Murder on Washington Square (36 page)

“Yes,” she said, glad they were back to their normal bantering again. Perhaps she really had only imagined that awkward moment. She
was
awfully tired. “And you won’t scare me off by shouting and clapping your hands, either.”

“In that case, I’ll just tell you the truth. I’m not going to do anything with Mrs. Giddings.”

“You can’t mean that!”

“She confessed to a murder,” he reminded her, “and now that she’s locked up, they aren’t going to let her go even if I tell them I don’t think she did it after all, which I’m not going to do, because I still think she probably did. Now get some rest. When you wake up, you’ll probably realize I’m right, and you’ll have to apologize for disagreeing with me.”

“Ha!” she replied, making him grin again, but this one was merely cocksure and not the least bit vulnerable or boyish.

“Good day, Mrs. Brandt,” he said and then he was gone, setting his hat on his head as he strode quickly out of her backyard.

She closed the door behind him and locked it, suddenly feeling the extent of her exhaustion. No wonder she was having romantic notions about Malloy. She was probably delirious with fatigue.

A few minutes later, she had stripped off most of her clothes, washed, and collapsed onto her bed. The next thing she knew, she was face to face with a vicious dog that was growling and barking, and no matter how loudly she shouted or how many times she clapped her hands, he wouldn’t run away. He just kept pawing at the cellar door, trying to get inside. Sarah knew he shouldn’t get in, but she didn’t know how to stop him. She needed a bone. If she just had a bone to throw to him, he’d go away. But she couldn’t find one, not anywhere. And then it didn’t matter because the cellar door was opening. Someone was pushing it up from the inside, and the dog was howling and barking and prancing all around, but Sarah was afraid. She didn’t want whoever was down there to come out. She wanted to push the door shut again, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t move one muscle. All she could do was watch helplessly as the door fell open and Anna Blake stepped out.

She was dead, of course. Sarah could see the blood-stains on her dress, and her face was white, her eyes blank and staring. She was dead and coming out of the cellar, and the dog was going to get her. Sarah opened her mouth to cry out a warning, and the sound of her own voice woke her with a start.

She looked around, surprised to find herself in her own bed, in her own bedroom, gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat, but completely alone. No dog. No dead Anna Blake. From the angle of the sunlight creeping in around the window shades, she guessed it was afternoon. Except for the aftereffects of her nightmare, she did feel much better. So much better, in fact, that she was positive the murder of Anna Blake had not yet been solved, no matter what Malloy thought.

The only problem was that she had to convince Malloy of it, too, because if she didn’t, an innocent woman was going to be electrocuted and a killer would go free.

 

The City Jail had earned its nickname of “The Tombs” by being the purest example of Neo-Egyptian architecture in the country. Its massive granite structure took up an entire block on Leonard Street between Franklin and Centre, and it housed both male and female adult prisoners, as well as boys who had run afoul of the law. Sarah had certainly never expected to find herself in such a place, but then, since meeting Frank Malloy, she’d done many unusual things.

Inside, the building was immaculate, far different from the interrogation rooms she’d seen at Police Headquarters. In spite of its spotless appearance, however, the place was redolent of the stench of the sewer, having been built on the marshy ground of the old Collection Pond. Its dampness permeated the entire building.

Sarah had to endure a cursory search of her purse and her person before being admitted to the women’s section of the jail. Once in the cell block, she was surprised to find the prisoners sitting not in their cells but out in the open hallway that ran between them. The women were engaged in various pursuits, some sewing or knitting or doing other handwork, others just gossiping, and one was even reading what appeared to be a Bible. Except for the surroundings, they might have been women gathered in a public place in any city or town. They all looked up with interest when Sarah came in, perhaps hoping she was a friend or relation who had come to visit them.

Even when they’d satisfied their curiosity and realized she was a stranger to them, they still continued to stare. Probably any visitor at all was a novelty.

“Who’re you here to see, miss?” the matron asked her. She was a large, coarse-looking woman, but her eyes were kind. Or at least courteous.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Giddings,” Sarah said, hoping she wouldn’t have to confess she’d never even set eyes on the woman before, which was why she needed assistance.

“Oh, she’s still in her cell, miss. Won’t come out with the others. Just lays on her bunk. She hasn’t eat nothing, either. Most of ’em are like that at first, not eating and hiding in their cells, but she’s worse than usual. It’ll be good for her to see a familiar face. Maybe you can cheer her up some.”

Sarah certainly wasn’t a familiar face, and she didn’t know if she could cheer the woman up or not, but she was certainly willing to try. “Which cell is hers?”

The cells were little more than small caves carved out of the granite walls. Only five by nine feet, the room was illuminated by what little sunlight stole in through a small slit cut high in the wall. The barred door was forbidding, but it hung open, as did the doors to all the cells. Unsure of the etiquette of jail visits and seeing no place to knock, Sarah stepped just inside the doorway and said, “Mrs. Giddings?”

The figure huddled on the narrow bed stirred a bit, and a pale face appeared from beneath the folds of the blanket. “Who are you?” she asked dully. Fortunately, the matron had stepped away and didn’t hear this question.

“I’m Sarah Brandt. You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Nelson Ellsworth’s.”

“Who’s Nelson Ellsworth?” she asked without much interest.

“He’s the man who was originally suspected of killing Anna Blake. She was blackmailing him, too.”

“Oh. That banker. In the newspapers.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve been trying to help find the real killer so he could clear his name.”

Sarah couldn’t make out Mrs. Giddings’s expression in the dim light, but she didn’t seem very impressed. “Did you come here just to look at me then?” she asked bitterly.

“No,” Sarah said. “I came here to find out if you really killed Anna Blake.”

This finally got her full attention. She pushed herself up on one elbow. Her hair was disheveled and falling out of its pins, and her eyes were bloodshot and sunken. “Who sent you here?”

“No one sent me,” Sarah said. “I came to see you because I want to make sure you’re really guilty.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would I say so if I didn’t do it?” she asked.

Sarah didn’t want to answer that question herself. Instead, she said, “Did you know that Mr. Malloy did not believe your son killed her?”

“What?” She pushed herself up to a sitting position and brushed the strands of hair out of her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m also a friend of Mr. Malloy, the police detective who arrested you. He told me he realized after questioning the boy that he hadn’t killed her. And then you confessed.”

Mrs. Giddings rubbed her eyes as if trying to clear her vision. “He was going to arrest Harold. I could see that.”

“No, he wasn’t. He knew the boy was innocent.”

“Since when does that stop the police from arresting someone?” she asked angrily. “I know what they do to people. They beat them until they confess, guilty or not.”

“Mr. Malloy doesn’t arrest innocent people,” Sarah said. “And he wasn’t going to arrest your son, even if you hadn’t confessed.”

“But he was asking him all those questions!” she argued.

“To find out if he could have done it. Mr. Malloy also suspected that you confessed to protect your son.”

“Of course I did! I couldn’t let him put Harold in a place like this, could I? He’s just a boy!”

Plainly, Mrs. Giddings was on the verge of a nervous collapse, and Sarah didn’t want to push her too far, but she had to learn the truth. “I know you confessed, but did you really kill Anna Blake?”

“What kind of a question is that? Are you trying to trick me?”

“Not at all,” Sarah assured her. “I just want to make sure we have the right person in jail. Because if you didn’t kill her, the real killer is still walking free.”

“Where’s Harold?” she asked, suspicious again.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he in jail, too?”

“Of course not. I told you, Mr. Malloy doesn’t arrest innocent people.” She wasn’t going to find out what she needed to know this way. She decided to try a different tactic. “Mrs. Giddings, how long did you wait outside of Anna Blake’s house before she came out that night?”

Mrs. Giddings stared at her for a long moment, either formulating her answer or trying to decide whether to reply or not. At last she said, “Not very long. I was just waiting for Harold to get well away. I didn’t want him to see me and know I’d followed him there. Then I saw her come out.”

“How did you know it was she?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, had you met Miss Blake before?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then how did you know the woman who came out of the house was Anna Blake?” Sarah pressed.

“I . . . Who else could it have been?” she countered defensively.

Sarah decided not to answer that question. “Why had you carried a knife with you?”

“I . . . I thought I might need it.”

“Then you’d
planned
to stab Anna Blake?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” she said almost eagerly. “I was planning to kill her, so I took the knife with me.”

“What kind of a knife was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what kind of a knife was it? Where did you get it? How big was it? Where did you carry it? When did you pull it out? Did you stop Anna Blake and try to talk to her first? Did you tell her who you were? Did you ask her to leave your husband alone? Did you beg her to give back the money she’d taken from him?”

“Stop it! Stop!” she cried, covering her ears.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Giddings? Don’t you know the answers to those questions? The real killer would!”

“I do! I do! I just can’t think!”

“Then take some time to think. Where were you when you stabbed Anna Blake?”

She looked up, suddenly confident. “Under the hanging tree in Washington Square, just where they found her.”

“Why didn’t anyone notice you stabbing another woman to death in broad daylight?”

“I . . . No one was around. We were alone there, under the tree. She laughed and said she’d never give my husband up. I couldn’t help myself. I stabbed her.”

“And she fell down dead?” Sarah asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Right where they found her.”

“What did you do with the knife?”

“I don’t know, I . . . I dropped it, I think. Yes, that’s right. I dropped it somewhere. I don’t remember where.”

Sarah was aware that some of the women had begun to gather outside Mrs. Giddings’s cell to listen to this curious exchange. She only hoped the matron wouldn’t come over and order her out for upsetting a prisoner or something. She took a step closer to where the woman sat on the bunk.

“Mrs. Giddings,” she said, keeping her voice calm and sure, “I don’t believe you killed Anna Blake.”

“Yes, I did! I swear it! I told that policeman. He believed me!”

“No, he didn’t, not really,” she lied. “And now I know you didn’t. Anna didn’t die the way you described, but you didn’t know that because you weren’t there. All you knew was what you read in the newspapers, but they didn’t know what really happened either. Only the real killer knows.”

“I know! I do! Just give me a chance to remember!” she tried, desperate to make Sarah believe her.

“Mrs. Giddings, you don’t have to protect your son. We know he didn’t kill Anna Blake. And your husband was in jail that night, so he couldn’t have killed her either. There’s no reason for you to pretend you did it anymore, and if you insist on doing so, you’ll only be protecting the real murderer.”

“I wanted her to die,” the woman said hysterically. “I wanted her to suffer the way I suffered!”

A murmur of approval went through the crowd of women gathered outside the cell, but Sarah didn’t acknowledge them. “Of course you did. But your son needs you, Mrs. Giddings. You won’t help him by letting yourself be executed for a murder you didn’t commit.”

“I couldn’t let them take him to jail!” she said, her voice breaking. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

“Yes, it does!” Sarah said, going to her. She sat down on the edge of the bunk and took the sobbing woman in her arms. “Harold needs you. That’s why you must tell the truth and save yourself.”

The matron had finally taken notice of the gathering crowd and come to see what the disturbance was. Afraid the woman would order her out, Sarah looked her straight in the eye with all the authority her parents had trained her to use on unruly servants and said, “Mrs. Giddings is going to be just fine now. Do you think she could have a cup of tea and something light to eat?”

It worked. The matron broke up the gawking crowd and sent someone for the tea. Sarah kept comforting Mrs. Giddings until the woman was finally able to talk again. Then she poured out her story of anger and humiliation at having her life ruined by a cheap, lying strumpet. Then, just when she’d thought nothing could be worse, Malloy had come to her house and accused her son of killing that woman! She’d only done what any mother would have to protect her child.

“You were right. I didn’t kill her,” she said when she’d unburdened herself. “Does this mean I can go home now?”