Murder in Burnt Orange (10 page)

“Howard Park? Isn't that sort of public, if you want this all to be hush-hush?”

“No. It is a good place. No one can hide behind a door and listen. We will have it down by the river, far from the rest of the park, so if there is a stranger, he will be noticed.”

“It's not a bad idea,” Lefkowicz admitted. “But I suggest an improvement. I
will
wear my uniform, and so will other policemen, as many as we can spare that day.”

Hilda looked puzzled.

“It would be natural, don't you see? There are still a lot of people who think the Boys' Club caters to a lot of ruffians. So we can spread the word that the police will be there to keep them in line. Then it won't look funny, if anybody does happen to be watching, when we go up and talk to a few of the boys. But the real point is this: if anybody
is
watching, they'll know that the boys have talked to us. Then there wouldn't be any reason to hurt them to keep their mouths shut, see.”

Hilda thought about that for a moment, and then gave Lefkowicz a brilliant smile. “That,” she said with a brisk little nod, “is a very good idea. Tell me a good day and I will plan the party.”

“And what if it rains?”

“If it rains we will move to—to somewhere. The High School, maybe. They have a large meeting room, and they will not be using it in summer.” She waved away the difficulty. “And meanwhile you will talk to the people at the bank, all the people you can find who knew Mr. Beeman, and you will report back to me.”

Lefkowicz resisted the impulse to salute.

When Patrick came home that night he was too tired to do anything but eat a little supper and fall into bed. He told Hilda, before he sank into sleep, that Uncle Dan was feeling better, resting easily and in no pain, but very weak. The doctor was still worried about him. “I told Aunt Molly to tell him everythin' at the store was under control and business was good. It's true, too, but oh, Hilda, I'm not used to doin' everythin' myself. I'll be glad, the Lord knows, when he can come back. If he can.”

“Has he said anything about Clancy?”

“He tried, but Molly shut him up. Said it upset him too much. She had the nurse give him more of the stuff the doctor ordered, to make him sleep. Until he gets well, we won't know anythin' more from that source.” He yawned mightily and Hilda let him drift off to sleep.

Our days begin with trouble here

Our life is but a span

And cruel death is always near

So frail a thing is man.

—New England Primer,
18th century

The information Sergeant Lefkowicz brought her the next day was startling, and disturbing.

“Nobody's talking.” He took a long drink from the tall glass of beer Hilda had provided (at Patrick's suggestion). The rain had stopped and the weather had turned warm again, though happily not like the former oppressive heat, and cold beer from the local Muessel Brewery hit the spot. “I talked to everybody at Merchants' Bank from the president on down, and nobody knows anything, nobody suspects anything, everything is lovely. The accidents were just accidents, and how could they have anything to do with the bank?” He took another pull at the beer. “And they're every one of them lying through their teeth.”

Hilda accepted that. She, too, was adept at spotting a liar. “So you learned nothing?”

“I learned that they're scared. There's lies and then there's lies, and these were the running-scared kind. But I got the feeling that the bigwigs were scared of me, and the rest were scared of the bosses.”

“Then that means,” said Hilda, sipping her lemonade and thinking hard, “that there is something the bosses do not want to talk about, and they have told their employees not to talk, either.”

“That's the way it looks to me. But as to what it is, this thing they're hiding—” He spread his hands. “There was just one hint, one little ray of hope. The other errand boy, the one who worked with Bill Beeman—well, he didn't say any more than the rest of them. But he gave me a look before he left, like he was wanting to tell me something, but didn't dare say it in front of the others. I hung around for a while, hoping he'd maybe come out and talk to me alone, but I guess he was too scared. It's a pretty good job for a young man just starting out, and he can't afford to lose it.”

“That is not all he might lose,” said Hilda. “Do you know his name, where he lives?”

Lefkowicz gave her a look of mock anger. “What kind of a cop do you think I am? Of course I know. And yes, I do plan to go see him. Whether he'll tell me anything, I don't know.” He finished his beer. “Hilda, I'm getting an odd feeling about all this. Every place I look, every idea I get, it all comes to nothing. It's as if there's nothing to find out, nothing happening, nothing, nothing, nothing! As if all these incidents, the wrecks, the fires, are unconnected, accidental.”

Hilda opened her mouth to protest, but Lefkowicz held up his hand. “I know. There isn't a shred of real evidence to prove otherwise, but I'm as sure as you are that these things are not accidents, and that they're linked together.”

“There is the open switch for the Twentieth Century Flyer. That is evidence.”

“Not really. Everyone says it was done on purpose, but it could have been left open by mistake. We can't
prove
anything, either way.”

That was to change. Patrick came home late, but with important news.

He was very tired again. Impatient though Hilda was to hear what had transpired during his day, and tell him what little she had learned from Lefkowicz, she saw that he needed rest. So she chatted about the weather and the baby's somersaults while Patrick downed a large glass of beer. Then she said, “Well?”

Patrick grimaced. “You first. What did Lefkowicz say?”

“He learned nothing, Patrick. No one will talk to him. He thinks they are—wrapping, is that the word?”

“Coverin' up, I expect you mean.”

“And he believes that all these things, the fires, the wrecks, are linked somehow, but he says there is no proof that any of them are not simply accidents.”

“So it's proof he wants, is it?” He sounded grim.

“Patrick! You know something!”

“I do. It's not good hearin'. Do you want to eat supper first?”

“No,” she said decidedly. “If it is not pleasant, it is better to have it said and done with.”

He fidgeted in his chair. “Do you suppose there's any more beer?”

Hilda rang for Eileen. “Go on,” she said.

“I suppose you're right. Better to get it over.” He took a deep breath. “It was just before I came home, when Jacob came to work for the night.” Jacob Loeffler had been the night watchman at Malloy's ever since Patrick could remember. He was getting old and gray now, but the work was mostly honorary, and Dan hadn't the heart to pension him off.

“Seein' I was still there,” Patrick went on, “he came in to talk to me. I thought he was just checkin' in, like, but there was more to it than that.

“Well, he hemmed and hawed a bit first, asked about Dan. Oh, by the way, Aunt Molly called the store to say he's a bit better, but the doctor's still keepin' him quiet with pills. Anyway, Jacob finally got to the point. Thanks, Eileen.”

Another swallow of beer. Hilda thought she would die of impatience if
Patrick
didn't get to the point.

“What he said, Hilda, was that Clancy was there the night of the fire.”

“Herre Gud!
How does he know?”

“Seems Jacob heard a noise in the middle of the night, from the storeroom. He naps some when he's on duty, but he sleeps like a cat; the littlest thing will wake him. Well, the rain was still comin' down pretty hard, so he thought there might be a leak in the roof or somethin' of that sort, makin' some noise in there. So he went down and smelled smoke. He pulled the alarm then, first thing, before he even opened the door, and it's a good thing he did. Because when he opened it he saw there was someone in there, and the outside door was open. Now that was bad, because with both doors open the fire would spread worse, so he turned to close the door he'd just opened. And then he turned back, and even with all the smoke he saw it was Clancy.”

“Oh! What did he do?”

“Nothin' atall. Jacob couldn't think right, he says. Smoke does that to you, makes your brain slow and fuzzy. Besides, he saw Clancy reach in his pocket, and he was scared, because he thought maybe Clancy had a gun. He told me he never did trust him. But all Clancy pulled out of his pocket was a handkerchief, and Jacob was just wonderin' about that when he smelled somethin' powerful sweet, and that was the last he knew until he woke up in his own cubbyhole with a rotten headache and sick as a dog.”

“Oh! Clancy gave him—I do not know the word in English.”

“Chloroform, that's what he gave him, and it's a wonder it didn't do for an old man like him.” Patrick finished his beer and set the glass down with a thump. “It muddled him, though, and he wasn't sure enough about what he remembered to come to me earlier. But now he is sure. So you see, darlin', now we have our proof.”

He didn't sound happy about it. Hilda reached out her hand to him. “Have you told the police?” she asked gently.

“Not yet. I have to go tell Aunt Molly first.”

“Yes. Oh, Patrick, my dear one, I am so sorry. Your cousin...”

Hilda used few endearments. Patrick understood the depth of her sympathy. “You know, I never liked him much, even when we were boys. But he's family, and Dan and Molly are...”

He couldn't go on.

Hilda slipped quietly out to the kitchen to put back supper. Mrs. O'Rourke wouldn't be pleased about this invasion of her domain, nor about ruining a perfectly good meal, but Mrs. O'Rourke would just have to accept things, for once. This was a crisis.

When she returned, she found Patrick in the hallway, ready to leave. “Patrick, shall I go with you?” she asked anxiously.

He thought a moment. “No, I don't think so. It'll be upsettin', and I don't want you upset.” He glanced at her swollen abdomen.

“It will not upset the baby, Patrick! I will go, I think. Aunt Molly is already distressed about Uncle Dan, and worried over what Clancy might do. She is very strong, but this news will trouble her greatly. I would like to be there with you.”

Patrick was too troubled himself to argue with her. “I told O'Rourke not to put the carriage away. Watch out for the steps; they're still slippery from the rain.”

The Malloy house was in the same block, an easy walk, but not for Hilda, not right now. Patrick bundled her into the carriage and helped her out again when they reached their destination.

Riggs greeted Patrick with what looked to Hilda like relief. “Mr. Patrick, sir! And Mrs. Patrick. Mrs. Malloy will be happy to see you. She's been fretting.”

“I'm fearin', Riggs, that I've brought her somethin' more to fret about. She's upstairs, is she?”

Riggs nodded.

“Could you fetch her for us? I'm not wantin' Uncle Dan to hear this, if he's awake.”

Riggs paled. “Begging your pardon, sir, but it isn't—it's not Mr. Clancy, sir?”

“I'm afraid it is.”

Riggs bowed and trudged up the stairs.

Patrick led Hilda into the parlor. There were tears in her eyes. “Riggs loves Aunt Molly, yes?”

“And do you know anyone who doesn't?”

“It is just that I never used to think butlers were human. Mr. Williams never seemed to be when I worked for him at Tippecanoe Place. But Riggs—he had a son he loved, and that son died. I learned that at Christmastime. And now I know he loves Aunt Molly. I wonder if there is—or was—someone Mr. Williams loves?”

“I reckon,” said Patrick. “A person can't hardly get through life without lovin'. His mother, anyway—hush!”

He stood as Aunt Molly came into the room.

Hilda was shocked at her appearance. Always a small woman, she seemed to have shrunk, to have drawn into herself. Her face was taut with worry, her eyes sunken into deep purple shadows. She was, however, faultlessly groomed and as gracious as always. “Please sit down, Patrick. Hilda, I'm happy to see you, child, but should you have made the effort to come?”

“It was not an effort, Aunt Molly. I wanted to come. There is something—Patrick has something to tell you.”

Aunt Molly seated herself in her usual place with care, her small hands groping for the arms of the chair before she lowered herself wearily onto the cushioned seat. Her shoulders sagged. Patrick pushed the stool under her feet and stood, as if to await instruction.

“Do sit down, dear. You're making me nervous, hovering like that. Now what is it you need to tell me?” Her sigh was, Hilda thought, unconscious.

The best thing, Patrick decided, was to come right out with it. He kept his voice low, in case Uncle Dan might be awake. “Much as I hate to tell it, Aunt Molly, I've found out that Clancy was at the store the night of the fire.”

Molly's hands tightened convulsively on the arms of the chair. “Go on,” she said in a voice that threatened to break.

“Jacob saw him, just after he pulled the alarm. That was when Clancy chloroformed Jacob and dragged him back to his cubbyhole.”

“At least he did that,” Molly whispered. “The poor man might have died.”

Another man did die. No one said the words, but they hung in the air.

“You haven't seen him today?”

“No. He would not have been admitted to the house, even if he had dared come.”

“Aunt Molly, I must go to the police. I have no choice now.”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath and drew herself up in the chair, seeking for strength to deal with this latest blow. “I will be grateful if you will tell them everything. I would rather not talk to them just now, unless I must. There is your uncle to think of.”

“I'll tell them, Aunt Molly. Don't worry.”

And what a meaningless phrase that was, thought Hilda. What could Molly do except worry, with things the way they were? Her husband desperately ill, her only son a criminal?

Hilda looked at her with deep pity, and then saw the answer to her question. Molly slipped from her pocket a beautiful rosary, kissed the cross, and began silently to pray.