Murder on Marble Row (25 page)

“Poor bastard,” Snowberger said with a sigh. “That's a horrible way to die, no matter how much he might've deserved it.”

Frank knew he'd already stretched his luck as far as it would go with Snowberger. After the questions he'd asked, he was fortunate the other man hadn't thrown him bodily out of his office and threatened to get him fired from the police force. He still could, of course, if Frank didn't get out while he was still in a sympathetic frame of mind.

Frank rose from his chair. “Thank you for answering my questions, Mr. Snowberger.”

Snowberger allowed himself a satisfied smile. “My pleasure, Mr. Malloy. I enjoyed your speculations. They were quite entertaining.”

Frank hadn't meant to entertain him, but he knew enough to be glad Snowberger saw it that way. “If you think of anyone else who might have had a reason to want Mr. Van Dyke dead, please send for me.”

Snowberger didn't reply, and Frank figured the chances of that happening were zero.

 
 
A
S SHE WAITED FOR THE MAID TO FETCH HER CLOAK, Sarah thought how glad she'd be to get home to her own bed, where she could finally catch up on her sleep. She wondered what Malloy had been doing and what he had learned, but she couldn't find out unless she could find him. Short of leaving a message for him at Police Headquarters, which she knew would only make him angry, or simply waiting here until he showed up, which might take days, she couldn't think of any other way to let him know she wanted to see him. She also didn't want to take the chance that he'd ignore her message. Better to wait until she encountered him again—or get the story from Alberta when he finally solved the murder.

The maid returned with her cloak just as someone rang the bell. Sarah took the cloak so the girl could answer the front door. She'd draped it over her shoulders the instant before Frank Malloy stepped into the foyer.

Sarah couldn't help feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She managed a guileless smile of greeting, even though Malloy was staring at her as if he wanted to shake her. “Malloy,” she said sweetly.

“Mrs. Brandt, I'm surprised to see you here.” He didn't mean
surprised,
of course.

“Mr. Reed needed medical attention, and I was only too happy to help,” she said, even though that hadn't been the original reason she'd come.

Fortunately, this distracted him a bit. “Reed is here
again
?”

“He's
still
here, I'm afraid. He was too ill to go home last night, and it's my opinion that he shouldn't be moved for at least a week.”

Malloy opened his mouth to give his own opinion on the matter, but then he remembered the maid standing there, wide-eyed and taking in every word to spread to the rest of the servants the instant she got back to the kitchen. “Is there a room where Mrs. Brandt and I might speak in private for a moment?” he asked her.

“What? Oh, yes, sir,” the girl stammered. “Right this way, please.”

She led them to a small but fashionably furnished room just off the foyer. Malloy looked around curiously as she closed the door behind them.

“It's a waiting room for visitors the servants aren't sure the family wants to receive,” Sarah explained. No fire had been laid to ward off the winter chill, and Sarah was glad for her cloak.

Malloy gave her his full attention, and she immediately regretted letting the maid escape. He didn't have to be polite if they were alone. “Talking to you is like talking to a stone,” he informed her. “Didn't I warn you it wasn't safe to be here?”

“Yes, you did,” she replied, refusing to be defensive. “I considered your warning, and I chose to disregard it. I don't think anyone else in the family is in danger from the killer.”

“How very clever of you to figure that out,” he said sarcastically.

“It wasn't clever at all.
You
don't think the anarchists were responsible for Van Dyke's death, either.”

“That doesn't mean I'm right!”

“Then why aren't
you
afraid to come here?”

“Maybe I am!”

That was so patently ridiculous, Sarah didn't even bother to respond. “What have you learned about the murder? I assume you haven't solved it yet, or you wouldn't be wasting time yelling at me.”

“I'm not yelling!” he yelled.

Sarah gave a long-suffering sigh. “You were right about Mr. Reed being Alberta's lover,” she said in an effort to get him on track. “Her father forbade them to see each other, and he threatened to ruin Reed if they eloped. Alberta was even afraid he'd make her get rid of the baby if he found out. I don't know if she meant adoption or abortion, but . . . What is it, Malloy?”

“They needed to get married right away, and Van Dyke had forbidden them to even see each other,” he said, as if that were important.

Fortunately, Sarah knew it wasn't. “He can't be the killer, Malloy. He was right outside the office when the bomb went off, so he couldn't have pulled the wire. He might even have been killed himself.”

“We think the bomb went off by accident.”

“The killer set it to go off when he pulled the wire outside, but we found a piece of wire in Van Dyke's hand. He must've seen the bomb, figured out what it was, and tried to disarm it by pulling the wires loose himself.”

“And instead it went off right in his face,” Sarah said with an involuntary shiver. Then she realized what this meant. Lewis Reed could have set the bomb after all, and he certainly had an excellent reason for wanting Van Dyke dead. “But Mr. Reed couldn't have done it,” she insisted.

“Why? Because he was in love? That's one of the main reasons people commit murder, Mrs. Brandt,” he reminded her. “He and Miss Van Dyke must've been desperate. As long as her father was alive, they didn't have any hope at all.”

“Have you met Mr. Reed?” she argued. “He couldn't hurt a fly!”

“It's men like that, the ones who don't know how to stand up for themselves and can't figure out any other solution, who commit murder.”

“I don't believe it!” she insisted.

“
You
don't have to, but
I
have to at least consider it,” he reminded her.

She wanted to beg him not to, but she knew that would be idiotic. He was right, Lewis Reed and Alberta had the best reason they'd found so far for killing her father. “Haven't you at least found someone else who might have done it?”

“You mean besides the anarchists?” he asked. “I thought you didn't want them to be guilty, either.”

“What about Lilly? She didn't like her husband very much. I'll bet she's glad to be rid of him.”

“You're probably right, and she had at least one lover, too.”

“Who is it?” Sarah demanded in surprise.

He gave her a withering look that reminded her he didn't have to share information with her.

“I told you I suspected Tad was in love with her,” she reminded him. “Is he the one?”

“I said
at least
one, and we don't have any proof she and Tad were actually lovers. A lot of young men fall in love with older women they know they can't have. That doesn't mean he did anything more than moon over her, and it doesn't make him a killer, especially of his own father.”

“What if Lilly knew Tad loved her? I'm sure she does. A woman like that is always aware of her effect on men. What if she used him to get rid of her husband? She could have convinced him they'd be together if only his father were dead.”

Malloy sighed. “I'll be sure and ask her about that, right after I ask her about her other lovers.” He looked meaningfully at her cloak. “Weren't you just about to leave?”

Sarah sighed, too. “I was. I delivered a baby last night.”

“That explains why you look so awful,” he said. “Go home and get some rest and let me do my job.”

Stung, Sarah glared at him. “Do you really think I look awful?”

Malloy rubbed a hand over his face. “I meant you look tired. Now go home.” He went over and opened the door, holding it for her.

“You look tired, too,” she informed him tartly as she breezed past him.

He made a funny noise in his throat.

As they stepped into the foyer, the maid was opening the front door again. This time Creighton Van Dyke came in.

“Mr. Malloy,” he exclaimed when he saw him. “You're just the man I need to see.”

11

F
RANK HAD FIGURED HE'D NEVER SEE CREIGHTON VAN Dyke again, or if he did, it would only be the result of relentless searching or dumb luck. This must qualify as dumb luck. “You have a lot to answer for, Van Dyke,” he said angrily.

“I apologize for running out like that,” Creighton said, rubbing his hands together to get them warm.

“The police call it
escaping,
” Frank pointed out.

“I don't think so,” he replied quite cheerfully. “I wasn't under arrest, after all.”

“You were in police custody.” Frank wasn't in the mood to split hairs.

“The important thing,” Sarah pointed out, irritating him even more, “is that he's back now. What have you found out, Creighton?”

Creighton glanced at the maid, who was drinking in every word. “Let's go upstairs, and I'll tell you.” He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to the maid. Then he headed up the stairs to the second floor in his shirtsleeves, leaving them to follow.

Frank caught Sarah's arm when she started up after him. “I thought you were going home.”

“I'm not
that
tired,” she informed him. “No matter how bad I look.”

Frank sighed as she handed the maid her cloak as well and followed Creighton. He'd never hear the end of that “tired” remark. He took off his overcoat and handed it to the maid also.

“Your sister's in the back parlor with Mr. Reed,” he heard Sarah telling Creighton when he reached the top of the stairs.

“Reed? What's he doing here?” Creighton said. “I thought he was injured in the explosion.”

“He was, but he felt it was his duty to help the family with the arrangements for your father, so he came over yesterday. He overestimated his strength, however, and he had to remain here overnight. Alberta has been tending him.”

A pretty story, and Frank wasn't going to contradict it.

“I should tell Bertie that I'm back,” Creighton said, “but that can wait.” He headed for the front parlor. The door stood open, showing the room to be empty. He led them inside and shut the door behind them.

“All right, Van Dyke, where have you been?” Frank demanded.

“The Lower East Side. I've been questioning everyone who might know anything about my father's death.”

Frank felt the fury boiling inside of him, but he knew how to hold it in check. “I thought we'd decided that we'd do that
together,
” he reminded him.

“No,
you'd
decided that, Mr. Malloy. I knew perfectly well no one would tell me a thing if you were with me. My friends don't trust the police, you know. Too many of them have been thrown in jail for things they didn't do, just because the police don't like their philosophy.”

Sarah had taken a seat on the sofa. “You can't blame them for not trusting the police,” she said to no one in particular.

Frank ignored the provocation. “What makes you think they told
you
the truth?”

“I used persuasion. I can be charming when that will work, and when it doesn't . . .” He held up his hands. The knuckles were skinned.

“I don't suppose you found out who killed your father?” Frank asked sarcastically.

“No, but I found out who
didn't
. I'd stake my life that he wasn't killed by an anarchist. The truth is, they're just too afraid to take a chance on a crime so shocking. They've learned from those who've gone before and made grand gestures, only to end up rotting in prison in obscurity.”

“Like the man who tried to assassinate Henry Frick,” Sarah said.

“Exactly,” Creighton agreed. “A friend of ours only missed being with Alexander Beckman in Pittsburgh because they didn't have enough money for her train ticket. Otherwise, she probably would've gone to prison, too.”

“Yes, Emma Goldman,” Sarah said. “We met her. But she did go to prison herself a few years ago.”

“Yes, and she doesn't want to go back. There's too much important work to be done for us to allow any of our people to be locked up. They didn't do this, Mr. Malloy.”

“I suppose you think they'd confess to you if they did,” Frank said.

“My father's death would be worthless as a political statement if no one claimed responsibility for it.”

“What if they did it for the money you'd inherit to support them?” Frank challenged.

“We have other patrons, Mr. Malloy. Besides, my father disinherited me.”

“No, he didn't,” Frank said, watching Creighton's reaction carefully.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that your father did change his will recently, and he did disinherit some family members, but not you. In fact, you'll inherit almost his entire estate.”

“What?”
he asked incredulously. He wasn't faking. This was genuine shock. He truly hadn't expected to profit from his father's death, which meant he didn't have a motive. That was something, at least.

“Your father thought you should be forced to accept your responsibility as a capitalist, so he left everything to you.”