Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

“What kind of case is it?” I asked.

She leaned toward me, her old beaky face alive with emotion in a way I had never seen it before. “My nephew is in grave trouble, Miss Murphy. I want you to clear his name.”

“Your nephew? What has he done?”

“You’ve read the papers, presumably,” she said. “Nasty goings-on in Connecticut.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t read about it,” I said. “I don’t take a daily newspaper.”

“You must be the only person in New York City not to have done so,” she said angrily. “My friends and neighbors certainly have delighted in gossip about it—given my nephew’s family connections, of course.”

“Then you’d better enlighten me,” I said.

“From what I understand there have been a series of violent and horrible robberies up and down the eastern seaboard recently. A bank robbed in Bridgeport, a company pay wagon intercepted in Greenwich, and most recently a botched bank robbery in New Haven, during which a bank employee was shot and killed, followed that same night by a robbery at the Silverton mansion, on the road between New Haven and Bridgeport. Again a servant shot and killed in a most callous manner.”

“I had heard about this,” I said, recalling the constable in Central Park, “but surely the police don’t think—?”

“That’s just the problem. They do think,” she said. “My nephew, John Jacob Halsted, is currently a student at Yale University, which, as you may know, is in the town of New Haven. I won’t say he is the ideal young man. His parents lavished too much money on him and have not brought him up as strictly as I would have liked. He is my youn gest sister’s only child, born to her late in life, which always results in spoiling the child in my observation. I would describe him as a dilettante, a lightweight—weak, but not essentially bad.”

“So why do the police think that he is involved in these crimes? Do they have any evidence?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, they have strong evidence. His parents bought him a rather stylish new automobile. Quite unsuitable and far too extravagant. This vehicle was found, crashed into a tree, in the Bronx, just off the main road between New York and Connecticut, on the morning after these robberies took place. My nephew is, apparently, a friend of Harry Silverton, the son of the family that was robbed that night, and his car was spotted driving away from the Silverton mansion just before midnight. It wasn’t until dawn next day that the family discovered so many valuable items missing and their butler lying on the floor in a pool of blood, shot through the heart.”

“But all that doesn’t prove that your nephew committed these crimes.”

“Ah,” she said. “There’s the rub. Under the seat in the car the police found a silver mustard dish, identified as one taken from the house. There was no sign of John Jacob, or the rest of the loot.”

“So they assume he has run off with it?”

“They have been looking for him for four days now, without success. His picture is plastered across the front pages of all the newspapers in the area. It is possible, of course, that he was injured in the crash. There was blood found at the scene. Maybe some kindly soul has taken him in, not realizing he is a wanted man. Maybe he wandered into the marshes and died. It is a desolate area, I understand, and it was a bitterly cold night.” She sighed again. “Why he was driving toward New York I have no idea. Unless he was paying a surprise visit to his parents, who live just off Fifth Avenue, near the park.”

She broke off as the maid appeared with a coffee tray.

“You may open the drapes a little, Matilda,” she said. “I don’t want you spilling coffee on the rug.”

Matilda obeyed without a word and we sat in silence as cups were poured for us. I was unprepared for how haggard the old woman looked. I could see that her eyes were red and I suspected she might have been crying. Of course I pretended not to notice and sipped my coffee until the maid departed again. As soon as she had gone Miss Van Woekem put down her coffee cup and glared at me. “It is driving me mad, Miss Murphy. I need to know the truth. I am old, my dear. I may not live much longer but I can’t die with this scandal and shame hanging over my head. I want my mind to be at peace with this matter. While I could believe that my nephew could have been sucked into a harebrained get-rich-quick scheme, I cannot believe that he would ever be involved in common robbery or violence. He is just not the type for it. Always a gentle boy at heart.”

“You say he is weak. What if he was led into it by a more forceful character?”