Discovery on the Stairs

Queens, Maisie’s Hair Boutique, 1947

On the day that Eunice Pike found a corpse on the stairs of her apartment building in the Lower East Side, Charlene was in Queens getting a permanent. She was sitting under the helmet hairdryer reading People and sucking a mint. Maisie was sweeping up but paused to ask Charlene something that had just occurred to her.

“Hey Char, ya eva hear what happened to Brian?”

“Brian, my-sister’s-Brian?” Charlene said after lodging the mint in the gap between her gum and lip.

“Yay.”

“Who cares? Good riddance, I say. As far as I’m concerned, he don’t exist no more. The grief he put Rosie through! Why, I oughta wring his neck. Just run outta town—no ‘see ya’ or nothin’. Meanwhile, her rent’s due and she got the twins to look after. I said they could stay with me till she finds her feet. I just hope the neighbors don’t rat me out to my old landlord.”

“That was real nice of ya Char,” Maisie said, “I don’t know I’da done that. Your place ain’t so big.”

“Family’s family. What was I gonna do? Let her beg on the streets? Anyhow, she’ll be all right. Rosie’s smart, she’s got good secretarial references, which is how she met that lousy snake in the first place.” She paused to suck vigorously at her mint, disgusted.

“How’s she takin’ it?”

“Rosie? It’s rough. Course it is. But the worst thing about it, to me, is that she keeps sticking up for the rotten deadbeat. ‘Char, you don’t know him. He wouldn’t do such a thing on purpose. He’s a good man Char, something musta happened to him. And so on.” Her voice became high and pathetic in a not entirely fair imitation of her baby sister.

Maisie shook her head sadly.

“It’s always the way. Making excuses. She’s in denial.”

“So I says, ‘You bet something happened to him—some kinda natural disaster, probably blonde too. But she doesn’t listen. Rosie’s as stubborn as our pop.”

***

Rosie, the subject of the discussion at Maisie’s Hair Boutique, was indeed unusually determined. For the eighth time since her husband Brian O’Malley had disappeared two months earlier, she was on her way to the local police station to make an inquiry. She hadn’t been able to get a sitter for the afternoon so the twins were coming along for the ride.

Rosie O’Malley was a springy young woman with wavy chestnut hair and a smattering of freckles on a snub nose. As she walked she talked sternly to the twins, who were sitting facing each other in the pram.

“Now you two contain yourselves a little while. We want to make a good impression on these coppers. Last time you yelled your lungs out, Bobby, which wasn’t gentlemanly. And Alice, please don’t grab. We want to keep our hands and our opinions to ourselves, see?”

The two eighteen-month-olds gazed at her skeptically and Rosie burst out laughing in spite of herself.

She was still smiling as she wheeled the pram into the reception area of the station.

“Morning Mrs. O’Malley,” said Tim the receptionist. “Glad to see you’re in a good mood today. Babies behaving?”

“The babies are regular angels Mr. Powell but the reason I’m in a good mood is because I know that today’s the day you’re gonna let me talk to someone real. I’m tired of getting fobbed off on boobs and stiffs. It’s been eight weeks and I’ve had nothing but the brush off. What gives? Won’t you let me see someone?”

“Aw, well, you know I want to help you, ’course I do. I feel for you and the tykes. But the fact is, it’s like your husband vanished into thin air. The boys are working on it but they got no leads.”

“Bunkum. I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re telling me that they’re going knocking door to door for information? That they’re putting up fliers? Not them. What you call ‘working on it’ means they’ve got their feet up on their desks waiting for Brian to come in off of the street and introduce himself to them. If any of these so-called detectives had to do a lick of work, why, they’d probably keel over from the strain. Shhhh, Bobby, it’s my turn to have a tantrum now. Now you listen to me, Mr. Powell, I’m going to sit right down here in your reception hall until you get me an interview with a proper senior detective. I don’t care if it takes all day and night—we’re not shifting a single step.”

By this time both Bobby and Alice were bawling with gusto and Tim Powell started to feel alarmed. It was at this moment that Dick Von Dorn walked in.

“Good set of lungs on those two,” Dick said amiably. Rosie snarled.

Dick approached the reception desk and leaned towards Tim.

“Friendly sort of female,” he observed. “You been buttering her up?”

Tim smiled.

“No sir. She’s sore because her old man flew the coop two months ago.”

“Not that I blame him,” Dick murmured.

“She’s convinced there’s been some kind of foul play. Course she’s got nothing to go on but a ‘feeling’.”

“She filed a missing persons report?”

“Yes. Now she comes once a week, Mondays. She wants to talk to a detective about it.”

Von Dorn stroked his chin.

“Two months, huh?” He seemed to come to a sudden decision. Switching on his most disarming smile, he strode over to the frazzled mother and extended a hand.

“Name’s Von Dorn and I’m the best detective in the building. I’ll listen to your story.”

Rosie looked him up and down, considering. Tall, ugly as a young Socrates, and clearly pleased with himself. And yet, she decided she could trust him somehow. His hand was warm and rough.

“Rosie O’Malley,” she said.

“Pleased to meet you. Step this way, bring the bawlers too.”

***

“So,” said Van Dorn when they were both perched in the interrogation room, “Your husband two months ago. That would be—what, early April?”

“April 10,” she agreed. “He left to go to his job as usual but never came home that night.”

“And what was his job?”

“Something to do with imports and exports. I-I don’t know exactly.”

“And it was out of character for him to leave?”

She hesitated, biting her lower lip.

“I wouldn’t say that. There were times in the past when he needed to get away for a time. I never knew where. Was he a rolling stone? Yes, a little. But the difference is that he always told me he was going away beforehand, and he always made sure the rent was settled beforehand too.”

“But this time it was a surprise.”

She nodded.

“How long have you been married?”

“Two years nearly.”

Van Dorn cleared his throat, conscious that he may be about to cause some embarrassment.

“Tell me Mrs. O’Malley, did your husband drink?”

She looked at him evenly, almost scornfully.

“Never touched a drop,” she said.

“And how old was he, more or less?”

“Forty four. He looked older because his hair was grey.”

“Would you happen to have a snapshot on you?”

She nodded and dug into her purse, extracting a pocketbook. Opening it, she took out a small black-and-white photograph.

“It’s from when he was younger, but he looks just the same now.”

Van Dorn looked at the picture and let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Mrs. O’Malley, did he know anyone on Grand Street?”

She looked at him sharply.

“Not as far as I know. Why? Have you found him?”

“If there’s anyone you can call to collect your children, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

***

At the morgue, Rosie positively identified the corpse of the unknown man as her husband. She’d never seen the dirty clothes he was wearing before and she seemed shocked by his beard and unkempt looks but nevertheless she was sure it was him. In some way, the unfamiliarity of his dishevelment buffered the shock for a time. Then she noticed a freckle on his earlobe and started weeping.

Van Dorn and Pete dropped her at her sister’s place and stopped off at a Russian diner for something to eat.

“Well,” said Pete with relief. “Now we know!”

“What do we know exactly?” Van Dorn asked with raised eyebrows. “We know his name, that’s all. Not even his wife knew what he did for a living. She didn’t know why he’d be on Grand Street and had never seen those clothes before. He had a habit of disappearing for weeks at a time. This O’Malley’s a mysterious character, Pete.”

“Well, let him be a mysterious character. All you need on a death certificate is a name and age and next of kin.”

“How about the murder part?”

Pete shrugged.

“The way I see it, it’s none of our business. If he was associating with bad apples, well, there are consequences for that. Looks like he found out what they are.”

“And his family?”

“Sure, I feel bad for the gal. But you heard her—she must’ve known he was crooked. You’re telling me she didn’t have questions about his activities?”

Van Dorn looked at Pete sadly and shook his head.

“For the life of me I can’t figure out why you wanted to become a detective, Pete. You have about as much curiosity as a plank and as much morality as a hungry raccoon.”

“All right, all right. Hold the compliments, chief. The difference between us is that you still have illusions. I grew out of them when bowler hats were in fashion.” He paused to stuff a few blini in his mouth and to wash them down with kvass. “The truth is, some people can’t be saved and the others don’t want to be.”

“Let me make a note of that,” Van Dorn murmured before throwing back a shot of vodka. “Say, did you notice anything funny about that broad?”

“What, the O’Malley woman? Well, she was pretty, I guess.”

“No, not that. Did you notice a wedding ring?”

“Well, now that you mention it…no. But that doesn’t mean much.”

“And what about the business of him going away for long stretches. Did it seem to you she was upset about that?”

“Well, not really. But what are you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything. Just noticing.”

“You think she's a black widow?” Pete said in disbelief.

Van Dorn shrugged. “Let’s check if there was an insurance policy out on him.”