Murder on Gramercy Park (27 page)

“Stranger things have happened,” was all he’d say. “Now I have to go see this Mr. Fong.”

“I’ve never been in an opium den,” Sarah said hopefully.

“You’re not going in one today, either,” Malloy said.

F
RANK WAS ACCOMPANYING SARAH BRANDT TO the Blackwells’ front door when someone knocked on it. The butler, who had been waiting to see them out, seemed annoyed at the interruption. Probably he was afraid it might delay their departure. Granger looked as if he hadn’t quite recovered from his recent illness and lacked the strength to deal with one more problem visitor.

He opened the door to Amos Potter. The man looked as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his gaze darting anxiously between the two, as if trying to decide what event might have summoned both of them.

“Not at all,” Frank assured him. “And I’m glad you stopped by. I needed to speak with you anyway.”

“I hope you have some good news,” Potter said, handing his hat to the butler, who took it with a reluctance Potter didn’t notice. “This has gone on far too long already. How much longer do you think Mrs. Blackwell can endure the strain after all she’s been through?”

“She seems to be holding up very well,” Frank remarked.

“And how would you know?” Potter sniffed.

“I spoke with her just a few moments ago,” Frank told him, knowing how outraged Potter would be, since he himself had not seen the lovely widow since her husband’s demise.

As he’d expected, Potter was furious. “How could you have allowed this, Mrs. Brandt?” he demanded.

For once, Sarah Brandt did exactly the right thing. She smiled sweetly—well, sweetly for her, at least—and said, “Mrs. Blackwell was only too happy to assist Mr. Malloy in his investigation.”

Potter blinked a few times as he absorbed this information. “Is Mrs. Blackwell receiving visitors now?” he asked after a moment, his belligerence gone.

“Not regularly,” she said, still looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “and I’m sure she’s exhausted after meeting with Mr. Malloy today, but if you feel you must see her, perhaps she could receive you tomorrow ...”

“Tomorrow, yes, of course,” Potter agreed with the air of a boy hardly able to wait for Christmas morning. “There are so many things I need to discuss with her.”

“I’m sure there are,” she said politely. “I hope you’ll excuse me now. I have other patients to see.”

“Of course, of course. Would you like Granger to call you a cab?” Potter generously offered.

“I’d prefer to walk. Thank you anyway. Good day.”

With a sly grin at Frank, she was gone. He managed not to sigh in relief. He only hoped she had the sense not to hightail it up to see Mr. Fong. Although, when he thought about it, he should hope that for Mr. Fong’s sake, since he was fairly sure Sarah Brandt could take care of herself, even in an opium den.

“Why don’t we go into the office,” Potter suggested, and Frank readily agreed. He didn’t want the snooty butler overhearing.

Frank noticed how naturally Potter took his place in the chair behind the desk where Edmund Blackwell had died. If he felt any discomfort at sitting in the very chair where his former partner had been murdered, he hid it well. He motioned for Frank to take the wingback chair in front of the desk.

“Now, what news did you have for me?” he asked, folding his hands expectantly.

Frank had no trouble at all looking grim. “Calvin Brown is dead.”

“Dead?” Potter seemed more confused than anything else. “Calvin? You mean Edmund’s son?”

“That’s right. He died yesterday, very early. Probably during the night, actually.” Frank waited for a reaction and for the questions that should naturally follow.

For a moment Potter seemed uncertain what to say next. “But what ... ? Was he ill? This is very sudden.”

“No, he wasn’t ill. He died of arsenic poisoning.”

“Arsenic? Good heavens, that’s rat poison, isn’t it? How on earth did he ... ?” He paused, considering. “Did he take his own life?”

“Why would you think that?” Frank asked, fishing even though he knew he was probably wasting his time.

“Because that’s what a killer is likely to do, isn’t it?” he asked confidently. “Someone who cannot bear the weight of his guilt anymore might choose to end his own suffering. And poison—one hardly ever hears of a murder by poison. Do you think he killed himself, Mr. Malloy? Out of remorse?”

“It appears that he did take his own life,” Frank admitted. “The box of rat poison was in his room, and he’d drunk it in a bottle of sarsaparilla. He didn’t call for help when he became ill. All things considered, it looks like he died by his own hand.”

“I don’t suppose he left a note confessing to his father’s murder, by any chance?” Potter asked hopefully. “That would be too neat.”

“You’re right,” Frank said. “That would be too neat.”

Potter studied Frank for a moment, as if trying to judge him somehow. “You did look for a note, I hope. He may have hidden it.”

“I went through everything in his room,” Frank said quite truthfully.

Now Potter looked perplexed. “But it’s obvious, isn’t it? The boy took his life out of guilt. What other reason could he have had?”

“I don’t know of any,” Frank admitted. As far as he knew, Calvin had no reason at all to kill himself.

Potter looked extremely relieved. “As tragic as this is, it couldn’t have worked out better. For Mrs. Blackwell, I mean. Consider the scandal if the boy had been put on trial. Everyone would have known that her marriage was bigamous and her child ... Well, we can be thankful she will be spared all that. The boy did her a kindness by taking his life.”

“Mrs. Blackwell seems to attract men willing to do her kindnesses,” Frank observed, but Potter didn’t seem to understand the reference.

“Now there is the matter of the reward,” Potter said, all business again. “Although you didn’t actually capture the killer, you have identified him and closed the case satisfactorily. That, I believe, entitles you to at least half of the reward. For your trouble, Mr. Malloy,” he added with a condescending smile.

The offer was generous, since most people would have refused to pay anything at all under the circumstances. Frank remembered Brian’s surgery and knew he could use the money. But still ...

“I’m afraid I can’t accept any reward for this,” he said, even though the words wanted to lodge in his throat.

“What? Why not?” Potter asked in astonishment.

“Because I’m still not convinced Calvin is the killer.”

“But if he confessed ...” Potter gestured helplessly.

“He didn’t confess,” Frank said, wondering if Potter knew more about this than he should.

“His very suicide is a confession,” Potter insisted, fingering his watch fob anxiously. “You said so yourself!”

Frank knew he hadn’st, but he didn’t want to argue. “I have a few more people to question before I can be sure.”

“Honestly, Mr. Malloy, most police detectives are only too happy to solve a case! I can’t believe any of them would want to keep investigating when the killer has already been discovered.”

What he meant, of course, was that most detectives would grasp any solution to a case, correct or not, in order to collect a reward. Frank didn’t like to think he’d ever done such a thing. His standards weren’t high, but at least he’d never knowingly punished an innocent man. Still, he’d sometimes taken the wrong guilty man, a man who perhaps hadn’t committed the crime he was investigating but had committed many others for which he was unpunished. At some point the truly guilty party would be punished for something else. Guilty men were punished, one way or another, and it all worked out in the end.

And once he might not even have looked quite so closely at a case like this. He might not have even noticed that Blackwell’s death was a murder in the first place. No one wanted it to be, least of all those closest to him. Frank had changed a lot, and he knew perfectly well when and why.

Sarah Brandt was ruining him.

“It wouldn’t be right to blame Calvin for his father’s murder if he didn’t do it,” Frank pointed out. “Think of his mother.”

“I don’t know his mother, but I do know Mrs. Blackwell. She is the one whose welfare I must consider. I’m afraid if you insist on pursuing this matter, I must withdraw the reward entirely.”

“You do what you think is right, Mr. Potter,” Frank said without the slightest regret. Virtue might really be its own reward, but Frank was thinking more about Sarah Brandt’s favor, which seemed an even greater reward. “Mrs. Blackwell is very lucky to have you looking out for her interests, Mr. Potter,” he added without the slightest trace of irony. “Will you break the news to her that her husband’s killer has been found?”

Plainly, Potter hadn’t considered this possibility. “I ... well, I suppose it’s logical for me to be the one to do so.”

“And does she know who Calvin Brown was?” Frank asked blandly.

Potter seemed confused again, but only for an instant. “Certainly not! Letitia has no idea that Edmund was married before, much less that he had a family.”

“Then how will you explain that his son killed him?”

Potter started to bluster. Frank wasn’t sure if he was angry or merely confounded. “You ... I ... It really isn’t my place ... I mean, perhaps it would be more appropriate for her father to ...”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Frank agreed. “I was just going to inform Mr. Symington of Calvin’s death as well. Should I mention to him that it’s his fatherly duty to inform Mrs. Blackwell?”

“But Mr. Symington knows nothing of this either,” he protested.

“I believe you’re mistaken, Mr. Potter. You see, Calvin met with Mr. Symington when he was unable to get in to see his father. Mr. Symington knows everything.”

Potter had apparently been struck speechless. After a few moments of moving his mouth in vain, he finally found his tongue. “Well, in that case, it seems only right that Mr. Symington ... I mean, he is her father, after all. He would be the most sensitive and ... perhaps he won’t have to explain the relationship at all. We could just tell her that a young man killed Edmund. I could say he’d come to rob the house or something, and Edmund surprised him. That’s really all she needs to know, after all. Yes, that’s what I could do. And it really is my place to tell her, after all.” He seemed very pleased at his decision.

“I’m sure you and Mr. Symington will do the right thing,” Frank said, not sure at all. But at least Potter hadn’t said anything to give Frank second thoughts about his being the killer. Potter was merely a fool, and a besotted one at that, but being a fool wasn’t against the law. Yet.

 

F
RANK HADN’T GIVEN any thought to how difficult it might be to locate Maurice Symington. He did, after all, have his main residence in Westchester County, but Frank was fairly certain he would be staying close to his daughter until her husband’s killer was caught. At least that’s what Frank would have done, in Symington’s place. Potter had told him Symington was probably staying at his gentleman’s club, one of many in the city that catered to the needs of wealthy businessmen, but he wasn’t there when Frank went to the place. They suggested looking for him at one of the businesses that he owned. Finally, Frank realized he could telephone around and see if the man was anywhere about. He coerced the club steward into allowing him to use their telephone, and after half an hour of telephoning and waiting and shouting into the speaker to make himself heard, he discovered that Symington was at his home in the country but was expected back tomorrow.

That left Mr. Fong.

As he approached the house that Letitia Blackwell had identified as the opium den, Frank realized that even a respectable lady like Sarah Brandt would not have hesitated to enter such a place. It looked exactly like the rest of the respectable dwellings on the street, although Frank knew perfectly well that they, too, might not be dwellings at all, at least in the usual sense. The upper-class brothels prided themselves on their prime locations and elegant furnishings. The neighbors might not like the comings and goings at all hours, but if the business paid its protection money to the police, it could operate for years unmolested, even in the best neighborhoods.

Still, Frank was beginning to wonder if Letitia Blackwell had misled him with a false address until the beautifully carved front door was opened by a burly man with slightly Oriental features.

He looked Frank over and judged him in an instant as unworthy of his notice. “Who are you?” he asked.

Frank noted that he was well dressed, if not well mannered, in a hand-tailored suit with a diamond stud in his tie.

“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City police,” Frank said pleasantly, showing his badge.

“You got no business here. We pay our protection to the captain every week. You got any complaints, you take them to him.”

“How do you know I just don’t want to make a purchase?” Frank asked, still pleasant.

The fellow looked him over and shook his head. “Not likely.”

“Well, then, how about if I tell you I want to speak to Mr. Fong?”

“I’m Mr. Fong,” the fellow said belligerently.

Frank shook his head, not fooled. “The Mr. Fong who owns the place.”

“He ain’t here.”

“I’ll wait, then. And maybe I’ll take a look around while I’m waiting, see who’s here and what they’re doing.”

“You can’t come in unless I let you, and besides, nobody’s doing nothing illegal,” the fellow protested.

“Then they won’t mind if I look around, will they?”

“Michael, what’s going on?” an irritated voice called.

“Some copper says he needs to see you,” the fellow who claimed to be Mr. Fong called back. He stepped aside so a much smaller man could take his place at the door.