Murder on Washington Square (25 page)

As it turned out, she needed no further assistance. The dingy corridor she entered led past several doors, but only one was ajar. Through it, Sarah could hear the sound of women’s voices. Deciding this was very promising, she called into the opened doorway, “Irene?”

The voices ceased, and a long moment of suspicious silence followed.

“Irene, are you there?” Sarah called again, feigning confidence. If Irene wasn’t there, she’d have to bluff her way past others the way she’d bluffed past the doorman.

But a voice said, “Who is it?” and Sarah knew she need look no further. She pushed the door open all the way and stepped in to find a narrow room lined on both sides with crudely built shelves that apparently served as dressing tables with mirrors above them. The shelves were littered with the same kinds of grease paints Sarah had found in Anna Blake’s room, along with wigs and brushes, combs and hand mirrors, and scraps of ribbon and hairpins and feathers and all sorts of grooming items. At the far end of the room stood racks of what appeared to be costumes, judging by their garish colors and fabrics.

Three young women in various stages of undress stood in the center of the room. The one who wore a wrapper carelessly draped over her underclothes was staring at her most intently, while the other two seemed merely curious. “Hello, Irene,” Sarah said to the one who was staring. “I’m Sarah Brandt.”

“Do I know you?” she asked warily. She wasn’t old, not in years. Her body still retained its youthful curves and her face showed no signs of dissipation. Her eyes, however, revealed a wealth of experience, and they’d taken Sarah’s measure in one glance. She didn’t seem impressed by what she’d seen.

“I’m a friend of Anna Blake’s,” Sarah tried.

Instantly, the two curious women moved away and busied themselves with the costumes at the far end of the room. Irene looked even warier now, as if she might bolt. Murder had a way of making people cautious, Sarah had learned.

“A newspaper reporter, Webster Prescott, said you knew Anna,” Sarah tried quickly, in an attempt to break through Irene’s understandable reluctance to speak of Anna Blake to a stranger. “I’m trying to find out who killed her, and if you could—”

“You?”
she scoffed. “How could you find a killer? And why would somebody like you care who killed Anna anyway?”

Sarah doubted Irene would understand her concern for Nelson Ellsworth even if she’d felt like explaining it, which she didn’t, so she said, “I want to see justice done. The police . . .” Sarah made a helpless motion with her hand. “I don’t think they care very much about finding the killer.”

“I thought that fellow did it, the one in the newspaper who was her lover,” Irene said. “That’s what the reporter said, anyway.”

Sarah only needed a second to come up with a new lie. “That’s what the police are trying to make everyone believe so they don’t have to exert themselves to find the real killer. But he didn’t do it, and Mr. Prescott is helping me find out who did.”

Irene didn’t care about any of this. “I gotta get ready for the performance,” she said impatiently.

“I don’t want to bother you,” Sarah said. “But I only have a few questions, and I’d be willing to pay you for your time. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

The two women who had been so interested in the costumes suddenly turned their attention back to Sarah. “I knew Anna,” one of them offered.

“You did not,” Irene snapped. “Shut your lying mouth.” Then to Sarah, “Come out here where we can talk.”

She led Sarah back into the corridor. Some more women had arrived and were making their way toward the dressing room. Irene took Sarah’s arm and drew her down to the far end of the corridor, into the shadows where the gaslights on the walls didn’t quite reach.

“I can’t talk long,” she warned. “What do you wanna know?”

“How long did you know Anna?”

“A couple years. Ever since I joined the troupe.”

“She was here when you came?”

“That’s right. Been with them a long time, she said.”

“Why did she stop acting?”

Irene smiled strangely. “You mean why did she stop working here?”

“Yes.”

“She was getting old, you know? Too old for any of the good parts. She could still sing, but they put her in the back row. She didn’t like it, but there wasn’t nothing she could do about it. Then she met this fellow.”

“What fellow?”

“I don’t know his name. He’d wait at the stage door for her. Hadn’t nobody waited for her for a long time. We was all pretty surprised.”

“What did he look like?”

She shrugged. “Skinny. Short beard. Nice clothes. Good manners. A real dandy. He owned the house where she went to live.”

“Mr. Walcott?” Sarah asked in surprise.

“That’s him,” Irene said. “You know him?”

“Yes. Are you saying he was a Stage Door Jimmy?”

Irene smiled condescendingly. “That’s Stage Door
Johnny
, and yeah, he was one. He’d wait out there after the show and give her flowers or something. Some of the swells, they give you jewelry or really nice things. Flowers ain’t good for nothing, but they’re nice. And Anna, she liked the attention, ’cause she hadn’t had any in a while, her being so old.”

“How old was she?” Sarah asked in amazement.

“Twenty-five, I think. At least, that’s what she’d admit to.”

Sarah didn’t think that was very old, but since the doorman had deemed her too “long in the tooth” to begin an acting career, she had to assume different standards prevailed in the theater. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. Go on. Mr. Walcott was giving her presents.”

Irene shrugged again. “Then next thing you know, she says she’s going to live with this Walcott. Says he’s got a rooming house where she can live for free, and she won’t have to work no more.”

That sounded suspicious. The Walcotts definitely gave the impression the girls were paying customers. Unless Anna was a special case. “How would she support herself if she didn’t work? Even with a free room?” Sarah asked.

Irene made a face. “We had our ideas. Only one kind of place gives you a free room, but we figured she’d be too old to attract much in that trade either. She said it wasn’t that kind of a house, though. Just laughed when I warned her to be careful.”

“Why were you worried about her?”

Irene gave her a pitying look. “A girl has to be careful. Nobody takes care of you for nothing. I figured this fellow wanted something from her, even if I couldn’t figure out what it was. But she wasn’t worried. She told me she was just gonna do what Francine did and end up rich and living in the country.”

“Who’s Francine?”

“She worked here, too. She found a rich fellow to take care of her, or that’s what she said when she left here. Anna said Mr. Walcott introduced Francine to her gentleman friend and he was gonna do the same for her.”

“What does Francine look like?” Sarah asked, thinking of Catherine Porter.

“Short with red hair. Lots of freckles.”

Not the same person. “Do you know a Catherine Porter?” she asked.

Irene shook her head. “Never heard of her . . . Oh, wait, could that be Katie Porter?”

“I’m sure it could. She’s an actress, too. She has dark hair, very Irish looking.”

“That’s probably her. I haven’t seen her for a while. I thought she’d gone on tour or something. She hasn’t been around.”

“She lives at Mr. Walcott’s house, too,” Sarah offered.

Irene registered surprise. “Does she now? Ain’t that interesting? I guess it really is a brothel, then. Wasn’t Anna surprised?”

“What makes you think it was a brothel?”

“Because of Katie. She never liked being poor. If she couldn’t get work on the stage, she’d find some on her back, if you know what I mean. She never would admit to being a whore, because she only did it now and then, but if you say she was working in that house . . .” She shrugged again, her meaning clear.

Sarah was certain the Walcotts didn’t operate a brothel, but a woman who’d had experience in both acting and prostitution would certainly be an asset if all the women there were doing what Anna Blake was doing. “Has Mr. Walcott taken an interest in any of the other actresses in the theater?”

“Not that I know of. Listen, that’s all I know, and I gotta get back. You said you’d pay me . . .”

Sarah reached into her purse and pulled out five dollars, which was probably what Irene earned here in a week. “Thank you for your help,” she said, slipping the money into Irene’s outstretched hand.

She counted the money and smiled. “Any time.” She stuffed the money down into the bodice of her corset and hurried back to the dressing room without bothering to say good-bye.

Sarah stared after her for a long moment, wondering what, if anything, she had really learned. With a sigh, she made her way back down the corridor to the exit. Maybe, she thought, Malloy had had better luck.

 

The gaslights were lit by the time Sarah reached Bank Street, and she was wishing she’d worn a heavier coat. Her spirits rose instantly when she saw a man sitting on her front step, waiting for her. She needed to see Malloy and find out what he’d learned. But as she got closer, and the man rose to his feet to meet her, she realized it wasn’t Malloy after all.

“Mrs. Brandt,” he said with a pleasant smile, pulling off his hat.

“Mr. Dennis,” Sarah said, making no attempt to hide her amazement, although she did manage not to sound disappointed. She couldn’t help glancing at the Ellsworth house, but no faces stared out of the front windows. Had Mrs. Ellsworth or Nelson seen him sitting here? They would surely wonder about that. Sarah was wondering herself. “What brings you here?”

His smile vanished. “I wish I could tell you I’d come on a social visit, but I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. I wanted to break it to you myself first.”

“What do you mean,
first
?” she asked apprehensively.

“I mean, before you read it in the newspaper.” He glanced up and down the street, as if trying to judge whether or not he would be overheard.

“Why don’t you come inside?” she suggested, instinctively knowing she didn’t want anyone else to overhear his news either.

He followed her up the front steps and waited while she unlocked the front door. When they were inside, she removed her jacket and took his hat. He was looking curiously around her office. “This is very impressive. You have quite a bit of equipment here,” he remarked.

“My husband was a physician,” she reminded him. “This was his office originally. I don’t use a lot of it.”

He looked a little ill at ease. Most people were in the presence of such intimidating furnishings, but Sarah did nothing to reassure him. She didn’t want him to feel comfortable if he was bringing her bad news. She bade him be seated in one of the chairs that sat by the front window, and she took the other.

When they were seated, she said, “You came to tell me something.”

His smile was apologetic. “I wish I could have forgotten. This gives me no pleasure, Mrs. Brandt. I know you are a friend to the Ellsworths, and—”

“What is it?” she snapped, her patience stretched to the breaking point after her long and frustrating day.

He blinked in surprise at her tone, but he said, “I had an auditor check our books.”

“What books?”

“Our bank records,” he explained. “Ordinarily, the bank’s records are checked for accuracy only once a year, but in light of what you told me . . .”

“What did I tell you?” Sarah asked with growing alarm when he hesitated.

“That Nelson Ellsworth was being blackmailed by a woman of ill repute.”

“I didn’t tell you any such thing!” she protested.

He gave her the kind of patronizing look that set her teeth on edge. “You told me that she had demanded money from another man and that he had stolen it from his employer. You also told me this woman had seduced Nelson as well. Mrs. Brandt, I would be foolish indeed—and remiss in my duties—if I didn’t reassure myself that Mr. Ellsworth hadn’t done the same thing that other man did.”

“But Nelson is innocent!”

“Are you saying he didn’t give her money?”

“Well, he did, but—”

“I felt certain he had, and I had to make certain that money didn’t come from the bank,” he said so reasonably she wanted to slap him.

“Nelson would never take anything that didn’t belong to him,” Sarah insisted.

“Your confidence in him is commendable, I’m sure, but the fact is, Mrs. Brandt, that the auditors found money missing.”

“That’s impossible!” Sarah insisted.

“I assure you, it’s very possible. He stole nearly ten thousand dollars.”

 

 

 

W
HEN MALLOY KNOCKED ON HER DOOR, SARAH WAS still sitting in the chair where she’d been when Richard Dennis had left almost an hour earlier. She forced herself to get up and let him in.

As soon as Malloy saw her face, he frowned. “What happened?”

“I did a very stupid thing,” she said, waiting until he’d hung his hat, then leading him back into the kitchen. She didn’t even bother to ask herself why she took him into the kitchen. It just seemed the right place to go.

“Does this have anything to do with Anna Blake’s murder?” he asked as he seated himself at the table. “Or is this stupid thing something in your regular life?”

“Both,” she said, filling the coffeepot with water. “I can’t believe I did this.” The worst part was that she hadn’t mentioned to Malloy that she was going to meet Richard Dennis and ask for his help because she’d been afraid he wouldn’t approve. If only she’d given him a chance to talk her out of it!

She put some kindling into the stove and lit it, then fed in some wood until the fire was going. Only when she felt the heat did she realize how cold she’d become, sitting alone with her guilt as night settled over the city. When she had put the coffee on to boil and had nothing left to do, she forced herself to take the seat opposite Malloy and look him straight in the eye.