Victoria Thompson: Murder On Astor Place

“About what?”

Now Frank was sure she was one of those suffragettes. Imagine questioning an officer of the law. “A young girl was murdered here last night.”

“I know that,” Mrs. Brandt assured him impatiently. “That’s why I need to see my patient, to make sure she’s all right. A shock like this can sometimes cause problems.”

Yeah, well, we all have our own problems, don’t we? he thought, and Sarah Brandt was going to be his. Ordinarily, Frank knew exactly how to handle a reluctant witness-a little shake, a slap or a punch, then the nightstick if all else failed-but he didn’t think the usual methods would work on Sarah Brandt, as tempted as he might be to try them. He certainly couldn’t be blamed for wanting to, even if he didn’t dare raise a hand to a respectable female, and no one would fault him for being short with her. “Your patient will wait a few minutes while you answer my questions.”

She widened her eyes at his tone-out of amazement, not fright, he couldn’t help noticing with annoyance-but at least she went into the parlor when he indicated she should, leaving her black bag in the hall. She wasn’t happy about it, though. She made him understand that without saying a single word.

Maybe he ought to try a different tack with her, much as it might gall him to do so. Butting his head against a wall would just give him a headache.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Brandt,” he said, trying to muster up some civility. He hadn’t used it in a long time and was very much afraid he’d lost the knack.

Apparently he had, because Mrs. Brandt didn’t sit down. “I don’t know what you think I can tell you.”

“I don’t either, so why don’t we find out?” Frank said without even grinding his teeth. He was amazing himself with his patience. “Did you know the dead girl?”

“No.”

This was going to be even harder than he’d thought.

Frank closed his eyes, summoning up more patience, and tried again. “Did you know anything about the dead girl? Her name was…” He consulted his notes. “Alice Smith.”

Sarah Brandt sighed with obvious exasperation. “I only saw her once in my life, the night before last when I was here to deliver Mrs. Higgins’s baby. She came into the room for a moment and…”

“What is it?” Frank prodded when she hesitated. Plainly, she knew more than she was telling. Perhaps she even knew more than she realized.

“Nothing. I was mistaken.”

Frank figured Sarah Brandt was hardly ever mistaken about anything.

“Come on, Mrs. Brandt. A girl has been murdered. Anything you can tell me will help catch her killer. You don’t want a killer running loose, do you? A woman like you who makes her living traveling around the city, going to strange places-”

She sighed again to let him know how put-upon she felt. “I thought she looked like someone I used to know,” she admitted. “An old friend.”

“An old friend here in the city?”

She nodded grudgingly.

“Could she have actually been who you thought she was?”

“No. She resembled an old schoolmate of mine, a woman my own age, so I know this girl couldn’t have been the same person.”

“What part of the city are you from, Mrs. Brandt?”

“Right here in Greenwich Village.”

Frank looked her over again in the better light of the parlor windows. She stiffened at his effrontery. She probably figured he was sizing up her figure, which was even better than he’d originally thought, but actually, he was sizing up her clothes. Just as he’d thought, they were quality, although she’d been wearing them for a long time. “You came from money, didn’t you?”

“I don’t think my background is any of your business, Detective Sergeant Malloy,” she said coldly.

Oh, yes, she came from money, all right. Only a rich person knew how to use that tone to put an underling in his place. But Frank wasn’t her underling, not in this situation. “At the moment, everything is my business, Mrs. Brandt. And for your information, the dead girl came from money, too.”

“How can you know that?”

“The same way I can tell about you, her clothes.”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs distracted them both, and Frank looked toward the open parlor door to see the orderlies carrying the sheet-covered body out on a stretcher. He heard Sarah Brandt’s gasp and smiled at his good fortune. Nothing like a little shock to soften up a reluctant witness. He waited until they had carried the body out of the house. The bloom had noticeably faded from Sarah Brandt’s smooth cheeks.

By then Frank had decided he would use Sarah Brandt a little, and possibly get back at her in the bargain. “Maybe you’d help me out by going up to her room and looking around. Since Mrs. Higgins is, uh, indisposed, I mean. See if anything looks out of place, and give me your opinion of her things. Maybe I’m wrong about her background after all.”

He’d figured Sarah Brandt would jump at the chance to prove him wrong about anything, but her natural reserve was apparently stronger than her need to prevail. “I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what? Snoop through her things? Make judgments about her? Mrs. Brandt, when a person is murdered, they don’t have a right to privacy anymore. Or maybe you’d rather I took you down to the station house to finish questioning you,” he added, forgetting his plan to be civil.

“Why?” she challenged, anger flashing in those marvelous eyes of hers. “So you can beat me into confessing to her murder? That would save you a lot of time, wouldn’t it? Then you wouldn’t even have to conduct an investigation.”

Frank felt a flash of anger himself. How dare she judge him like that? How dare she assume he was something he wasn’t? Understanding instinctively, however, that any attempt to defend himself would only make her more certain she was right about him-and consequently make her more obstinate-he somehow managed to swallow his own fury and sound reasonable again. “No, so I can get you to tell me what you know about this girl. What you may not even realize that you know about her,” he amended quickly when she would have protested.

“I really need to see Mrs. Higgins,” she insisted.

“As soon as we’re finished in the girl’s room. And just to put your mind at ease, I’m pretty sure you didn’t kill Alice Smith, so I won’t bother trying to beat a confession out of you,” he added.

She didn’t smile.

“You want me to catch the killer, don’t you?” he tried.

Plainly, it galled her to admit it. “All right, I’ll give you a few minutes, but then I must see Mrs. Higgins.”

“Sure,” Frank agreed amiably. A few minutes was probably all he’d be able to stand of Mrs. High-and-Mighty anyway. “Her room’s upstairs, on the right.”

She didn’t wait for a second invitation. He watched her go, wondering how a woman could convey so many opinions without uttering a word. Well, if she could give him any information at all, he would forgive her just about anything.

Frank followed her up the stairs, resisting with difficulty the temptation to fall far enough behind to possibly catch a glimpse of her ankles beneath her swishing skirt. He already knew way too much about Sarah Brandt’s figure for his own peace of mind.

Sarah couldn’t believe she was doing this. Going into a dead girl’s bedroom to give the police information about her. And what could she possibly tell them? Besides being able to look at the girl’s clothes and know if they were expensive or not. And what would that prove? Countless young women from good families found themselves suddenly penniless every day because the man who provided for them-be he husband or father-died or otherwise abandoned them. If this girl still had a family or any means of providing for herself, she would not have taken a room at the Higgins’s house.