Murder on Washington Square (12 page)

Frank allowed that he would. If she gave him coffee, she’d settle in for a nice long visit. He really doubted she’d seen anything the night Anna Blake had died, but he was sure she could tell him a lot of gossip about her and the others in the house. He made himself comfortable and looked around the room while he waited. Miss Stone had doilies everywhere and almost as many knickknacks as his mother, but he didn’t see a speck of dust on anything. No photographs, either. Miss Stone might very well be alone in the world.

The old woman returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies on a gleaming silver tray.

“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” he protested.

“No trouble at all,” she assured him, settling into her own chair and handing him one of the cups. “These cookies are probably stale. There’s no one here to eat them but me.”

The cookies were fresh and delicious. Frank ate two and complimented her on them before he asked his first question. “How long have you lived here, Miss Stone?”

“I’ve lived here all my life, Mr. Detective Sergeant. I was born in this house.”

Which meant she’d inherited it from her family, along with enough money to keep herself modestly even though she’d never married. How fortunate for her. Few women were so lucky.

“How long have the Walcotts lived next door?”

“Not quite a year now, I expect. They bought the place from Mr. Knight. His wife had died, and he was tired of living there all alone. At least that’s what Mrs. Walcott told me. Mr. Knight never even mentioned he was selling. Didn’t even say good-bye, either. Just up and left. Moved uptown, she said, into one of those fancy apartment buildings. I knew him forty years, and he didn’t say one word to me. Of course, he got funny after his wife died. Never was very sociable, and when she was gone, he just stayed inside most of the time. Didn’t even work in his garden anymore. Widowers get like that sometimes.”

“What do you know about the Walcotts?”

Miss Stone considered the question. “I’m trying to remember if she told me where they came from. Can’t say I recall, but they were thrilled with the house. Mr. Knight sold them most of his furniture, too, since he didn’t need it in his new place. Seems like she said her family left her a legacy or some such thing. That’s how they could buy the house.”

“When did they start taking in boarders?”

“Almost right away. Her husband couldn’t work, you know. Had some sort of nervous condition. So they needed the money.”

Frank almost smiled at the description of Mr. Walcott as nervous. “I thought she had a legacy.”

“She didn’t say, but it couldn’t have been much. Not enough to keep them, at least. She said she enjoyed having company in the house. They’d never been blessed with children, and she liked having other people around. Her husband liked to travel, so the boarders were company for her, as well as income.”

So far this story agreed mostly with the one Walcott had told him. “I understand that the two women who were living there lately had only been there a few months. Who lived there before?”

Miss Stone frowned as she tried to remember. “I don’t know all their names. One had red hair, I remember, and I’d swear it wasn’t natural. You know how you can just tell,” she added conspiratorially. “The way she carried herself, well, she didn’t seem quite respectable either, if you know what I mean. In my day, a young woman didn’t flaunt herself like that. But she didn’t stay long. Probably, the Walcotts agreed with me and turned her out. There was another one, Blevins or Cummings her name was. Something like that. Real pretty girl. She was there longer, but they told me she got married. I’m not surprised, as many men as came to call on her, she probably had her pick.”

“Do a lot of men come to the house?” Frank asked.

Miss Stone looked insulted. “It’s not that kind of a house, Mr. Detective Sergeant. I know the difference.”

“I didn’t mean to say it was. I just understood that the two women living there now also had several suitors each. I was wondering if you’d noticed that.”

A little mollified, she said, “I’m not one for minding my neighbors’ business, you understand, but I couldn’t help noticing that each girl seemed to have two or three different gentlemen who called on her. I don’t know how they kept them straight.”

“Or how they kept them from encountering each other,” Frank observed.

Miss Stone smiled her agreement. “The girls didn’t step out with their gentlemen, either, the way girls do nowadays. I don’t think it’s right, you understand. A young woman should never be alone in the company of a young man unless they’re engaged, and even then . . . But I suppose I’m hopelessly old-fashioned. Girls today, they do heaven knows what. Except these girls didn’t. The men would go inside to call on the girls, and then they’d leave alone. They never even took the girls for walks in the park or anything like that. They were very respectable.”

Frank could think of another explanation. If the men in question were married, they couldn’t take a chance of being seen in a public place. Liaisons like the ones Frank knew took place there—liaisons that resulted in pregnancy—also couldn’t happen in a public place.

“Did you ever speak with any of the boarders?” Frank asked.

“I don’t believe I did. Young women like that, they don’t have time for an old lady like me.”

“What about their gentleman friends?”

“Oh, gracious, no! They were always in too much of a hurry. Pulling their hats down over their eyes so they could pretend they didn’t see me and didn’t need to speak.”

Frank nodded his understanding. He suspected the men were actually trying to avoid being recognized, but he didn’t bother to explain that to Miss Stone. “Did you notice anything unusual the night Anna Blake was killed?”

She offered Frank the cookie plate while she tried to remember. He took two more.

“Of course, I didn’t know she was going to be murdered,” Miss Stone explained, “so I wasn’t paying particular attention, you understand.”

Frank nodded again as he chewed on a cookie.

“This probably has nothing at all to do with that poor girl’s death.”

Frank kept nodding and chewing.

“I have a difficult time sleeping. That happens when you get older. I was in bed, so I don’t know what time it might have been, although I know it was late, but I thought I heard someone opening the cellar door.”

“At the Walcott house?”

“I can’t be perfectly sure. I didn’t get up to look. Why should I? Only a busybody would be that curious. And the houses are so close together, it could have been the neighbor on the other side, for all I know. You see, I told you it probably didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

Frank had to agree. Anna Blake wasn’t murdered in anyone’s cellar. “It does prove you’re observant and have a good memory,” Frank said to placate her. “Did you notice anything earlier in the evening? Do you remember which gentlemen came to call?”

“I don’t want you to think I just sit by my window watching who comes and goes next door,” Miss Stone said, a little offended.

Frank gave her his charming smile, the one that used to work on his mother when he was a boy. “I know that a lady living alone likes to know who comes and goes in the neighborhood. You can’t be too careful, you know. I’m sure if you saw anything suspicious, you’d report it immediately.”

Miss Stone allowed herself to be placated again. “Of course I would. Except I didn’t see anything suspicious that night. I did see a gentleman come to call earlier in the evening, but I’m not even sure which one it was. They’re very careful about turning their faces away, you understand, and I never imagined it would be important to keep track of them.”

“Do you have any idea when he left?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t. Why would that . . . ? Oh, I see, if the girl had left with him, he might be the killer.”

Miss Stone was proving to be quite a detective herself. Too bad she wasn’t quite as nosy as Mrs. Ellsworth. He bet Mrs. Ellsworth could’ve told him the eye color and religious affiliation of each and every one of the Walcotts’ gentlemen callers.

“Have I been any help at all?” she asked anxiously.

“It’s hard to tell,” Frank lied. “Sometimes the smallest detail is the one that solves the case. Like I said, you may have seen something important without realizing it. If you think of anything else, please send for me.” He gave her his card, thanked her for the refreshments, and took his leave.

Frank glanced at the Walcott house as he left Miss Stone’s. All seemed quiet, and he considered trying again to talk with Mrs. Walcott. Then he decided he’d have a better chance of seeing Giddings at his place of business at this time of day, something he could do without breaking his promise not to tell Giddings’s wife what had happened. Frank wanted to find out if he was the one who’d called on Anna the night she died. He’d stop by the Walcotts’ early tomorrow to catch the landlady before she had a chance to leave the house. Maybe she could at least explain why someone had opened her cellar door late that night.

 

Sarah arrived home to discover several reporters on the sidewalk in front of the Ellsworths’ house. Poor Mrs. Ellsworth, the most exciting thing to happen on this street in her lifetime, and she already knew all about it. More, in fact, than she wanted to know.

Sarah debated the wisdom of trying to get past the reporters to the Ellsworths’ front door, but she decided to try to sneak in the back instead. Unfortunately, she still had to deal with them. As soon as they recognized her, they converged on her, plying her with shouted questions and offering her bribes to get them in to see the Ellsworths.

“Mr. Ellsworth had nothing to do with Anna Blake’s murder,” she tried shouting above the din.

“How do you know?” one of them asked. “Was he with you that night?”

“Why are you trying to protect him?” another called.

Malloy was right, she thought in disgust. There was no way to convince these jackals of the truth. They were only interested in uncovering a scandal—or inventing one. She shoved her way through them and up her front steps and into her house, slamming the door behind her.

Once inside, she went to the window to see what they would do. Deprived of their latest prey, they returned to their vigil at the Ellsworths’ front stoop, waiting for a new victim. Poor Mrs. Ellsworth, held prisoner in her own home. Nelson, at least, had gotten himself into this mess with his poor judgment, but his mother had done nothing at all. Sarah wondered if they had enough food or if they needed anything. At least their captivity meant they hadn’t been able to get out to buy a newspaper and had been spared that outrage.

Sarah went to her own pantry and found a few potatoes, half a loaf of stale bread, and a bag of beans. She’d shop for them tomorrow, if Malloy still hadn’t solved the case by then. In the meantime, at least they wouldn’t starve. Throwing the food items into a market basket, Sarah went to her back door and checked to make sure no reporters had taken up a vigil in the alley. Finding the way clear, she hurried next door and banged on the door.

Mrs. Ellsworth peered out before letting her in. “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, thank heaven you’re here! I’m half insane with worrying. Has Mr. Malloy found the killer yet?”

“Not yet,” she said, “but I’m sure it won’t be much longer.” Malloy wouldn’t thank her for the lie, but it was all she had to offer. “Where’s Nelson?”

“Up in his room. I think he’s a little embarrassed about everything that happened, and he’s also mourning that poor girl. He really cared for her. And when he saw what they wrote about him in the newspaper . . .” Her voice broke.

“How did you see a newspaper?” Sarah asked in dismay.

“Mr. Holsinger across the street brought one over this morning, before the reporters got here.”

“How thoughtful of him,” Sarah said sarcastically.

“Oh, he wasn’t being kind,” Mrs. Ellsworth assured her. “He was furious that Nelson had brought a scandal into the neighborhood. He wanted to know what we were going to do about it.”

“What did he have in mind?” Sarah asked in astonishment.

“Heaven knows,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with a sigh, sinking down into one of the kitchen chairs. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much the night before, and Sarah wanted to check her pulse and her heartbeat to make sure she wasn’t truly ill. Perhaps she’d bring her medical bag when she came the next time.

Sarah set her market basket on the table. “I didn’t know if you had any food in the house, but I knew you couldn’t go shopping, so I brought over what I had.”

“That’s kind of you, but neither of us feels very hungry, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t stop eating. You’ll make yourself sick. How are you feeling?”

Mrs. Ellsworth looked up at Sarah through bloodshot eyes. “Frightened,” she said. “What if Mr. Malloy can’t find the real killer, and they arrest Nelson? He could be executed!”

“Don’t think that way! Malloy will find the killer, and if he doesn’t, I will. Nelson will never go to jail,” she promised rashly.

Mrs. Ellsworth smiled sadly. “You are such a good friend, Mrs. Brandt.”

Sarah returned her smile. “As I recall, you’ve been a good friend to me, too. Now let’s peel these potatoes and see if we can’t get some hot food into the two of you.”

Mrs. Ellsworth found a knife, and Sarah took it from her and began to peel. “Which newspaper did Mr. Holsinger bring you?” she asked after a moment.

“The World,”
she said with a frown of distaste. “I wonder if it was written by that rude young man who told us Nelson had been arrested.”

“It seems likely,” Sarah said, remembering him only too well.

“He looked like such a nice young man, but . . . Can you tell me, Mrs. Brandt, are the things he said about Nelson true?”

“I’m sure very little of it was true,” Sarah hedged.