Murder in the Bowery (A Gaslight Mystery) - Hardcover

Thompson, Victoria

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1101987111 ISBN 13: 9781101987117

Publisher: Berkley, 2017

Synopsis

The latest Gaslight Mystery from the bestselling author of Murder in Morningside Heights finds Sarah Brandt and Frank Malloy searching for a connection between a murdered newsie and a high society woman with dangerous habits.

Frank Malloy’s latest client is the well-dressed Will Bert. He’s searching for his brother, a newsboy named Freddie, so he can share his new financial good fortune. Frank makes quick work of the case and locates Freddie, but a happy reunion between brothers is not in the cards. 

When Will’s name is mentioned, Freddie runs off—only to be found dead a short time later. Suspicious, Frank tracks down Will who spins a tale of lust and deceit involving a young society woman, Estelle Longacre, also recently deceased.  Frank can’t be sure if Estelle’s risky behavior and the company she kept was to blame, or if her own ruthless family had a hand in her death.

Frank will need Sarah’s help to unearth the dark secrets of the wealthy Longacres and to discover if there is a connection between Estelle and Freddie’s death. Together they must navigate a perilous underground web of treachery to find the truth.

About this title

About the Author

Victoria Thompson is the Edgar® and Agatha award–nominated author of the Gaslight Mysteries—including Murder in Morningside Heights, Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue, Murder on Amsterdam Avenue, and Murder in Murray Hill—as well as numerous historical novels. She lives in the Chicago area with her family.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2017 Victoria Thompson

Chapter I

“I need to find my kid brother, Mr. Malloy.”

Frank Malloy leaned back in his office chair and studied his newest client across the expanse of his desk. The young man had introduced himself as Will Bert. He was a handsome fellow, sporting a fairly new suit of brown, checked fabric and a pristine shirt with a fresh collar. He had settled his smart-looking derby on his knee instead of leaving it on his head, as too many young men did today. He wasn’t the usual sort of client who came to Frank’s detective agency, but then his agency was also fairly new, so he really couldn’t claim to have a “usual” sort of client.

“How did you come to lose your brother, Mr. Bert?” Frank asked.

Bert shrugged almost apologetically. “Well, I didn’t exactly lose him. It’s kind of a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“All right then. Well, you see, Freddie and me are orphans. After our folks died, we had to look after ourselves, so I started selling newspapers to support us. Freddie did, too, even though he was still really small.”

A common enough story, Frank knew. “You were street arabs?” he asked, referring to the hundreds of orphaned and abandoned children who lived on the New York City streets.

“Yes, sir. We stayed at one of the Newsboys’ Lodging Houses whenever the weather was bad, of course, and I always looked out for Freddie, but it was a hard life. That’s why we finally decided to go out West on one of those Orphan Trains.”

The Orphan Trains had been taking children from the city out West to find homes since before Frank was born. “I guess you were hoping to be adopted by some farmer out in Iowa or something.”

Bert smiled a little at this. “I know it sounds strange, especially for a city boy like me, but those people from the Children’s Aid Society make it sound like a fairy tale or something.”

“But it wasn’t a fairy tale for you and your brother, I guess.”

Bert’s smile disappeared. “Not exactly. We went to Minnesota, not Iowa, although I don’t guess it makes much difference. We wanted to go with the same family, but none of the families wanted me. I was too old, already sixteen, but Freddie was eight by then and still real cute, so he got picked right off. I ended up in another town with a storekeeper, Mr. Varney.”

“That was probably easier than farm work.”

“I guess so. Mr. Varney, he never had any children, and he wanted somebody to take over his store when he was gone, so he trained me to do that. He wasn’t going to adopt me or anything. He just put it in his will that I got the store when he died.”

“And did he die?”

Bert seemed surprised that Frank had guessed. “Yeah, he did, as a matter of fact. He just keeled over one day after we’d unloaded some heavy boxes. The doc said there was nothing could’ve been done. His heart gave out on him. So now I’m a businessman, Mr. Malloy. I’ve got a bright future ahead of me back in Minnesota, so naturally, I wanted to find Freddie and bring him to live with me.”

“I thought he’d been adopted.”

“Well, they don’t always go through with the legal adoption. The families, I mean. That’s what I was counting on, anyway, but when I went looking for Freddie, I found out the family who got him decided not to keep him after all. He’d been sent back to New York.”

That seemed harsh to Frank, but he shouldn’t be surprised at how cruel people could be. “And nobody told you?”

Bert shrugged again. “Of course not. They probably didn’t even know where I was. At least the family wouldn’t, and the Children’s Aid Society, what did they care?”

“And Freddie didn’t write to you or anything?”

Now he had the grace to look embarrassed. “We was never much for writing letters, and I figured he was in a good place, being looked after, so what was the need? But when I found out he’d been sent back here, I came to find him.”

Finding one small boy in a city like New York would be a daunting task indeed. “Have you looked?”

“Of course I looked. I figured he’d be selling papers in the old neighborhood, but now . . .” He gestured helplessly.

“Oh yes, the strike.” The newsboys had gone on strike a few days ago. They’d done it last year when they thought the newspapers weren’t treating them fairly, and this time they were trying to force both William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer to pay them better. The struggle between a gaggle of children and the two most powerful newspaper moguls in the country promised to be very interesting.

“Right, the strike,” Bert said. “The newsboys are giving lots of speeches, but they aren’t selling many newspapers, and none of them are on the corners where they usually are. They aren’t even staying in the lodging houses.”

“I guess they aren’t making as much money as usual with the strike,” Frank said. The lodging houses charged the boys six cents a night and the same amount for dinner and breakfast if they chose to eat.

“And with it being summer, they like to carry the banner anyway.”

“Carry what banner?” Frank asked, confused.

“Oh, that’s what they call sleeping out on the street, carrying the banner. It’s a matter of pride for the newsies.”

“So you want me to help you find your brother, Mr. Bert?”

“That’s right. I can pay. I told you, I own a store back in Minnesota, and I have money. Even still, I’d do it myself, but with the strike, I figure it’s going to take some time, and I can’t be away from my store very long. I’ve got someone minding it, but you know how it is.”

Frank didn’t know how it was. Luckily, he didn’t even have to worry about his own business and getting paid like other private investigators did. Because of an accident of fate, he was now rich enough to only take the cases he liked, even if he didn’t get paid at all, and Frank liked this case. He felt sorry for these two boys, being separated like that. He’d let Bert pay to save the boy’s pride, but Frank would give him a reduced rate. “All right, I’ll give it a try, Mr. Bert. I can’t make any promises, though. You must know how hard it will be to find him. Do you know how long ago your brother came back to the city?”

“It’s been a couple years now.”

“Then you know anything might have happened to him.” Life in New York was uncertain at best, and for the boys who made their own way on the streets, it was downright dangerous.

“Freddie’s a smart kid. I know he’s out there somewhere. I want to give him a good home, Mr. Malloy, the home we never had. Will you help me find him?”

“I’ll certainly try. What can you tell me about him? You said he’s eight years old?”

“Not anymore. That’s how old he was when we went west. Now he’s thirteen, I reckon. I don’t have a picture of him, of course, but anybody who’s met him will remember. See, when he was a little tyke, he almost got run over by a trolley. It cut off part of his foot, so now he only has two toes on his left foot. Makes him walk a little funny, and the other boys, they called him Two Toes. All the newsies, they like to give each other nicknames.”

Frank had noticed that, although he’d never given it much thought. “When you said ‘the old neighborhood,’ did you mean where you lived with your parents?”

“Oh no. Wouldn’t sell many newspapers there, would we? I meant the corners where we used to sell our papers. Newsies are real jealous of their corners. If you try to horn in on another boy’s spot, you’ll likely find yourself beat up pretty good.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Frank said. “So where were these corners where you used to sell?”

Frank wrote down the streets on the pad he pulled from his desk drawer. “And your brother’s name is Freddie Bert.”

“That’s right. I’ll be much obliged to you, Mr. Malloy, and so will Freddie, when you find him.”

For once, Frank might have a case with a happy ending.

The house sat in the middle of one of the worst slums of the city, mere blocks from the notorious Five Points neighborhood and surrounded by boisterous saloons and teeming tenements and places so wicked they didn’t even have signs. The house itself was dilapidated and filthy, and the roof had holes. Rain had ruined one of the bedrooms, rats had taken over the cellar, and pigeons roosted in the attic.

“I’ll take it,” Sarah Brandt Malloy said.

The owner, a rather rascally-looking fellow in checked pants and a threadbare suit coat, looked her over in disbelief, taking in her expensive gown and stylish hat. “Are you sure, miss?”

“It’s perfect, isn’t it, Gino?” she asked her companion.

Gino Donatelli, her husband’s partner in the detective agency, was functioning as her bodyguard today as she toured the latest offerings of ramshackle houses available for sale on the Lower East Side of the city. The young man looked around doubtfully. “If you think so, Mrs. Malloy.”

“Of course it isn’t worth half of what you’re asking, Mr. Bartholomew,” she told the owner. She’d been looking for months, so she was an expert now. “I saw a larger place over on Mulberry Street for only a thousand.”

Mr. Bartholomew began to sputter his outrage, but in the end he happily accepted Sarah’s offer, as she’d known he would, and made an appointment with her the following week to visit an attorney to sign the necessary papers.

“May we drop you somewhere, Mr. Bartholomew?” she asked when they’d concluded their negotiations.

He eyed her carriage longingly. “Thank you, miss, but I wouldn’t want to be seen in such a fine vehicle on this street. People would start asking me for money.”

Gino helped Sarah into the carriage, which actually belonged to her parents, and instructed the driver to take them to Sarah’s home. When they were safely away, Gino turned to her with a perplexed frown. “Are you sure you want to buy that place?”

“I know it looks horrible right now, and it didn’t escape me that someone had obviously been living in several of the rooms so we’ll have to deal with that, but it’s the perfect location. We aren’t going to live there ourselves, remember.”

“I know, and I guess you’re right. If you want poor women to find it, then it really is the perfect location. Is it going to be a hospital?”

“We’re going to call it a home for unwed mothers, so they can come to stay as soon as they need to, have their babies there, and stay until they’re well again. We’ll have a matron living in to watch over the girls and several midwives who will be available. They may even live in also and serve the rest of the community as well. I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that while you get somebody to fix the place up.”

“Yes, and I’m thinking I’ll put Maeve in charge of that.”

Gino grinned. He was such a handsome boy, and he was so obviously enamored of their family’s nursemaid, Maeve Smith. Sarah was pretty sure Maeve felt the same way about Gino, but Maeve wasn’t one to give herself away. “She did a pretty good job of managing the workers when you were fixing up your own house.”

“Indeed she did. Without her help, Malloy and I would probably still be waiting for them to be finished.” Sarah opened the fan hanging from her wrist and began to flutter it, trying to stir up some air inside the carriage.

“You were right about bringing the carriage,” Gino said. “I’m glad we don’t have to walk in this heat.”

“Or try to find a cab. My mother insisted we take it, and she was right, although I think she was more worried about our safety in this neighborhood than our comfort.” Sarah glanced out the window at the street urchins running alongside the fine carriage, shouting for a handout. Her heart told her to throw some coins out the window, but her head told her that would only draw more children and encourage them to be bolder, endangering life and limb as they ran perilously close to the wheels and the horses. In the city, even charity could be dangerous. “Thank you for coming with me today.”

Gino grinned. “I know you would’ve been fine on your own, but Mr. Malloy worries.”

“I know he does, even though I used to travel these streets alone at all hours of the day and night when I was called out to deliver babies.”

“He didn’t have the right to worry then, but now that you’re married . . .” He shrugged.

“I have to admit, it’s very nice to have someone worrying about me. Oh dear, what’s going on here?”

They both leaned to look out the window at a crowd of children gathered on the street corner. One boy stood on a box and appeared to be giving a speech while the rest of them cheered. Adults were stopping to listen and enjoy the spectacle.

“Newsboys,” Gino said.

“Newsboys? Oh yes, I’d forgotten. They’re on strike, aren’t they?”

“That’s what they call it. They aren’t selling the World or the Journal, although I guess all the other papers are still available.”

“But it looks like that one boy is giving a speech.” Sarah stuck her head out the window to keep the newsboys in sight as their carriage pulled away from the corner.

“He probably is. They have to keep the boys stirred up or they’ll give in and start selling the papers again.”

“Why are they striking?”

“Because of the cost of the papers. The boys used to buy them in bundles of ten for five cents, then sell them for a penny apiece, but last year during the war with Spain, the Journal and the World raised the price of the papers to six cents for ten. The boys didn’t mind then because people were buying more papers during the war, so they were still doing well, but the war is long over and the two papers haven’t lowered their prices.”

“That’s not fair to the boys.”

“I guess it would be if they could charge more for the papers, but nobody is going to pay more than a penny for a newspaper, so they’re stuck.”

“You know a lot about it, Gino.”

“I used to sell newspapers when I was a kid. It’s a hard life. I was lucky because I had a home and a family to go to every night, though. A lot of the boys are orphans.”

Sarah nodded. “Or even worse, they’ve been abandoned by their families. I used to think all the children on the streets were orphans. I just couldn’t believe that people would turn out their own little ones to fend for themselves. Then I came to understand that sometimes they have no other choice.”

“It’s amazing how many of the kids seem to do all right, though. I’ve seen boys as young as six or seven managing on their own. Of course, some of them end up in gangs, but the rest of them look out for each other.”

“And the lodging houses help, too, I suppose. At least they don’t have to sleep on the streets in the dead of winter.”

Gino shook his head. “The boys actually prefer sleeping on the streets. They like being able to come and go as they please. The lodging houses make you come in by nine thirty, but the boys like to stay out late and go to the theater.”

“The theater?” Sarah exclaimed in delight.

“That’s right, and then they go to a diner and have supper and smoke cigars and talk about the show.”

“I had no idea!”

“The boys also don’t like the way they’re always preaching to them in the lodging houses, trying ...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2017
• ISBN 10: 1101987111
• ISBN 13: 9781101987117
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 304