Murder on Marble Row (10 page)

They gave way grudgingly, and Sarah passed by them without a word, managing to exchange glances with the man who had fled earlier to let him know she recognized him. Fortunately, no one followed her down the stairs. If she'd managed to get herself into difficulty, getting herself out would have been only half the problem. The other half would be explaining to Malloy why she should still be allowed to help him with the case.

 
 
F
RANK HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE KEEPING UP WITH VAN Dyke in the congested streets of the Lower East Side. He was tall enough that he couldn't just disappear, though, so Frank was able to keep him in view. To Frank's surprise, Van Dyke stopped at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Bleeker Street Elevated Train Station and waited for him to catch up.

His expression was defiant, but he refused to meet Frank's eye. “I don't have any money for the train. I gave it all to Katya.”

Frank bit back a grin. “Come on. My treat.”

Van Dyke followed him reluctantly up the long stairway, and they waited in silence for the next train to come. Finally, Van Dyke said, “Is my sister really ill?”

“She looked like it, and Mrs. Brandt said she was. She took to her bed and couldn't answer any questions about your father's death.”

“What could she possibly know about that?” he asked resentfully.

“Enough to be worried you had something to do with it,” Frank replied.

“Well, I didn't.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to answer my questions?” Frank inquired.

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because I'm the only friend you've got. Your father's widow was only too happy to tell me you're an anarchist.

When word gets out, your father's friends will easily believe you killed the old man for his money. Everybody knows anarchists have no love or loyalty.”

“That isn't true!”

“I didn't say it was,” Frank said. “I only said everybody believes it. You want to overthrow everything they hold sacred. They'll hate you for turning against your own kind. They'll want you to be guilty so they can get rid of you and feel a little safer.”

His young face hardened as he stared off into the distance, refusing to acknowledge what Frank had said.

“Who do you think did it?” Frank asked after a few moments.

Van Dyke pretended he hadn't heard.

“You asked Katya if it was her brother. That's why you don't want to say anything, isn't it? You don't want to hurt her.”

“He wouldn't have done it without telling me,” Van Dyke said, still refusing to look at Frank.

“Wouldn't he? What if he was afraid you'd be too cowardly—or too honorable—to kill your own father.”

“He'd have nothing to gain from it!” Van Dyke said in exasperation.

“What do anarchists have to gain from killing anyone? They do it, though, don't they? They want to frighten rich people and impress poor people. They kill to make a point, not to gain in any way. You know that as well as I do.”

Frank saw the muscles of his jaw tighten as he fought against responding to the provocation.

“Of course, if your father was dead, you might inherit some money,” Frank observed.

Van Dyke looked at him sharply, his eyes wary. “I doubt it. I'm sure my father disinherited me.”

“Are you?” Frank inquired. “But even if he did, would Katya's brother know it?”

“Money means nothing to them,” he insisted.

“Doesn't it? Who pays the rent on your flat? Who buys the food?” Frank grabbed Van Dyke's hand and forced his fingers open, revealing a smooth palm. “Doesn't look like you've been doing much manual labor.”

Van Dyke jerked his hand free. “We live communally. Everyone contributes what they can.”

“If you don't work, what do
you
contribute? Besides fathering bastard children, of course.”

Van Dyke turned on him, instantly furious. His face crimson, his eyes fierce, he looked as if he were going to take a swing at Frank, which is what he'd expected and was ready for. But he only said, “You filthy-minded son of a . . . Don't you dare talk about her! You aren't good enough to speak her name!”

Frank stared back as innocently as he could. “Who? Katya?”

This time Van Dyke's whole body jerked, as if his every instinct demanded he attack Frank and pound him into the ground. But some stronger force held him back. Frank was beginning to think there was something to the theory that the rich had all the spirit bred out of them.

“I can't believe they keep you around just because you're so handsome, Van Dyke,” Frank said. “You must contribute something. Rich fellow like you must have some money of his own. You pay their rent, don't you? Maybe you even support them completely. That would give them more time to do whatever it is they do. What
is
it they do? Sit around in saloons drinking and talking, making speeches and printing pamphlets? They wouldn't want to give that up to get jobs, would they? What happened, Van Dyke? Did you run out of money? Did your father cut off your allowance?”

Van Dyke looked as if he was going to explode with fury, which was exactly what Frank had been working for, but just then a train pulled up. Almost desperately, Van Dyke rushed toward it, jostling people who got in the way. Frank was close behind him, but by the time they were inside the car, Van Dyke was back in control of himself again. He'd taken a seat next to an elderly woman holding several packages in her lap. There were no other seats nearby, so Frank had to stand in the aisle to make sure Van Dyke didn't decide to get off at the next stop and disappear.

The old lady smiled up at him, and Frank nodded. Van Dyke just stared straight ahead, either pretending Frank wasn't there or too afraid to look at him and risk saying something he'd regret. Frank sighed. This was going to be even harder than he'd feared when Roosevelt first gave him the job that morning.

 
 
S
ARAH HAD DECIDED TO WALK TO THE MISSION, SINCE finding a cab on the Lower East Side wasn't very likely. The rain was still falling, but not heavily. She didn't mind. She'd find a warm fire and a friendly welcome at the mission.

Sarah turned down Mulberry Street and passed Police Headquarters with hardly a glance. The building had no interest to her because she knew Malloy wasn't there. A short distance down the street, she found the old Dutch Colonial house that had been converted into a home for wayward girls. A fresh-faced girl of about thirteen opened the door and greeted her by name.

Before Sarah could take off her cape, she heard the patter of tiny feet racing down the hall and looked up to see a small girl hurtling herself into Sarah's arms.

“Aggie, I'm soaking wet,” Sarah protested even as she caught the child in a hug.

Small arms snaked around her neck and clung fiercely.

“Aggie, at least let Mrs. Brandt get her coat off,” a plump older woman scolded gently as she came down the hallway toward them. She was wiping her hands on her apron, and she greeted Sarah with a smile.

“I'm sorry I couldn't come yesterday, Mrs. Keller,” Sarah said as much for Aggie's benefit as for the woman's. “I had a baby to take care of.”

“Aggie missed you,” Mrs. Keller said. She was a widow who had been hired several weeks ago to manage the mission and look after the girls living there. The home had fallen on hard times lately, but those who supported it wanted to see the work continue. Too many poor girls ended up prostituting themselves on the streets because they had no place to go when their families turned them out.

“I missed her, too,” Sarah said, holding Aggie away so the girl could see her face and know she really meant it.

The little girl frowned, pretending to pout, but Sarah tickled her and slowly she smiled, showing even teeth.

“Let me get my wet cloak off, and we'll go sit in the kitchen where it's warm, and you can tell me what you've been doing,” Sarah said, setting the child on the floor again.

Of course, Sarah knew Aggie wouldn't actually tell her anything since the child didn't speak. At first, Sarah had suspected she was deaf, but she quickly realized Aggie heard and understood everything said to or around her. Since Aggie had been found sleeping on the doorstep of the mission one morning, no one knew her history, but Sarah suspected she had experienced a serious trauma of some kind that had rendered her mute. Sarah did know the child was capable of speech, since she'd heard her utter one word in the middle of a crisis. She hadn't spoken since, however.

When Sarah had hung up her cloak, Aggie took her hand and led her back to the kitchen, where several girls were cleaning up from the evening meal. They all greeted Sarah. The lingering heat from the stove felt heavenly, and Sarah held up her chilled hands to warm them.

“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Keller asked.

Sarah couldn't remember when she'd last eaten. “Do you have anything left from supper?”

“For you, we'll find something,” Mrs. Keller assured her with a smile.

Sarah sat down at the kitchen table, and Aggie crawled up into her lap. She “told” Sarah about her day by nodding or shaking her head in response to Sarah's questions. Sarah watched her face lovingly, studying every nuance of her expressions. She'd known the child only a little more than a month, but she'd grown to adore her. As she stroked Aggie's silky hair, her heart ached. Common sense told her Aggie had no place here. The mission was a haven for older girls whose lives had been hard and oftentimes ugly.

Mrs. Keller and the ladies who volunteered here tried to give Aggie special attention, but no one had the time or energy to really mother her the way she needed. The older girls had too many needs and made too many demands. Sarah also worried that some of the older girls would be a bad influence on the small child. Mention had been made of an orphanage, but Sarah knew the chances that a mute child would be adopted were small. She couldn't stand the thought of Aggie growing up in an institution.

“She sits by the window, watching for you,” Mrs. Keller said as she set a plate of stew on the table in front of Sarah.

Aggie looked up at Sarah with eyes full of longing, and Sarah had to fight an urge to weep. How many times had she longed for a child of her own, a dream that would never be fulfilled? If only she had a way to care for the girl. But her work as a midwife took her out of the house at all hours on a moment's notice. A child so young couldn't be left alone, nor could she go along with Sarah to deliver babies. She couldn't even consider taking on such a responsibility.

“Come sit on a chair, Aggie, and give Mrs. Brandt a chance to eat,” Mrs. Keller said, pushing a chair up close beside Sarah's.

Aggie gave Sarah a last, mischievous look, then quickly reached up and kissed her quickly and sweetly on the cheek before scrambling over to the other chair. Sarah had to blink hard to keep herself from crying.

 
 
C
REIGHTON VAN DYKE WASN'T QUITE AS IMPATIENT ON the final leg of the journey as he had been in the beginning. Frank had no trouble matching him step for step as they walked the few blocks from the Fiftieth Street El Station to his father's house on Fifth Avenue.

After the first block, Van Dyke said, “You said someone had planted a bomb in my father's office?” He didn't look at Frank, as if afraid to trust himself. Or perhaps he didn't want to show any vulnerability.

Frank wasn't offended. “That's right. Someone had hidden it in his liquor cabinet, and when he opened the door, it exploded.”

“Was anyone else hurt?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“His secretary, a Mr. Reed, was injured. I haven't seen him yet, so I don't know how bad.”

They walked a minute or two while Van Dyke absorbed the information.

“Wait a minute,” Van Dyke said, looking at Frank at last. “Why would my father have been opening his liquor cabinet at that hour? He rarely drank at all and certainly not before evening.”

“His valet said he'd taken a gift for Mr. Snowberger with him this morning, a bottle of very expensive brandy. I'm assuming he was putting it into the cabinet for safekeeping.”

Van Dyke's face creased into a frown. “A gift? What for?”

“They'd had a . . . a disagreement of some kind, I think.”

Van Dyke shook his head. “They were always having disagreements, as long as they'd known each other. I can't believe he'd settle an argument like that anyway. His word was his bond. If he needed to apologize—and I can't say I've ever known him to apologize for anything!—I can't imagine he'd feel he needed a
gift
to seal the bargain.”

“Do you think the valet was lying?” Frank asked.

“No, but . . . It just doesn't make any sense.” He reached up and rubbed his forehead. “What a senseless way to die.”

“Dying hardly ever makes sense, Mr. Van Dyke,” Frank reminded him.

Van Dyke stared at him for a moment as they walked, as if trying to decide something. “Does
murder
make sense, Detective?”

“Only to the killer.”

Frank didn't like the way things were going. He was pretty sure now that Van Dyke was innocent, but he also couldn't ignore the evidence that pointed to bomb-loving anarchists as the killers. His chances of learning anything about the anarchists depended on how much Van Dyke would help, since that group would hardly cooperate with the police voluntarily. Frank knew how to make reluctant witnesses talk, but he'd never tried to use the third-degree method of persuasion on someone of Van Dyke's social class. Besides, Van Dyke was so mild mannered, it would be like kicking a puppy. He also didn't like the thought of what Sarah Brandt would say if she knew Frank had roughed up her friend.