Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue (13 page)

“I will do my best to obey you, but we must expect other visitors like this. Those men who gave Pollock money will hear about his death, and they'll eventually come here. What shall I do when they arrive, lock them in the cellar until you get home?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm not being ridiculous. I need to know.”

He sighed again. “Perhaps I will have to stay home until this is settled.”

*   *   *

B
roghan took Gino to a bar a couple blocks away. It wasn't open this early in the morning, of course, but the proprietor let them in at Broghan's knock. He didn't look happy to see them, but he wasn't going to offend the cop to whom he probably paid protection money. He gave them each a beer before going back to sweeping the floor.

They settled at a table in the corner.

“So how did you come to find the body?” Gino asked, not having to feign his interest.

“One of them colored maids come running out of the house, screaming her head off. I was just around the corner, so naturally, I went to see what was happening.”

“Did she have blood on her?”

Broghan frowned at the question. “Why would she?”

“You didn't see any then?”

“I didn't look.” Gino's questions annoyed him. “I followed her back to the house and went inside. That's when I saw the two of them.”

“In the parlor?”

“Yeah, in the parlor. She was sitting on the floor and had his head in her lap, of all things. That awful, bloody thing, and she was all red with it.”

“And he was dead?”

“As dead could be. His eyes was open, like he was surprised or something. Never saw anything like it.”

“What was she doing?”

“Her?” He wrinkled his forehead with the effort of remembering. “Just sitting there. Singing or something.”

“Singing?”

“Yeah. It was the damnedest thing. She didn't even look up when I come in, just kept singing to him.”

“She was probably in shock.”

“I guess she was. Isn't every day a woman smashes her husband's head in.”

“What made you think she did it?”

“Who else was there? The servants said nobody else was in the house, and the two of them was fighting. They was always fighting, from what they said. I guess she just finally had enough.”

“And it was the back of his head that was bashed in?”

“Yeah, she come up behind him with the . . . frog, did you say it was?”

“That's what one maid said. The other said a lizard with a lady's face.”

Broghan shrugged. “I didn't look at it real close. It was green. Some kind of stone and just the right thing for smashing a head, if you ask me.”

“What did she say happened? The wife, I mean.”

“She never said nothing at all. I told you she was singing, and when I talked to her, she just ignored me, like I wasn't even there.”

“She must've said something.”

“Not a word. Not a peep. Not even when the detectives got there and started shouting at her. When they took Pollock away, she started crying, but she still wouldn't talk.”

“So they took her to the Tombs,” Gino said.

“Yeah, because she must've done it,” Broghan said. “Who else could it have
been?”

“T
hank you so much, Mr. Nicholson,” Mrs. O'Neill said after the hearing, when she and Una were safely ensconced in his office and his clerk had brought in an extra chair for Maeve. Maeve had decided she needed to hear what Nicholson had planned. “That was so kind of you to get my Una out of the jail.”

“Just doing my job, Mrs. O'Neill,” he assured her. “And you're the one to be thanked since you paid the bail.”

“What happens now?” Una asked. She'd fixed herself up real nice for the bond hearing. Her hair curled prettily around her lovely face, and she'd managed to get all the wrinkles out of her dress. It fit her well, too, showing off her shape. No wonder the man who owned the cigar store had picked her out of all the girls at the factory. No wonder Randolph Pollock had married her. And no wonder the judge had melted like butter on a hot stove when Nicholson claimed she was no threat to anyone.

“In a few minutes, you can go home, but I wanted to speak with you about the case. After today, the newspapers will have discovered you. Up until now, the police assumed you'd confess and there would be no trial, but now, it's clear there will be.”

“But I didn't kill my husband,” Una said. “Why do I have to go to trial?”

“Because the police think you did, and the district attorney thinks he has the evidence to prove it. The trial will be of great public interest because people are always interested when a woman kills her husband.”

“But I didn't kill him,” she repeated. Maeve would've been angry by this point, but Una just pouted prettily.

“Of course you didn't,” Nicholson said. “Tell me, Mrs. Pollock, do you have a lover?”

“A lover? What are you talking about? I'm a married woman.”

“Lots of married women have lovers, and if you do, the reporters will find him, so it's better if you tell me about him now.”

“The
reporters
?” Mrs. O'Neill said. “You mean newspaper reporters?”

“Yes, they'll be investigating you, Mrs. Pollock, because the reporters are much better at investigating than the police are. They have more manpower, for one reason, and more money to spend, for another. Hearst at the
Journal
will probably put the whole Wrecking Crew on this.”

“What's a wrecking crew?” Una asked in alarm.

“That's what they call the group of reporters they send out to cover a big story. It's dozens of reporters and sketch artists and photographers. They'll talk to everyone you ever knew and uncover every secret you ever had.”

“I have no secrets and I have no lovers,” Una said. “I'm a
respectable married woman who has been falsely accused of murder.”

“It would help,” Maeve said, surprising everyone because they had obviously forgotten she was even in the room, “if you could tell us who did kill your husband.”

For a moment, annoyance flickered across Una's lovely face, but only for a moment. She turned back to her attorney. “I'm sorry, Mr. Nicholson, but I still can't remember anything about it. I remember getting up that morning and having breakfast, but then I don't remember anything else until I was at the jail.” She slipped a handkerchief from her sleeve with practiced ease and dabbed at her eyes. “I still can't believe dear Randolph is gone.”

“The servants said you were arguing,” he said, unmoved. He'd seen gallons of tears shed in this office.

“But we never argued, so that can't be true. Perhaps he was arguing with someone else, the person who killed . . .” Her voice broke, and she pressed the handkerchief to her lips as she fought back more tears.

“Maybe you can tell me if he had any enemies, Mrs. Pollock. Anyone who'd want to harm him.”

“Heavens, no. Everyone liked Randolph. He was such a pleasant man. We often entertained his business clients, and they always enjoyed his company.”

“What kind of business was your husband in, Mrs. Pollock?”

“I don't know. He said it was too complicated for me to understand, and he never discussed business in front of me. I only know he was very successful and that his clients were very happy.”

Maeve wondered how happy they were going to be when they found out there was no railroad in Panama. “What about Truett?” she asked.

Una looked at her in surprise again. She was probably
trying
to forget Maeve was there. “I can't imagine Mr. Truett would have any reason to harm Randolph.”

“Who is this Truett?” Nicholson asked.

“A business associate of my husband's,” Una said sweetly. Plainly, someone as pretty as she could know nothing of business.

“And how about Adam Yorke?” Maeve asked when Una would have dismissed her again.

“Who?” Una asked, but she didn't fool Maeve. She knew who he was, all right.

“The brother of Pollock's first wife,” Maeve explained cheerfully.

“
First
wife?” Mrs. O'Neill cried. “Una is his first wife.”

“I'm afraid not,” Maeve said. “Mr. Yorke's sister Cecelia was married to Pollock before she disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?” Nicholson asked, his broad face turning a dangerous shade of red.

“I mean Pollock claims she died, but he never notified the family or put it in the newspapers, and he wouldn't say where she's buried either.”

“She died in childbirth,” Una said. “Randolph told me all about it. But that was years ago. Is this Mr. Yorke the man who came to see Randolph the other day?”

Maeve met her gaze with interest. “Yes. Mr. Yorke called on your husband shortly before he was killed. Could it have been the day he died?” she added, wondering if Una would confirm it was the very same day.

Una furrowed her brow. “Oh my, I do remember he called, but was it that day? Everything is so muddled. But it must have been! This Mr. Yorke must be the person the servants heard Randolph arguing with that morning!”

Was it true? Could Yorke have really been there that morning? And if the servants could confirm it, maybe he really was the one who had killed Pollock.

“Well, now, that's good news,” Nicholson said. “We'll have to look into this Mr. Yorke.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. O'Neill said with forced enthusiasm. “I'm sure he's the one who killed poor Mr. Pollock.”

“Whether he is or not is not my concern,” Nicholson said. “But having someone else we can tell the jurors about, somebody who was in the house and who had a reason to hate Pollock, well, that's all we need to get Mrs. Pollock acquitted.”

“But I don't want to go to trial at all,” Una said.

“Then find out who really killed your husband,” Nicholson said.

*   *   *

“I
don't like that man,” Una said when they were on the sidewalk outside.

“He isn't very nice,” her mother agreed, “but I'm told he's the best attorney in the city.”

“If he was, I would be free now.”

“At least you're not in jail anymore,” Maeve reminded her. “Not many accused killers get out on bond.”

Una sighed. “I'd like to go home now.”

“Of course you would, dear,” her mother said. “I'll be so happy to have you back with me again. It will be just like before.”

Una's lovely face crinkled in distaste. “I'm not going home with you. I'm going to my own home.”

Even Maeve was surprised at that. “You want to go back to the house where your husband was murdered?”

“It's my
home
. Randolph bought it for me, and he'd want me to be happy there.”

From what she knew about Randolph, Maeve doubted that very much, but she said, “I guess it's a good thing we made the servants stay, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they wanted to leave, so we were going to let them go and close up the house.”

Now Una really was angry, although she knew how to control it pretty well. Except for the red blotches on her cheeks and the icy sparkle in her eyes, Maeve could hardly tell at all. “Who are you to make decisions about my house and my servants?”

“We just thought it was for the best, with you, uh, gone, and everything,” her mother hastily explained. “Who would pay them, after all?”

“I'll pay them,” Una said. “I need a cab.” She looked around.

“Do you have money to pay for one?” Maeve asked, certain she didn't.

Una frowned. “Give me some money,” she told her mother.

“Paying your bail took almost everything I had,” her mother said, digging in her purse. “I only have a few dollars left.”

“You won't need that. You can walk home from here.” Una snatched the bills from her mother's unresisting fingers.

So much for the “good girl” Mrs. O'Neill had described to Maeve that first day.

“Then you probably want to stop and pick up your trunk on the way,” Maeve said.

“What do you mean?” Una asked suspiciously.

“I mean we packed up all your belongings, and I took them home with me for safekeeping, because we were planning to close up your house. You and I can share a cab and you can drop me off at my house and pick up your trunk on your way.”

Una plainly didn't care for this arrangement at all, but she obviously had no choice. She stepped to the curb and hailed a cab with such ease that Maeve understood instantly what an advantage true beauty really was.

Una was climbing into the cab when her mother hurried over. “Don't forget your things,” Mrs. O'Neill called, holding up the bundle of Una's belongings that she had brought over from the jail.

Una took it from her without a word and found her seat in the cab.

“I'll keep you informed of what happens,” Maeve told Mrs. O'Neill.

“Thank you for all your help, Miss Smith,” she said, her gaze darting nervously to Una in the cab. “I guess I can come to visit you now,” she told her daughter.

“Suit yourself,” Una replied, not even glancing her way.

Maeve climbed into the cab and gave the driver the address on Bank Street. Then she settled back against the seat and looked over at her companion in the snug confines of the cab.

Una no longer looked like the sweet young thing who had charmed the judge. Her glare was sharp enough to draw blood. “Who
are
you?”

“I told you, your mother hired me to help. I work for a detective agency.” Or at least she would when Frank and Sarah Malloy got back from their honeymoon and opened it.

“How did my mother hire a detective agency? She doesn't have any money.”

If she knew that, didn't Una wonder how her mother had paid her bail? “We worked it out. Your mother is good friends with the owner's mother.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “Charity, then. Well, I don't need your charity, and I don't need a detective agency.”

“Not even if we're trying to find out who really killed your husband?”

She gave Maeve a long, considering look as the cab made its weary way through the clogged city streets. At last she said,
“I thought you decided that fellow killed Randolph. What's his name, Cecelia's brother?”

“Mr. Yorke,” Maeve supplied. “I think we just suggested that he might have. He admits he was there, which seems odd if he really is the killer, though.”

“Why?”

“Because the killer should claim he wasn't there at all.”

“But if people know he was, it's foolish to claim he wasn't.”

Maeve had to admit, she had a point. Una couldn't claim she wasn't there, of course. She could only claim she didn't remember what happened, which saved her from remembering that she killed her husband. If, of course, she did kill him. Or maybe she didn't want to remember who actually killed him, which was equally interesting. “We were going to close the house because there was no money to pay your servants. How will you keep the place going without your husband?”

Una's expression gave nothing away. “That's really none of your business, but I'll manage.”

Which meant that Una probably knew about the money in Pollock's safe. And if she did, was that another reason to kill a husband who regularly beat her?

Of course it was.

Maeve knew from growing up in the tenements that most women stayed with abusive husbands because they needed the man to support them and their children. Even childless, Una probably would have been afraid to leave Pollock. Could she have gone back to her job at the cigar store or even the one at the factory? Probably not. No one wanted married women in those jobs. She would have had to bear the shame of a failed marriage, too. And that's assuming Pollock allowed her to leave him in the first place. A husband could even get the law to bring a runaway wife home, if he wanted to.

Maeve looked at the smug smile on Una's lovely face and
decided she wouldn't mention that the safe in Pollock's office was now empty. That money probably didn't belong to Pollock anyway, so it was just as well for Una to think it had been stolen.

Una didn't have much to say as the cab made its way to Bank Street. She perked up a bit when they stopped at the Malloy house, however. Even though it wasn't a fashionable neighborhood, the house itself was rather impressive. “You live here?”

“Yes,” Maeve said, offering no other explanation. She asked the cab driver to fetch Una's trunk from the front hallway, but she didn't invite Una inside to warm up while he did it. Maybe she would have felt kinder if Una hadn't taken her mother's last cent for cab fare. She tipped the driver generously when he'd wrestled the trunk into the cab.

“I trust I'll find
all
of my belongings in the trunk,” Una said with what she must have thought was a look of warning.

Maeve smiled, even though Una had just accused her of being a thief. “Don't you remember how I got your things back for you when you were in the Tombs?”