Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) Read online

  “Do you think she will? That she’ll return, I mean?”

  The desperate hope in his face made Frank want to wince, but he only said, “We’ll find her.”

  Frank just hoped they would find her alive.

  2

  The “park” was one of the small patches of green found tucked here and there in the city. Not even large enough to have a name, it served as a place for children to run around or courting couples to sit for a while. When Frank arrived, he saw a nursemaid—a plump Irish girl in a starched uniform—push a baby buggy over to one of the weathered benches and sit down.

  He strolled over and glanced at the sleeping infant. “Cute little fellow.”

  “It’s a girl, and she’s got a face that would stop a clock. Lucky for her, her da’s got money.” The maid smiled, showing gapped front teeth. “I never saw you here before.”

  “I’ve never been here before,” Frank said, trying his hand at flirting. He was more than a little rusty. “Do you come here a lot?”

  “And what’s it to you if I do?” she countered with a smile that told him she was flirting back.

  “Nothing at all, but I wondered if you’d ever seen a friend of mine here. He told me it was a good place to meet a lady.”

  “I don’t think you’d meet many ladies here, but if you’re looking for a girl, you’ve already met one.”

  “So I have. I guess Milo was right.”

  “Milo? Is that his name?”

  “Yes. Nice-looking fellow. Wears a brown suit with a yellow handkerchief in his pocket.”

  “Oh, him,” she sniffed.

  The faintest hope flickered in his chest. “You know him, then?”

  “I’ve seen him. Can’t say I know him. He’s too good for the likes of me.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he said so.”

  Frank didn’t have to feign his astonishment.

  “Yeah, I was that put out with him myself,” she went on. “I just tried a little friendly conversation, and he told me to be on my way and not to bother him. He had bigger fish to fry.”

  “He told you that?” Frank could hardly believe his luck.

  “About the fish? Not right out like that, but I took his meaning pretty quick. Wasn’t but a few minutes later some woman comes up, and he’s making over her like she’s the Queen of Sheba or something.”

  Frank swallowed down his desperation and managed to sound just mildly interested. “When was this?”

  “Oh, a month or two ago. Maybe longer. He’s not a very nice man, your friend.”

  “He treated you badly.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean how he treated me. I mean he’s always with a different woman. I’ve seen him here at least three times, and each time some woman comes up and it’s the same thing.”

  Frank thumbed his bowler hat back as if astonished to hear this about his friend. “That devil! He never let on he was a ladies’ man.”

  “That’s not what I’d call him. More like a rotter, if you ask me.”

  “Were you here yesterday?”

  “Yesterday? No, I wasn’t.”

  Frank managed to hide his disappointment. Still . . . He pulled the picture out of his coat pocket. “Have you ever seen her before?”

  She stiffened instantly. “Hey, what’s this about?”

  “This young lady was supposed to meet that fellow Milo here yesterday, and she’s gone missing.”

  “The devil you say! I knew he was a rotter.” She peered closely at Grace Livingston’s photograph. “Never saw her before, but she looks like the rest. They’re all of a piece.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’re just like little Ethel here.” She cocked her thumb in the direction of the buggy. “They’ll need a da with a lot of money if they want to catch a husband.”

  Frank glanced at Grace Livingston’s photograph before shoving it back into his pocket. She was right, of course. Grace wouldn’t turn anyone’s head. “Do you know where he takes them?”

  “You’re no friend of his, then?”

  “No, I’m with the police.”

  “Gor, the police! I never!”

  She looked like she might jump up and start running. Frank put his hands up in surrender. “I’m not after you. Her family wants her back is all. Do you know where he takes them when they leave here?”

  She shrugged and got to her feet. She wouldn’t want anything to do with the police. “I don’t know. All I ever saw was him sitting and talking with ’em. Did you say she didn’t come home last night?”

  “I said she’s missing.”

  “That’d be like him. Keep a girl for a day or two, ruin her right proper, and then cut her loose.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  “Me? I don’t know nothing about him, and I don’t want to.” She grabbed the handle of the buggy and shoved it into motion. He let her go.

  He’d have to come back tomorrow morning if Grace didn’t show up before then. He’d see who was usually here at that time. Maybe someone would remember. He started walking. Maybe Pendergast did take them to a restaurant. They wouldn’t go far with him, he was sure, so it would have to be someplace close. Maybe someone would remember.

  Frank showed Grace’s photograph at four places before he got a nibble. The proprietor of the tea shop took Grace’s picture over to the front window to get a better look.

  “I think that’s her,” he said. He was a slender, middle-aged man with a carefully groomed mustache. “I didn’t pay much attention. She’s not one you’d look at twice is she?” He handed the photograph back to Frank.

  “She’s a respectable young woman,” Frank said.

  “I can see that, but she’s no beauty. I might not’ve remembered at all if you hadn’t mentioned him. The yellow handkerchief, I remembered that.”

  “Has he been in here before?”

  “Oh, yeah, he comes in from time to time. Always with a different girl.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “His name you mean? No, never heard it, and I don’t have much reason to ask, now, do I? He orders his food and pays for it. I’ve got no complaints.”

  Frank glanced around. Only two tables were currently occupied by groups of ladies gossiping over tea and cakes. “Do you keep this place by yourself?”

  “My wife helps.”

  “Is she here?”

  He shrugged. “She’s always here, same as me.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “She won’t know any more than I do.”

  Frank didn’t want to frighten the man because he’d probably stop cooperating completely, but he did give him a hard stare that sent him scurrying to the back to fetch his wife.

  She came out wiping her hands on her apron and frowning. “What’s this all about? We run a decent place here.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Frank said, trying his smile on her. She didn’t smile back.

  “He wants to know about that fellow with the yellow handkerchief,” her husband said.

  “Mr. Pendergast?” she asked.

  Frank bit his cheek so he wouldn’t smile at her husband’s surprise. “How do you know his name?” the husband asked.

  “How do you think? He told me,” she sniffed. “What do you want to know about him?”

  “Your husband said he was in here yesterday with this young lady.” Frank handed her the photograph.

  She squinted at it and shook her head. “Never saw her. But I’m usually busy with the cooking.”

  “Your husband said he comes in regularly with different young ladies.”

  “Yes, and I’m not surprised. He’s a charmer, that one,” she said. “Always quick with a compliment. A woman can always do with a compliment, you know, even if she knows it’s a lie.�
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  Frank would have to remember that. “Do you by any chance know where he lives?”

  “Lives? Not hardly. Someplace close, I’d think, though.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She had to think about this. “Just an impression, I guess. I heard him ask one of the girls if she’d like to meet his mother. Then they got up and left. I got a feeling they were going to walk, so it wouldn’t be too far, would it?”

  “Do you remember which direction they went?”

  She shook her head. “Not hardly. It was a while ago, and I’m too busy here to pay attention to where customers go when they leave here, aren’t I?”

  “They went that way,” her husband said, pointing down the street.

  “Are you sure?” Frank asked.

  “Yeah, I just remembered. He left before I gave him his change. I had to run after him.”

  Frank thanked them for their trouble and stepped back outside, peering down the street in the direction the man had indicated, as if he could make Pendergast appear. Of course, he couldn’t, and even if he could, Frank wouldn’t even know him without his yellow handkerchief.

  He slipped the photograph back into his pocket and headed over to Newspaper Row.

  • • •

  Luckily, the Livingstons only subscribed to the World, so Frank thought the odds were good Grace had found Pendergast’s ad in that paper. Of course, New York had lots of newspapers, and newsboys hawked newspapers on every corner in the city. She might have picked up any of them, but maybe he’d be lucky.

  The advertising department of the newspaper was a busy place, with several clerks dealing with customers who had come in to place an ad. A few minutes of observation told Frank most of the customers had no idea what they wanted, so the clerks had to spend a lot of time with each one of them, getting the ad copy down just right. No wonder the line was so long.

  Frank quickly lost his patience and asked for the supervisor, earning disgruntled glares from customers who had been waiting much longer than he had. A glimpse of his badge sent the clerk running for his boss, and Frank returned the disgruntled glares of the customers until they found something else to stare at.

  An officious man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles and abundant side whiskers appeared at the counter. “May I help you?”

  Frank pulled the handful of newspaper clippings from his pocket and laid them on the counter. “Are these from your newspaper?”

  He frowned, then adjusted his spectacles and peered at the tiny scraps of paper. He quickly separated them into two groups. “These are,” he said, indicating one pile. “And these are not.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “We use a particular style with our lonely hearts advertisements. Other newspapers try to copy it, but I can still tell which are ours.”

  Frank was happy to see that Pendergast’s ads were from the World. He separated them from the others. “Can you tell me who placed these ads?”

  His frown deepened. “May I ask what this is about?”

  “Sure, but I don’t have to tell you.”

  He pulled himself up to his full height. “The people who place these advertisements with us rely on our discretion. We only identify each client by a box number so they may remain anonymous to any individuals whose acquaintance they do not wish to make. How do I know you aren’t just a lovesick swain who wants to force his attentions on some unwilling female?”

  Frank sighed in exasperation. “Do I look like a lovesick swain?”

  “How can I possibly judge? You are becoming angry, which I assure you is an indication of thwarted desire.”

  Frank definitely felt as if his desires were being thwarted, but he took a firm hand on his temper and said, “If you will look closely at the ads in question, you’ll see they are seeking female companionship. And just so you understand how serious this is, a young woman who answered these ads and had arranged to meet the man who placed them is missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes, which means that at least one person placing ads in your newspaper is using them to kidnap women.”

  The fellow swallowed. “You . . . you have no way of knowing . . . I mean, she might have eloped. That’s hardly kidnapping.”

  “If she eloped, then no harm done, but either way, she’s got a family who wants to find her. Now get me the name and address of the person who placed these ads.”

  By now the other clerks had all stopped serving their customers to listen to what Frank was telling their supervisor. Which was fine, because all the customers were listening, too. The nearest clerk snatched up one of the ads and read it. “It’s Tom,” he told the others, drawing a chuckle or two from the half dozen clerks.

  “You know him?” Frank asked.

  “Oh, we know him all right,” the clerk holding the ad said. “He’s in here about every week to pick up his love letters.”

  “What’s his name? Tom what?” Frank asked, pulling out his notebook and pencil.

  “Tom Cat,” he said, drawing snickers from the other clerks. “At least that’s what we call him. Always looking for a new pussy to warm his bed.”

  “That’s enough, Kirk,” the supervisor said, silencing the snickers instantly. “Get this gentleman the name and address of this man.”

  The clerks exchanged some furtive glances. “That’s just it. We don’t know his name. Well, we do know the name he uses, because the letters that come in are addressed to him.”

  “Milo Pendergast,” Frank said.

  “How’d you know?” the clerk asked in surprise.

  “But you don’t think that’s his real name?” Frank said.

  “Do you? It don’t sound real, at least. And we don’t have an address because he didn’t want the letters forwarded. He always comes to pick them up and pay for his ads.”

  “How do you know which letters are his?”

  “Everybody who places an ad gets a box number, so we know which letters go to which box. Most people give us an address, and we forward the letters to them, but not this Milo fellow. He says he doesn’t trust the mail or something.”

  Frank managed not to sigh again. This Milo Pendergast, or whatever his name was, had turned out to be smarter than Frank had imagined. “How often does he come in? You said every week.” If he came on a particular day, then . . .

  “We put his ad in the paper once a week, but he comes in whenever he feels like it, I guess. Sometimes he comes every couple days and sometimes not for a couple of weeks.”

  Probably, Frank thought, it depended on whether he’d successfully lured a woman into “meeting his mother.” Frank pulled out a card and laid it on the counter. “Let me know the next time this fellow picks up his mail. But don’t tell him somebody is looking for him.”

  The supervisor picked up his card and gave the other clerks a baleful glare. “No one will say anything to him, and I’ll notify you immediately if we see him. Now everyone, back to work. We have customers waiting.”

  Frank glanced around to see all the customers staring in gaping amazement. He wondered if any of them were here to place a lonely hearts ad.

  • • •

  Sarah was relaxing in the kitchen while Maeve and Catherine prepared their dinner. She watched fondly as Maeve patiently instructed Catherine on each step as they carefully stirred flour into the meat drippings to make gravy for the pot roast they’d just pulled out of the oven.

  The sound of someone knocking on the front door stopped all three of them.

  “I hope it’s not a baby,” Catherine said.

  As a professional midwife, Sarah knew she should hope it was a baby, but she couldn’t help thinking how little she wanted to leave just now. “I’ll get it,” she told the girls.

  She hurried out of the kitchen, into the front room that served as her office, then through it to th
e front hallway. By then she’d seen the familiar silhouette through the glass, and she was already smiling when she pulled the door open.

  “Malloy,” she said.

  He was through the door and pushing it closed before she could blink. “Quick, kiss me before the girls come,” he whispered.

  She did.

  They had three or four delicious minutes before their silence alerted the girls that the caller wasn’t someone summoning Sarah to a delivery. The clatter of tiny shoes running across the floor signaled them in time for Frank and Sarah to be standing demurely apart when Catherine launched herself at Malloy. He picked her up, and she threw her slender arms around his neck.

  “I’m so happy you came!” she said.

  “I am, too,” Malloy said, giving Sarah a wink over Catherine’s shoulder.

  “We’re just putting supper on the table, Mr. Malloy,” Maeve said. “I hope you can stay.”

  “Did you cook it?” he asked Catherine.

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Then of course I’ll stay. What are we having?”

  “Pot roast,” Catherine informed him.

  “My favorite!”

  “Why don’t you and Mrs. Brandt sit down out here, and we’ll call you when everything is ready,” Maeve said. “Catherine, you and I can set the table.”

  When the girls were gone, Malloy got another kiss before they settled into the chairs by the front window. “I’m so happy you’re here,” Sarah said, “but I always feel guilty keeping you from Brian.”

  “I hardly ever got home for supper before, so he doesn’t really expect to see me, and my mother would probably die of shock if I got home early. I’ll see him before he goes to bed. And you don’t have to feel guilty tonight, because I’m here on business.”

  “Police business?” she asked with open skepticism.

  “Of course police business. I need you to write a lonely hearts letter for me.”

  “A what?”

  “A lonely hearts letter. In answer to one of the lonely hearts advertisements in the newspaper.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Malloy. One fiancé at a time is all I can handle, I’m afraid.”