Murder in Chelsea by Victoria Thompson

Catherine would be safe there, and as it turned out, she was right. Eventually, one of the women who volunteer there took Catherine to live with her. The first anyone knew anything about Catherine’s background was when Miss Murphy went to the settlement house the other day looking for her.”
    “And how did you get involved in all of this?”
    “The matron at the settlement house refused to tell Miss Murphy where Catherine was. She wanted to check with Catherine’s guardian first. The guardian asked me to speak with Miss Murphy and find out if she really did have a claim on the child. She cares for Catherine very much and has no intention of turning her over to a total stranger.”
    “I am not a total stranger, Mr. Malloy. I’m her father. This guardian, as you call her, can turn her over to me with a clear conscience.”
    “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
    “Of course it’s a good idea. She’s my daughter!”
    “Anne Murphy went looking for Catherine, and a few days later someone murdered her.”
    “That has nothing to do with Catherine.”
    “Are you sure? I’m not. And until I am, I’m not going to risk her life.” Frank waited, watching Wilbanks’s anger flare and then die as Frank’s words sank in.
    “Mr. Malloy, as you can see, I’m quite ill. My doctors give me a few months at the most. I want to spend them with my child, and I will do whatever is necessary to make that happen.”
    * * *
    F RANK THOUGHT ABOUT STOPPING BY TO SEE S ARAH. She’d be worried sick, but the news he had to give her would upset her even more, so he was in no hurry to deliver it. Besides, if he waited until this evening, Catherine would be asleep, and they’d be able to speak freely. He decided to find the address on the letters Emma Hardy had sent to Anne Murphy.
    It was an old house just off Broadway. A wealthy family had built it long ago when this had been a fashionable part of town. Now it was a boardinghouse, like so many others in the city. A young woman answered his knock, striking a pose in the doorway. She looked him up and down and grinned a little too boldly to be a maid. “And what would you be wanting?”
    “I’d like to speak to the landlady.”
    “Would you now? And what if the landlady is busy?”
    “Then tell her Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police is here to see her.”
    Her grin vanished. “What is it? What’s happened?”
    “I need to speak to the landlady.”
    She started away, then caught herself. “Come in,” she called back and hurried down the hall toward the back of the house. Frank stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him. The place looked like all the other boardinghouses he’d ever seen except this one seemed a little brighter somehow. Maybe it was the garish yellow wallpaper.
    Two young women peered at him from the parlor.
    “Are you a copper?” one asked.
    “Detective sergeant.”
    They exchanged a knowing look. “Who’re you here to pinch?” the other one asked.
    “Who do you think?”
    They grinned at that, flirting a little. They were bold, but not like whores. And their clothes were a little too flashy, but not that way. He couldn’t put his finger on it at first, and then . . .
    “Are you actresses?”
    “Of course,” the first one said, as if insulted he had to ask.
    “Mrs. Dugan only rents to actresses.”
    “Chorus girls,” an older woman said as she came down the hall toward him. “Get in the kitchen, you two, and help Maggie or there won’t be no dinner tonight,” she said to the girls, who hurried off.
    “You must be Mrs. Dugan,” Frank said.
    She’d been a handsome woman in her youth, probably a chorus girl herself, and age had dimmed her only slightly. “Nell Dugan, and what would you be wanting with us, Mr. Detective Sergeant?”
    “Can we talk in private?”
    Alarm flickered over her face, but she said, “In here.” She directed him to the parlor where the two girls had been and closed the door