Murder in Chelsea (6 page)

“I am not a total stranger, Mr. Malloy. I’m her father. This guardian, as you call her, can turn her over to me with a clear conscience.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Of course it’s a good idea. She’s my daughter!”

“Anne Murphy went looking for Catherine, and a few days later someone murdered her.”

“That has nothing to do with Catherine.”

“Are you sure? I’m not. And until I am, I’m not going to risk her life.” Frank waited, watching Wilbanks’s anger flare and then die as Frank’s words sank in.

“Mr. Malloy, as you can see, I’m quite ill. My doctors give me a few months at the most. I want to spend them with my child, and I will do whatever is necessary to make that happen.”

* * *

F
RANK THOUGHT ABOUT STOPPING BY TO SEE
S
ARAH.
She’d be worried sick, but the news he had to give her would upset her even more, so he was in no hurry to deliver it. Besides, if he waited until this evening, Catherine would be asleep, and they’d be able to speak freely. He decided to find the address on the letters Emma Hardy had sent to Anne Murphy.

It was an old house just off Broadway. A wealthy family had built it long ago when this had been a fashionable part of town. Now it was a boardinghouse, like so many others in the city. A young woman answered his knock, striking a pose in the doorway. She looked him up and down and grinned a little too boldly to be a maid. “And what would you be wanting?”

“I’d like to speak to the landlady.”

“Would you now? And what if the landlady is busy?”

“Then tell her Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police is here to see her.”

Her grin vanished. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“I need to speak to the landlady.”

She started away, then caught herself. “Come in,” she called back and hurried down the hall toward the back of the house. Frank stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him. The place looked like all the other boardinghouses he’d ever seen except this one seemed a little brighter somehow. Maybe it was the garish yellow wallpaper.

Two young women peered at him from the parlor.

“Are you a copper?” one asked.

“Detective sergeant.”

They exchanged a knowing look. “Who’re you here to pinch?” the other one asked.

“Who do you think?”

They grinned at that, flirting a little. They were bold, but not like whores. And their clothes were a little too flashy, but not that way. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first, and then . . .

“Are you actresses?”

“Of course,” the first one said, as if insulted he had to ask.

“Mrs. Dugan only rents to actresses.”

“Chorus girls,” an older woman said as she came down the hall toward him. “Get in the kitchen, you two, and help Maggie or there won’t be no dinner tonight,” she said to the girls, who hurried off.

“You must be Mrs. Dugan,” Frank said.

She’d been a handsome woman in her youth, probably a chorus girl herself, and age had dimmed her only slightly. “Nell Dugan, and what would you be wanting with us, Mr. Detective Sergeant?”

“Can we talk in private?”

Alarm flickered over her face, but she said, “In here.” She directed him to the parlor where the two girls had been and closed the door behind them. “Is one of my girls in trouble?”

“Do you know Emma Hardy?”

“Emma?” She looked relieved. She apparently had no love for Emma Hardy. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

“You know her?”

“Yes, I know her. I know a lot of girls who work in the theater.”

“You mostly rent to actresses? Chorus girls, I mean.”

That made her grin. “Yes. I used to be in the chorus myself. Married an actor, which I don’t ever recommend. He left me, like they all do, and when I got too old for the stage, I managed to get this house. The girls don’t always pay their rent, but they keep me young. What do you want with Emma?”

Frank pulled two letters from his pocket. “She sent these to Anne Murphy at this address.”

“Did she? I guess Anne did get some letters while she was here.”

“She was living here, then?”

“For a few months. The better part of a year, I guess.”

“When did she leave?”

“A couple weeks, maybe. I don’t know. Time goes so fast nowadays. Oh, wait. She was here just the other day, to get her mail, she said. I thought it was a joke.” Mrs. Dugan glanced at the letters. “Is she the one in trouble?”

“Anne Murphy is dead, Mrs. Dugan.”

She gave a little cry, then hastily crossed herself. “Merciful Mother of God.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be, coming in here like this and telling me somebody I’ve known most of my life is dead.”

“I’m not the one who killed her.”

The blood drained from her face. “
Killed
, did you say? Don’t tell me she was killed!”

Frank grabbed her arm and steered her to the closest chair.

When she was safely seated, she glared up at him. “Who killed her?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Nobody here did, I can tell you that. Everybody loved Anne.”

“I’m sure they did, but I thought you might be able to tell me more about her so I can figure out who might have wished her harm.”

“Not a soul on this earth.” She crossed herself again, and tears flooded her eyes. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why did she leave here?”

“What?”

“You said she’d been living here for almost a year, and then she left. Did she say where she was going or why she was leaving?”

“She . . . I don’t know. She had some story about a job, I think. She was leaving the city, she said. I don’t remember. People in the theater are always coming and going. I didn’t pay much attention. Maybe the other girls can tell you. But I guess she didn’t leave the city, did she, if she’s dead? Ingrid knew her the best.”

“Who’s Ingrid?”

“Ingrid Cordova. One of the girls who was just here. She can tell you what there is to know. I’ll get her.”

In a few minutes, Mrs. Dugan was back with the pretty, dark-haired girl who’d been insulted that Frank didn’t know she was an actress. She was protesting vigorously until she reached the parlor. Then she just dug in her heels. “I don’t know what he wants to see me about. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“I told you, he has to ask you some questions. About Anne.”

“Anne? Why would he want to know anything about Anne?”

Mrs. Dugan gave him a pleading look. Obviously, she hadn’t broken the news.

Frank sighed. “Miss Cordova, Anne Murphy was murdered this morning.”

Ingrid’s pretty face registered her struggle to deny his words. She turned to Mrs. Dugan, outraged. “What’s he saying?”

“Annie’s dead, God rest her soul, and he’s trying to find out who killed her.”

“Killed?” she said, as if she’d never heard the word before.

This time Mrs. Dugan helped Ingrid sit down and produced a handkerchief when the girl started sobbing. They waited until she’d recovered herself. Finally, she looked up at Frank. “I just saw her the other day.” As if that proved she couldn’t be dead today.

“Mrs. Dugan said she came by to pick up her mail.”

“She did. It was funny, you know? None of us gets letters, but she said Emma Hardy wrote to her.” She turned to where Mrs. Dugan hovered at her elbow. “I didn’t believe her. I didn’t know Emma hardly at all, but I’d guess she never wrote a letter in her life. But sure enough, there was a letter here for her.”

“Do you remember what day this was?”

“I don’t know. A week or so ago, I think.”

“Did she say anything about the letter, what it said?”

Ingrid frowned. “No. She just tucked it in her pocket and then we talked a little.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try. It could be important.”

Tears flooded her eyes again, but she took a minute to think. “I asked her what happened to the job she was getting out of town. She said it didn’t start yet, but she’d be going soon.”

“Did she say what the job was?” Frank asked.

“Said she’d be taking care of Emma Hardy’s little girl again. Emma had been on tour, you know,” she added, glancing at Mrs. Dugan as if for confirmation. “That’s why Anne came back here last year.”

“Anne left the city years ago to look after Emma Hardy and her kid,” Mrs. Dugan said. “But maybe you already knew that.”

“Did Emma Hardy live here, too?”

Mrs. Dugan frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You obviously know her. Did she ever live here?”

For some reason, she needed a few seconds to consider her reply. “Back before she had the baby, yes. Years ago, that was.”

“And had you seen her lately?”

Another hesitation. “Well, then she had a room here for a few years, for the times when she was in a show.”

“She did?” Ingrid asked.

“Hush, you don’t know anything about it.” Mrs. Dugan turned back to Frank. “Her gentleman friend paid me to keep one for her.” She didn’t look like she’d been too happy about that arrangement.

At least this part of the story made some sense. Emma Hardy and Anne Murphy had both lived in this rooming house, so they must have agreed Emma could contact Anne here. That would explain why the most recent letter to Anne was addressed here, even though Emma had instructed her to find another place to live. “Did Miss Murphy seem upset about anything when you saw her the other day?”

Ingrid thought about this for a moment. “No, she was real happy, in fact. Said she couldn’t wait to see the little girl again.”

“Did she say where the girl was?” Frank wondered what story she’d given out.

“She was with Emma.”

“Did she say that?”

Ingrid opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. “I . . . I don’t know if she did or not. Maybe I just thought that’s where she was. But where else would she be?”

Where else, indeed. “Do you know of anybody who might want to harm Miss Murphy?”

Ingrid’s eyes flooded again. “I can’t believe she’s gone. No. No, I don’t know of a soul who’d want to hurt her. Do you really think it was somebody who knew her? Sometimes people get killed by strangers, you know. Lots of bad things happen in the city.”

Frank knew that very well. He wasn’t going to explain Anne Murphy’s death to them, though. They were upset enough. “Thank you for your help, Miss Cordova. If you think of anything else, let me know.” He gave Mrs. Dugan his card.

The sky was still light when he left the boardinghouse. The days were getting longer, and winter’s chill had left the air. These pleasant weeks between winter’s frigid blasts and summer’s searing heat were too few. Too bad he never had a chance to really enjoy them. He’d get something to eat, and then head over to Sarah’s house. He’d put off telling her about Anne Murphy long enough.

* * *

S
ARAH AND
M
AEVE STILL SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE,
trying to decide whether to go to bed or wait a little longer for Malloy, when they heard the knock. Hoping it wasn’t an expectant father come to summon her for a delivery, Sarah hurried to the front door.

“Malloy,” she said in relief. She took his coat and tried not to read anything into his grim expression. “Are you hungry?”

“No, but I could use some coffee.”

He followed her into the kitchen. Maeve greeted him.

“I thought you’d be in bed by now,” he teased, taking a seat opposite her at the table.

“And how would you expect me to sleep without knowing what you found out? And where you’ve been all day, too.”

Sarah stoked the fire and put the coffee on to heat. “I’ve been wondering that myself,” Sarah said, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt that he’d made them wait so long for the news.

Then she noticed Malloy’s expression, and her annoyance evaporated. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Anne Murphy is dead.”

Sarah needed a minute for the truth of it to sink in. When it did, she managed to lower herself into a chair before her knees gave way. “What did she die of?”

“Somebody stabbed her.”

“Dear heaven,” Maeve murmured.

Sarah still could not make sense of it. “Who? Why?”

“I don’t know that yet. I went to see her first thing this morning, and I found her dead. She was alone in the house, and whoever killed her had probably just left.”

Sarah glanced at Maeve. Her face was white, her eyes wide with shock. Guilt tore at her. “You were right,” she told Malloy. “We should never have gone to see her alone.”

He waved away her contrition. “It’s too late to argue about that now. There’s more, a lot more, and none of it is good news. I found Catherine’s father.”

Sarah’s breath felt like a shard of glass in her chest. How could she bear this? “Who is he?”

“His name is David Wilbanks. Does that mean anything to you?”

Sarah shook her head. “No. Miss Murphy said he was a wealthy man. I thought I might know him, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”

“Maybe your father knows him, or at least knows of him. He wants Catherine.”

Sarah covered her mouth to hold back a sob, and Maeve threw an arm over her shoulder.

“We won’t let him have her,” the girl said, tears spilling down her cheeks.

But Sarah could only shake her head. He was Catherine’s father. How could she keep his child from him? Fighting her own tears, Sarah said, “How did you find him?”

“Anne Murphy had written him a letter. I found it in her room.”

“So she did know who he was,” Sarah said, grasping on to anger like a lifeline to keep her from slipping into despair. “What did the letter say?”

“She was offering to tell Wilbanks where Catherine was if he was willing to pay her for the information. I’m not sure why she wrote it but hadn’t mailed it. Maybe she would have sent it if Emma didn’t show up or something. We’ll probably never know, but it led me right to Wilbanks.”

Fury swelled in her chest. “Did you tell him where Catherine was?”

“Of course not, but he’s her father. He has a right to at least see her. And he’s dying.”

“Dying? What do you mean?”

“He’s got cancer, he said. He told me he only has a few months to live.”