Victoria Thompson - Murder On Astor Place

“No,” Sarah said quite honestly. There were no magic potions to cure the mysterious maladies that plagued mankind, no matter what the claims of patent medicines might be. At least Rosie’s ailment could be cured by time.

Will nodded, accepting her word. His young face looked haggard, and for the first time she realized how young he was. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, if that, but his face showed every year of his life, and his eyes gleamed with a wisdom hard-earned. She thought of the boy who had come to fetch her today, and wondered if Will was the kind of man he would grow into, if indeed he lived long enough to grow up. Few did.

Will ran a grubby hand over his weary face. “I don’t know what I’ll do with Dolly if anything happens to that kid. I thought she took it hard when she lost them other ones, but this one… she sets store by this one, Mrs. Brandt.”

From the red rims of Will’s eyes, Sarah suspected he did, too, but she wouldn’t challenge his manhood by asking him to admit it. “I’ll take good care of both of them, Will.”

“I’ll pay you for this time,” Will offered, perhaps afraid she might not give him good service if it was a trade, like before. Or perhaps he was simply afraid of being neglected if she thought he couldn’t afford her fee.

Sarah wasn’t so well-off that she could afford to turn down a fee, but when she recalled the bargain she had made with Will the last time, she wondered if he might not be of use to her again. “You won’t have to pay me anything at all if you can find out some more information about that man I asked you about before.”

“That Fisher swell?”

“That’s the one.”

Will frowned suspiciously. “I heard it won’t be very good for my health if I go messing around with that Mattingly fellow he works for.”

“You won’t have to.”

Will was still suspicious. “Then what do you want to know?”

Sarah thought it over and decided she might as well go for broke. “I’d like to know where to find him.”

Will’s frown deepened. “Why would you wanna know that? You ain’t going after him yourself, are you?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t think of it,” she said, then wondered if that were true. If she knew where Ham Fisher was-the man who had perhaps admitted Alicia’s killer to the Higgins house-would she be patient enough to wait for Malloy? That was a question she couldn’t answer until she knew. “I just need to know where he is, Will. And when I do, a friend of mine wants to talk to him. A male friend,” she added, in case he was still worried.

Will was still worried. “I owe you, Mrs. Brandt, so I’ll do what I can, but I can’t make no promises. It’s a big city, and there’s a thousand places a fellow like that can hide if he don’t want to be found.”

Sarah smiled at Will Yardley. “I know you’ll do your best, Will.”

IT WAS THE end of a very long, very hot day when Frank climbed the stairs to his flat. The smell of cooking cabbage hung heavily in the stifling air of the littered stair-well, along with other, even less savory aromas. Too many people living too close together. He could hear the sounds of the McMullins arguing, her screeching and him booming in response. The words were indistinguishable, but Frank knew he wouldn’t understand the fight even if he could understand the words. There’d be some crashing of pots and pans and then silence for a long time afterward. That’s how it always went. Nothing much changed in this building, even when he was gone for days at a time, which he mostly was.

When he reached the door to his flat on the second floor, he tried the knob before hunting for his key. As he’d suspected, it turned under his hand. How many times had he told his mother to keep the door locked? Maybe she wanted somebody to break in and murder her.

She’d probably reason that at least he’d have to pay attention to her then, if for no other reason than to investigate the crime.

She was in the front room in front of the open window to catch what breeze there was when he walked in, rocking and sewing by the light of the gas jet. She looked up from her mending when the door opened. Her expression was all phony surprise.

“Well, now, sir, and what might you be wanting? If you’re selling something, I’m just a poor old woman with no money to spend on fripperies, mind you, so you might as well be on your way.”

“Ma,” he said in warning, but it didn’t faze her.

“And if you’ve come here for no good, let me warn you, I’ve got a son who’s a police detective, and he’ll hunt you down like a dog. I hear he’s pretty good at his job, although I wouldn’t know for myself, since I hardly ever get to see him.”

“Enough, Ma.” Frank stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Frances?” she cried in feigned surprise. “Is it you? I swear, it’s been so long, I’ve forgot what you look like.”

He could have argued that he’d been here just last Thursday, but of course, that was five days ago now, and she’d hardly consider that a recent visit. Technically, he lived here, but he spent far more time in the police dormitory and elsewhere. His mother was part of the reason why, if only part.

“Do you have anything to eat?” he asked, hanging his hat on a peg by the door and shrugging out of his suit coat. At least he didn’t have to stand on formality here. It was one of the few advantages of coming home.

“Of course I have something to eat. My son, the big fancy police detective, he brings me money every week. I go to Mass every morning to thank the Blessed Virgin that I have such a generous son.”

Briefly, Frank considered performing that murder he had been thinking about earlier himself. Unfortunately, he needed the old woman too much. “Would it be too much trouble for you to fix me something?” he asked instead, managing to keep his voice even, mainly because he was too tired for an argument. “I haven’t eaten since morning.”

As he’d suspected, her motherly instincts overcame her need to make him feel guilty. Something about a hungry child, no matter what his age, was a temptation no woman could resist. She laid her mending aside and rose instantly. “You get washed up. It’ll only take a minute. I’ve got a stew I just made today, your favorite. I put carrots in it, just the way you like.”

Frank washed up at the kitchen sink and dried his hands and face on an immaculate towel. Everything in the apartment was immaculate, in fact. The floors were spotless, the furniture polished and shining, even the windows shone. Frank almost felt like he was contaminating the place by his presence. Another reason to stay away.

As if he needed one.

Sitting down at the scrubbed table, Frank remembered the meal he’d eaten with Sarah Brandt. Although her cooking wasn’t up to his mother’s standards, she’d been a lot better company. Or maybe that was just because they’d only been talking about his work. Frank always felt comfortable when he was talking about his work. His mother, of course, never wanted to hear about what he did. What he did frightened her, and besides, she had her own world. And her own concerns. Frank was sometimes one of them.

She worked in silence, heating the stew. The rich aroma made his stomach clench painfully, and he tried to remember why he hadn’t stopped for lunch today. A stool pigeon had kept him busy most of the afternoon, a little weasel of a man who claimed to know who had robbed that big warehouse on the docks. If Frank could solve that case, he’d be able to add a reward of several hundred dollars to his savings. A promotion to Captain cost $14,000, or at least it used to, before Roosevelt and his reformers took over. But the reformers wouldn’t last. Someday soon things would be just the way they used to be, and Frank would need that $14,000. He still had a long way to go.