Murder on Millionaires' Row Page 3

  “Supposing he does? He’ll tell the police, and they’ll—”

  “They’ll do nothing,” I cried, too exasperated to keep my voice down. “You heard them, Clara! Champagne Charlie, they called him. Just another swell rounder living the high life, bound to turn up in some fancy hotel or parlor house before long.”

  “Did it occur to you they might be right?”

  “No,” I said coldly, “it certainly did not.”

  Silence stretched between us. Clara sighed. “I’ll send you out for groceries early in the morning.”

  I sagged with gratitude. “I won’t be long.”

  “Best not be, or both of us’ll wind up—”

  “I know,” I said, planting a kiss on her forehead. “The box factory.”

  CHAPTER 3

  MR. JONATHAN BURROWS—TICKING CLOCKS—HEADED FOR TROUBLE

  Morning found me hurrying up Fifth Avenue—or, if not exactly hurrying, doing my best to move along while gawking at the scenery. Even after two years of working for Mr. Wiltshire, I found it impossible to run the gauntlet of Vanderbilts and Joneses and Astors without my head being drawn irresistibly up, up, up to gaze upon the limestone palaces lining the wide expanse of Millionaires’ Row. If you haven’t had the experience, I’m not sure how to describe it to you. Imagine yourself an ant scurrying past a row of towering, elaborately frosted wedding cakes and you’ll have something of the idea. New York’s elite seemed forever locked in competition for the frilliest cornices, the showiest windows, the stateliest balconies. Follies, my mother used to call them, but if this was folly, it didn’t seem to be doing the New York aristocracy any harm.

  Mr. Jonathan R. Burrows, youngest son of the great steel baron Frederick R. H. Burrows, lived in a comparatively modest four-story row house across from Central Park. I’d visited it once before on an errand for Mr. Wiltshire and found its smooth brownstone front elegant and inviting, with its handsome bay windows, meticulously pruned boxwoods, and swooping wrought-iron rails. But as I stood at the bottom of the steps on that January morning, shivering with cold, I found nothing inviting in the grim features before me—dark windows staring out from under glowering eaves, the arch of the doorway turned down like a disapproving twist of the mouth. You have no business here, that stern visage seemed to say. What would Mr. Burrows think of a lowly maid calling on him in his home? What if he should report me to Mrs. Sellers, or—horrors—mention it to Mr. Wiltshire? Which of course he would, I realized with dawning dismay, since they were the closest of friends.

  Rose Gallagher, what on earth were you thinking?

  But no. Mr. Burrows had always been kind to me. He would understand, surely. After all, I was here under the direst of circumstances.

  I convinced myself for exactly the length of time required to ring the bell. At which point I was trapped.

  The fellow who answered the door looked like someone’s grandfather—the sort who has no use whatsoever for his grandchildren. He scowled first at my bonnet and then at my shoes, and nothing in between pleased him any better. “May I help you?”

  “Rose Gallagher to see Mr. Jonathan Burrows, please.” And then, in a flash of inspiration: “It’s an emergency.”

  This put the butler in a quandary. I wasn’t wearing my maid’s uniform, but even so it was plain enough from my humble appearance that I didn’t belong in his master’s house. On the other hand, I was a young woman in distress, so basic decorum prevented him from casting me out altogether. “Wait here,” he said grudgingly, and disappeared inside.

  My temporary bravado had worn off by this time, so I was more than a little surprised when the butler reappeared a moment later and said, “Follow me,” depositing me in the front parlor with vague assurances that Mr. Burrows would be along presently.

  I turned in a small circle, unsure if I should sit or stand. My experience of high society parlors was confined to dusting and sweeping them; what did I know of proper etiquette? I decided it was safest to stay where I was.

  I waited. A carriage clock on the mantel ticked primly, an all-too-present reminder of the time racing by. I’d promised Clara that I wouldn’t be long, but it had taken nearly half an hour to walk here, and it would be the same going back unless I managed to catch a stage. I glanced anxiously at the clock, and as I did, a glint of gold caught my eye. A gentleman’s watch lay on the mantel beside the carriage clock, as though someone had intended to set it and then forgot it.

  Curiosity overcame good manners. I picked it up … and instantly recognized it as Mr. Wiltshire’s. Not only was it a distinctive shade of rose gold, but the monogrammed case confirmed its identity, the initials T.W. framed by elaborate scrollwork. I ran my thumb lovingly over the case. Then I opened it, thrilling at the intimacy of the act.

  “Rose?”

  I started so violently that Mr. Burrows very nearly found me clinging to the ceiling like a spider, an empty Rose-shaped dress pooled on his rug.

  “Oh dear, I’ve given you a fright.” Half laughing, half apologetic, Mr. Burrows steered me to a chair. “I’m so sorry. Please, sit. There now, are you all right?”

  “I—I’m fine,” I stammered, Mr. Wiltshire’s watch still clutched damningly in my hand. “You startled me, that’s all.” Of course, what I really meant was You caught me snooping.

  “It is you after all. I was racking my brain trying to recall if there was another Rose of my acquaintance. I must say, this is quite a surprise.” Mr. Jonathan Burrows regarded me curiously. He was a handsome man, tall and fair, with a ready smile and a mischievous glint in his eye. I’d met him a number of times when he called on Mr. Wiltshire, and he’d always been very warm—even, may I say, a little flirtatious, though I didn’t flatter myself to think there was anything in it. Jonathan Burrows was just one of those wealthy young gentlemen accustomed to having the world at his feet, who, like a cat with its prey, takes a languid sort of amusement in trifling with it. “It’s not every day a pretty girl lands on my doorstep unannounced,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I started to answer, but I felt ridiculous sitting there with Mr. Wiltshire’s watch in my hand, so I held it out to him. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have … but I recognized it as Mr. Wiltshire’s, and…”

  “And you’re accustomed to picking up after him. I quite understand. He must have left it here the other day. It’s lucky you came by—you can return it to him.”

  “Except I can’t, because he isn’t at home.”

  The amused glint vanished from his eye; suddenly, Mr. Burrows was very serious indeed. “So he hasn’t turned up. Blast.” Running a hand over his clean-shaven jaw, he started to pace. “Where the deuce can he be?”

  “I was hoping you might have an idea. That’s why I’ve come.”

  “I don’t understand. Aren’t the police involved?”

  I felt myself flush, but I answered as frankly as I dared. “I don’t have much confidence in the police, sir.”

  Mr. Burrows snorted softly. “I daresay you’re not alone. But I’m not sure how I can help.”

  “Well, sir, if I may ask, when did you last see Mr. Wiltshire?”

  “Thursday. He came by in the morning. That must have been when he left the watch.”

  “You’re sure it was Thursday?”

  “Quite sure.” Smiling, he added, “After all, I’ve been over this with the police already.” Which was a gentle way of saying, This really isn’t your place.

  I recognized the rebuke, but I wasn’t going to let it put me off, not after I’d come this far. “Of course, forgive me. After all, it was you who reported Mr. Wiltshire missing.”

  “Indeed.”

  “You knew something was wrong before anyone else—but how?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Forgive me, I just wondered how you knew, since Mr. Wiltshire had only been gone for a short while.”

  “Why, because he didn’t turn up for our engagement on Saturday night. We were meant to have dinner together at the Park Av
enue Hotel.”

  “Before the opera.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Mr. Wiltshire had opera tickets for Saturday night. I suppose you were planning to go together?”

  “That’s right. An early dinner on Park Avenue, then the opera. I waited for him at the club, but he never arrived, and that isn’t like Wiltshire at all.”

  There’d been no hesitation, not even a heartbeat, but I knew straightaway something was off. His blue eyes seemed suddenly distant. There was a wariness to him now, a subtle tension in his posture, his too-perfect smile.

  You’re imagining things, I told myself. Why would he lie? And yet his explanation didn’t make sense. I might not have known much about New York society etiquette, but it seemed to me that failing to turn up for supper was hardly grounds for involving the police.

  I started to say something. Stopped. Mr. Burrows watched me with that wooden smile. “I want to do everything I can to help find him,” I said carefully.

  “Of course, and I know he’d be touched. But I’m afraid there’s little either of us can do except provide the police with whatever information we have, which in my case is regrettably little.” He sighed and shook his head. “I simply had a feeling that something wasn’t right.”

  “But if you were worried, why not come by the house before going to the police? He might have been there, or at his office.”

  “I did call at the house, but it was very late. No one came to the door.”

  An unmistakable edge to his voice now. He was lying, I was sure of it. But why? For a moment, all I could do was sit there, confused and a little frightened, at a loss to explain why Mr. Wiltshire’s closest friend would lie about what happened to him. I trotted out the only clue I had left, trivial as it was. “The odd thing is, I thought I heard Mr. Wiltshire say that he didn’t care for Wagner. And I seem to recall that you agreed with him, yet barely a week later—”

  “I’m sorry, Rose, what is this about? You seem to think I’m keeping something from you.”

  “Are you?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and I blushed again.

  A long pause. Mr. Burrows gazed down at me, oddly appraising. Then: “I think you’d better leave.”

  Blood rushed to my face before draining down to my toes. I started to tremble; I wasn’t sure if I was humiliated or angry or both. Wordlessly, I sprang to my feet and marched to the door. My hand was on the doorknob when I paused and, summoning every ounce of courage I possessed, whirled back around. “You are keeping something from me, though I can’t imagine why.”

  The blue eyes regarded me coolly. “You’re mistaken.”

  “Oh, really?” I brandished the gold watch. “You say you haven’t seen Mr. Wiltshire since Thursday, and you claim not to have noticed that he left his watch behind. So how is it still ticking four days later?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a Patek Philippe. The Swiss make miraculous watches.”

  “You can’t seriously expect me to believe that.”

  “Go home, Rose.” His tone was surprisingly gentle. For some reason, that terrified me.

  We stared at each other for another long, tense moment. “I can help,” I said, preposterously.

  “Bertram will see you out,” he said, and that was that.

  * * *

  I was so flustered by the exchange with Mr. Burrows that I very nearly forgot to pick up the groceries on my way home. As it was, Clara clucked and tutted over my hasty selection of vegetables, and she pronounced the chicken fit only for chicken salad with mayonnaise. “Lucky for you the old hag’s got one of her headaches today,” she said, hitching a thumb to indicate the attic, where Mrs. Sellers cloistered herself whenever one of her “bilious headaches” came on. “She rang for you only once this morning, and I told her you was doing the shopping. Wanted me to send you up there soon as you got back, but it’s probably best you wait a while. I’ll just say I forgot to pass on the message; that way she’ll never know what time you got back.”

  I nodded distractedly as I tied on my apron, my mind still adrift in Mr. Burrows’s parlor.

  “He tell you anything useful?” Clara asked, peeling onions for a chicken salad that would most likely end up in the trash. In spite of the crisis, Mrs. Sellers had insisted that we continue on as if nothing were amiss, as befit a proper high society household.

  “He lied to me.” The words sounded distant to my ears, as if someone else were speaking them.

  Clara paused. “What do you mean, lied to you?”

  “I asked him about Mr. Wiltshire, and he looked me straight in the eye and lied.”

  “Now why would he go and do a thing like that?”

  I shook my head, at a loss.

  “You sure he was lying?”

  The bluntness of her question lifted the fog, and suddenly the full meaning of what I was suggesting was laid bare before me, crystal clear in all its ugliness. I was accusing Mr. Jonathan R. Burrows, of the Philadelphia Burrowses, of being a liar. “I suppose he can’t have, can he?”

  “’Course he could. Question is, why would he?”

  “He wouldn’t. A gentleman like Mr. Burrows…”

  Clara tsked. “What’s being rich got to do with it? Rich folks lie as often as poor ones. More, maybe.”

  I stared at her, scandalized.

  “Rose, Rose.” She muttered something about champagne bubbles going to my head. Then: “What made you think he was lying?”

  “Well, for one thing, he claimed not to have seen Mr. Wiltshire since Thursday, but look.” I drew his watch from my pocket, dangling the exhibit dramatically before my jury of one.

  Clara’s eyes widened. “Put that away!” she hissed, waving at me as if to shoo a stray cat. “Housekeeper catches you with that, you’ll be sent up the river for sure! You wanna spend the rest of your life breaking rocks?”

  I tucked the watch out of sight. That wasn’t what she meant, of course; I should have put it back in his room straightaway. But I wasn’t quite ready to part with my treasure just yet, and even the specter of Sing Sing wasn’t enough to bring me to my senses.

  “I found it at Mr. Burrows’s house, in the parlor. It’s still ticking, Clara.”

  “So?”

  “So if Mr. Wiltshire hadn’t been there since Thursday, the watch would have stopped days ago.”

  “That it? There’s plenty of explanations for that.”

  “Yes, I’m told the Swiss make miraculous watches,” I said irritably. “But what was it doing there in the first place? Weren’t you the one who said you saw him winding it on Saturday?”

  She paused, thinking back. “Well, I thought so, but maybe I’m remembering wrong. He’s always winding that thing.”

  “Exactly. When have you ever seen him without it?”

  “So you’re thinking—what? That Mr. Burrows stole it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s rich as a Rockefeller.”

  “So what if he is? Lord Almighty, Rose, we ain’t among the angels up here. Fifth Avenue’s no different than Five Points or any other place.”

  I lapsed into a brief silence, stunned by this heresy. New York’s belief in the relationship between geography and virtue was practically gospel. For scripture, one had only to consult a map of Manhattan, the grid lines of which seemed to hint at the moral character of their residents. Above Fourteenth Street, the lines were straight, disciplined, reliable—none more so than Fifth Avenue, the undisputed backbone of the city, marching up the center of the island like the hand of a moral compass pointing due north. Below the Line, meanwhile, the streets were crooked and unpredictable, as befit the residents of those blighted lowlands.

  But I didn’t have time to argue about New York religion. “I can’t believe Mr. Burrows would steal a watch, especially from a friend. It looked to me as if Mr. Wiltshire left it there by accident, as though he went to check it against the clock on the mantelpiece and then forgot it.”

  “Sounds like a man with time on his mind.”

/>   “The sort of man who might leave breakfast in a hurry.”

  “That was on Saturday. So you think…?”

  “It would make sense, wouldn’t it? What if, after he left here on Saturday morning, Mr. Wiltshire went straight to Mr. Burrows? Maybe he wanted to talk over whatever he’d seen in the Times?”

  “Lotta ifs and maybes,” Clara pointed out. “And it still don’t explain why Mr. Burrows would lie about it.”

  “No,” I sighed, “I suppose not.”

  “Unless he was trying to protect someone.”

  “Like who?”

  “Mr. Wiltshire, say. Maybe he’s into some bad business, and Mr. Burrows is trying to keep it under his hat.”

  Lying to protect a friend’s reputation—that sounded like something a Fifth Avenue gentleman might do. But I couldn’t believe that Mr. Wiltshire, proper Englishman that he was, could be mixed up in anything too terrible.

  I was about to say as much when Clara went on, “Or maybe it’s you he’s trying to protect.”

  “Me? Why should I need protecting?”

  “Because you’re sniffing around where you don’t belong. If Mr. Wiltshire is into some bad business, you could be headed for trouble.”

  “Worse than the box factory?”

  “I mean it, Rose.” Clara’s brown eyes were earnest. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep outta this from now on.”

  We stared at each other for a stretch, and I knew we shared the same thought: When had I ever known what was good for me?

  CHAPTER 4

  A BUCKET OF LUCK—STAGES, CABS, AND CARRIAGES—MR. BURROWS GOES SLUMMING—BAD BUSINESS

  The following morning brought a welcome stroke of luck. Mrs. Sellers rang shortly after dawn, and upon entering the dark little cave of her bedroom, I found a pail of sick at her bedside.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking: How could a bucketful of vomit possibly be lucky? Well, for Clara and me, it signified nothing short of a holiday. Mrs. Sellers would not be leaving the confines of her bedroom for at least another day. I’d learned to classify the housekeeper’s headaches according to their symptoms, and vomiting placed it in the severest category, the sort that took two, sometimes three days to clear up. Two to three days of glorious freedom from Mrs. Sellers’s relentless harping. Such an event occurred not more than twice a year, and I hope you won’t judge me too harshly if I say that I put it on a par with Easter and St. Patrick’s Day.