Murder on the Waterfront

By Susan Brassfield Cogan

Cherie Jung reviewing for Over My Dead Body:
“It’s been quite some time since I read a book I was willing to skip lunch to continue reading, but I read straight through from page one to the end without stopping. Everything clicks. A good story, fascinating characters, and snappy dialogue.”

Lady Margaret’s quest to bring a killer to justice leads her out of her art studio to a seedy all-night cafe, a Depression-era tenement, the waterfront, and eventually to the dark underbelly of Chinatown.

Inspector Monahan, the blunt-talking son of Irish immigrants has no love for the English nobility. He takes a dim view of interfering amateur sleuths and doesn’t like being strong-armed, even by a gorgeous dame.

Together they pursue the Mandarin, a shadowy Chinese gangster who may have the answers to blackmail, smuggling, and the whereabouts of a heartless killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susan Brassfield Cogan
• Release date: Jun 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458150967

Susan Brassfield Cogan

Susan Cogan is a full time writer and occasionally amuses herself as a graphic designer. She writes things that she enjoys and she enjoys quite a lot. She has been at various times a nurse’s aid, a belly dancer, an actress, a journalist, and a radio shock jock. Her career is long, varied, colorful, often exaggerated and occasionally untrue. Cogan is the author of many novels: Black Jade Dragon, Dragon Sword, Dragon Rising, The Button Man, The Last Gift, Heart of the Tengeri, Murder on the Waterfront and The Man Who Needed Killing. Her nonfiction works include: Hands of the Buddha, The Buddha’s Three Jewels, and The Pocket Darwin. She has also written numerous award winning short stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Journal Entry: 4 November 1935

A man died in my arms tonight. I must write down all the details before they recede into the mists of memory. I am now safe at my writing desk in a warm library, but the cold streets are still settled in my bones and my hands are still shaking a little.

I was walking home after an artist’s journey when I decided to get a cup of coffee at Curly’s, an all-night cafe near the Embarcadero. I am well known on the waterfront and therefore safer than most lone women at night. The danger is sufficient, however, that I remain acutely aware of my surroundings. I strive to be aware at all times—my art demands it—but after midnight I attend closely to every sound, every rustle, every footfall which is not my own. I was protected by the thinnest of disguises, the costume of an ordinary seaman and my hair tightly pinned and covered by a watch cap. Also, I never go out alone without a twelve-shot Beretta in the waistband of my trousers.

My usual route to Curly’s was blocked by street repair, and I was forced to turn back. Cold and tired, I jammed my fists into my pockets and thought about calling Henry to drive out and retrieve me. Taxis are reluctant to come to that part of town at that time of night and the cable cars had long since stopped running.

Most of the shops on Paradiso Street were shut up for the night. Here and there a pool of light spilling from a shop window illuminated the dark street, making the darkness seem deeper and the November cold even bleaker. I passed a wholesale fabric shop. The placard on the door said Closed, but two men stood at the counter chatting amicably. I briefly envied them their warmth and light as I trudged on. At the end of the block, I turned right onto Water Street and headed toward Chinatown, hoping to find a public telephone with which to disturb Henry’s sleep, or perhaps an all-night taxi stand.

Just then I heard rapid footsteps coming up from behind. My alertness sharpened and I freed my hands from my pockets in order to have quick access to my pistol if it should be needed. I turned to face whatever came toward me. A small, plump man rounded the corner, running hard. He held his hat on his head with one hand and the lapels of his suit coat flapped as he ran. He passed under a street lamp, and I recognized Avrahm Rosenberg. He brushed by, not slowing down, obviously not recognizing me. A greeting died on my lips. When he drew even with the mouth of the alley, a shot exploded and he halted in mid-step. Then he stumbled, reeled and fell to the ground.

My heart leapt into my throat and the Beretta leapt into my hand. I ran toward him. Mr. Rosenberg! I called. I looked up the alley whence the shot had come. I saw in the light of a doorway, a young man with wild eyes and even wilder hair. You, there! I pointed my pistol at him. Put up your hands! When he saw my gun, he turned and bolted up the alley. I am not the sort of person who can coldly shoot a man in the back, not even a killer caught red-handed. I fired a shot into the air and called for him to stop, but it was useless. He was gone.

Then I heard a groan from Mr. Rosenberg. I had assumed he was dead. I immediately ran to him. Even in the dim light I could see he was wounded badly. Mr. Rosenberg, I said. It’s Margaret Thompson.

Oh, yes, he seemed surprised. Lady Margaret, I . . . his voice trailed off.

Rest easy, Mr. Rosenberg, I’m going to call for the police. I think you’ll be all right if we can get you to hospital. Hold on—do you understand? I’m leaving to get help, but I’ll be right back.

A lighted shop only a few yards away promised human habitation. I ran to it. The door was locked. I pounded with both fists on the window. A big blonde man came out from the back, looked at me and said Sorry, we’re closed! and waved me away.

No! I shouted. Someone’s been hurt! Call the police. Tell them to send an ambulance! He hesitated for a second. Please! Call the police! Finally he nodded and picked up the telephone on the counter and began dialing. Satisfied, I ran back to Mr. Rosenberg.

During the Great War I spent a good deal of time in Flanders as a nurse. The training I received then has proved useful many times. This was one of those times. I had a large handkerchief in my hip pocket and this I applied to the wound in Mr. Rosenberg’s ribs, pushing hard to stop the bleeding. A quick examination revealed that the bullet had missed his heart, but I suspected it had passed through his lungs. I could find no exit wound, so I knew the bullet must be lodged inside. I saw this kind of wound many times in the war and I know an operation to repair the damage and drain the blood from his lungs would save his life—if he could be gotten to hospital very quickly.

But the police did not come quickly. Mr. Rosenberg drifted in and out of consciousness. When his breathing became laboured I lifted his shoulders and, sitting cross-legged, leaned him against me there in the middle of the alley. This freshened the bleeding and I could feel it soaking into the rough wool blouse of my sailor’s costume.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Rosenberg patted my hand. Ilse, I am so very sorry, he said. He spoke in German, which I understand fairly well. Then he mumbled something I didn’t catch.

Mr. Rosenberg, I said. Who did this to you? Did you recognize him? He didn’t answer. I guessed that he had again lost consciousness.

The face of the killer is vivid in my mind. I have made a few preliminary sketches and they are scattered before me on the desk. A young man looks at me from them. His eyes are large and dark with terror and the knowledge of his crime. I will make a more detailed rendering before I fall asleep. Sleep. It calls to me like a lover in the distance. Henry has just brought me some coffee. Thank you, Darling.

Now to resume. Time passed. Too much time. The cold, empty alley loomed silent as a sepulcher. No passersby strolled along on the street. The dead of night had literally descended. I held the dying man in my arms, acutely aware that I presented my back to the alleyway down which the killer had fled.

Mr. Rosenberg woke sometimes, briefly, though never fully. He spoke to his wife. He continued to apologize and beg her forgiveness. I don’t know her well. I’ve met her only once, when he brought her to an art opening. He and I knew each other slightly and were quite cordial. He occasionally bought my smaller, less expensive pieces. I thought him a charming little fellow, with elegant European manners.

He muttered and gestured incoherently. My German is not as good as my French, but I understood nearly everything he said. He sometimes spoke to someone who was not his wife. You are a cannibal . . . he said. I am sure of the word Kannibale. You are a cannibal! How can you do this . . . Then he muttered something I couldn’t make out. After that he fell silent again. He struggled for breath. His life ebbed away in the dark and there was nothing I could do but hold him upright as well as I could and watch him go.

The police did not come. No ambulance. Mr. Rosenberg continued to call for his wife and talk to the monster who had killed him. I pretended to be his wife and while tears rolled down my cheeks, I assured him of my love and forgiveness. I don’t know if I fooled him, but he seemed to be comforted a bit.

I was weeping when a patrol car finally rolled by the mouth of the alley. I cursed them and their indifference, then pulled out my pistol and fired three shots into the air. I heard their tyres shriek to a stop, and then the car turned sharply around. Two policemen emerged and edged toward me with their guns pointed at me.

Don’t shoot you idiots! Radio for an ambulance immediately! They hesitated and looked at each other.

What’s going on? said the taller of the two.

A man is going to die if you don’t call an ambulance!

You’re a dame! the taller man remarked astutely.

Mr. Rosenberg stirred. Mein Liebchen . . . My Darling Ilse . . . Ilse . . . and then I felt the sudden weight of a lifeless body. I held him as the police slowly advanced.

Peterson, call for an ambulance, said the taller one.

I shook my head hopelessly. He’s gone. It’s too late.

Push the gun over to me and stand up, said the one who wasn’t Peterson. Later I discovered his name was Ferelli. You’re under arrest.

Under arrest? What is the charge?

"Shove that gun over here right now." Ferelli’s voice was flint. One of the things I have learned in my life is how foolish it is to frighten a policeman. I pushed the Beretta toward him. It skittered to a stop a few inches from his feet.

What is the charge? I asked. I laid Mr. Rosenberg gently on the pavement. I tried to stand, but my legs were numb.

Murder! said Ferelli.

Murder! I am embarrassed to report that I lost my temper. Do murderesses often summon the police, tend their victims’ wounds and weep over their dying bodies? How dare you! You murdered this man as much as the monster who pulled the trigger! The police were called over half an hour ago and you are just now getting here! He would have survived if you had come immediately. I went on in this vein for quite some time, struggling to my feet and standing in front of the policeman with his pistol pointing at my belly. Finally, to my extreme annoyance, I was weeping so hard I could not continue.

I must have convinced him. Ferelli holstered his pistol and took out a small tablet and the stub of a pencil. Tell me your name, he said.

I took several deep breaths and got hold of myself. I am Lady Margaret Thompson, Countess of Chesterleigh. Both men laughed. It was a reaction I had come to expect in the States when introducing myself to common folk. I sometimes call myself just Margaret Thompson, but this was an official situation.

And I’m the Queen of Romania, he said. Get into the car, sister. Peterson, stay with the stiff. I’ll radio for the meat wagon. I climbed into the patrol car, too tired to argue. Soaked with drying blood, I trembled with exhaustion and cold. At least it was warm in the car.

When we arrived at the station, I telephoned Henry, waking him, and asked him to retrieve me. Henry is a very cool customer. He didn’t quiz me about the situation. He has rescued me times without number over the years, and he knew I would eventually tell him all the details. My life’s adventures are never complete until they have been told to Henry. I warned him that I was bone weary and would wish to go home the instant he arrived.

About forty-five minutes later I could hear a row going on outside in the public area of the police station. Someone shouted and a door slammed. I stood.

That will be Henry, I said to Ferelli. He had been questioning me in a small, dingy office. I’m too tired to continue. Send someone around tomorrow about four o’clock and I will provide a drawing of the killer and answer any further questions.

Sit down, sister, said Ferelli. We ain’t done with you.

But I am finished with you for the moment, I said. I dug in the trousers of my sailor’s costume and pulled out a calling card. Across one corner, the card was stained with Mr. Rosenberg’s blood. My eyes stung with fresh tears when I saw it. My blouse was saturated with his blood and sticking to me as it dried. I had been ignoring it. I wiped the tears away and handed the card to the policeman. The door burst open and Henry stood there, gripping his hat with white knuckles. Another policeman hung onto his shoulder.

Now wait a minute! Ferelli exclaimed as he jumped to his feet.

Henry ignored him, looking me up and down. Are you all right, Maggie? he said, his voice shaking a little.

Yes, Darling, I replied. Ferelli said something but I don’t remember what. Henry filled my eyes. Do you remember Mr. Rosenberg? Henry hesitated and then nodded.

The pudgy little art dealer, he said. He was at the charity show last month.

That is he, I said. He’s dead. Relief spread across Henry’s face.

Then that blood isn’t yours!

Oh, Heavens, no! Oh, Darling!

Henry shook off the officer’s hand which still restrained him and threw his arms around me. I wanted very much to weep, but I knew if I did I wouldn’t stop for quite some time, and I could hear Officer Ferelli shouting something. I presumed he was speaking to me.

Please stop shouting, I said to him. You have my card. Send someone around tomorrow at four. Good night.

Henry brought me home and helped me out of the blood-soaked clothes and into a hot bath while I told him the whole story. Then I set to work on the sketches that are before me now. I am so tired now that my hands are trembling and my eyes keep closing on their own.

However, I must write down one more thing. The man in those sketches has good reason to look frightened. I will find him and I swear I will bring him to justice.

Chapter 2

Thomas Monahan sat in his beat-up ’28 Ford taking in the Countess’s front steps and waiting for four o’clock. He tapped her calling card idly on the steering wheel and wondered what kind of blue-blooded dame prowled the waterfront at night dressed in a sailor suit. Her front steps were wide red tile with pots of pink and white flowers leading up to the door. White grillwork guarded her narrow strip of lawn from the sidewalk.

He studied the card for about the fiftieth time. Lady Margaret Thompson, Countess of Chesterleigh. A Hyde Street address below the name and a phone number in the bottom-right hand corner. Just plain black letters on a white card. Used to be white. The night shift guy had told him the brown stain was the victim’s blood. This crazy dame had witnessed the killing and said she could draw a picture of the killer, no less.

The Grace Cathedral bell tolled softly in the distance. Monahan glanced at his watch. Four straight up. Time to meet her ladyship. He reached through the window and opened the door—the handle on the inside didn’t work—and climbed out of the car. He lifted his fedora long enough to smooth his hair and then strode up the steps. He thumbed the doorbell and waited. He whistled Wild Wood Stranger under his breath, realized he was doing it, and stopped. His dad had always whistled when he was nervous. Now the son couldn’t quite shake the habit. Finally the door opened and a pleasant, plump, round-faced woman stood in the entryway.

Good afternoon, she said. Are you from the police? She had a pretty English accent.

Yes, Ma’am. I’m Inspector Thomas Monahan. Are you the Countess Chester-leg?

Her eyes crinkled with amusement. Oh my, no. I am Mary Bennett, her ladyship’s housekeeper. Countess Chester-lee will be very glad to see you. We’ve had a new development. Please wait here a moment.

What new development? Is she okay?

She will wish to discuss it with you herself. One moment, please.

After she left, Monahan remembered his hat and pulled it off, smoothing his hair again. The small entryway was dominated by a nearly floor-to-ceiling painting of the Victoire del Fe Church on the Rue de Poisson in Paris. Monahan recognized it because he’d spent some time in Paris after the war and had an apartment a couple of blocks away on the Rue de Pais. The church was portrayed bathed in golden afternoon sunlight punctuated by ominous shadows. Monahan also knew about the only way you could get that exact view of the church was from the front door of the cathouse across the street. He could vouch for that personally.

Mary Bennett finally came back. Nice picture, said Monahan, indicating the painting with a jerk of his thumb.

Oh, thank you, said Mary. Lady Chesterleigh did that years ago after the war. Please come this way.

She painted it herself? he asked as he followed her obediently.

She turned and smiled at him. Yes, indeed. Madame is a rather famous artist. She studied for many years in Paris.

Monahan followed the housekeeper through the kind of swanky joint you only saw in the movies. Every room had paintings, furniture and vases that looked like they belonged in an art museum. He thought how much Muriel, the late Mrs. Monahan, would have liked all this stuff. She used to apologize for dragging him to art museums. He hadn’t minded so much. He liked how much she enjoyed it, and she would certainly have enjoyed the tour he was getting now.

The housekeeper led him to a wide room with a big polished wooden table lit by a solid wall of windows. She invited him to sit at the table and went out a door in the glass wall. A garden, surrounded by white stone, crowded around a small courtyard out there in the sunshine. A woman in a gray robe stood at a wrought-iron table arranging flowers in a Chinese vase. Mary Bennett spoke to her and she turned, smiled and waved at him. She said something to the housekeeper, who nodded and came back inside.

Her ladyship says she’s almost finished and she will join you in a moment. Meanwhile I’m to give you the drawings and ask if you would like tea or coffee.

Thanks, Ma’am, coffee would be fine. He tossed his hat on the table, and took a seat. He accepted a sheaf of heavy white paper from her, and then she bustled off.

The pencil sketches reminded him a little of the church painting in the entryway—soft light and dark, heavy shadows. The face was clear enough, a young man with wild hair, medium build. He looked scared. There was a full face with the scared look, then a profile, then a back view of him running away. There were a couple of pages of close-up sketches of just the face. Might be good enough to convict. Now all he had to do was find the guy, get evidence that it was really him in the pictures, that he really pulled the trigger, and convince a jury of the whole thing.

Monahan put the pictures down and watched the countess still arranging big white puffy flowers in the vase. She moved with the grace of a dancer and her long fingers looked strong and sure. The gray robe was a kimono, like the kind you saw geisha girls wearing down in Japantown, except theirs were so bright they made the girls look like flowers. This robe was the color of the sky in winter. It had big sleeves that almost touched the ground. Her ladyship’s hair was heavy and dark and hung in a braid down her back. Most women these days cut their hair short. Young women did, anyway. Monahan wondered how old the countess was. It was hard to tell from this distance. He guessed she was about twenty-five, maybe.

Finally she stepped back and examined her work, slowly walking around the table and adjusting a flower here and there. Then she turned and swept through the door.

Good afternoon, Inspector, she said, smiling and holding out her hand for a shake. He jumped to his feet, took her hand and wondered briefly if he should bow or kiss her ring or something. He decided to just give her hand a shake like she was anybody. He also upwardly revised his estimate of her age. Thirty-five if she was a day, maybe forty. But beautiful—the biggest brown eyes he had ever seen.

I’m so pleased you could come, she went on. Please sit. Did Mary offer you anything to eat or drink? Mary Bennett’s speech had a pretty lilt, but her ladyship’s accent, polished and elegant, made the Irish in him twitch uncomfortably.

Yes, Ma’am, he said. She told me there was a new development but didn’t say what.

She pulled a white envelope out of her sash. This arrived about forty-five minutes ago. According to Mary, it was delivered by a little boy who handed it to her and ran away.

Monahan opened it carefully. The paper was crisp and white like the kind formal invitations were printed on. Neatly lettered words were carefully centered on the page.

Stay out of this or die.

Without comment Monahan refolded it, put it back in the envelope and slipped it into his breast pocket.

Somebody’s hoping to scare you out of testifying, he said. I’ll have it analyzed and see if we can come up with anything.

Of course I have no intention of staying out of this, she said. I mean to see it through to the end. Mr. Rosenberg was a kind and gentle man, and he didn’t deserve to die like this. I haven’t seen a man die since the war. I had hoped not to repeat the experience. Her eyes became luminous, almost polished. He hoped—hard—that she wasn’t going to cry. She ducked her head and, pulling a chair away from the table, slid into it.

At that moment a tall girl of about seventeen or eighteen in a black uniform rattled in with a big tray loaded with a teapot, coffeepot, cups, sandwiches and cookies. Relieved that there didn’t look to be a female display of tears, Monahan hastily retook his chair and pulled out his notebook. He groped around in his pockets for a pencil and then remembered distinctly leaving it on