Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (19 page)

“Roland?” The thought evidently had never occurred to Freddie before.

“Yes, Roland is the lady’s man in the family and he might very well have been seeing Nora on the sly. Given his general lack of self-discipline, I could easily envision a lover’s quarrel turning into something more ugly if he couldn’t control his temper.
 
Remember that Serafina saw Nora’s ghost standing behind Roland’s chair, not Martin’s.”

“Serafina!” Freddie snorted. “So now we’re relying on spectral evidence to prove a case?”

“No, Freddie, we’re relying on common sense. Martin is rich. Roland is not. Of the two, Martin is the obvious target for a blackmailer. Both men bear the Allworthy surname, and I think Martin would do anything to protect his family honor, no matter what he might think privately of his nephew’s character.”

Freddie nodded in assent. “I guess you’re right about that.”

Evangeline continued in her line of reasoning. “Whatever the case may be, one fact of which we can be sure is that Bayne was there to see something, in fact has some material evidence, that he’s using to blackmail Martin.”

“Do you suppose Martin killed Euphemia because she wanted him to get rid of Bayne?”

“I don’t think so.” Evangeline shook her head. “It seems logical to conclude that whoever killed Nora also killed Euphemia to cover up the first crime. It’s only the first murder that’s hard. It seems to get easier after that, or so I’ve heard. If we’re assuming Roland was vicious enough to kill Nora, he wouldn’t stick at killing his aunt either. I discovered that Roland was not in his aunt’s good graces just prior to her death. Maybe he feared she had uncovered something about Nora’s accident that pointed to him as the murderer. Remember, he’s also the one who served her the poisoned wine and there was no way Martin could have known ahead of time which glass Euphemia would drink from since he was out of the house when it happened. No, it’s too far-fetched to think Martin did this, but he does seem to be implicated as well. I can’t be sure if he actually knows that Roland killed his wife or only suspects he did. But he seems to be moving heaven and earth to cover it up and—”

“And pin the crime on Serafina with false evidence.” Freddie completed her thought. “It doesn’t look good for her.”

Evangeline tapped her chin, deep in thought. “Freddie, do you have any time to spare for detective work?”

“Now that you’re finally willing to help, I’ll make the time! With the strike winding down, I ought to be able to slip away to do some investigating.”

“You know where the mysterious Mr. Bayne lives, don’t you?”

“I should say!” The young man laughed ruefully. “I spent so many nights leaning against a lamp post across from his flat that it probably still has the imprint of my shoulder on it.”

The lady sighed with all the appearance of profound regret. “Well, for the third time today, Frederick Ulysses Simpson, I am forced to acknowledge that you are right.”

“How’s that?” Freddie sounded suspicious.

“Yes, yes, even now I see the brilliance of your plan. We get possession of whatever Bayne is using to blackmail Martin with. It may give us evidence to prove that Nora was actually murdered, and with that we can establish a motive for Euphemia’s death as well.”

“Why, uh, yes.” Freddie puffed out his chest importantly. “That’s what I meant all along.”

“Then I certainly wish you the best of luck and look forward to an account of your daring exploit with the greatest anticipation!”

“Exploit?” Freddie found it difficult to maintain the pretense that he had any idea what she was talking about.

“Yes, of course. I could scarcely call it anything less when you intend to break into his flat tomorrow and search for evidence.”

“I’m going to do what?”

Evangeline laughed demurely. “Oh, Freddie, you needn’t turn modest all of a sudden and fail to own up to such an ingenious idea. And you’re right, of course. It’s the only way we’ll ever get possession of the evidence we need. Well done!” She had begun to edge in the direction of the print-room doors.

Freddie trailed, bleating, “But... but... how... when...?”

They stood in the corridor near the front doors of the Gazette building. Evangeline flashed a disarming smile as she consulted her watch. “Oh my goodness! Is it that late already? Must be going. Best of luck.” She whisked through the front door, leaving Freddie to ponder the notion that being acknowledged right wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Chapter 17—A Break In The Case

Once Freddie got over his pique at having walked into yet another one of Evangeline’s verbal snares, he decided that her strategy might have some merit. After all, he felt a personal desire to get even with Bayne. Not just with Bayne, but with his whole cursed apartment building.

During all those nights of fruitless vigilance, Freddie had felt that the structure itself was mocking him. There it stood, solid and black against the night sky—yielding no light, revealing no clues, and thwarting Freddie’s every attempt to pry out its secrets. Well, he would find out something incriminating even if he had to break in to do it! Breaking in. Ah, there was the rub. He had no idea how to go about it.

He recalled all the penny dreadfuls he’d read as a feckless youth about daring thieves who never got pinched
^[1]
and sent to the cooler
^[2]
for so much as forking a super.
^[3]
But none of their clever plans quite applied to his situation. With his luck, he’d get pulled by a leatherhead
^[4]
and black-gowned
^[5]
in five minutes flat. A master cracksman
^[6]
he was not, though knowing one at this particular juncture might have come in handy.

He had a sneaking suspicion that Bill Mason might have been able to point him in the direction of someone who could supply him with a set of skeleton keys. He even suspected that Bill owned a set outright, but he was afraid to ask him. Afraid to ask anybody in the newsroom for fear of arousing suspicion. Alas! No skeleton key, no bar-key
^[7]
, not even a lowly widdy
^[8]
to aid him in his endeavors! He had to think of another alternative.

Tuesday afternoon, no nearer a viable strategy, he took the
Dearborn
streetcar north and got off a block away from Bayne’s residence. The shady rascal had rented a flat in one of the posh tree-lined side streets that intersected the busy thoroughfare. Freddie whistled casually as he walked up Bayne’s block. He wished to appear as an idle fellow out for an afternoon stroll. The last thing he wanted anyone to notice was that he had a purpose and a destination in mind. He tipped his hat gallantly to two young ladies coming toward him from the opposite direction. After they passed, he snuck a furtive glance to either side of the street to ensure that no one else was about.

With his heart hammering, he stopped before Bayne’s apartment building. It was a three-flat graystone, though the city soot had stained the façade to a charcoal-black. Curved stone bays looked out over the street. Each floor was identical from the exterior, and presumably each was a separate apartment. He knew Bayne lived on the second floor because he had once seen him enter the building after dark and had then seen his face illuminated inside a second-story window after the fellow had turned up the gas jets.

Now, as he stood looking up at the darkened window, Freddie realized with a start that someone might be standing just out of sight, looking down at him. He hoped not! Evangeline told him Bayne had gone to the country house to stay with Martin in his time of need. Time of need certainly described it! The two blackguards needed to present a united front in case the sheriff came back to ask more questions.

Freddie took a deep breath and ascended the front stairs to the main entrance. He was presented with a thick oak door with a beveled glass panel in the middle. When he tried the doorknob, he realized the sturdy wooden portal was protected by an even sturdier metal deadbolt lock. It was his worst fear. “Rats!” he cursed under his breath, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone happened to notice him jiggling the doorknob. The street was still quiet, though he feared that someone might be watching him from one of the windows across the street. “Oh knock it off!” he told himself sternly. “This is no time to worry about getting bagged!”
^[9]

Whistling nonchalantly, hands in his pockets, he strolled back down the stairs and toward the opposite end of the block—trying to buy himself some time while he thought of a plan. The locked outer door was certainly to be expected, but Freddie had been hoping that someone might have forgotten to secure it. He’d had visions of the door opening to his touch as the
Red Sea
parted before Moses. Alas, the days of miracles were long since past! He’d have to work for his victory.

He thought about cutting a hole in the glass and tripping the lock from inside. For this he would need a glass cutter which fell into the same category as a widdy—unquestionably desirable but momentarily unobtainable. He then contemplated finding a locksmith somewhere in the neighborhood. Perhaps he could concoct some story that he lived in the flat and had accidentally misplaced his keys. Unfortunately, the locksmith might actually ask him for proof that he lived there. Another brilliant plan gone by the wayside!

By this time, Freddie had turned the corner and stood before the alley that ran behind Bayne’s block. On an impulse he decided to see whether the back door presented quite as much of a dilemma as the front. He threaded his way through heaps of garbage piled up along the sides of the alley, disturbing swarms of flies as he went. From the size of the hills of trash, he judged that garbage day was tomorrow. A grayish-brown rat the size of a small rabbit scurried over the top of a mound of rotting potato peelings but, seeing Freddie, it slipped out of sight. The young man ruefully looked at his recently polished boots and did his best to step fastidiously around the horse dung scattered down the center of his path.

He picked his way through the rubble for another half block until he judged himself to be directly behind Bayne’s building. He stealthily opened the wooden gate that separated the small patch of yard from the alley. A narrow concrete walk led from the gate to the rear of the house. He studied the exterior for a moment. Each back door opened onto a wooden porch that ran the width of the building. These porches were criss-crossed by flights of stairs that led from the ground up to the third story. There were no gates to prevent someone from climbing from one apartment level to the next.

Glancing hastily around him to ensure he still hadn’t been noticed, Freddie crossed the gangway and ascended to the second floor porch. He didn’t observe any activity coming from the apartment on the first floor, so he hoped no one was home. A few of the stairs creaked under his weight, cautioning him to move on tip-toe after that. Before he reached the top of the stairs on Bayne’s landing, he paused to listen for signs of activity within the apartment. He heard nothing but the distant clang of the trolley and the monotonous clop of horses’ hooves coming from
Dearborn Street
. So far, so good.

The back entrance was covered by a screen door. Freddie cautiously pulled the handle and the door swung open. Elated, he tried turning the knob of the back door itself. The knob turned but the door refused to budge. It was locked.

“Double rats!” Freddie swore to himself. He was quickly running out of ideas and didn’t know how long his skulking would remain unnoticed. He looked up and down the porch for any other means of entry.

Next to the door was a window looking into the kitchen. Freddie tried to peer inside through the lace curtains but could see little except for the prominent latch in the middle of the window frame, which appeared to be fastened securely. Sighing, he moved a little farther down the porch until he came to a much narrower window. He presumed this might lead into the pantry. With awe and wonderment, he saw that the window lock had been left open.

Pressing the tips of his fingers against the top of the frame, he raised it enough to slip his hands under the bottom of the window and hoist it up. Once again, he looked over his shoulder, at the houses across the alley, at the houses on either side. No signs of movement yet. He tried to squeeze noiselessly through the window, but a six-foot-tall body wriggling through an aperture no more than two feet wide is a mathematical absurdity. Such a feat cannot be accomplished gracefully without great personal cost. He landed on his ear with a thud, banging the window with his foot as he fell through. His hat rolled across the pantry floor. “Owww!” he moaned and sat up, rubbing his ear, then his shoulder, and finally his ankle.

After the momentary pain subsided, he realized he’d done it! He’d actually done it! He was inside. He stood up and slid the window closed behind him so nothing should look different from the outside. He paused and listened again. Still quiet. No vibrations from the floor below to suggest that someone had heard him and become suspicious of what was going on upstairs.

Stealthily, he moved into the kitchen. The curtains were drawn and the room was in shadow. The first sensation that hit him was the smell of stale tobacco and unwashed linen. He wondered how long the windows had been shut but he was afraid to open them for fear of attracting attention. The kitchen was equipped with plates and cutlery and cooking utensils, although none of them seemed to have been used. Freddie looked through all the cupboards. The icebox had no ice in it, and no food either. Bayne must be taking his meals elsewhere. He didn’t seem like the sort of fellow who would have had the presence of mind to fit out a kitchen, so Freddie inferred the apartment had been rented furnished.

He moved on into the dining room. A lace table cloth graced the mahogany table, but given the room’s current state, Freddie didn’t think Bayne would be likely to entertain. Crumpled laundry was strewn about helter-skelter—shirts, undergarments, collars, cuffs, and socks, seemingly abandoned in the spot where Bayne had removed them.

Other than the abundance of discarded clothing, Freddie could find nothing personal or unique. No newspapers, no scribbled notes, no mementos or trinkets to indicate the character of the man who lived there. The only fact I can glean from this, Freddie thought, is that he doesn’t know the whereabouts of the nearest laundry!

The young detective looked into the bedroom next. The bed was unmade, though how recently its occupant had departed would have been impossible to determine, since the bed was probably always left unmade. Freddie opened the cedar closet. Here he found new suits displaying the label of one of the city’s most expensive tailors. A few bureau drawers contained new linen; the others were empty.

“Stranger and stranger,” Freddie murmured as he went into the living room. He found a few more articles of clothing strewn across the floor, ashtrays bearing the remains of burned-out cigars, a partially empty whiskey bottle on the floor near an armchair, and another empty one rolled on its side in the corner. He laughed to himself when he saw a bookcase with a set of volumes whose gold-lettered spines pronounced themselves be
A Collection Of The World’s Greatest Literature
. The pages looked untouched by human hands. He was equally amused to see that the piano in the window bay had a half inch of dust on the keys.

No doubt remained in his mind that the decorating and furnishings had been provided by the landlord. Even the Currier and Ives prints on the wall hardly seemed to suit the tenant’s taste. The only picture that might remotely have appealed to a man like Bayne was a cheap print of Boticelli’s Venus hanging on the wall by the armchair. It somehow didn’t fit the rest of the room.

“Triple rats!” Freddie cursed. He had found nothing even remotely suspicious except for Bayne’s penchant for collecting dirty clothing. He went back through the apartment room by room, searching every drawer, every cupboard, every nook, and every cranny. At each turn, he found objects so impersonal that they could only have come with the flat.

Freddie paced around and around the living room. He no longer cared how much noise he was making! Damn the neighbors and damn Desmond Bayne!
 
He rubbed his head as he paced, lost in thought.

Unfortunately, he failed to look where he was pacing and his feet became entangled in one of Bayne’s discarded shirts. “Raaaaats!” Freddie flailed about, struggling to free his feet. He lost his balance and fell backward. His shoulders hit the wall with a thud as he sank to the floor, too despondent to move. He thought his misery complete until Venus, awakened by the vibration, descended from on high and clipped Freddie squarely above the right eye before rattling down onto the carpet. An agonized “Ye Gods!” and several other less appropriate words escaped the young man’s lips as he kicked at the picture. Utterly defeated, he sat back to rub his head and nurse his grievances against a perverse destiny.

When at last he reopened his eyes, still cursing fate, Desmond Bayne, his dirty laundry, and his vile taste in art, something caught Freddie’s attention. Venus had fallen on her face, revealing a secret. Fastened to her back was a bright metal object that gleamed in the rays of the afternoon sun.

Freddie picked up the picture. The wooden frame had a brown cardboard backing that was held in place by nails. A key had been attached to one corner of the frame with a bent nail. His excitement growing, Freddie pried the key loose. It was flat and had a code stamped into it. GNB 103. He knew what it was! He had one almost like it. It was a safety deposit box key! There was only one downtown bank with those initials—the Great Northern.