Victoria Thompson: Murder on Washington Square

Malloy nodded. “We’d better go down the alley then. We can go into your house. They won’t expect to find him there.”

Sarah led the two men into her small rear garden. The flowers were all dead now, but the remaining greenery gave an air of sanctuary to the place. Sarah glanced over the fence to the Ellsworths’ house, hoping Mrs. Ellsworth might be looking out and see them, but all the curtains were tightly drawn. The trio made their way up to her back door. Once inside, she helped Malloy seat Nelson at her kitchen table, then hurried to the front room of the house to peek out at the street. Just as she’d suspected, several men stood on the sidewalk in front of the Ellsworth house, waiting and talking among themselves. At least Mrs. Ellsworth had managed to hold them at bay while Sarah was gone. The poor woman must be nearly frantic by now.

She turned to find Malloy had followed her. “I’ve got to go over and tell Mrs. Ellsworth that Nelson is here and safe.”

“You can’t go over there. Those reporters will eat you alive.”

Sarah couldn’t help but smile at the image. “I managed to get through a whole crowd of them on Mulberry Street,” she reminded him.

“They didn’t know who you were.”

“Well, I’ve got to tell Mrs. Ellsworth everything is all right, and I don’t want to go sneaking around the back. If those reporters see me, they’ll surround the place, and we’ll never get Nelson out of here. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

Malloy made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a groan.

Frank gave a brief thought to tying Sarah Brandt up. That was probably the only way to keep her from causing trouble. On the other hand, the prospect of having her accosted by a bunch of rabid reporters was enormously entertaining. Of course, there weren’t many reporters out there, only five or six. They’d probably get the worst of it, and Frank certainly had no love for the boys from Newspaper Row. Maybe he should let her go.

Mrs. Brandt was pulling a lethal-looking pin from her hat and then removed the hat itself. She set it on the desk and hurried back to the kitchen. Frank followed more slowly, and by the time he got there, she’d taken off her jacket and was tying on an apron. At least she’d come to her senses.

“Can you fix something to eat? Ellsworth hasn’t had anything all day, and I don’t want him fainting on me,” he said.

She gave him one of her looks. “I’ll take care of it when I get back. Meanwhile”-she reached into the cupboard and pulled out what looked like a bottle of whiskey-“give him a shot of this.”

It was whiskey, he realized as he took the bottle from her, and by the time that registered, she’d grabbed a teacup and was heading back to the front room. “Where are you going?”

“To borrow a cup of sugar from my next-door neighbor,” she called back over her shoulder.

She was out the front door before he could stop her, and when he peeked out the front window, he saw her acting very surprised and indignant at the reporters who instantly converged on her with their questions. It took her only a minute to break away from them and make it up to Mrs. Ellsworth’s front door. In another moment, she was inside. Frank shook his head in admiration. Of course, she’d have to get back again, and that might not be so easy.

Still holding the bottle of whiskey, Frank returned to the kitchen, where he found Nelson Ellsworth still sitting exactly where he’d left him. He’d better start paying attention to his prisoner. If Ellsworth decided to escape while Frank was busy dealing with Sarah Brandt, he’d never hear the end of it. Taking Mrs. Brandt’s advice, he grabbed a glass off the shelf and poured Ellsworth two fingers’ worth.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it into Ellsworth’s hand. “Drink it down. You’ll feel better.”

Ellsworth looked at the glass as if he’d never seen one before. “I don’t drink spirits,” he said faintly.

“This is the perfect time to start.”

Ellsworth proved him wrong. He obediently, if gingerly, took a swig of the amber liquid and immediately began to choke. Frank saved him from spilling the rest of the liquor down the front of his suit and pounded him on the back until he stopped coughing.

When he’d caught his breath, he looked up accusingly with red-rimmed eyes.

“See, I told you you’d feel better,” Frank said unrepentantly and sat down at the table across from him. “All right, Ellsworth, tell me about Anna Blake.”

Nelson reached up and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said hoarsely.

“Believe it. Now talk to me. How did you meet her?”

He looked like he was going to start crying. “I can’t-”

“Yes, you can, because I’m the only hope you’ve got, Nelson. I promised Broughan that if he let me take you home, I’d find out who really killed the girl,” he said, naming the detective who’d been assigned to solve Anna Blake’s murder. “If you don’t help me, then I’ll have to turn you back over to him, and you don’t want that. See, Broughan is a lazy drunk, and he’d rather lock up an innocent man than find the guilty one if it means he’s going to have to exert himself. You’re real easy to catch, and I don’t think he’d be able to resist the temptation. If you don’t help me, I can’t help you. Now start talking.”

Ellsworth had gone chalk white, but he reached for the glass of whiskey and took another swallow. This time he didn’t choke, although it was a near thing. “All right,” he said, clearing his throat. “I met her when she came into the bank…”

Sarah’s plan to get into the Ellsworth house was perfect, she realized, unless Webster Prescott was one of the reporters. He’d know she wasn’t just an innocent neighbor coming over to borrow a cup of sugar. Fortunately, he wasn’t among the men who surrounded her the instant she started next door.

“Hey, miss-”

“Who are you?”

“Where are you going?”

“Do you know Nelson Ellsworth?”

The questions came simultaneously, so Sarah didn’t have to feign confusion. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she demanded with an outrage that wasn’t the least feigned.

A chorus of voices answered her, naming the Sun , the Commercial Advertiser , the Evening Post , the Mail and Express , the Daily Graphic , the Herald , the Examiner , and even the Times , virtually all of the newspapers being published in the city. If one of them was, like Webster Prescott, from the World , she didn’t hear.

“I only read the News ,” she said haughtily, naming the penny scandal sheet that circulated mainly in the tenements, and tried to force her way past them.

She got a few steps farther when someone called, “Nelson Ellsworth killed a woman last night. What do you have to say about that?”

Sarah gave him her most withering glare. “I say that’s preposterous! Now get out of my way before I start screaming. I assure you there are many people on this street who will immediately come to my rescue.”

She didn’t know if it was her tone or her threat that moved them, but they let her pass, although they kept close, hovering at the foot of the porch steps. Sarah pounded on the front door and called, “Mrs. Ellsworth, it’s Sarah! Let me in!”

The door opened almost instantly, telling Sarah that her neighbor had witnessed her approach. By the time she had slipped inside and Mrs. Ellsworth had slammed the door shut, the reporters were on the porch, screaming their questions. The old woman drove home the bolt an instant before they started pounding on the door.