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

I helped him reverse the auto out of our alleyway and then off he went, his wheels spinning up slush from the gutters. I put on warm clothes, as my experience of automobiles led me to believe that they were not highly successful at keeping out the cold and damp. I was just tucking my hair under my hat when Daniel returned with Mrs. Tucker.

“How is the lamb today?” she asked eagerly. “I couldn’t sleep all last night, worrying about the poor little thing. If I find the one who did this to her, he’s going to wish he’d never been born.” And she waved her knitting needles in a threatening manner.

“I think we hit pay dirt on our choice of nursemaid,” Daniel said as we drove away. “She’s one of those women who relishes taking care of others.”

I laughed. “When Mrs. Goodwin was confined to bed after her accident, Mrs. Tucker took it upon herself to look after her. She drove Mrs. Goodwin mad. It was a real clash of wills.”

“So a sedated girl would be more to her liking,” Daniel said. “Either way, it means I have you to myself again. We have the use of a stylish automobile and our time is our own.”





TWENTY-FIVE

I had to admit that it was a thrill to be seen driving up Fifth Avenue in a dashing motor car, with a handsome man beside me. The elegant neighborhood of the East Seventies soon faded, however, and the city became a collection of humble row houses mixed with ramshackle huts as we reached the northern tip of Manhattan Island. We crossed the icy bridge over the Harlem River with great caution and then had to proceed at a snail’s pace because the main road wasn’t as well maintained as Daniel had hoped. We passed signs of habitation, but it seemed that the towns were to the north of us. And we soon found ourselves in snowy countryside.

“Do you know where we are going?” I asked.

“We’re going to a police station,” Daniel said. “Just off the road here. It was apparently the first local station to respond to the accident,” he said. “I’m hoping they can show us the accident scene and maybe answer some questions.”

We found the police station in a little main street next to H. Bingler, dry goods, and R. Murray, greengrocer. It was lucky that Daniel was known to the sergeant on duty. He sent a constable with us who was only too eager to come for a ride in the rumble seat of our automobile and show us the accident site himself.

“It gave Ernie and me an awful scare, I can tell you,” he said, leaning between us from the back seat of the auto. “There was this horse less carriage, crashed into a tree, oil spilled out onto the snow, and not a soul in sight.

“ ‘Where can they have gone?’ Ernie says. ‘Someone must have been hurt, the way this thing’s smashed up.’ ”

“When was this?”

“It was the Wednesday morning. Later we found out that the vehicle must have collided with the tree the night before. But you’ll see how it ran off the road at a bend, so it wasn’t noticed until a farmer came by at daybreak.”

We rejoined the main road and soon the constable told us to stop in a wooded area where the road took a sudden swing to the right. “It was smashed into that oak there,” he said, climbing out of the seat. “See where it hit the tree?”

I could see a big gash in the trunk. I could also pick out dark patches in the snow. More snow had fallen the night before so it was hard to know if they were oil or blood.

“So the auto itself was pretty badly damaged?” Daniel asked.

“It sure was, sir. The whole front was smashed in. The steering-wheel column had been pushed clear out. I tell you, whoever was in there couldn’t have walked away, that’s my opinion.”

“And yet they did,” I said. “Were there any trails leading off through the snow?”

The constable looked sheepish. “Well, to start with we had no idea that this automobile was connected with a crime, so we looked all around to see if any wounded travelers had staggered away from the wreck and then collapsed. So a fair number of the tracks would be ours. But we saw no clear set of tracks leading away, I can tell you that. One strange thing. It did look as if a second vehicle had pulled up beside it at some time, then driven away again. It must have been another automobile because there were no signs of horses’ hooves. I think that must have been a good Samaritan just checking to see if anyone was hurt. He found nobody and drove off.”

He looked at us for affirmation.

“Where is the wrecked automobile now?” Daniel asked.

“We had it towed to the yard behind the police station. We thought that whoever owned it might want to salvage any parts that he could. But nobody showed up, and then we found out that it matched the description of the automobile that drove away from the Silverton place. When we gave it a thorough search, the sarge came up with the silver pot. ‘It’s part of the loot, boy,’ he said to me, and it was.”

“So was the auto ever checked for evidence?” Daniel asked.

“Evidence?” the constable looked confused.

“You know—scraps of clothing, hairs, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t think it ever was, sir. It was in pretty bad shape. Ernie says to me that it’s nothing but a heap of junk and we should help ourselves to the wheels, ’cos they were still good.”