Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) (11 page)

“If they’re arranged chronologically, then these must belong to Grace.” Overcoming her reluctance, Sarah picked up the bottommost pair. “Is she still in there?” she asked, indicating the bathroom.

“Yes, with Maeve.”

Sarah went to the door and knocked. “Miss Livingston, it’s Mrs. Brandt. May I come in?”

The door opened a crack, and Maeve peered out. “She’s not ready to face her father yet.”

“Ask her if these are her shoes.”

Maeve took them and, after a brief consultation, returned. “Yes, they are.”

“Maeve, explain to her that they’re sending a police detective over, and he’ll want to question her about what happened with Pendergast and . . . well, everything that happened to her here. They’ll want to talk to her at some time or other, but if she’d rather it not be today, she needs to let her father take her home right away.”

Maeve nodded and closed the door.

Sarah sighed, fighting the urge to either scream or weep with frustration. How could something like this have happened to these women? What had they ever done to deserve being brutalized by a madman? And the others. Where on earth were the others?

“Sarah? I think you and Maeve better leave, too.”

“I will. Just let me take Rose’s shoes down to her.”

“Rose?”

“The woman from the cellar.” She picked up the pair that had been next to Grace’s.

“Are you sure those are hers?”

They were by far the largest pair in the cabinet. “Yes. I’ll send Mr. Livingston up to get Grace.”

“Tell him to get a cab first, to have it waiting for them.”

She nodded and made her way out of the room with its horrible wallpaper and its even more horrible cabinet full of shoes. Where were those other women? Were they dead? Or had Pendergast let them go when he was finished with them? And if so, had they returned to loving families, or had they been too ashamed to go home again? Such questions would drive her mad if she let them, but she couldn’t stop asking them.

Mr. Livingston still sat forlornly on the front steps, but he ran off with the energy of a man twenty years younger when she suggested he find a cab to take Grace home.

Gino Donatelli still stood guard at the kitchen door. “Not a peep out of her,” he said.

“Thank you, Gino.”

“Did you see the shoes?”

Sarah nodded. “I think these must be hers.”

She opened the kitchen door. “I found your—” she began, but stopped when she realized the room was empty. “Rose?” She looked around, then felt silly. The room offered no hiding places for someone as large as Rose. Could she have gone back to the cellar? The thought made Sarah shiver, but perhaps Rose found some kind of comfort in her cell. “Gino?”

“What is it?” He stepped in and looked around. “Where is she?”

“I . . . Would you check the cellar?” Sarah couldn’t bring herself to go back down there.

Gino hurried down the stairs, then hurried back up again. “There’s nobody down there, Mrs. Brandt.”

“Where could she . . . ?” She saw it then. The back door was ajar. She ran over and threw it wide. “Rose!” The small, overgrown yard was empty, but the back gate stood open, too.

Sarah ran out and raced to the gate, Gino at her heels, but when she reached the alley, she saw only a mangy yellow tabby cat curled up in a patch of sun between the ash cans.

Sarah thought of the poor woman, filthy beneath her hastily donned clothes, barefoot and penniless, her hair hanging wild. Where had she gone? Would she find safety before night fell? Would some conscientious patrolman arrest her, thinking she was insane or worse? She breathed a prayer for Rose’s safety.

“Do you want me to go after her?” Gino asked.

Sarah shook her head. “If she was that anxious to get away, it would be cruel to bring her back. She probably wouldn’t come with you anyway.”

They started back inside, and Sarah realized she still held Rose’s shoes. For some reason, that made her infinitely sad.

• • •

M
aeve and Sarah had escorted Grace Livingston downstairs to her father, and they’d promised Frank they would leave for home as soon as the Livingstons were safely away. With no sign of the medical examiner or Broghan or anyone else yet, Frank was left to finish searching the house. Broghan might not like it, but if Frank found some useful evidence, he should at least be grateful.

Pendergast’s obscenely decorated bedroom yielded only an assortment of unpleasant-looking devices for which Frank could only guess the intended uses. He didn’t think he wanted to know, either. One of the upstairs bedrooms held a cage similar to the one in the cellar. The mattress in it was cleaner, but it was the same in all other ways. Is this where he’d kept Grace Livingston? Someone would probably ask her, and he was glad he wouldn’t be that someone.

Downstairs, he found a small room furnished as a study. The cluttered desk held a collection of mail, mostly bills, but one drawer contained stacks of letters, all written in female handwriting. As Frank flipped through them, he realized they were replies to Pendergast’s advertisements, dating back a couple years.

If he were the detective on this case, he would take the letters with him. Since he couldn’t do that, he pulled out his notebook and jotted down all the names and addresses he could find in the stack. If the police weren’t interested in what had become of the missing women, maybe he could track them down or at least let their families know why they had disappeared. It would be a small way of compensating for not being able to bring the man responsible to justice.

Gino found him as he finished searching the rest of the drawers.

“Is Broghan here?”

“Not yet, but Neth and the girl are complaining about being locked up in the Paddy wagon.”

Frank had almost forgotten about them. “I guess we should get them in here to identify Pendergast, at least. Broghan will probably want to question them, too, about what Pendergast was up to here. Go ahead and bring them in.”

Frank waited outside the bloody parlor for Gino to bring the two prisoners upstairs. He could hear Joanna complaining about being kept locked up for so long, but she fell silent as they reached the second floor. Halfway down the hallway, she stopped dead, and Frank realized her face was ashen.

“Miss . . .” Frank realized he didn’t know her last name. “Joanna? Are you all right?”

Neth, who had been walking beside her, had gone on a few steps before he realized she had stopped. He went back to her. “Joanna, what is it?”

“I . . . I don’t want to be in this house anymore.”

That’s when Frank realized the truth about Joanna. “You were one of his victims.”

The color rushed back into her face, blooming like a fever in her cheeks. “One of the stupid females who believed his lies, you mean?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He tricked you.”

Neth took her gently by the arms. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll go look at his body.”

But she shook him off, furious at someone or something not present. “I need to know he’s dead. Where is he?” she asked Frank.

He gestured toward the parlor. The door still stood open, and she headed toward it, determined now. Neth hesitated only a moment before following, and Frank trailed after, wanting to see their reactions.

Joanna faltered a moment in the doorway. The smell of death still hung heavy in the air, and the drying puddles of blood were daunting indeed. But she squared her shoulders and continued. Neth, however, stopped dead, covering his mouth and whispering something that might have been a prayer. Or a curse.

Joanna strode over to the body and peered down at it. “That’s him.” To Frank’s surprise, she didn’t look away, though. She just kept staring. Finally she said, “He doesn’t look like much, does he? Lying there in his own blood like that.” She looked up at Frank. “Did he suffer? I hope he suffered.”

“I think he died pretty quick, but he’d have been choking on his own blood, so it wasn’t very nice.”

“Good.” She suddenly realized Neth still stood in the doorway, frozen by the horror of it. She strode back to him, took his arm, and turned him, urging him back into the hall. “Don’t look at him anymore. You don’t even have to think about him anymore.”

Neth looked like he might be sick, but he seemed to take heart at her words. “You’re right. He’s dead. I still can’t believe it, though.”

She looked over at Frank again. “Can we go now?”

“I’m afraid not. You still have to answer some questions, and there’s the matter of the young lady you tried to lure into your house this afternoon.”

“That was a mistake,” Joanna said quickly, before Neth could speak. “He didn’t mean her any harm, and you can’t prove that he did. Pendergast told him to meet her in the park and make his excuses for not coming. She’s the one who wanted to go back to his house with him. She was trying to trick him so that man could attack him.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “You’ve been out there in that Maria for hours. Is that the best you two could come up with?”

Neth had the grace to look abashed, but Joanna never batted an eye. “It’s the truth. Now let us go.”

“I can’t let you go. We’ve got to wait for the detective to get here. This isn’t a very pleasant place to wait, though.” Frank gestured toward the gruesome scene in the parlor. “Why don’t we go to Pendergast’s study?”

“Yes, let’s,” Neth said, obviously eager to be someplace else.

Frank waited and was gratified to see Neth head down the hall to the study without the slightest hesitation. He’d been here often enough to be familiar with the house.

Neth and Joanna sat down on a small sofa that was the only furniture in the study except the desk. Frank pulled the desk chair over and straddled it to face them. “Now, Mr. Neth, let’s start with how long you’ve known Milo Pendergast. And is that his real name?”

“It’s the only name I know him by,” Neth said, then glanced at Joanna as if for her approval. They obviously hadn’t cooked up a story for this.

“Where did you meet him?”

“At my . . . at our club. He’s a member, too. I’ve known him for a long time.”

“What club is that?” New York had dozens of private clubs for men.

“The Fleet Street Club.”

“There’s no Fleet Street in the city,” Frank said.

“It . . . it’s named after a street in London.”

So, a bunch of pretentious snobs. “When did he tell you about his little hobby of kidnapping unsuspecting females?”

“He never . . . I didn’t know anything about it!” he tried, but he kept glancing at Joanna, who simply glared at him.

“All right, Mr. Neth. Let me tell you what I know. Pendergast has been enjoying his little hobby for a couple of years now, and you knew all about it. I know that because Joanna here was one of Pendergast’s victims. I also know she now belongs to you. Did he give her to you when he was finished with her?” Now Joanna was glaring at Frank. “Oh, wait. Pendergast wouldn’t just
give
her to you, would he? Oh no. He
sold
her, didn’t he? How much did you pay, Neth? I hope you drove a good bargain.”

Joanna had paled again, but Neth’s face grew scarlet with rage and humiliation. “How dare you suggest such a thing.”

“After what I know went on in this house, I think I can suggest just about anything. We found a naked woman locked in a cage in the cellar. Is that where Pendergast kept you, Joanna?”

“Don’t talk to her like that! Can’t you see she’s terrified?” Neth cried, putting his arm around her.

Only then did Frank realize she was trembling, but whether from terror or from fury, he couldn’t be sure. “So why don’t you just tell me what you know about Pendergast, and then I won’t have to talk to her at all.”

Neth sighed and turned back to Frank. He looked annoyed, which struck Frank as a rather mild emotion considering what most people would be feeling under the circumstances. “I told you, I met Milo at our club. He . . . he didn’t tell me where the women came from, not at first. He just . . . Well, he invited a few of us to his house for some entertainment. That’s what he called it. He had two women here. They . . . they did whatever he told them to. We thought they were prostitutes. I swear, I never suspected what he was doing.”

“Not until Joanna told you,” Frank said.

Neth glanced at her again and swallowed. “Yes.”

“So, did you offer to buy her or did Pendergast suggest it?”

“I had to get her out of here, didn’t I? I couldn’t leave her here.”

“What does it matter how he did it?” she snapped. “He got me away.”

“But he didn’t set you free, did he?” Frank said. “Now you’re
his
slave instead of Pendergast’s.”

“I can leave him whenever I want to!”

“Then why are you still with him? Why didn’t you go back home?”

“I couldn’t go back home. They knew I’d been corresponding with a man. When I didn’t come home, they would’ve thought I eloped. I couldn’t go back after months away, alone and unmarried. I was ruined, and they never would’ve taken me back. They wouldn’t want their friends to know how I’d shamed them.”

Frank had suspected this, of course, but hearing it from her made it sound even worse. “Is that what he does with the women he kidnaps? Does he sell them to his friends?”

“Stop saying that,” Neth said.

“Then answer my question.”

“He . . . I don’t know what he does with them. I do know that some . . .” He glanced at Joanna again, and she stared back at him in surprise.

“What do you know about some of them?” she asked, her voice crackling with outrage.

“He told me that sometimes . . . well, two times, he said . . . that sometimes they kill themselves.”

“The women?” Frank said, shocked, although he shouldn’t have been. Anyone who’d been treated the way he knew the woman in the cellar had been treated might well lose all hope.

“Yes,” Neth said, not meeting Frank’s eye. “He complained about it.”

“Complained?”
Frank echoed in astonishment.

“Yes, because he had to get rid of the bodies. He couldn’t just call the undertaker or anything, you see. There would be questions. It was difficult, I gathered, to, uh, dispose of them.”

“So he didn’t kill the women when he got tired of them?”