Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue (18 page)

“I'd better get started then,” he said. “I'll be back for luncheon, and we'll call on Caroline Norwalk this afternoon.”

When he had taken his leave, Maeve said, “Do you suppose he intends to include me in the visit with Mrs. Norwalk?”

“No, dear, I don't.”

Maeve sighed.

“Maybe you and the children could go shopping this afternoon,” Elizabeth said to cheer her. “I saw some lovely things at Macy's, and Santa Claus was wandering the aisles, thrilling the little ones.”

“Or scaring them to death. I've seen children screaming in terror when they saw him.”

“I suppose he is rather frightening if you have no idea who he is. I wonder if Brian knows about Santa.”

“If not, we'll make sure he finds out.”

“I have a feeling Sarah and Frank will be bringing back some wonderful gifts from their honeymoon.”

“Yes. She sent me a cable telling me to expect some crates soon.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't shop very much,” Elizabeth said with a grin. “Let's go upstairs and visit the children, shall we?”

*   *   *

F
elix decided to call on Lawrence Zimmerman first. Before confronting Truett he wanted to get an idea of how much the investors really knew about the project. Zimmerman lived in what was probably the family home, a tidy town house in Lenox Hill. A maid took Decker's card and, after a short wait, escorted him upstairs to a book-lined room that was obviously Zimmerman's masculine lair.

“Mr. Decker, what a surprise,” he said, obviously pleased to be visited by someone of Felix's social position. Zimmerman was in his thirties with a shrinking hairline and a growing paunch. His fair hair and light eyes gave him a rather nondescript air, as if he might be fading away. He was still adjusting his suit jacket when Felix came in. “Have a seat. Can I get you something? Coffee or something stronger? It's early but . . .”

“No, thanks. I just came to get your advice about something.”

Nothing could have ingratiated him any more with Zimmerman. “My advice? What could you possibly want my advice about?” he asked when they'd seated themselves in the leather chairs beside the fire.

“It's an investment opportunity in Panama. I've been invited to participate, and I understand you are involved.”

Zimmerman's pleasure at Felix's visit vanished instantly. His expression hardened. “Yes, I . . . What would you like to know?”

“Is something wrong?”

“I don't know what you mean.” Zimmerman wasn't a very good liar. Something was very wrong.

“Let me explain myself. You see, I was considering participating in this project after Oscar Norwalk had introduced me to Randolph Pollock.” Zimmerman stiffened at the mention of Norwalk, but Felix pretended not to notice. “And now Pollock has been murdered.”

“Has he?” Zimmerman pretended to be surprised. “That's terrible.”

Felix continued to play along, although he noticed Zimmerman didn't ask him any questions about how Pollock was killed or who might have done it. “Yes, I saw a small article in the
World
last night. It said his wife murdered him.”

This time he truly was surprised. “His wife? But that's impossible. She's so . . . I can't imagine such a thing.”

“Nevertheless, Pollock is dead, and she was arrested for killing him. She's been released on bail, I understand.”

Zimmerman just stared, completely overwhelmed by the thought.

Felix gave him a few moments to absorb all this. Then he said, “So you can see my concern. Pollock's death combined with Norwalk's . . .”

He stiffened again. “Norwalk? But . . . that was his heart.”

“That's what the family said, of course.”

Zimmerman sighed. “I didn't think it was common knowledge.”

“It's not, but there was talk at our club. And of course he had also invested in this Panama project.”

“Yes, he introduced me to Pollock, as well. He thought . . . Well, my mother had some funds—I manage her affairs, you see—and I thought it would be a good opportunity for her.”

In other words, Zimmerman didn't have any money of his own, at least not yet. So if he'd made a bad investment,
he'd have the added burden of knowing he'd lost his mother's money.

“Do you have any idea if . . . ? Well, this is difficult to put delicately, but naturally, I was concerned after Norwalk's unfortunate circumstances and now Pollock's violent demise.”

“You're wondering if everything is on the up-and-up, I suppose.” Zimmerman's face had gone chalk white. “Well, it's not. Pollock is a thief and a scoundrel. No one is building a railroad in Panama because there's already a railroad there.”

“When did you discover this?”

“I didn't. Norwalk did. A couple weeks ago, I guess. He confronted Pollock and demanded his money back, but of course Pollock refused. He'd known all along. It was all a swindle.”

“And Norwalk told you?”

“Yes, he felt honor-bound, since he was the one who'd suggested it to me in the first place.”

“Was that why he . . . ?”

Zimmerman's eyes filled, and he rubbed them angrily. “I don't know, not for certain, but . . . Norwalk was a proud man. He was ashamed that he'd been taken in by Pollock's scheme, of course, but he was devastated that he'd brought his friends in, too.”

“You weren't the only one, then? There were others?”

“Yes, although he never said who. He'd never embarrass them, of course.”

“Of course.” Felix could understand completely. Being tricked would make a man feel like a fool, but making fools of his friends as well would be impossible to bear. So maybe the financial loss had been serious, but the blow to Norwalk's pride would have been even worse. How could he face anyone after that? But he wasn't here about Norwalk. “How did you find out Pollock was dead?”

Zimmerman blinked several times, his gaze darting
around the room as if he were looking for a satisfactory answer. “Uh, you just told me.”

“Yes, but you already knew it.”

He didn't deny it, Felix noted. “I, uh, I saw it in the newspaper last night, just as you did.” He really was a terrible liar. “In any case, what does it matter?”

“Only a few people knew he was dead, including his killer.”

“But you said his wife killed him.” And he had been surprised to hear it, which meant he really hadn't seen the newspaper article.

“I said she'd been arrested for killing him, but she denies it.”

“Of course she denies it. Wouldn't you?”

“Do you think she could have done it? A few minutes ago, you said you couldn't imagine it.”

“And I can't! Have you met her?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you know what I mean. She's so . . .” He gestured helplessly.

“Lovely?” Felix offered.

“Not just that,” Zimmerman said, the color rising in his face. “She's so feminine and . . . and refined.”

“Too refined to bash her husband's head in, you mean?”

“Exactly!”

Felix studied him for a long moment. “How did you know Pollock had his head bashed in?”

Zimmerman started blinking again. “What?”

“I asked how you knew his head was bashed in. It wasn't in the newspapers.”

“I don't . . . that is, you said it.”

“And you weren't surprised. You knew. How did you know?”

“I suppose someone told me.”

“Someone who knew Pollock was dead before it was in the newspapers. And who would that be?”

His expression hardened again. He wasn't going to betray his friends either. “I don't remember.”

“Except for his wife and servants, only Pollock's killer knew how he died. Are you going to protect his killer and let his wife take the blame?”

“The person who told me didn't kill him. I promise you that.”

“Then why won't you tell me who he is?”

He smiled at this, a stiff rictus of a grin. “Because you'll accuse him of murder.”

“It's not my place to accuse him of anything. I'm just trying to protect an innocent woman. I would expect you to do the same.”

“I will, if it comes to it, but they won't charge a woman with a crime like that.”

“They already have,” Felix reminded him, exasperated.

He had no answer for that.

“You have my card,” he said finally. “When you're ready to do the right thing, let me know.”

Felix didn't wait for the maid. He showed himself out.

*   *   *

G
ino usually enjoyed this time of the day. He'd finished rousting all the drunks from the doorways and alleys where they'd crawled to sleep off their carousing from the night before and it was too early yet for any serious crime. He strolled along his beat, tipping his cap to ladies he passed and scowling at boys who looked like they might be up to no good. Shopkeepers would usually nod respectfully when he passed, but this morning, they weren't nodding. They were just staring. Then he passed a group of ladies huddled around a newspaper one of them held, and they all turned to look at him as he walked by and giggled when he tipped his cap.

He shrugged it off the first time, but in the next block,
a shopkeeper grinned at him knowingly and then two attractive young women saw him and started whispering behind their hands and pointing. Automatically, he checked to make sure his pants were properly buttoned up, but everything seemed to be in order. Why was everyone staring at him?

He'd gone another block with more staring shopkeepers and giggling females when he saw two detectives coming toward him. They weren't smiling, though. They looked a little mad, truth to tell, and one of them was Broghan. He'd probably heard about Gino asking questions of his cousin about the Pollock murder. This might be bad.

The detectives waited for him on the corner, and by the time he reached them, Gino was starting to feel more than a little nervous.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he tried. “Did something big happen on my beat?”

They didn't return his greeting. Instead, Broghan took a newspaper from where he'd been carrying it under his arm and snapped it open to the front page. It was the
Journal
, and there was a remarkably accurate sketch of him standing on the Pollocks' front stoop, brandishing his nightstick at a group of reporters. The headline read, “Handsome Italian Police Officer Protects Beautiful Murderess.”

“Hey, that looks like me,” he tried, hoping to brazen it out.

The two men exchanged a glance. “Yeah,” O'Brien said, “that's what the chief thought, too.”

“So did my cousin,” said Broghan. “He said he saw you coming out of the Pollock house yesterday, too. And how many handsome Italians we got on the force, after all?”

Gino had no answer for that, and he could see they weren't here just to tease him. “What does the chief want?”

“He wants to see your handsome face,” O'Brien said with a mirthless grin. “Right now.”

“But my beat . . . ,” he tried.

“We'll send somebody to replace you.”

Gino looked at the men again. “Why did he send two of you?”

“In case you resisted,” Broghan said. “Are you going to?”

“Uh, no.”

“Too bad,” O'Brien said.

Gino decided not to press his luck any further, and he took off for Headquarters. If the detectives were following, they weren't trying to keep up. On the way, he stopped a newsboy and bought a copy of the
World
, which also had a sketch of him. He didn't think this one was as good a likeness, but the headline again identified him as both handsome and Italian. The
World
had a second sketch, though, and no one had to guess who it might be. Gino would have known her immediately, but it was also clearly identified as the beautiful murderess, Una Pollock.

Where had they gotten her likeness? She'd been careful not to show herself last night for just that reason. Then Gino read the article beneath the picture, an interview with her mother. Some enterprising reporter had taken advantage of Mrs. O'Neill's innocence and convinced her to talk about Una. The unfortunate woman had probably even provided a photograph of her daughter for the newspaper sketch artist. Una wouldn't be happy at all when she saw this. Poor Mrs. O'Neill, she was only trying to help her daughter. Too bad Una wouldn't see it that way.

Meanwhile, however, Gino needed to worry about himself. How was he going to explain what he was doing up in Harlem in the house of an accused murderess that wasn't even in his precinct? Oh, how he wished Frank Malloy were in town. He'd know just what to do.

Or would he? Frank Malloy no longer worked for the New
York City Police because he'd displeased them. Of course, Mr. Malloy had displeased them by becoming a millionaire, and Gino certainly had not done that. Was this bad enough to lose his job over? Gino didn't even want to think about that.

When he reached Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street, Tom the doorman gave him a pitying look as he held the door for him. “Better hurry upstairs, son,” he said. “The chief is expecting you.”

That's when he knew. They were sending him to Goatsville. Goatsville wasn't a town exactly. It was a general term of derision for the country, where nothing happened and where cops who shook down the wrong businessman or the wrong madam or who accidentally shot the wrong person got sent to die . . . of boredom. Getting fired, he thought, would actually be better.

*   *   *

F
elix recognized the building on East Forty-eighth Street where Truett lived as a hotel with bachelor apartments. These residences had flourished in the past few years and provided small apartments for single men or childless couples. The building would have a restaurant that could send meals up to residents who didn't want to cook for themselves and would provide a staff to clean and do laundry. Residents would have all the comforts and amenities without the expense of maintaining a house and servants.