Murder on Gramercy Park (35 page)

“That’s the one,” Frank confirmed. “Got himself murdered about three years back.”

“Has it been that long? God, I’m getting old.”

“What kind of a man was he?”

“Tom? The best there was, I guess. Never heard anybody say a word against him.”

“Somebody didn’t like him,” Frank pointed out. “Or he wouldn’t be dead.”

“He wasn’t killed by somebody who knew him,” Woomer said.

“You know that for a fact?”

“It’s only common sense. Tom wasn’t the kind of man who made enemies.”

This wasn’t exactly what Frank wanted to hear. Not only did it make it harder to figure out who’d killed him, he certainly didn’t like the idea that Sarah Brandt had been married to a near saint. Not that he was trying to compete or anything, but still... How could any other man compare?

“What did people say? When he died, I mean.”

“That it was a shame. Had a young wife, if I remember. He did a lot of good, too. Never turned anybody away just because they couldn’t pay his fee. It’s a wonder he didn’t starve.”

Just what he needed, more evidence of Tom Brandt’s perfection. “I mean what did people say about how he died?”

Woomer was threading catgut into his needle for more stitches. He squinted and concentrated for a moment until he found the hole. When he’d gone back to stitching, he said, “I heard he got robbed. I figured somebody robbed him for whatever he was carrying and killed him, probably because he didn’t have anything much. Happens often enough, you want to know the truth.”

Frank knew it only too well. “You didn’t hear any rumors? Maybe somebody had it in for him?”

“Tom? Not likely,” Woomer scoffed. “How come you’re so interested in a man got killed over three years ago?”

Frank didn’t think it was any of his business, but he’d been friendly enough. “A friend of his asked me to look into it. See if I could find anything. The killer was never caught.”

“Never will be, you ask me. You’re wasting your time.”

“It’s my time,” Frank pointed out.

Woomer looked up and studied Frank for a minute. “This friend of Tom’s wouldn’t be his widow by any chance?”

This really
wasn’t
any of his business. “How’s he doing?” He gestured toward Dudley.

Woomer chuckled to himself, not fooled by the sudden change of subject. “He’s not complaining. And he’s still breathing.”

“Will he live?”

“For a while. After that, who knows?”

Frank would take what he could get. Woomer finished up the last of the stitches and wrapped a bandage around the worst of the wounds. Frank had to admit his work was neat and apparently competent.

“Should he go to the hospital?” he asked when the doctor was finished.

Woomer frowned as he started packing up his instruments. “Wouldn’t do him any good. He’s likely to catch something there and die from
that.
Besides, moving him at all right now might kill him. He’s pretty weak.”

“I can’t leave him here alone,” Frank complained.

“Does he have any family? Somebody who could nurse him?”

“What kind of care would he need?”

“Every kind,” Woomer said. “He won’t even be able to get up to relieve himself. That hole in his chest might bleed inside, too. Might be bleeding even now.”

“So he needs a nurse,” Frank said.

“That would be best. A mother would be second best.”

“I don’t have any idea where to find him a mother,” Frank said. “But I do know where to get him a nurse.”

 

S
ARAH DECIDED SHE was no longer going to be surprised at anything Frank Malloy did. This was the second time he’d summoned her to help him in this case, and she dearly longed to tease him about it. If she did, however, he might never call upon her again. Helping with his cases was far too interesting to take such a chance, no matter how much fun it would be.

The patrolman who had delivered Malloy’s message had given her no other information beyond telling her Malloy needed a nurse and to come to this address. The lodging house was a step up from a flophouse, where men paid a nickel to sleep in a hammock or a cot or even on the floor for a night. This place at least provided a private room and probably a meal or two a day, but not much comfort beyond that.

Sarah judged that the landlady, who opened the door, was probably a retired prostitute who’d invested her money wisely in this house to support her in her old age. She looked Sarah up and down, withholding her approval.

“You the nurse?” she asked around the cheroot dangling from her lips. Ashes had spilled unnoticed down her ample bosom.

“Yes,” Sarah said, offering no other information. “Is Mr. Malloy here?”

“Upstairs,” the woman said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder toward the stairway. “End of the hall.”

So much for the social amenities, Sarah thought in amusement. Malloy was waiting for her in the doorway of the room, looking grim.

“Who is it?” she asked. “And what happened?”

“It’s Dudley. Somebody stabbed him,” he said, admitting her to the room.

An older man sat in the one chair of the room, his head drooping to his chest, dozing. Sarah thought he looked vaguely familiar, but she went immediately to the bed where Dudley lay amid the bloodstained sheets. His face was pale, but he seemed to be breathing easily. “How bad is it?” she asked.

Malloy kicked the chair leg, jarring the older man awake. He shook his grizzled head and rubbed his hands over his face. He hadn’t shaved in a day or two, and the stubble glistened silver on his cheeks. He blinked bloodshot eyes at her, and Sarah immediately recognized the signs of chronic alcoholism. She also recognized the man.

“Dr. Woomer,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

He gave her a sad smile and nodded. “Too long. You’re looking well, Mrs. Brandt.”

“I am well, thank you,” she said, not returning the compliment. “How is Mr. Dudley doing?”

“He’s alive,” he said, rising stiffly from the chair. “No thanks to whoever attacked him.”

He shuffled over to the bed and pulled down the top sheet so Sarah could see Dudley’s chest. “Somebody took after him with a knife. Didn’t know what they was doing, so most of the wounds hit bone and aren’t deep. This one here is the worst. Don’t look like it hit the heart or a lung, since he’s still alive, but it’s worrisome. He lost a lot of blood, too.”

Sarah nodded. She gave Malloy a questioning look.

“Dr. Woomer here thinks Dudley needs a nurse to look after him for a few days,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d take the job.”

Would she? He knew perfectly well she was more than willing to remain involved with the case. Sitting beside an unconscious man who might well die hardly seemed like an ideal occupation for someone who wanted to find a killer, but she also knew Dudley had most likely been attacked by the same person who’d killed Blackwell and Calvin Brown. When Dudley regained consciousness—assuming he did—Malloy would want someone there he could trust to hear anything he might have to say. Sarah wanted to be that person.

“I’ll be happy to assist in any way I can,” she said, managing to sound merely cooperative. Malloy wasn’t fooled, but probably Woomer was. “Unless I’m called out on a case, of course, but we’ll worry about that if it happens. Just tell me what care he’s going to need.”

“That’s good of you, Mrs. Brandt,” Woomer said, scratching his chin. He quickly told her what Dudley’s condition was and what he wanted her to do. Then he gathered his things and started to leave.

“Who’s going to pay me for this?” he asked Malloy when he was ready to go.

“Mr. Dudley is,” Malloy said, and he paid the doctor from a worn wallet he pulled from Dudley’s suit coat. Woomer seemed relieved.

They both waited a few moments, until Dr. Woomer was on his way down the stairs, before speaking, lest they be overheard.

“I guess this means Dudley isn’t the killer either,” Sarah said.

“Unless he figured out some way to stab himself in the back,” Malloy said in disgust.

“Was he able to give you any information at all?”

“No, although it looked like he was trying to say something before he passed out. The doc gave him some morphine, too, so it’ll be a while before he’s awake again.”

“Morphine,” Sarah said, thinking of all the trouble this drug had caused. She sighed. “Who could the killer be now? We shouldn’t have too many suspects left.”

“No, killing Dudley isn’t something any of Blackwell’s clients would think of doing, even if they knew anything about him, which they wouldn’t. They’d have been satisfied with casting suspicion on Calvin. And killing Dudley would eliminate him as a suspect, in any case.”

“I guess it’s a good thing you never got around to questioning the Fitzgeralds.”

“That’s right. I almost forgot all about them when Calvin was killed, but now it looks like they’re eliminated completely. They didn’t have anything against Dudley, and I think whoever tried to kill him did so for a very personal reason.”

“Because Letitia was going to marry him,” Sarah guessed. “It’s too much of a coincidence to be anything else. That certainly gives Amos Potter a good motive,” she added hopefully.

“But not for killing Blackwell and then Calvin. We know the person who killed Blackwell also killed Calvin and tried to make us believe the boy was the killer. We know the reason for Calvin’s death was to end the investigation. We don’t know why Blackwell was killed, but we do know why someone tried to kill Dudley.”

“Yes, to prevent Letitia from marrying him. That was the only threat he posed.”

“Which means only one person has a motive for all three murders,” Malloy said.

“Amos Potter,” Sarah tried again.

But Malloy shook his head. “He might’ve thought Blackwell was a bad husband—and we really don’t even have proof of that—but he would hardly offer me a reward to find Blackwell’s killer if he was the killer.”

“And if he didn’t kill Blackwell, he wouldn’t have killed Calvin,” Sarah said. “Then who’s left?”

“The only person left who’d kill just to protect Letitia is Maurice Symington.”

Sarah’s heart sank. “Oh, dear.”

“Yeah, oh, dear.”

They both knew a man with Symington’s wealth and influence would never even be charged with a crime like this, no matter how much proof they found against him. The worst part was that he might well have hired the killings done, which put him even further from being held responsible.

“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.

He shrugged. “I’m not sure yet, but one thing I’m not going to do is tell Symington that Dudley is still alive. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

“Why not ... ? Oh, because if Dudley names his attacker—”

“I’ll know who the real killer is,” he finished for her. “If Dudley is still alive, the killer is liable to come back and try to finish the job, too.”

“That’s why you sent for me to take care of him, then. You want me to try to get him to tell me who did this.”

“I just want you to keep him alive,” Malloy corrected her.

Sarah smiled knowingly. “And guard him in case the killer returns.”

“Absolutely not! I’m going to leave a patrolman here to guard you. I know you think you’re practically a police detective now, but I doubt you’re up to defending Dudley against the killer.”

“Maybe you could get Mrs. Ellsworth to help me. Between the two of us, I’m sure we could—”

“That’s not funny,” Malloy informed her.

“Are you going to tell Letitia that Dudley’s dead? She’ll be very upset.”

Malloy considered this. “I think I will. I’d like to see if she really is upset or if the whole thing with Dudley was a bluff. Maybe she was just trying to get her father’s goat with talk of marrying him.”

“You seem to have changed your opinion of the lovely Letitia,” she noted.

“What do you mean?” he asked, a little affronted.

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “So you think the lovely widow might have been involved in the killings?”

“She’s involved all right, but I’m pretty sure she’s just the
reason
men are getting killed. I can’t see her getting her hands dirty. Or sneaking around the city in the middle of night to stab her lover in his bed. And why would she want Dudley dead in the first place?”

“Maybe she was finished with him. If he’d served his purpose, he’d just be a hindrance, especially with that red hair. Everyone would know she was an adulteress, and if she threw him over, he might try to blackmail her or cause a scandal. With him out of the picture ...”

“So maybe she hinted to her father that things would be easier with Dudley dead,” Malloy admitted. “It still isn’t likely she killed him herself. Anyway, it’s not your job to solve this case. It’s your job to keep our only surviving witness alive.”

“All right, I’ll do my best.” She glanced at the figure on the bed. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that Woomer disinfected the wounds before he stitched them up.”

“Disinfected?” Malloy echoed.

“Cleaned them,” she explained.

“He wiped off the blood.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Would you tell the landlady that I’ll need some clean sheets and lots of hot water and towels and some whiskey?”

“She won’t be happy,” Malloy warned her.

“And a broom, too. And a dustpan.” She looked at the bloodstains on the floor. “I’ll need a scrub brush, too. And some lye soap.”

Malloy was chuckling when he made his way down the stairs.

 

F
RANK HAD INTENDED to go straight to Maurice Symington, but Sarah Brandt had changed his mind. The quickest way to Symington was most likely through his daughter, in any case. Besides, Frank wanted to see her reaction to news of Dudley’s supposed death before someone else had a chance to break it to her gently.

When he arrived, the butler reluctantly admitted him, but he said, “Mrs. Blackwell already has a visitor,” in an apparent attempt to discourage Frank from staying.