Murder on Washington Square (5 page)

Sarah decided not to offer encouragement that the old woman didn’t want. Instead she slid off her chair and knelt on the floor so Brian could better show her his handiwork.

 

Sarah was just beginning to think about what to have for lunch the next day when someone began pounding on her back door. Hardly anyone except Mrs. Ellsworth ever came to her back door, which opened into the small yard behind her row house, and her neighbor wouldn’t be pounding like that unless something was terribly wrong. Sarah hurried to see who was there and opened the door to a distraught Mrs. Ellsworth.

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt, thank heaven you’re home!” she cried, flinging herself into Sarah’s arms. Her face was pale, and she was trembling.

“What is it?” Sarah asked in alarm. “Has someone attacked you?”

“Oh, no, I—”

“Is someone in your house? Should I get help?”

“No, I—”

“Here, sit down, you’re all wet,” Sarah said, forcing her into one of the kitchen chairs. It had been raining off and on all morning, and Mrs. Ellsworth had crossed over from her own yard without even an umbrella. Or a cloak, for that matter. And she still wore her house dress and apron. Something
was
terribly wrong. “Is it Nelson? Is he sick?”

“No, it’s—”

“Are
you
sick then?”

“No!”
she almost shouted. “And if you’ll be still for a minute, I’ll tell you what
did
happen!”

Chastened, Sarah pulled a towel from the peg by the sink and handed it to her before taking another of the kitchen chairs. “Go ahead.”

“A man came to my door just now. Says he’s a reporter.”

“A newspaper reporter?” Now Sarah was confused. Why would a newspaper reporter have come to Mrs. Ellsworth’s door? Being a very fount of neighborhood gossip would hardly make her a good source for news. “What did he want?”

“He wants to know about Nelson. He said Nelson has been arrested!”

“Arrested!
Whatever for?”

“For . . . for murder!” Mrs. Ellsworth’s voice shook on the word.

“There must be some mistake,” Sarah exclaimed, picturing meek and mild Nelson Ellsworth in her mind. Murder was a crime of passion, and Nelson didn’t have a passionate bone in his body. And then she remembered Nelson’s secret liaison with Anna Blake and realized she was wrong. Nelson did have at least a spark of passion. “Who . . . whom is he supposed to have killed?” she asked, afraid she already knew.

“Some woman. They found her in the Square, Washington Square, this morning. They said Nelson was her lover! Can you imagine? How could anyone make such a terrible mistake?”

Sarah wasn’t about to answer that question. “Where is the reporter now?”

“Still standing on my doorstep, I imagine, unless he went on his way. I slammed the door in his face and came right over here.”

“Stay right where you are,” Sarah said, patting Mrs. Ellsworth’s frail hand reassuringly. “I’ll see what I can find out from him.”

She hurried through her house, out to the office. When she opened the front door, she saw the rain had let up to a light drizzle. Indeed, a man was standing on the Ellsworths’ front stoop. He’d turned up his collar and pulled his hat low over his eyes to protect himself from the rain, so Sarah couldn’t tell very much about him from here.

“Sir!” she called to get his attention.

He’d been looking up, as if considering how he might scale the wall and gain entrance to the Ellsworth house through one of the windows above. He turned to Sarah.

“Are you the reporter?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Do you know Nelson Ellsworth? I’d like to ask you a few questions—”

“I’d like to ask
you
a few questions, too,” Sarah said. “Could you come over here?”

He hurried down the porch steps and through the drizzle to Sarah’s door. “I’m Webster Prescott with
The World,
” he said, naming one of the several newspapers published in the city. He showed her a dog-eared card identifying him as a reporter.

“Please come in, Mr. Prescott,” she said, admitting him to the house and closing the door behind them.

Now she could see that he was very young, hardly more than twenty. Tall and gangly under his cheap, damp suit, he didn’t seem quite sure what to do with his hands and feet.

He looked around curiously. “What is this, some kind of doctor’s office?”

Sarah didn’t feel obligated to explain. “I’m a midwife,” she said.

He removed his hat, being careful not to let it drip too much on Sarah’s floor. She took it from him gingerly and hung it by the door. His hair was light brown and a little curly around the edges, giving him an even greater illusion of youth. If he’d been a police officer, Malloy would have called him a “Goo Goo.” She wondered what baby newspaper reporters were called.

“Please come in and tell me what this is all about,” she said, ushering him to the desk where she interviewed patients. She motioned for him to take a seat in the visitor’s chair while she sat behind the desk.

He’d pulled a small notebook and pencil from his inside pocket. “How long have you known Nelson Ellsworth?” he asked, poised to scribble her reply in his notebook and looking up at her expectantly with his pale blue eyes.

“I think you need to answer a few questions for me first,” she said. “What’s this about a murder?”

He registered surprise, then glanced around as if to make sure they were alone. “How did you know about the murder?”

“That hardly matters. Who was murdered?”

Mr. Prescott consulted his notebook. “A woman named Anna Blake,” he said, and Sarah was hard pressed not to groan aloud. This was just what she had feared. “They found her stabbed to death in Washington Square Park this morning, early. Right under the hanging tree. You know where I mean?”

Sarah felt a cold chill. She knew only too well. She’d just been there two days ago with Nelson Ellsworth. “If she was killed in the Square at night, anyone could have done it,” Sarah pointed out. “A woman alone after dark could have been the victim of a robber or worse. Have you thought of that?”

Mr. Prescott shrugged one bony shoulder. “It ain’t my job to decide that. The police arrested this Nelson Ellsworth. Looks like she was his mistress or something. She probably wanted money or threatened to cause him trouble, so he killed her. Happens all the time.”

Sarah doubted it happened
all
the time, but before she could reply, Mrs. Ellsworth came rushing into the room. “That’s a lie!” she cried. “My son didn’t even know this woman!”

She looked wild, and her face was scarlet. Sarah feared she might have apoplexy. “Please, sit down,” she urged her, jumping up and forcing Mrs. Ellsworth down into the chair she’d just vacated.

“Nelson would never have a mistress, and he would certainly never kill anyone!” she said to Sarah. Her tone was pleading, her eyes begging Sarah to reassure her.

Sarah only wished she could. “Don’t work yourself up into a state. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll find Malloy, and he’ll sort everything out.”

Mrs. Ellsworth brightened at this prospect, and she turned to the reporter triumphantly. “Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy is a good friend of ours, and he won’t be very pleased that you’ve come here bothering us!”

Prescott sat up straighter, his eyes widening. “Malloy?” he repeated, then looked at Sarah. “Of course, you’re a midwife! Then you must be Mrs. Brandt. I should’ve known.”

“How did you know my name?” Sarah demanded.

“Everybody in the press shacks knows who you are,” he said, referring to the rooms across the street from Police Headquarters where reporters rented space and waited for a news story to break. “Is it true they locked you up in a cell when you went to Headquarters to see Malloy?”

“No, it most certainly is
not
true!” Sarah snapped. She
had
been locked into an interrogation room, but that was only for her protection. She saw no need to explain that to Mr. Prescott, however. “You said they’d arrested Mr. Ellsworth. Do you know where they’re holding him?”

“They took him to Headquarters, him being such a respectable citizen. Seems like the Commissioners want to keep an eye on the case and make sure everything’s done right and proper. I’ll tell you what, if you give me some information about Ellsworth, I’ll write him up real nice. He’ll need public opinion on his side if he don’t want to meet up with Old Sparky.”

Mrs. Ellsworth made a strangled sound in her throat. Old Sparky was the nickname that had been given to New York’s new electric chair.

“Mr. Prescott,” Sarah said quickly, “we have nothing to say to you, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. You’re upsetting Mrs. Ellsworth.”

“You think she’s upset now, just wait until her boy’s tried for murder,” Prescott said reasonably. “I’m telling you, you’ll need my help. I don’t need much. Just tell me what he was like as a kid and where he went to school and—”

“Mr. Prescott,”
Sarah said in a tone she’d learned from Malloy. “If you aren’t out of here in ten seconds, I’m going to go out on my front porch and start screaming that you’re attacking me. Then you can find out firsthand what it’s like to be questioned by the police.”

Prescott jumped to his feet, looking aggrieved. “There’s no call for you to be like that. I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Then do it somewhere else. Your ten seconds are already half gone.”

Giving Sarah a murderous scowl, he made for the front door, almost forgetting to grab his hat on the way out. He left the door hanging open, so Sarah hurried to close it, turning the lock with a decisive click.

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt, whatever shall we do?” Mrs. Ellsworth wailed.

“We’ll find Malloy. He’ll take care of this,” Sarah said with more confidence than she felt. If the police had Nelson in custody, they could have already beaten a confession out of him, guilty or not. Even Malloy might not be able to help then. Their only hope was that Prescott had been right about the Commissioners wanting to be careful with this case because Nelson was a respectable citizen.

The city had already dealt with one scandalous murder trial recently in which a young Italian woman had stabbed her lover to death when he refused to marry her. Thousands of newspapers had been sold over the misfortunes of Maria Barberi, and the press would pounce like hungry jackals on another case with the same potential for salacious reports.

“I’m going to go straight to Police Headquarters,” she told Mrs. Ellsworth.

“I’ll go with you!” the old woman exclaimed, jumping to her feet.

“I don’t think that’s wise. There’ll be dozens of reporters swarming around, and if they found out who you are . . . No, I want you to go home and lock yourself in. Don’t open the door to anyone you don’t know. If Mr. Prescott found you so quickly, others will, too. I’ll be back just as soon as I can, but don’t worry if it takes a long time. I might not even be able to find Malloy for a while if he’s out on a case.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Brandt,” the old woman said, taking Sarah’s hands in hers. “I don’t know what I would have done without you!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Sarah said, wondering what on earth she would tell her friend if her son really had killed Anna Blake.

 

Just as Sarah had suspected, Mulberry Street was swarming with reporters jostling for a good spot from which to view the comings and goings at Police Headquarters. The cab Sarah had taken over had to let her off a block away. Fortunately, the morning rain was over, and the sun was trying halfheartedly to break through the clouds. Sarah had still brought her umbrella, though, and she gave thought to using it to force her way through to the building.

Fortunately, saying “Excuse me!” several times very loudly, and shoving a few times in a very unladylike manner, got her almost to the narrow stairs that led up to the arched doorway of the four-story building.

“Let the lady through, you vultures!” a voice called from above her, and she looked up to see the imposing figure of Tom, the doorman to Police Headquarters.

The reporters looked around in surprise to see a female in their midst, and Sarah took advantage of their momentary distraction to squeeze through and make her way up the steps to the front door, which Tom obligingly opened for her.

“ ‘Morning, Mrs. Brandt,” he said, tipping his derby hat.

“Thank you very much, Tom,” she said as she slipped past him into the receiving area of Police Headquarters.

The desk sergeant looked up, and when he saw Sarah, his normal scowl slid one notch lower in disapproval. “You’ll be wanting Malloy, I expect,” he said, “Or have you come for Commissioner Roosevelt this time?” he added sarcastically.

Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt was an old family friend, and he kept an office upstairs. Sarah had visited him here when she’d needed his help in the past. She smiled sweetly. “I’d be happy to see either one of them. Whoever is available.”

“Mr. Roosevelt ain’t in right now,” he told her a little too smugly. “But I’ll see if I can scare up Malloy for you. Would you be wanting to wait?”

She could see from the gleam in his eye that he remembered the time he’d sent her to wait in the depths of the basement, but she had the upper hand now. “I’ll be upstairs. I’m sure Miss Kelly can find a place for me to sit where I won’t be in anyone’s way.” Minnie Kelly was the first female secretary in the history of the New York City Police Department, just one of Roosevelt’s innovations and a constant source of aggravation to the old guard. “No need to escort me,” she added, knowing full well he’d had no intention of doing so. “I know my way.”

Minnie Gertrude Kelly was a small, comely girl with raven black hair which she wore in a severe chignon so as not to appear too flashy. She looked up from her typewriter and greeted Sarah with a friendly smile.

“I’m sorry, but Commissioner Roosevelt isn’t in today, Mrs. Brandt,” she said.