Murder on Gramercy Park (36 page)

Just then someone shouted, “Don’t be a fool, Letitia!” from the front parlor. It sounded like Maurice Symington.

Granger winced, most certainly a violation of the butler’s code of conduct, Frank thought with amusement.

“Sounds like she could use a little protection from the police,” he said to the butler. “Announce me.”

Granger was torn, but his loyalty to Letitia won out. “Please wait here,” he said, and went to the parlor doors.

He knocked perfunctorily before sliding the pocket doors open. “Mr. Malloy is here to see you, Mrs. Blackwell,” he said, then stepped aside.

Frank wasn’t certain what he had expected, but Letitia Blackwell didn’t look the least bit upset that her father was shouting at her. Her delicate chin was raised and set in defiance. Symington’s face was red and his neck swollen with rage. He turned on Frank with a murderous glare.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, but didn’t wait for a reply. “Oh, never mind. I want to report a crime to you.”

“A crime?” Frank asked curiously as Granger closed the parlor doors behind him.

“Yes, Peter Dudley is blackmailing my daughter.”

“Father!” she exclaimed in outrage. “How dare you?”

“What else do you call it?” Symington asked Frank. “The man is claiming to be the father of her child and demanding she marry him or he will ruin her reputation.”

“That’s a lie!” Letitia cried, jumping to her feet in her lover’s defense. “Dudley loves me, and I love him!”

Her father ignored her. “I want him locked up. And this, of course, gives him a very good reason for having killed Edmund and that poor boy, doesn’t it?”

Letitia made a strangled sound in her throat, but Frank ignored her, too.

“It would except for one thing,” Frank said.

“And what’s that?” Symington asked contemptuously.

“Someone has killed Dudley, too.”

Symington looked appropriately shocked.
“What?”

Letitia made a cry of distress. “Peter?” she asked weakly, and sank back down onto the sofa.

At last she had their attention. Her father rushed to her. “There now, it’s all right,” he assured her, sitting beside her and taking her hand. Then he looked back up at Frank. “What’s this about Dudley?”

“I’m sorry to have been so blunt,” Frank lied, “but I’m afraid Peter Dudley has been murdered.”

Letitia looked up at him with unfocused eyes. “But he was just here yesterday,” she argued, as if that proved Frank was wrong. She looked stunned, but she wasn’t crying, at least not yet.

“What happened?” Symington asked more practically. “When did he die?”

“Someone went to his rooms last night, it seems. I found him this morning when I went to ask him some questions.”

Letitia’s lovely face crumpled, and she finally began to weep quietly, pulling a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve. “Peter,” she moaned.

Frank found her reaction a little too well-bred for his taste. Remembering how the patrolman had described her screaming when she found Blackwell’s body, he would have expected a more violent reaction to losing the man she professed to actually love. Of course, she hadn’t had to see any of Dudley’s blood spilled on her carpet.

Symington was trying to comfort his daughter, but his mind was still working. He looked up at Frank again, this time with a silent challenge in his piercing gaze. “Maybe it was a suicide,” he said. “He couldn’t live with himself for trying to hurt Letitia, and he killed himself from the guilt. Maybe all three of the deaths were suicides, Mr. Malloy. Isn’t that a possibility?”

He wasn’t making a guess; he was giving Frank a solution. He’d already offered a reward to ensure that Dudley was charged as the killer in the case. He’d probably be even more grateful if Frank decreed all the deaths were suicides and closed the investigation completely. His daughter would be free of two fortune hunters, and no scandal would touch his family. What more could he ask?

Frank could have granted his unspoken request so easily, if only Sarah Brandt hadn’t ruined him. “If Edmund Blackwell killed himself, then why would Calvin Brown have killed himself out of guilt for murdering his father?” he asked logically.

Symington was going to protest, but Frank didn’t give him a chance. “And Peter Dudley hardly stabbed himself in the back, so who did that, if not the man who killed Blackwell and Calvin? Unless, of course, it was just someone who wanted to prevent Dudley from marrying your daughter,” he added.

Symington needed only a moment to understand the implication. “There are many ways I could have prevented that, short of killing the man,” he snapped.

Like having him arrested for murder, Frank thought, but he didn’t dare say it aloud. Symington could have his job in an instant, and Frank had pushed him perilously close to doing just that already.

At the mention of killing Dudley, Letitia cried out again and began to sob. Her father instinctively put his arm around her, and she buried her head in his shoulder.

Symington looked as if he wished Frank in hell, but he also knew that he had to do something to help his daughter. Frank could almost see him considering and rejecting various options. Finally, he said, “What if that boy Calvin did kill Edmund and then himself? And what if Dudley was simply the victim of a robbery gone wrong? That must happen frequently in cheap lodging houses.” He glanced down at the golden head resting on his shoulder, then back at Frank again. “I would still be willing to offer the same reward we discussed previously if you can find the person who robbed and murdered Mr. Dudley.”

Frank nodded his understanding and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew perfectly well there was no robbery, but at least he was still on the case.

D
UDLEY’S LANDLADY HAD GRUMBLED AND COMPLAINED about every one of Sarah’s requests. Sarah thought she should have been grateful someone was willing to clean one of her rooms for her, but no, she’d just been unhappy because Sarah was inconveniencing her with her demands for supplies. She’d been even less enthusiastic about providing supper for Sarah and the patrolman who was guarding Dudley’s room, until Sarah had offered to pay her for her trouble. Sarah had regretted her offer as soon as the food had finally arrived, though. It was barely edible. She also wanted a rich beef broth for Dudley, if he regained consciousness, but she figured there was no use asking the landlady for it. Maybe she should send a message to Mrs. Ellsworth, who would be only too happy to prepare something if she asked.

It was getting rather late now, though. Perhaps she’d wait until morning. Dudley might not even make it through the night, although he seemed to be sleeping naturally now. Perhaps his wounds weren’t as serious as they appeared. Perhaps they wouldn’t fester and poison him either, although she considered that unlikely. But Dudley was young and healthy. Maybe he could survive even that. She didn’t think much of him as a man, but he hadn’t done anything worthy of death, either, since it now seemed unlikely he’d killed Edmund Blackwell.

After a while she grew bored with conjecture and resumed her housekeeping duties. So far she’d changed the sheets and given the bloody ones to the landlady, and she’d scrubbed the blood off the floor. The rest of the room still needed to be swept, and if she was really bored, she could scrub that, too. Heaven knew when it had last been done.

Sarah started sweeping at the other end of the room, working her way over to the bed. She swept slowly, trying not to stir up too much dust, but the room was small, and she was at the bed in a matter of minutes. Being careful not to disturb Dudley, she slipped the broom under the bed and tried to gather up as much dirt as possible without accidentally striking the bed frame and startling him. She’d just dragged a pile of dust bunnies and debris out when Dudley groaned.

“Water,” he croaked.

Sarah dropped the broom and quickly fetched him a glass of water. Blood loss created a mighty thirst, and if she quenched it, he might even be able to say a few words. She held the cup to his lips and let him drink as much as he wanted. At last he dropped back against the pillow, exhausted.

“Mr. Dudley, can you hear me?” she asked.

His eyes flickered and then opened. He stared at her with no sign of recognition. “Who ... ?”

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she explained. “Letitia Blackwell’s midwife. We met at her home the other day.”

Dudley showed no sign of remembering. He seemed to be using all his energies trying to focus on her face.

“Mr. Dudley, do you know who attacked you?”

“Attacked?” he asked weakly, obviously puzzled.

“Someone broke in here and stabbed you while you were sleeping last night. Do you know who it was?”

He frowned, trying hard. “I don’t ...”

“You were asleep,” she prodded him.

“I woke up,” he recalled after a moment. “The pain ...”

“Did you see who did it?”

“The pain ... woke me ... dark ...”

“Someone tried to kill you, Mr. Dudley. Who was it?” she demanded, wanting to shake him but knowing that would only make things worse.

“I don’t ... too dark ... couldn’t see ...” His eyes closed in a grimace of pain. He needed another dose of morphine. “Hurts,” he murmured.

Sarah sighed with disappointment and began to prepare his dose. How ironic it would be, she mused, if he survived and became a morphine addict, too.

When Dudley was once again in a drug-induced sleep, Sarah remembered what she had been doing when he’d awakened. Picking up the broom, she had started to sweep the mess from under the bed into the dustpan when something shiny caught her eye. She reached down and picked it up, and that’s when she knew who the killer was.

“Officer Moran!” she called, summoning her guard. “You must find Mr. Malloy right away!”

 

F
RANK NEEDED TO tell one more person that Peter Dudley was dead, but he’d been having a difficult time locating Amos Potter. He wouldn’t have been quite so determined if he’d gotten a better reaction from Maurice Symington. He’d fully expected Symington to act surprised at learning Dudley was dead, but he hadn’t expected the act to be quite so convincing. Symington was behaving normally in first trying to get Dudley in trouble for supposedly blackmailing Letitia and then trying to bribe Frank to name Dudley as the killer, and finally by trying to convince Frank to rule all three deaths suicide. Why hadn’t Frank been satisfied with calling Blackwell’s death a suicide in the first place? Calvin Brown would still be alive, and Dudley wouldn’t be dying. Frank could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble and the other two a lot of suffering if he’d just gone along with the killer’s plan in the first place.

And who would thank him even when he did find the killer? Assuming he could, that is. Nobody but Sarah Brandt, that’s who. Which was, Frank had to admit, quite enough, thank you very much. It had better be, too, because he was likely to make some powerful enemies if he wasn’t careful. Or even if he was. Whoever said honesty was the best policy had never been a policeman.

The hour was growing late, and the city was growing dark when Frank climbed the stairs to Potter’s flat once again. He was there earlier in the day, but Potter hadn’t been home. He was going to try once more, having left the man a note saying he’d be back, before giving up for the evening and finding himself some supper.

The smells of cooking filled the stairwell, making Frank’s stomach growl. He thought longingly of a meal eaten in Sarah Brandt’s pleasant kitchen. Thank heaven that was out of the question tonight. She had other obligations, and Frank knew it was time to stop seeing her anyway. No good could come of it, as his mother would have pointed out to him if he’d allowed her to speak of Sarah Brandt at all. But tonight he wouldn’t even need to make a decision about whether to go to her place or not.

Potter’s door opened seconds after Frank knocked. He’d obviously been waiting for the policeman to arrive. He still wore his suit coat, and as usual, he was fiddling nervously with his watch chain. “Come in, Mr. Malloy,” he said too jovially. “What can I do for you? Your note was very mysterious.”

“I wasn’t trying to be mysterious,” Frank said, taking the chair Potter indicated. “I just had some news for you that I wanted to give you in person.”

“Have you finally decided to close the investigation?” he asked hopefully. “Although it pains me to think a boy could actually kill his own father, I don’t really see any other solution to this unfortunate incident.”

“I’m afraid there’s been another murder, Mr. Potter,” Frank said, watching the other man’s face carefully.

And just as carefully, Potter betrayed no emotion except a mild curiosity. “I can’t imagine who—” he began, then caught himself. “Good heavens, it can’t be! Is Letitia all right?” he asked worriedly.

“She’s fine,” Malloy assured him, although he would have sworn Potter wasn’t really worried about her.

“Then who ... ?”

“Peter Dudley.”

Potter frowned. “Peter ... ? Oh, yes, that gentleman I met at Letitia’s the other day. He’s dead, you say? Whatever happened to him?” He didn’t seem too upset, but then why should he be? Dudley was nothing to him, except perhaps a rival for Letitia’s affections.

“Someone stabbed him.”

“Good heavens! I don’t know what the world is coming to. I never imagined I would know three men who died under unpleasant circumstances.”

“Why not?” Frank asked. “Once a killer gets started, it’s difficult to know when to stop.”

“You can’t imagine this Dudley’s death is connected to Edmund’s in any way,” Potter protested. “They didn’t even know one another. Why would the same person want to kill them both?”

“Why else would Dudley have been killed?” Frank asked in return. “He was just a simple bank clerk.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Potter sniffed. “Besides, we both know that Edmund’s killer is dead by his own hand. It’s only your stubborn refusal to admit it that has kept us from putting this whole awful business to rest.”