. Frank began to regret giving the whiskey to Sullivan.

“Oh, Mr. Malloy, have you found out how this happened yet?” Higginbotham asked eagerly, half rising from his chair.

Frank motioned him to stay seated, and pulled out a chair for himself. Seated at a right angle to Higginbotham, he’d be able to watch his every expression. “It’s too early to know anything for certain yet,” he said, taking from his pocket a pencil and the small notebook he used to jot down important facts. “What can you tell me about Mr. Wooten?”

“I . . . I’m not sure what you need to know,” Higginbotham said uncertainly.

“What did he do for a living, for instance?” Frank looked around for some indication of what sort of business was conducted in this building, but saw nothing helpful.

“I’m not sure,” Higginbotham said. “He called himself a broker. I believe he helped companies who made products find customers to buy them.”

“It must pay well,” Frank observed.

“Oh, Mr. Wooten was always very generous to the school. And his family wanted for nothing, I’m sure.”

Frank nodded. “Do you know if he had any enemies?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Higginbotham assured him. “Everyone who knew Mr. Wooten loved him. He was a kind and generous man. Very good to his family. Did I mention that?”

“Yes, you did,” Frank said dryly, not bothering to point out that at least one person who knew Mr. Wooten hated him enough to murder him. “Mr. Sullivan said you didn’t see anyone else in the building when you arrived.”

“No, no, I didn’t. I didn’t expect to, you see. It’s Saturday and the office closed at noon.”

“How did you get in?”

“The front door was open. It sometimes was. I didn’t think anything of it then.”

“I don’t suppose you know if Mr. Wooten was supposed to meet with anybody else this afternoon?”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t have confided that to me.”

“What was your meeting about today?”

Higginbotham hesitated, and Frank’s instinct told him he’d finally found a subject that might be worth pursuing. “I . . . Nothing that would have anything to do with his death, I’m sure.”

“I don’t think we can be sure of that just yet,” Frank said, “since we don’t know who killed him or why. So what were you going to discuss with him?”

Higginbotham shifted uneasily in his chair. “Mr. Wooten . . . Well, he was concerned about his daughter, Electra.”

“Electra?” Frank echoed in surprise. “That’s a funny name.”

“It’s Greek,” Higginbotham said a bit defensively. “Mr. Wooten was a Greek scholar in his youth.”

Frank nodded, mentally dismissing Wooten’s youthful scholarship. “Was the girl having trouble in school?”

“Oh, no, not at all. Electra is an excellent student. A lovely girl. Everything a father could want in a daughter.”

“Except she’s deaf,” Frank reminded him.

Higginbotham bristled at that. “I’m surprised to hear you say a thing like that, Mr. Malloy.”

“I didn’t mean it as a criticism,” Frank said mildly. “I’m sure if Mr. Wooten had his choice, he’d choose that his daughter not be deaf.”

“I can’t speak for Mr. Wooten,” Higginbotham said stiffly.

“I’m not asking you to,” Frank reminded him. “So if this Electra is such a good student, why were you meeting with her father today?”

“She . . . Oh, dear, I hate to break a confidence.”

“Mr. Wooten was murdered,” Frank reminded him. “He doesn’t have any privacy anymore. If we’re going to find out who killed him, we have to know everything about him, even if it’s embarrassing to him . . . or to his daughter.”

“But I’m sure it had nothing to do with his . . . his unfortunate death.”

“Then you don’t have to worry about telling me, do you?”

Higginbotham wrung his plump hands in an agony of indecision. “If it really has nothing to do with his death, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“Of course,” Frank lied. He never knew when a piece of information might come in handy to frighten another suspect into confessing.

“Well, you see, Electra, she . . . she is a lovely young lady, as I believe I mentioned.”

“Yes, you did,” Frank said, encouraging him.

“Naturally . . . I mean, quite naturally, because nothing could be more normal in young people, no matter what their situations, and I’m sure no one can place any blame at all because young people will find each other, no matter what—”

“Mr. Higginbotham,” Frank snapped, losing patience with him. “No one is going to blame you for anything. Just tell me what you were going to talk to Wooten about.”

“Oh, dear, please forgive my rambling. I’m quite unnerved, I’m afraid. I’ve never seen a murdered man before.”

“I’ll forgive it if you stop doing it,” Frank offered sternly.

“Oh, yes, of course. Well, what were you asking me?”

“What you were going to talk to Wooten about . . . ?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Electra, you know. She is so young, only sixteen, although in my time, I’ve seen girls marry at that age and be perfectly happy, but of course, Mr. Wooten didn’t approve—”

“Are you saying that Electra wanted to marry somebody her father didn’t approve of ?” Frank tried not to betray his excitement. Frustrated lovers were very likely suspects for murder.

“I can’t say he didn’t approve, not exactly,” Higginbotham hedged.

“What did he do, then, exactly?”

“He . . . Well, you see, the young man Electra wished or rather
wishes
to marry is also deaf.”

“And Wooten didn’t want her to marry a deaf man?” Frank asked, a little surprised. He’d met some deaf couples in the past year who seemed very happy together.

“It was more than that,” Higginbotham hastened to explain. “Mr. Wooten was a student of eugenics.”

“What is eugenics?”

“I’m not sure of the exact definition, but Mr. Wooten believed that the human race should be improved by eliminating people with certain . . . certain flaws.”

“Flaws? You mean like being deaf?”

“That is one, yes,” Higginbotham reluctantly admitted.

Frank considered this. “Are you saying that Wooten believed deaf people should be killed?”

“Oh, no, not at all!” Higginbotham hastily explained. “His own daughter is deaf, after all!”

“Then what did he want to do to ‘eliminate’ them?”

“He didn’t think deaf people should marry each other, so they wouldn’t produce deaf children. His fear was that the intermarriage of deaf people would produce an entire race of deaf people.”

That made a certain amount of sense to Frank, except for one thing. “Do deaf people mostly have deaf children?” His son, Brian, was the child of two people who had normal hearing, and he knew at least one deaf couple who had produced two children who could hear perfectly well.

“I have to say that I have not observed this to be true,” Higginbotham said carefully. “In fact, only a few of the children in our school have even one deaf parent, and only one has parents who are both deaf. Even your own son has at least one hearing parent.”

“Two. My wife wasn’t deaf either,” Frank informed him. “Then why do you think deaf people shouldn’t marry?”

“I don’t think any such thing,” Mr. Higginbotham said, a bit exasperated. “I was merely explaining to you what Mr. Wooten believed.”

“Then you don’t believe in this . . . what was that word?”

“Eugenics,” Higginbotham supplied.

“Eugenics,” Frank repeated. “You don’t believe in it?”

“No, I do not.”

“Where did Wooten get an idea like that, then?”

“From Mr. Alexander Graham Bell. He attended one of Mr. Bell’s lectures on the subject.”

“Bell? The man who invented the telephone?” Frank asked. “What does he have to do with this?’

“Mr. Bell is very interested in helping the deaf. Both his wife and his mother are deaf, you see. In fact, his research into hearing devices was what led him to invent the telephone.”

“The curse of modern life,” Frank said in disgust.

“Indeed, although it can be handy sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Frank conceded. “So Bell set out to help the deaf, and now he wants to stop them from marrying each other so they don’t make more deaf people.”

“I don’t mean to sound critical of Mr. Bell . . . or of Mr. Wooten, for that matter. They are both good men, and they only want the best for deaf people. It’s just . . . Well, I’m sure you understand how headstrong young people can be.”

“Especially when they think they’re in love,” Frank agreed. “What did Wooten expect you to do about his daughter’s romance?”

“I’m not sure,” Higginbotham said. “We were going to discuss it today, but . . .”

“Who is this boy she was in love with?”

“I don’t know his name.”

Frank looked up from his notebook in surprise. “Isn’t he a student at your school?”

“No, he . . . He’s actually a teacher at another school, the New York Institution for the Deaf and Dumb.”

Brian’s school. “That school teaches sign language,” Frank said.

“Yes, it does.” Higginbotham obviously disapproved.

Frank had done a lot of investigation before choosing a school for Brian. The Lexington Avenue School taught their students to speech- read and speak and didn’t allow them to use signs at all.