Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue (12 page)

Except with Randolph Pollock, Maeve thought, remembering the bruises. “She'll have to do more than that to get out of a murder charge.”

“Will she?” Mrs. Malloy said. “We'll see.”

*   *   *

“H
ello, there, and who might you be?” a voice called as Gino reached the bottom of the Pollocks' front steps. He looked up to see the beat cop approaching. The fellow was young and Irish, around Gino's age with reddish blond hair, but his uniform wasn't nearly as neat as Gino's. He'd
managed to grow a sparse mustache, although his cheeks still looked too smooth to need shaving. He didn't seem pleased to see a copper he didn't recognize on his beat.

“Good morning to you,” Gino said, smiling as broadly as he could manage. “I'm Gino Donatelli. How are you this fine morning?”

The fellow had reached him, and Gino noticed he had his nightstick in his hand. He glanced up suspiciously at the house and back at Gino. “What were you doing in there?”

“I spent the night. Mrs. Pollock is worried about somebody breaking in, with only the servants there, so she asked me to guard the place.”

The cop frowned. “I thought she was in jail.”

“She is.”

“And how would you be knowing Mrs. Pollock for her to ask you for help?”

“My girl is a friend of hers,” Gino said, the lie coming easily to him. Maeve would spit nails if she heard him claim she was his girl.

“Are you claiming Mrs. Pollock is friends with some Italian girl?” he scoffed. He pronounced it “Eye-talian.”

“My girl's Irish. Prettiest red hair you ever saw.” That part wasn't a lie, at least. “Say, you wouldn't be Broghan's cousin, would you?”

“And what if I am?” he asked, surprised.

“Then I'd be pleased to meet you. He's been bragging about how you solved this case even before the detectives got here.”

This obviously placated the fellow, at least a little. He slipped his nightstick back in its loop at his belt. “It wasn't hard. The wife was right there with blood all over her.”

Gino nodded encouragingly. “The maid showed me where the body was, but she didn't know much. What was it like?”

Broghan shrugged like he found murdered men on his beat every day. “It was pretty gruesome.”

“The maid said the wife killed him with a frog.”

“A frog? Is that what it was? I never saw nothing like it. Somebody said it was Egyptian or some such.”

“I'd like to buy you a beer and hear all about it, but it's a little early.”

“No, it's not. I know a place,” Broghan said, finally returning Gino's grin.

*   *   *

E
lizabeth Decker was examining the latest batch of invitations she and Felix had received and trying to decide which events to attend and which to decline, when her maid tapped on the door.

“There's a man to see you, missus.”

Elizabeth noted that she had not said a “gentleman” was here to see her. She took the calling card the girl had carried up. It said,
GORDON TRUETT
.

Elizabeth's heart gave a little lurch when she realized Randolph Pollock's partner was downstairs, the very man they'd all decided they needed to find. She dearly wanted to see him, but when she thought of how angry Felix would be if she saw him alone and how disappointed Maeve and Gino would be if she somehow mishandled this meeting with him, she hesitated. She couldn't send him away, though. He might never return.

“Polly, if you would, please telephone Mr. Decker at his office and ask him to come right home because Mr. Truett is here to see him. Be sure to speak with him directly. Then tell Mr. Truett I am occupied and ask him to wait. Then you may send him up in, oh, say, fifteen minutes.”

Polly frowned a little at such a complicated request, but she said, “Yes, ma'am,” and hurried off to do her bidding.

Elizabeth looked at the card again. It simply gave Mr. Truett's name and an address that looked like it might be one of those bachelor apartments in the apartment hotels that were springing up all over the city. She used the time she spent waiting to jot down a list of questions she wanted to ask Mr. Truett, although she wasn't at all sure they were the questions that Sarah or Frank Malloy would have asked him. She'd helped them on cases before, but mostly by collecting gossip from society matrons like herself. Truett certainly wasn't a society matron, and she didn't think he'd be very interested in gossiping, at least about himself.

This detecting business was much more complicated than she'd realized.

After what seemed like an hour, the maid tapped on the door and announced Mr. Truett. He came in looking uncertain. He was a youngish man, probably in his early thirties, a bit stout but pleasant-looking, or at least he would have been if he hadn't been wearing an unfortunate plaid jacket and matching pants and had his hair pomaded to within an inch of its life. If he'd been an actor, he would have played the ne'er-do-well friend of the hero.

“Mr. Truett,” she said as graciously as she would have greeted the son of her dearest friend. “How kind of you to come. Polly, bring us some tea, please.”

“Oh no—” he tried, but Elizabeth ignored him and waved Polly out.

“Please sit down. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“That's all right.” He sat, as ordered, on the sofa, but he perched on the edge, prepared to make a hasty exit if necessary.

She sat down beside him, as if they were old friends, which seemed to disconcert him even more. “You're a friend of Mr. Pollock's, I understand.”

“Uh, yes, I am,” he said, apparently surprised that she knew this.

She instantly changed her expression to the somber one she used when comforting the bereaved at funerals. “I'm so sorry. Have you heard what happened to poor Mr. Pollock?”

“I, uh, yes. I mean . . . Do you mean that he's dead?”

“Yes, of course. I didn't know if you knew.”

“I . . . the servants told me when I . . . That is, I went to meet with Pollock this morning. We're business associates, you see, and they, well, they told me he's dead.”

“It hasn't been in the newspapers, so I wasn't sure if you'd heard. What a terrible thing, and how sad for you to find out from servants.”

“Yes, a . . . a very terrible thing,” he said, although he didn't look as if he really thought so.

Elizabeth smiled gently, pretending she believed he really mourned the death of his associate. This seemed to confuse him even more. “Is something wrong, Mr. Truett? I mean something besides your friend's death?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but . . . Well, I'm a little confused. I told Pollock's servants I needed to get some papers from his office. About our business dealings, you understand. But they told me they had instructions not to let anyone inside, and they sent me here.”

“Oh yes. We told them to send any visitors to us, you see.”

“But . . . I don't mean to be rude, Mrs. Decker, but what is your relationship with Pollock?”

“Relationship? Why, none at all. I've never even met Mr. Pollock.”

He looked so bewildered, Elizabeth almost felt sorry for him. As she had planned, however, a tap at the door announced the arrival of the tea tray she had ordered, which put a temporary
stop to their conversation while Polly brought in the tray and Elizabeth served him.

When Truett had a cup of tea that he probably didn't want and a slice of cake he probably did, he said, “If you never met Pollock, why are you . . . ? I mean, why am I here?”

“I don't know why you're here, Mr. Truett. Perhaps if you tell me, I can help you.”

He was still gaping at her in confusion when the door opened and Felix stepped in. Elizabeth gave him a welcoming smile, even though his expression was thunderous. “Felix, dear, this is Mr. Truett. He's a business associate of Randolph Pollock.”

Truett jumped to his feet and shook hands with Felix, who cast her a look that told her he would deal with her later, before greeting Truett with appropriate courtesy.

Elizabeth poured a cup of tea for Felix without asking and handed it to him when he'd sat down in the chair opposite the sofa. “Mr. Truett went to see Mr. Pollock this morning. The servants broke the news to him about Mr. Pollock's demise and sent him here.”

“I see,” Felix said. “And you had no idea Pollock was dead?”

“Of course not,” Truett said. “I went to see him this morning as usual. We're business associates, you see.”

“So my wife just said. I assume you are involved in the Panamanian Railroad scheme.”

Truett's eyes widened in surprise, but he said, “Yes. Yes, I am. It's a wonderful investment opportunity for a few discerning individuals.”

“I'm sure,” Felix said dismissively. “And when was the last time you saw Mr. Pollock?”

He had apparently pegged Felix as a potential investor and needed a moment to catch up. “The last time? Well, uh, last week. Thursday, I believe.”

Felix nodded, as if this were important information, which it was if he was telling the truth. “So exactly what can we do for you today, Mr. Truett?”

“Oh, well, as I said, Pollock and I are . . . were business associates. On the Panamanian Railroad project, as you say, Mr. Decker. Pollock's death complicates our dealings, of course, but I'm perfectly able to take over management of the project. I just need to collect the documents from Pollock's office.”

Elizabeth noted that Truett was becoming ever so slightly agitated. She almost felt sorry for him again.

“Documents?” Felix said, although Elizabeth was sure he understood, as did she, that Truett wasn't at all interested in mere documents. He most certainly knew about the thousands of dollars Pollock had stored in his safe.

“Yes. Contracts and the official, uh, deeds, and what have you, authorizing the building of the railroad. And the agreements with the investors, of course.”

“I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Truett,” Felix said.

Truett grew a little more agitated. “Bad news?”

“Yes, you see, someone broke into Pollock's house the night before last.”

“Broke in?” Truett echoed in alarm.

“Yes, and made rather a mess of Pollock's office.”

“What do you mean, a mess?”

“The contents of his desk had been emptied onto the floor and the furniture had been sliced open and the stuffing scattered around. We can't know what, if anything, is missing, of course, but we found the safe empty as well.”

How clever of Felix not to claim the safe had been robbed, she thought. He was such a stickler for telling the truth.

“The safe was
empty
?” he asked weakly.

“Yes, and I'm afraid I didn't find the documents you are describing among the papers that had been left behind either. I'm sure it can all be replaced, but I know such things take time, especially when you're dealing with a foreign country.”

Truett seemed not to have heard him. “But who could have broken into the house? Who even knew?”

“Who knew Pollock was dead, you mean? We've been wondering that ourselves,” Felix said.

“The person who killed him knew, of course,” Elizabeth offered.

“But the servants told me she's in jail,” Truett said.

“Mrs. Pollock, you mean?” Elizabeth said in surprise. “That's a terrible mistake. She didn't kill him.”

“But I thought . . .” Truett apparently decided not to tell them what he thought.

“So how may we help you, Mr. Truett?” Felix asked after an awkward silence.

“I . . . I don't think . . . But tell me, why are you involved in all this? Mrs. Decker said she didn't know Pollock, but surely you must have, Mr. Decker.”

“No, I never met the man.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“We are friends of Mrs. Pollock's family,” Elizabeth said, proud that she could be as careful with the truth as Felix.

Truett blinked several times as he took in this information, but he couldn't seem to summon a reply.

“If you think of anything we can do to help, please don't hesitate to contact us,” Felix said.

Poor Truett looked almost ill. He stared at Felix for a long moment and then turned to Elizabeth, but he didn't have anything to say to her either.

“And we will certainly contact you if we learn anything about your documents,” she said. “Is this the address where
we can find you?” She pulled his calling card from her pocket and held it up.

“Yes,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

“I know this has been a shock to you,” Felix said. “Losing a friend is always difficult, especially under such unpleasant circumstances. Let me show you out.”

Truett was too stunned to thank his hostess, but he allowed Felix to escort him from the room. Elizabeth poured herself another cup of tea while she waited for her husband to return. When he did, he carefully shut the door behind him, but before he could speak she said, “He showed up here unannounced, and I was afraid if I sent him away, we'd never see him again.”

This took a bit of the wind out of his sails, but he was still upset. “You could have waited until I got here to see him. For God's sake, Elizabeth, the man could be a murderer.”

“After what he said, I don't think so, but even if he is, I can't think why he'd want to kill me, especially in my own home, which is full of servants who saw him come in. At any rate, I kept him waiting for fifteen minutes so we were only alone a very short time when you arrived. You made very good time, by the way.”

“I ran practically the entire way.” He did not sound happy about it either, but his admission made Elizabeth smile.

“Rushing to my rescue. Felix, I'm touched.”

He sighed and sank down into his chair. “I forbid you to frighten me like that again.”