Murder in Murray Hill (Gaslight Mystery) (10 page)

Livingston blanched, and Sarah took his arm. “Let them do what they need to do,” she said, leading him a few steps away.

Malloy glanced at Joanna, who seemed almost frightened now that they were here. “Gino, put her in the Maria, too.”

“What! You never said anything about that!” she cried as Gino took her arm.

“I wouldn’t want to lose track of you,” Malloy said. They waited while the protesting woman was locked into the wagon with Neth. “Sarah and Maeve, make sure Livingston stays here. You”—he pointed to the wagon driver—“make sure nobody lets them out of there.” To Gino and the other officer, he said, “Let’s go.”

Sarah breathed a silent prayer as the three men approached the house halfway down the pleasant residential street. Nothing set it apart from its neighbors. No one would suspect that anything untoward was going on there.

Still holding Livingston’s arm, she felt him stiffen as Malloy raised his hand to knock. After a few moments, he knocked again. The three men seemed to consult, and then it looked like Malloy opened the door. Livingston bolted then, breaking free of Sarah’s grasp and running toward the house.

• • •

T
he smell hit Frank first, the coppery scent of fresh blood that was like a fist to his gut. “Pendergast?” he shouted, his gaze searching every corner. “Pendergast, where are you?”

Silence was his only reply.

“You”—he indicated the officer—“search down here. Gino, come with me.”

Donatelli followed him up the stairs. The smell was stronger here, and Frank silently willed Sarah to keep Livingston outside.

“Pendergast!” he tried again when they reached the top of the stairs, and this time he thought he heard a sound coming from the front room. One of the double doors to what must have been a parlor stood half-open, as if someone had left in a hurry.

Frank strode over and threw it wide to a scene of crimson horror.

A man lay on the floor in a position so unnatural, he had to be dead. Beyond him, slumped against the wall and staring vacantly into nothingness, was a woman clad only in a shift and covered—no,
drenched
—in blood. Frank knew her instantly. He carried her photograph in his pocket.

“Is that her?” Donatelli asked.

Frank nodded. “Grace Livingston.”

The staring eyes blinked.

“Grace?” Frank said, not trusting his own senses.

An ear-piercing sound broke the silence, a wail so tortured, it could have come straight out of hell. Frank needed a few seconds to realize it was coming from her.

“She’s alive,” he told Gino. “Go get Mrs. Brandt up here, but keep her father out.”

• • •

S
arah and Maeve managed to catch Livingston just as he reached the porch steps. They grabbed his arms and held on for all they were worth, slowing him, but she knew they couldn’t stop him for long.

Then Gino Donatelli burst out the front door, catching himself just before he would have plowed into them. “Mrs. Brandt, Mr. Malloy wants you right away. Upstairs,” he added as she pushed past him. “Mr. Livingston, you’ve got to wait here,” she heard him say as she ran inside and up the stairs.

She was almost to the top before she realized what she was smelling and what it must mean. Malloy stood in the doorway of the front room, his expression grim.

“She’s alive,” he said when she’d reached him. “There’s blood everywhere, though. She’s covered in it, but I can’t tell where she’s hurt.”

She nodded, thinking she understood.

“It’s bad, Sarah.”

“I’m a nurse,” she reminded him. She’d seen blood before.

He nodded and stepped aside. Only then did she understand. The smell hit her first, and then the sight: the man’s contorted body, the darkening pools soaking into the oriental carpet, and the woman’s half-naked body sprawled like a discarded doll. How could she be alive? Her shift was literally dyed red with the blood, her face splattered, her bare arms and legs streaked.

But then the poor creature took a shuddering breath, breaking the spell of horror, and Sarah went to her. Carefully, trying not to step in the blood, she finally reached her and knelt down beside her.

“Grace? Can you hear me?”

Slowly, the staring eyes turned to her. They held such pain, Sarah could hardly bear it.

“Grace, I’m Sarah Brandt. I’m a nurse. I’m here to help you. The police are here, too. We’ve come to take you home.”

She shook her head, or at least Sarah thought she did.

“Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

She did shake her head this time.

“You can’t tell me or you don’t know?”

“Not . . . not hurt.”

“But all this blood . . .”

The pain-filled gaze shifted, and one red-streaked arm lifted to point at the man sprawled a few feet away. Malloy squatted next to him, peering closely.

“His throat’s been cut,” he said.

From this angle, Sarah could see that for herself. That would explain the great quantities of blood, she thought.

“That’s his blood on you?” she asked Grace.

She nodded.

Someone was shouting, calling Grace’s name. Her eyes widened in terror.

“That’s your father,” Sarah said. “He wants to take you home.”

“No!” she cried. “He can’t see me like this!”

She struggled to rise. Sarah helped.

When she was on her feet, Sarah could see the blood was only on the front of her body. “Please,” she said.

“I’ll help you get cleaned up. Where can we go?”

Grace set out on unsteady legs, walking carefully, as if each step might shatter her. Sarah turned to Malloy. “Get Maeve in here. I’ll need her help.”

When they reached the hall, they could hear Livingston’s voice more clearly as it carried up the stairwell. He was arguing with Gino, desperate to see his daughter. Grace was just as desperate not to be seen. Still stumbling, she limped for the stairs and headed up to the next floor. Sarah took her arm as they climbed.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Sarah asked.

“His . . . his room.”

Only one door stood open in the upstairs hall, and Grace headed right to it. Sarah caught a glimpse of a large four-poster bed, set on a dais, and an assortment of large, mahogany furniture as Grace hurried through to what proved to be a bathroom. An enormous claw-footed tub sat along one wall and a sink and commode on the other. Grace turned on the taps of the tub and inserted the stopper, moving with a speed born of desperation. The pipes rumbled and groaned before finally spewing a geyser of water.

“Mrs. Brandt?” Maeve called.

“In here,” Sarah said, going to meet her.

“What on earth has happened?” she asked as she followed Sarah’s voice into the bathroom. The sight of Grace Livingston stopped her dead.

“Sweet God in heaven!” she cried, nearly sinking to the floor before Sarah could catch her.

“I know it looks terrible, but it’s not her blood. There’s a man downstairs who’s probably Pendergast. His throat’s been cut.”

Maeve turned away from the awful sight of Grace Livingston. “What do you need me to do?”

“I’m going to help Grace get cleaned up, but she’ll need some clothes. Grace, do you know where your clothes are?”

She shook her head.

“They must be here somewhere. Get Gino to help you search, though. I don’t want you going through this place by yourself. Find her something to wear so we can get her out of here. Grace, is there anyone else in the house?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Be careful, then,” Sarah said to Maeve.

Maeve nodded and hurried off.

Sarah found some towels in a cabinet, and when the water was deep enough, she said, “Do you want me to help you? If you’re modest, I’ll turn my back.”

“It’s not that. I just . . . I don’t want you to see what he did to me.”

“You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh, but it was! I never should have gone to meet him. I brought it on myself.”

Sarah knew many people would agree. “Is that what he told you?”

She nodded brokenly.

“Well, he was lying, then. He did this to you because he’s an evil man and he tricked you. Making you feel guilty was his way of putting the blame on you, but it belongs on him. All of it. Now let’s wash off every trace of him, shall we?”

• • •

M
alloy looked up as Gino Donatelli came back into the bloody parlor.

“I found a telephone. The medical examiner is coming, and they’re trying to find Broghan. He’s going to be pretty mad about this.”

“Yeah, lots of people will be. I’ll probably lose my job,” Frank said.

“Oh yeah. I keep forgetting.” Gino shook his head. “When you think about it, I guess there’s not much they can do to you, is there?”

“No.” Which was, he realized, at least one reason to be happy about his change of fortune. Combined with having Sarah, it was starting to sound like a good deal after all. “Where’s Livingston?”

“Outside on the front stoop. He ran out of steam and started crying when he finally understood that his girl is alive. How bad is she hurt?”

“Not at all from what I could tell. The blood was all his.” He nodded toward the body.

“Is that Pendergast?”

“Probably. We’ll get Joanna and Neth in here later to identify him. Are they still locked up?”

“Safe and sound. So this Pendergast character, he finds women through the lonely hearts columns, and he brings them here, and what?”

“Probably what you think and a lot more. What I don’t know is what he does when he’s finished with them, if he kills them or lets them go. Either way, none of them are going to go to the police.”

“I guess not.”

“Officer Donatelli?”

They both turned to see Maeve in the doorway. At the sight of the bloody room, she gasped and quickly turned her back.

“Miss Smith, are you all right?” Gino hurried to her. “This is no place for you.”

“Mrs. Brandt asked me to look around upstairs and see if I could find some clothes for Miss Livingston, but she didn’t want me to do it alone. She said to ask you to go with me.”

“I would be honored. We haven’t searched the upper floors yet anyway. Mr. Malloy . . . ?”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll wait here for the medical examiner. I’ll call you if he gets here before you get back.”

Frank took the opportunity to look around the room to see if he could figure out what had happened here. Plainly, someone had sliced Pendergast’s throat, and Frank couldn’t think of anyone who’d deserved it more. Grace Livingston certainly would have been justified in doing it. She was covered in his blood, so plainly she had also been standing in front of him when it happened. But if she’d killed him, where was the knife?

Frank had looked all over the room and under every piece of furniture, but there was no sign of a knife. Also, he couldn’t figure out how a woman as small as Grace Livingston could have overpowered a man as large as Milo Pendergast. He was in his shirtsleeves and trousers, and wore socks but no shoes. Plainly, he’d been at his leisure, not entertaining or expecting company, so that meant he had most likely been alone with Grace. Frank could see he’d been almost six feet tall and powerfully built, and even the smallest man was stronger than most women. He would have seen her coming at him with a knife in her hand. She might have managed to stab at him once or twice before he wrenched the knife from her, but unless he was blinded or tied up, there was simply no way she could have had enough time or strength to slash his throat before he tried to stop her.

The blood told what had happened afterward, though. The initial gush of blood had hit her, then he’d probably shoved her away. She’d stumbled backward into the wall and slumped to the floor, probably in shock. He’d stayed on his feet for a minute or so, probably trying to stanch the flow of blood with his hands.

His sleeves were dyed crimson, just like Grace’s shift, and his hands were also covered with blood, proving Frank’s theory so far. The biggest pool of blood on the floor marked the spot where the attack had occurred. A short trail marked where Pendergast had staggered, probably in a vain effort to find help before he fell and died where he now lay. A smaller pool spread out from his body.

Frank would be very interested to hear Grace’s story about what had happened here. He stepped out into the hallway, wanting to get away from the stench of death. From the top of the stairs he could see the open front door and Livingston still sitting on the front steps. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. At least he would be able to take his daughter home with him. She would be forever changed, but at least she was alive. That had to count for something.

Above him, he could hear Gino and Maeve moving around and talking quietly, probably out of respect for Grace Livingston. A few minutes later, they came down the stairs. Frank was glad to see that Maeve carried some clothing draped over her arm. Thank God they wouldn’t have to take Grace out of here wrapped in a blanket. She didn’t look too happy to have found Grace’s things, though.

Neither did Gino, come to that. They both seemed profoundly disturbed.

“What is it?” he asked when they reached him.

Maeve looked at the clothes she held, then at Gino.

“We found Miss Livingston’s clothes,” he said. “In a room with a . . . a cage in it.”

Frank winced. He hated that Maeve had seen that. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that,” Maeve said, still looking at the clothes with a worried frown. “We found two sets of clothes.”

“Two sets?”

“Yes. Could they both belong to Miss Livingston?”

“Did she think she was eloping with Pendergast?” Gino asked. “Did she pack a bag or something?”

Frank shook his head. “Her maid said the only things missing from her room were the clothes she was wearing.”

Frank watched their faces as the truth dawned on them. Another woman had been here, too.

M
alloy, where are you?” A voice called from downstairs.

Frank walked over to the stairway. “Up here.”

The officer he’d sent to search the lower floor came bounding up, taking the steps two at a time. He hesitated for an instant at the sight of Gino and Maeve, but then said, “I found something in the cellar.”

“What?”

He glanced at Maeve again. “A woman.”

Maeve gave a little cry of outrage.

“Oh, she’s alive,” he said quickly. “But . . .”

“But what?” Frank snapped.

“Well, she’s locked in a cage, and she . . . well, she don’t have no clothes on.”

“That bastard,” Frank said, not even bothering to apologize to Maeve. “Why didn’t you get her out, at least?”

“She . . . I started to, but when I got close, she started screaming. I didn’t . . . Well, we’ve got some females here, and I thought maybe they should handle it.”

One glance at Maeve’s face and Frank knew he couldn’t send her down into that cellar. “Take those clothes up and figure out which are Miss Livingston’s. Then send Mrs. Brandt down here with the rest of them.”

Maeve nodded and hurried away.

“What else did you find upstairs?” Frank asked Gino.

Gino shook his head. “Nothing. The other rooms are empty.”

“Did you check the attic?”

“Not yet.”

Frank sighed. “Go up, then, and look. If he’s got any more women here, I want to find them before anybody else gets here.”

The two took off, leaving him to pace the hall until Sarah came down, carrying the other woman’s clothing.

He met her at the bottom of the stairs. “I’m sorry you had to see all this.”

“I am, too, but I’m glad I was here. I don’t know how you would have handled Grace if I weren’t. Now we need to see about that poor woman downstairs.” She headed for the next set of stairs.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“I’m not letting you go down there by yourself.”

She gave him a tiny smile.

When they reached the foyer, Mr. Livingston jumped from where he’d been sitting on the front stoop and came to the open doorway “Mrs. Brandt, you’ve seen her? Is she really all right?”

“She isn’t hurt. She’s getting cleaned up before she sees you.”

He blinked his red-rimmed eyes. “Can I take her home now?”

Sarah exchanged a glance with Frank. Frank had no idea what the police would say. Maybe the best thing would be for her to be gone when Broghan and the others arrived. He nodded.

“She’s still very upset and ashamed by what happened,” Sarah said. “She thinks it was her fault, that if she hadn’t gone to meet Pendergast—”

“Of course it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t gone to meet him, but how could she have known the kind of man he was?” Livingston said.

“That’s exactly what you need to tell Grace. Just be patient. I’m sure she’ll be ready very soon. Now, we’ve found another . . . another woman, and we must see to her.”

His eyes widened. “Another one? Dear heaven!”

“You’ll excuse us,” she said.

Frank realized he’d neglected to ask where the entrance to the cellar was, but they found it easily enough. The door off the kitchen stood open.

• • •

S
arah took a deep breath to fortify herself, then started down the dark stairs. The rest of the house, she’d noticed, bore a sad, neglected air, with dust gathered in the corners and a cobweb here and there. She imagined it was difficult finding servants when you kept female prisoners. The cellar was much worse, of course. She didn’t let herself think of what might be hiding in the shadows.

She saw the cage as soon as she reached the bottom of the steps. It stood just out of sight of the stairwell. She took a minute to let her eyes adjust. The light coming down the stairway only reached a few feet, and the two tiny windows up near the ceiling had been smeared with dirt, so they emitted only a feeble hint of the sunlight beyond.

Gradually, the shadow in the far corner of the cage came into focus as a body huddled on the dirt floor, knees clutched to her chest, her hair loose and tangled, her eyes wide and staring.

Sarah glanced back to see that Malloy had stopped at the bottom of the steps, and now he was looking around, everywhere except at the cage. When he’d made sure nothing else threatened, he turned his back to the poor woman. Sarah could feel his fury radiating across the small space between them.

“Hello,” she said to the woman, speaking softly and slowly, as if to a frightened animal. “My name is Sarah Brandt. The police are here. We’ve come to rescue you.”

“The police!” she echoed, her voice hoarse. “No! Don’t let them take me!”

“They aren’t here to take you. We’re here to rescue you.”

She shook her head frantically. “He won’t let you. He won’t let me go.”

“If you mean Milo Pendergast, he’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“No, he’s not. He can’t be dead!”

“But he is. He’s dead and you’re free.” Sarah found she could see fairly well now, and she glanced over the cage, trying to figure out how to open it. She missed it the first few times because she’d been looking for a lock of some kind. She’d thought they would need a key. Perhaps someone would have to search Pendergast’s dead body for it. But in the end, she realized it was just a bolt. It slid free with only a small tug, and the door swung open.

“No!” the woman cried in terror. “Don’t let him in here! Don’t let him touch me!”

Sarah realized she meant Malloy. “He’s not going to touch you. I told you, we’re here to help you.”

“That’s what they always say, but they only hurt me. They always hurt me!”

Sarah stepped into the cell, noting what she hadn’t let herself realize before. The only items inside it were a filthy straw mattress and a pail.

The woman cried out and drew herself in even tighter. She was, Sarah could see, trying to cover her nakedness. Her legs and feet were filthy, her straggling hair lank and greasy. Only then did Sarah remember what she’d brought.

“I have your clothes,” she said, holding them out.

The staring eyes widened and she reached out a hand. Sarah took another step closer and then another, until the woman could reach them. She snatched them, using both hands now, pulling them close, clutching them to her.

“Would you like to bathe? I can take you upstairs—”

“No! I’m never going up there again!”

She picked through the clothes frantically. Finding a shift, she threw it over her head and stuck her arms through it. Then she glanced at Malloy, who still stood with his back to her. Quickly, as if afraid he might turn at any moment, she started pulling on the other articles of clothing. Only when she’d covered herself with all the pieces did she stop to button her shirtwaist, her mistrustful gaze darting to Malloy every few seconds.

At last she was left with only her stockings, and she pulled them over her filthy feet, leaving them to sag around her ankles.

“My shoes? Where are my shoes?”

Grace had asked the same question. “We haven’t found them yet. But we’re still looking. Come upstairs with me now. Are you hungry? Can we get you something to eat?”

“I won’t go with him,” she said, jutting her chin in Malloy’s direction. “I told you. I won’t do it anymore. I don’t care what you do to me.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Sarah said. “Malloy, would you go upstairs, please? Ask Officer Donatelli if he can find the missing shoes. We haven’t found Miss Livingston’s either.”

Malloy nodded, and without so much as a glance back, he hurried back up the cellar stairs.

“Come with me now. Can you stand?” Sarah asked.

The woman struggled to her feet, ignoring Sarah’s outstretched hand in favor of using the bars of the cage for support. The whole time, she watched Sarah warily. Sarah was surprised to see how tall she was, and how large-boned, too. Not fat. In fact, she was rather thin, as if she’d been starved, but no matter how thin she got, she would never be a small woman.

“No one is going to hurt you anymore,” Sarah said. She backed out of the cell and pushed the door as wide as it would go. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sarah started for the stairs, glancing back to see if the woman was following. The woman took a tentative step, but stopped when she realized Sarah was watching. Sarah forced herself to look away and keep going up the stairs. By the time she reached the top, the woman had started up herself. Like Grace Livingston, she was unsteady on her feet, or perhaps she was just weak.

When she reached the untidy kitchen, Sarah began to rummage around in the larder. She found almost a whole loaf of bread and some cheese. She set them on the table just as the woman emerged from the stairwell.

The woman literally fell on them, snatching up the bread and tearing a hunk off the loaf before Sarah could even locate a knife. Just as she had suspected, the woman had been starved. Sarah continued her searching. She found only a paring knife, and she used it to slice the cheese. The woman devoured the pieces as fast as they fell from the knife. Sarah found a glass that looked reasonably clean and filled it from the tap. The woman drank the water down in one breath.

Only when she had set the glass down did she pull out a chair and sit, apparently drained from the effort of eating.

Sarah sat down opposite her at the table. “What’s your name?”

The woman’s expression transformed instantly from exhausted to suspicious again. “Rose.”

“I’m Sarah, Rose. Milo Pendergast is dead. We know he contacted you through a lonely hearts advertisement in the newspaper and tricked you into coming here to meet his mother.”

Her suspicion transformed again, this time into surprise. “How do you know that?”

“Because he’s done the same thing to other women. We were looking for one of them, and that’s why we came here.”

“You said the police are here, too.”

“Yes. One of them found you. Do you remember?”

She nodded slowly, her pale brown eyes still wary and guarded.

“They came with us to arrest Pendergast, but he’s dead. Someone killed him, and I suppose they’ll try to figure out who did it, but that doesn’t concern you. They may want to ask you some questions, of course, but other than that, I’m sure you’ll be free to go.”

“Free to go where?”

Now Sarah was surprised. “Back to your home. In fact, I’ll be glad to take you myself, just to make sure you get there safely.”

The kitchen door opened, and Rose stiffened in alarm. Gino Donatelli stuck his head in. He cast a curious glance at Rose, who looked about to bolt. Sarah laid a reassuring hand on her arm, making her flinch away. So much for comforting the woman.

Sarah smiled at Gino, hoping her reaction to him would make him less threatening to Rose. “Did you find the shoes?”

“Uh, well, Mr. Malloy asked if you could come take a look at something.”

“What is it?”

He glanced at Rose again, plainly unwilling to say in front of her. “I, uh . . . it won’t take long, he said.”

She turned back to Rose. “Will you be all right here for a few minutes? Officer Donatelli will wait outside the door so no one bothers you.”

Rose considered her offer for a long moment, then nodded. “As long as he stays outside the door.”

Sarah got up, wishing she didn’t have to leave Rose alone. “I’ll be right back. If you need anything, just call for Officer Donatelli.”

Rose just stared back at her with blank eyes. Sarah wondered if the woman would ever get over what she had endured in this house. Gino held the door for her.

“Where is he?” she asked when he’d closed it behind her.

“Upstairs in the bedroom where you took Miss Livingston.”

“What has he found?”

“You need to see it for yourself.”

With that ominous warning, Sarah made her way to the stairs and up the two flights. There she found Malloy standing before one of three wardrobe cabinets in the large bedroom. He was frowning as he gazed around the room when she entered.

“Did you look at this place?” he asked.

“Not really. I was in a hurry to get Grace cleaned up.” She followed his gaze and really looked at the wallpaper she had barely noticed before. “Good heavens!”

The figures adorning the walls were groups of satyrs and naked nymphs performing all sorts of acts, some of which Sarah was fairly certain were actually impossible.

“Where do you buy something like this?” Malloy asked.

“In this city, I guess you can find whatever you might want, no matter how depraved it is.” She shuddered, then remembered why she was here. “What did you want to show me?”

“I didn’t
want
to show it to you, but I need you to tell me if it’s what I think it is.” He opened the cabinet.

At first Sarah didn’t understand what she was seeing. The interior had been divided into shelves designed to hold a large quantity of shoes. The shelves were tipped slightly with a strip of molding running the length of each shelf to catch the heels so the shoes wouldn’t slip off. The lower shelves were empty, but the upper ones held about a dozen pairs of shoes.

Women’s shoes.

Why did Milo Pendergast have so many pairs of women’s shoes?

Her blood turned to ice as the truth dawned on her. “These belong to the women he kidnapped!”

“That’s what I thought, too, but can we be sure?” he asked.

She stepped closer, loath to touch the shoes, as if doing so might violate the women who had owned them even more. “They’re different sizes.” And they showed different kinds of wear. Some had been stretched by wide feet. Others leaned a bit from heels worn down on one side. One showed the telltale bulges of bunions. But they were all polished brightly and had obviously been someone’s “best” shoes, the ones she would have worn to meet a potential suitor. “There are so many of them,” she said as the meaning of it turned in her stomach.

“I know. We have two women here, but where are the others?”

“I don’t know, but I want to get the two that are here away before the detectives arrive and want to question them.”

“Do you think a pair of these shoes belongs to Miss Livingston and the woman downstairs?”