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

The top drawer of his desk showed his other side, the side that Miss Van Woekem disapproved of: programs from local horse races, theater tickets by the dozen. Judging by these, Mr. Halsted didn’t spend many evenings studying. Daniel had been going through various boxes. “He seems to have more than his share of debts,” he commented, “but that was to be expected from what Miss Van Woekem said. Tailor. Three new shirts. Wine merchant—he owes the wine merchant fifty dollars! And look at this—eighty dollars owed to a jeweler. It doesn’t say what for.” He closed the box again. “The police will take this as confirmation that he needed money badly and would go to any lengths to get some.”


“We don’t know that he couldn’t pay his bills,” I said. “Maybe these were just the outstanding ones to be paid at the end of the month. He may have been given a generous allowance by his parents that allowed this sort of lifestyle.”

“That’s true,” Daniel agreed. “I should pay a call to his folks when we get back to New York—with your permission of course, ma’am.”

“Permission given.” We exchanged smiles.

Daniel went across to the wardrobe and opened it. “He certainly has enough clothes,” he said. “However, I don’t see any evening wear. For someone who went out in the evening as often as he did, that’s odd.”

“He may have been wearing it when he disappeared.”

“Of course. But that would imply that he didn’t plan to go out with criminal pursuits on his mind, wouldn’t it? A man in formal evening attire would certainly be noticed if he had to flee through the streets.”

I started going through his jacket pockets and unearthed a small diary. Most of the entries were prosaic in nature: “Philos. essay due.” “Tutorial with Hammersham 10 A.M.” “Lunch with Brodart.” It was rather strange to read entries for this week, appointments that he hadn’t been able to keep. I checked the night that he disappeared. “A and J? Ask S?”

“I wonder who or what A and J are?” I said. “S could be Silverton. Didn’t Miss Van Woekem say that he was friends with Harry Silverton, the son of the family where the robbery took place?”

Daniel nodded. “And his car was seen driving away from the Silverton mansion at midnight at great speed. We should go and interview the Silverton family when we are finished here. I’ll just go through the rest of his clothing drawers and it wouldn’t hurt to check under his bed and his waste basket.”

“You want me to get down on my hands and knees?”

“You are younger and more agile than I.”

“And I am hampered by the restrictions of skirts and petticoats we women have to wear,” I said. “Have you ever considered how hard it is to do what men take for granted while wearing long tight skirts? You should try leaping off a moving trolley or climbing a wall.”

“Most women don’t want to do such things.”

“But I do. I’m going to have to start wearing bloomers on a regular basis.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows. “All right. I’ll look under the bed. I bet you’re really afraid of finding spiders.”

“On the contrary. I grew up in a thatched cottage. Spiders were a normal occurrence.”

I pulled open the top drawer of his chest. A leather box contained gold cufflinks, collar studs, a ring with a square black stone. Next to it was a silver-backed brush set. Mr. Halsted was certainly used to the good things of life. His handkerchiefs were monogrammed, his undergarments neatly folded. Either he was naturally neat or a college servant looked after him. But the chest of drawers revealed no other telling secrets. Daniel discovered nothing but dust under the bed. The waste basket was empty. We came out of the room and stood in the dark hallway.

“Now let’s tackle the friends,” Daniel said. He took hold of my arm as I started for the nearest door. “It may be wiser if I make the first contact,” he whispered. “Young men could be alarmed by finding a pretty young woman standing outside their door. They might immediately leap to the wrong kind of conclusion.”

“Very well,” I said. “I have no objection to your asking the questions. You have more experience at it than I anyway. I could learn a thing or two maybe.”

Daniel glanced at me as if he was trying to tell whether I was being sarcastic, then nodded and rapped on the door. It was opened by a ginger-haired young man whose bleary-eyed condition suggested that he hadn’t been awake long.

“I don’t know you,” he said accusingly. “You’ve got the wrong room.”

“We understand that you are one of John Jacob Halsted’s friends,” Daniel said with the sort of authority in his voice that only the police have.

The boy’s expression changed to wary. “One of his many friends.” He attempted to sound airy. “JJ was everyone’s friend. Generous to a fault.”

“You say was,” Daniel picked up on this as I had done. “Do you believe him to be dead?”

“Either dead or whooping it up in South America,” the boy said flippantly, but then he added more seriously, “I sure hope the silly coot is okay.”

“Do you mind if we come in and ask you some questions?” Daniel asked.

“Are you the police? I was already grilled by the police.”

“We’re from New York,” Daniel said, carefully avoiding an outright lie. “We’re acting on behalf of Mr. Halsted’s family, who are naturally worried about him.”

“Oh, I see.” His gaze lingered on me. “You know JJ then?”