Murder in Morningside Heights (A Gaslight Mystery) (16 page)

*   *   *

G
ino looked up at the imposing eight-story gray stone building that took up the entire block at 55th Street and Sixth Avenue. The New York Athletic Club counted many of the city’s elite among its members, and they demanded the best facilities. Inside, the lobby seemed more like a hotel than a place men went to sweat. A smartly dressed young man greeted him with cool reserve. Gino knew the fellow had judged his clothes as tailor-made, which meant he was successful, but he couldn’t do anything about his Italian face, which meant he wouldn’t usually be welcome at a club like this.

Pretending he didn’t notice the lukewarm reception, Gino stepped up to the counter and gave the young fellow a big
smile. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here, Luther Northrup. Is he around?”

“I don’t believe he is.”

“Donnie, is that you?” a voice nearly shouted.

Gino turned to find Fred Vander Hooten grinning at him. “Vandy, how are you?”

Vandy pumped his hand and slapped him on the back a few times while they exchanged greetings. “This fellow was in the Rough Riders with me,” Vandy informed the man behind the desk. “Are you a member here now?” he asked Gino.

“They wouldn’t let me in here,” Gino said with a grin, as if it were a joke.

“We’ll see about that. Rudy, this is Gino Donatelli. Gino, Rudy Ledbetter here is the man to see about whatever you might need. Rudy, you can sign Mr. Donatelli in as my guest. Come on, let me buy you lunch, Donnie.”

Lunch was an elaborate affair in a dining room with wood-paneled walls and a crystal chandelier. The waiters wore uniforms and white gloves. Vandy was the son of one of the old Knickerbocker families, so he had a lot of time to spend at clubs like this one. He was fascinated to learn that Gino was a private investigator now and working on a case.

“Luther Northrup, eh? Terrible thing about his sister.”

“You know him, then?”

“Not well, but everybody was talking about it. She was a teacher or something, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, at the Normal School. What do you know about him?”

“Good gymnast. An expert on the rings. You can’t imagine how hard that is.”

“Yes, I can! Did you know the club offered him a job?”

“They did? Bully! Maybe I can get him to train me.”

“He’d like that, I’m sure. Does he spend much time here?”

“Oh yes. He keeps a room here, I think. His family lives
upstate somewhere, and it’s too far to go back and forth every day.”

“He must’ve been pretty upset about his sister.”

“I expect so. Wouldn’t know it to look at him, though. He’s the manly sort.”

Gino had noticed that. “Would somebody know what days he was here and what days he wasn’t?”

“I expect so. What days are you interested in?”

“Last Wednesday.”

Vandy scratched his head. “I couldn’t tell you. I was probably here. I’m here most days, but I don’t keep track. Rudy would probably know, though. Tell him I said he should help you. You should think about joining the club. A lot of the other fellows are here. Have to keep strong in case the old man gets us into another war,” he said with a laugh.

“Roosevelt’s just a governor, and governors don’t start wars, so I think we’re safe,” Gino said.

“How long do you think Roosevelt’s going to be satisfied in Albany? You better sign up here so you’re ready. I’d be glad to sponsor you.”

Gino had to promise to think about it, even though he was pretty sure they wouldn’t admit an Italian detective to a club like this. After lunch, he sent Vandy off to throw around some Indian clubs and went back to the front desk.

Ledbetter was much friendlier this time. “Mr. Northrup hasn’t come in yet.”

“He must’ve forgotten we were supposed to meet. Say, can you tell me if he was here last Wednesday?”

Ledbetter’s smile slipped a few notches. “Why would you need to know that?”

Gino pretended to look around to make sure they weren’t overheard, then he leaned in closer. “I’ve got a bet going, and I need to know where Northrup was that day. I know he
keeps a room here. Do you have a record of what nights he uses it?”

Gino had put his hand in his pocket and now he pulled it out with a folded dollar bill in his palm, which he made sure Ledbetter saw. A dollar would be a day’s pay for someone like him.

“We’re not allowed to talk about the habits of our members, you understand,” he said as he pulled a ledger book out from underneath the counter. Then he opened it and flipped the pages until he found the one he wanted. He laid the book down on the countertop, turned it slightly so Gino could read it, then walked away to greet a member who had just come in.

Gino glanced at the book and saw it was a register of sorts where guests signed in for the sleeping rooms. He easily found Luther Northrup’s name. He’d come in on Monday of last week and stayed over Tuesday night. He hadn’t stayed on Wednesday night, though. He’d probably gone home after hearing of his sister’s murder.

But he’d been in the city on the morning she’d died, at least.

He tucked the dollar bill into the book and closed it, then wished Ledbetter a good afternoon and left.

*   *   *

F
rank waited until the afternoon to visit Abigail’s former office. He’d noticed that the classes were mostly in the morning and the building was much quieter in the afternoon. The fewer students he saw, the less panic he would cause, he reasoned.

He did encounter a handful of young ladies who were startled at first and then quickly scurried away, whispering urgently to each other. At last he came to the office and was pleased to see Pelletier was there.

“Malloy, I am glad to see you,” he said, rising to his feet and shaking Frank’s hand like they were old friends. “The strangest thing happened.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I come back to my office a few minutes ago, and the door, it was not locked.”

“Maybe you forgot to lock it when you left the last time.”

“
Mais non
, I am sure I lock it. I have been
très prudent
after . . . Well, after poor Miss Northrup . . . I remember I lock it this morning, because I drop the key and almost drop the books I carry when I try to pick it up. Then when I return . . .” He gave one of his Frenchy shrugs.

He did look a little distressed.

Frank remembered Tobias telling him that first day that he didn’t have a key to this room, but he decided to test Pelletier. “Maybe the janitor cleaned while you were gone and forgot to lock it.”

“
Au contraire
, only two keys exist, one to me and one to Miss Northrup. I insist to open the door for the janitor myself. I do not like anyone to access my things. The person who opened the door must have her key. Do you know who that could be?”

A little frisson of excitement shivered down Frank’s spine. “Her keys haven’t been found, at least not that I know of. We think the killer took them.”

Now he really did look distressed. “
Mon Dieu
, that is a horrible thought. He has been with the keys all this time. He might have . . .” He gestured helplessly.

“Yes, he might’ve,” Frank agreed, thinking there was a key to Miss Wilson’s house among them, too. “Is anything missing?”

“I do not think so. My desk, he is locked always, of course. Nothing else was disturbed, I do not think. I did not look
in the desk of Miss Northrup. I did not want to presume, and I would not know if anything was missing,
non
?”

Frank well remembered how Pelletier had insisted he didn’t normally lock his desk, but he didn’t mention it. “I came today to pack up her things for her parents,” Frank said, indicating the wooden crate he carried under one arm, “so I’ll be glad to check to see if anything is missing.”

“But how would you . . . ? Ah,
mais oui
, I remember. You look in her desk when you are here before.”

“And I didn’t see anything of value or even of interest then. Nothing worth stealing, at least, but I’ll notice if anything is gone.” Without waiting to be invited, Frank set the crate on the floor and plopped himself down in the chair at Abigail’s desk. Everything looked the same as it had on Monday, so if the killer really had come in, he’d been very neat.

Frank wanted to search the room thoroughly, and he didn’t want to do it in front of Pelletier. He considered asking him to leave, but that would probably make Pelletier suspicious and more likely to stay. Frank decided to be obnoxious instead. He started to hum tunelessly and earned a frown from Pelletier, which he pretended not to notice. Then he scooted his chair back abruptly and bumped into Pelletier’s. “Oh, sorry. There’s not much room in here, is there?”

“Miss Northrup, she is much smaller,” he said coldly, turning back to his papers.

“Are these her books?” Frank asked, indicating the shelf over her desk.

Pelletier looked up from his work again, clearly annoyed. “Everything on that side is hers.”

“Thanks.” Frank started pulling the books down off the shelf and slapping them onto the desktop as loudly as possible.

Pelletier rose from his seat and gathered up the papers he’d
been reading. “I will leave you now. I will be in the library. If you will please to let me know when you are finished.”

“Oh, sure. Hope I’m not driving you off.”

Pelletier gave him a sour smile and left. Frank waited until his footsteps had died away, and then he started searching the desk. Or at least that had been his intention, but when he opened the top drawer, he stopped dead. In the drawer were several things that had not been there three days ago. The first thing he saw was the last thing he’d expected: Abigail’s keys. Or at least someone’s keys, and he was pretty sure they would prove to be hers.

Sure enough, when he tried the smallest key on her desk, it worked perfectly. One of the others worked on the office door. The third one would probably fit Miss Wilson’s house. A long brown ribbon was attached to the ring, probably so she could wear them round her neck if she chose. Ladies often didn’t have convenient pockets for such things. The other thing he found in the drawer was a packet of letters tied with a ribbon similar to the one securing the letters Sarah had found under Abigail’s mattress.

He was sure neither the letters nor the keys had been in the desk on Monday when he’d searched it. This meant that whoever had taken Abigail’s keys—and it was most likely her killer—had probably come into the office at some time after her death and taken the letters. Then this person had returned both the letters and the keys today, probably because they didn’t want to be caught with them. He’d left the door unlocked because he had to leave the key in the desk.

But why go to all this trouble? Letters could be burned, and the keys could have been tossed into the river or somewhere else where they’d never be found. Was the killer too naïve to think of this? Had he simply returned them because he didn’t know what else to do with them? Sarah would
probably tell him it was just good manners to return someone else’s property. He supposed he’d have to get used to well-mannered killers if he was going to deal with society.

He slipped the ribbon off the letters and flipped through them. Some of them were from Irene Raymond. He pulled one out of its envelope and saw it was in her handwriting, so these would be the letters she told them she’d written herself to Abigail. He also saw a few from other females, probably more friends of Abigail’s. No letters from any other young men, however; but to his delight, he saw that several of them were from France.

Just as Bathsheba had described, the return addresses were in French, the spidery handwriting almost too ornate to read. He pulled a couple of them from their envelopes, but the letters were also written in French. He’d have to find someone to read them. For one fleeting moment he considered Pelletier; but no, he was too close to the murdered girl. He might even lie about what the letters said if he thought it would embarrass the school or someone who worked there. He might even try to protect Abigail. Frank would have to find someone who hadn’t even known Abigail or anyone else involved with her.

After tucking the letters into the crate, Frank began his systematic search of the desk, emptying every drawer and then checking to make sure nothing was underneath or behind it and that he hadn’t missed any secret compartments. He even looked under the desk and pulled it away from the wall to check the back side. He found nothing else that hadn’t been there the last time he’d searched. Finally, he looked at each of the books he’d pulled from her shelf and left lying on top of the desk when Pelletier had gone.

He fanned the pages and felt the bindings to see if she’d hidden anything in any of them. He found it in the third book he picked up, a thick volume that was probably a
dictionary except it was in French, so he couldn’t tell for sure. When he fanned the pages, three more letters that had been tucked inside slipped out. The paper was expensive and delicate, making it thin enough to hide in the large, heavy book. Unfortunately, these letters were also in French.

Maybe they were simply messages from friends she’d made while she was visiting France last summer, but why would she have hidden these particular letters? Maybe they were from a lover, possibly the one who had given her the ring. If she was secretly engaged to a Frenchman, she’d certainly want to keep that a secret. But he wouldn’t know for sure about anything until he found someone who could read the letters.

Maybe Sarah’s parents knew someone French.

*   *   *

“
T
his is making me wish I’d paid more attention when I studied French in school,” Sarah said, frowning over the letters. She and Malloy were in their private sitting room at home, where they could talk without the children interrupting them.

“You said the same thing when we were in France,” Malloy said.

“I know, but this time it’s really important. I’m trying to think if I know anyone who speaks French well, and I can’t.”

“Do you think your mother would?”

“Oh, what a good idea. She probably does, and she’ll be thrilled to help you on a case. Even my father can’t object since it’s not the least bit dangerous.”