Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue (16 page)

Before he could ask Truett a pointed question about all this, someone pounded loudly on the front door.

“Good heavens, who could that be?” Mrs. Pollock asked.

Gino was very much afraid he knew. He went to the front window. About a dozen people had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the Pollock house and more were cruising down the gaslit street toward it on their bicycles. “It's the Wrecking Crew and their friends.”

“The what?” Truett said, hurrying over to see for himself.

“Reporters,” Gino said.

“You mean from the newspapers?” she asked in alarm.

“Yes,” Gino said. “The
World
had a small story about your release in the evening edition. I guess it took a while for them to find out where you live.”

Hattie appeared in the still-open parlor doorway, looking frightened. She jumped when someone pounded on the door again.

“Don't open the door,” Gino told her.

“Who is it?” Hattie asked.

“Reporters,” he said. “They'll probably be out there every day from now on.”

“Every day!” Mrs. Pollock cried. “Why on earth would they be here every day?”

“Because,” Truett told her with way too much satisfaction for Gino's taste, “they want to know all about the beautiful woman who murdered her husband.”

“I didn't murder my husband,” she said.

Eddie appeared beside Hattie in the doorway. “Should I run them off, missus?”

She gave him a sad smile. “If only you could, my dear boy.”

Gino looked at Truett, suddenly realizing how to get rid of him. “They'll want to know who you are and why you were visiting the widow. I'm guessing they'll have sketch artists out there to capture your likeness, so you can be on the front page.”

“I can't have that,” Truett said, his eyes wide with panic.

“Then you'd better slip out the back way while you still can,” Mrs. Pollock said.

Someone pounded on the door again. Mrs. Pollock sighed wearily, and Truett glared at her again.

Hattie darted away, and for a moment Gino was afraid she was going to open the door, but she quickly reappeared. “Mr. Truett, here's your things.” She held his overcoat and hat. “I'll take you out the back.”

He turned to Mrs. Pollock. “This isn't finished.”

“I can't help you, Gordon. He never told me anything.”

Truett made a humphing noise and strode out. Hattie scurried after him, still carrying his coat.

Gino made careful note that Una had called Truett by his first name. That was interesting.

The pounding started again.

“This is going to drive me insane,” she said.

“I can't make them go away, but maybe I can make them stop knocking,” Gino said.

“I'd be grateful.”

When Gino reached the parlor door, Eddie stepped aside, his expression murderous. Gino hoped he was only angry with the reporters.

“Come with me,” Gino said, “and hold the door to make sure they don't force their way inside. We don't want them to get to Mrs. Pollock.”

The boy's eyes widened in alarm, but he followed Gino and stood by, eager to help.

As soon as the pounding stopped, Gino threw open the door, surprising the half-dozen men clustered on the stoop. Before they could react, he shoved the front two backward so he could step outside and close the door behind him.

“Get off the porch. You're trespassing.”

“And who are you?” one of the reporters asked, pad and pencil ready to jot down his name and make him famous. Or infamous.

“I'm a police officer sent to protect Mrs. Pollock. She doesn't want to talk to you bums, so get off the porch and stop banging on her door.”

They didn't move except to take notes. Gino thought he saw someone down on the sidewalk with a big pad of paper, working feverishly to sketch his likeness.

“We just want to get her side of the story, Officer,” one of them said. “Doesn't she want the world to know she didn't do it?”

“She wants some peace and quiet. Now get off the porch before I have to start throwing you down the steps.”

The threat seemed to impress them a little. The reporters farthest from the door started to retreat, and then someone shouted. Like hounds on the scent, every one of them turned toward the sound, which had come from the side of the house.

A young man in a bowler hat came running up from between the houses. “A fellow came out the back door.”

The reporters on the sidewalk took off down the side of the house. Gino hoped Truett could outrun them. The ones on the porch turned back to Gino and started shouting all at once.

“Who was it?”

“Is it her lover?”

“Did he kill Pollock?”

“Are they in it together?”

“How much money did he leave her?”

“Did she kill him for the money?”

“We'll pay you for the story.”

Gino was sure they would. They wouldn't even care if what he told them was true. And if he didn't tell them anything, they'd make something up. Which was worse? He had no idea.

“Just let us see her for a minute!” one pleaded.

“Is she as pretty as they say?”

“Doesn't she want to see her picture in the newspapers?”

“I don't think she does,” Gino said. “Now, I warned you about getting off the porch.” He pulled out his nightstick. Luckily, he'd thought to put it back in his belt when he retrieved his bag from the Deckers' carriage earlier.

The sight of the nightstick sent the reporters stumbling back.

“No reason to get mean!”

“We're just doing our job!”

“We just want to tell her story.”

Gino took a step forward, raising the locust-wood stick.

The reporters scrambled down the steps, shoving and tripping one another until they were safely on the sidewalk again.

“Who are you, copper?”

“Are you her lover?”

“Did you kill Pollock?”

“What're you doing here?”

“If anybody pounds on the door again, I'll club him,” Gino shouted down to them.

They glared up at him, but nobody said a word. Gino noticed the sketch artist had flipped the page and was drawing again.

With a sigh, he turned back and found the front door bolted securely. “You can let me back in now, Eddie,” he called, setting off another chorus of questions.

“Who's Eddie?”

“Is that her lover?”

“Did he kill Pollock?”

Fortunately, he heard the bolt being drawn and then the door opened, slamming shut the instant he was back inside.

“Would you really club them?” Eddie asked.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure, but nothing would get me fired faster either, so probably not. Unless they were threatening Mrs. Pollock, that is.”

“They're like rabid dogs,” Mrs. Pollock said, hovering in the parlor doorway. “Will they leave now?”

“No. I doubt they'll stay all night, though. It's too cold for that, but they'll stay until the house is dark and be back at first light, I'm sure. Did Truett get away?”

“I don't know,” she said.

“I think he did,” Hattie said, hurrying down the hall. “He started running when they saw him. There was some men hiding out back, too, I guess, and they started shouting when he got to the alley.”

“Will you stay until they're gone, at least?” Mrs. Pollock asked.

“I'll stay until morning, if you like.”

“You don't have to do that,” Eddie said quickly. “I'll look after Mrs. Pollock.”

She gave the boy a grateful smile that made him drop his gaze, embarrassed. “Do you really think I need protection?” she asked Gino.

“Somebody did break in the other night.” He didn't mention that the crook probably hadn't gotten what he'd come for, which was exactly why Gino was here. But was Truett the burglar? Was that why he'd shown up here this evening? Certainly, he was looking for the money, and Mrs. Pollock was still claiming ignorance, whether that was true or not.

“Yes, and they emptied my husband's safe, so I have nothing left worth stealing.”

That much was true, of course. “The question is, do any other possible burglars know that?”

“I can't imagine I have more than one possible burglar interested in robbing me. A few days ago, I would have sworn I had none at all.”

Of course the one burglar was probably still interested in robbing her, since he hadn't gotten what he'd come for, but he couldn't say that. “It's no trouble for me to stay.”

“You wouldn't have no place to sleep, what with Mrs. Pollock home and all,” Hattie said.

He hadn't thought of that. He remembered the empty bedrooms upstairs with a sigh, and glanced into the parlor. The sofas there didn't look very inviting or nearly long
enough to accommodate him, and spending the night in the room where Pollock had been murdered wasn't particularly appealing, but he'd slept in far worse circumstances in Cuba during the war. “I can sleep on the floor if necessary.”

“We can't ask you to do that,” Mrs. Pollock said. “There's no reason for you to stay all night, but I do think it's a good idea for you to wait here until the reporters have gone. I'd hate for you to have to run down St. Nicholas Avenue to escape them.”

Gino would hate that, too. “I'll be glad to stay for a while.”

“Good. Have you eaten? Mr. Truett's visit delayed my supper, and I'm starving. I'm sure Velvet can manage to feed us both.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'd appreciate that.”

Gino thought he caught Eddie giving him a black look. The poor boy really was besotted with Mrs. Pollock if he was jealous of Gino.

Mrs. Pollock sent Gino to wash up while she went to instruct the cook, and he took the opportunity to comb his hair, too. Of course, he'd combed it earlier in preparation for dinner with the Deckers and Maeve, but that was hours ago. He found Mrs. Pollock in the dining room, sitting at the head of the long table. Someone had set a place for him at her right.

“Do you know much about trials, Officer . . . ? I'm sorry, in all the excitement, I didn't catch your name.”

“Donatelli.”

“That's Italian, isn't it?” Her eyes were an amazing color of blue. He'd never seen anything like it.

“Yes.”

“Officer Donatelli,” she said as if she were trying out the taste of his name on her tongue. The thought made a little shiver go up his spine. “Do you know much about trials?”

“A little.”

“My attorney, Mr. Nicholson, is he really good?”

“He gets a lot of people off.”

“Off what?”

Gino was glad to see Hattie come in with a tray to serve their supper. It gave him a minute to think. He should have realized Mrs. Pollock would have no experience with the justice system and its particular jargon. By the time Hattie had served them the fried beefsteak, roasted potatoes, and stewed tomatoes, he'd thought through what he wanted to say.

“I meant to say that a lot of Mr. Nicholson's clients are found not guilty at the end of their trials.”

“But not all of them?”

He couldn't help smiling at this. “Some of them are just too guilty for even him to help.”

She smiled back, but it didn't quite reach her beautiful eyes. She was worried and rightly so.

“Your mother asked us to help you,” he said. “You could help yourself if you could remember what happened that day.”

She took a sip from her glass, then turned her attention to cutting her steak. For a minute he thought she wasn't going to reply at all, but at last she said, “I really can't remember what happened, no matter how hard I try. Apparently, my husband had a visitor that morning, the brother of his first wife, or so I'm told.”

“Mr. Yorke.”

“Is that his name? I didn't meet him, of course. I'm sure his visit wasn't pleasant, and Randolph would have wanted to protect me from that.”

“So you don't know what they talked about?”

“Of course not. Randolph may have told me before . . . Well, I can't even say that for sure, because if this Mr. Yorke is the one who killed him, he wouldn't have been able to tell me anything at all about the visit.”

“Do you remember finding your husband?”

She stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth, then
slowly lowered it again. “Thankfully, I do not. I vaguely remember the police arriving and taking me away in this horrible wagon, and of course I remember being at the jail.” She shuddered delicately. “What an awful place. I think I'll die if I have to go back there.”

Gino didn't tell her that if she was found guilty of killing her husband, she'd go to a place far worse than the Tombs. “The best way to keep from going back to jail is to figure out who really did kill your husband.”

She smiled sadly, which made him want to help her somehow. “You are not the first person who has suggested this to me. Believe me, I would tell you what happened if I knew. In the meantime, please eat your supper, Officer Donatelli.”

To his surprise, he realized he hadn't taken so much as a bite, even though he'd been more than hungry when he'd arrived at her door. He obediently began to eat, conscious of her gaze resting on him now and then.

After a few minutes of silence, she asked, “How did you come to know Mr. Decker?”

He looked up in surprise. Knowing a man like Felix Decker as well as he did—he'd been invited to eat at his house this very night, in fact—was certainly a marvel. He was the son of Italian immigrants. He was an immigrant himself, in fact, although he'd been too young to even remember making the trip, while Felix Decker's ancestors had settled New York generations ago. Gino was also a cop, a far-from-respectable profession, while Felix Decker's name was on the Social Register. Still . . .

“I used to work with his son-in-law,” he said, which was the simplest explanation.