Murder on Marble Row (29 page)

“Yes. He said he only . . .” He glanced at Mrs. Decker while he searched for an acceptable way to say it. “That is, they were only . . . It just happened once.”

“That would hardly qualify as an affair,” Mrs. Decker pointed out, not the least disturbed. “That would merely be a seduction.”

“And he only did it to humiliate his partner. He said he hopes never to see Mrs. Van Dyke again,” Frank explained, glad to put an end to this uncomfortable discussion.

“Except he saw her just this morning,” Sarah informed him.

“Sarah caught them
in flagrante delicto
,” Mrs. Van Dyke added with apparent pride.

“In
what
?” Frank asked, knowing the words couldn't possibly mean what he thought they did, especially not if Mrs. Decker had said them.

“She was sitting in his lap and . . .” Sarah glanced at her mother the same way Frank had.

“Stop looking at me like that, as if you think I'll be shocked,” Mrs. Decker protested. “You already told me what they were doing. I'm not going to faint.”

“Her bodice was undone and . . .” Sarah glanced at her mother again.

“And he was kissing her bare bosom,” Mrs. Decker finished impatiently. “Does that sound to you as if he has no affection for her?”

Frank didn't know what was more shocking, what Sarah had seen Lilly and Snowberger doing or hearing it from Mrs. Felix Decker. He had to swallow before he could reply. “This happened today?” was all he could think to ask.

“I already told you it did,” Sarah reminded him sharply.

“When I caught them, right in Lilly's front parlor, Snowberger was embarrassed, but Lilly wasn't. She proudly announced that they were going to be married.”

“
Married?
Her husband isn't even in the ground yet!” Frank said.

“I believe it was Mr. Reed who pointed that out to them,” Sarah said.

“Reed? What was he doing there?”

“Oh, he and Alberta and Tad all came running when they heard Lilly screaming.”

“What was she screaming about?”

“Various things. Getting caught, first of all. Then she objected rather loudly when Snowberger tried to convince me there was nothing between them.”

“With her bodice open like that, I don't suppose there was,” Mrs. Decker observed wickedly.

Shocked again, Frank looked at her, but she didn't bat an eye. He cleared his throat. “You said Tad was there, too? What did he say about all this?”

“Plainly, he was jealous and devastated by Lilly's announcement. He's certainly in love with her, and I'm sure she led him on, at the very least. He seemed to think she'd turn to him now that his father is dead. I got the impression she'd told him as much at some point.”

“She may have assumed he'd inherit a goodly portion of his father's estate,” Mrs. Decker said.

“Especially since everyone thought he'd disinherit Creighton,” Sarah added.

Frank took a moment to consider this new information in light of what he already knew, but Sarah apparently couldn't stand the silence.

“Was Snowberger the one you were talking about when you said Lilly had at least one lover?”

“Yes,” Frank admitted. “But he said he had no further interest in her. He'd only seduced Lilly to get revenge for the business deal. He considered them even.”

“Which meant he wouldn't have had any reason for killing Mr. Van Dyke. But now . . .”

“Yes, now,” Mrs. Decker offered eagerly, “it appears he's actually in love with Lilly and planning to marry her. That would certainly give him a reason for killing poor Gregory.”

Indeed, it did. Snowberger had sounded very convincing when he'd insisted he cared nothing for the widow. What had he called her? Tiresome? Frank felt the same way about her, so he'd readily believed Snowberger did, too. Frank usually had no trouble at all figuring out who was lying and who was telling the truth, but Snowberger might well be one of the few men who could lie well enough to fool him. He rarely dealt with millionaire businessmen as suspects. For all he knew, lying well was one of their major characteristics.

“I need to pay Mr. Snowberger another visit,” he said.

From the expression on Sarah's face, he could see she'd give anything to accompany him. She also knew better than to ask. This was official police business.

“If you'll excuse me, ladies,” he said, starting to rise.

“I'm sure Mr. Snowberger can wait for an hour or so. Why don't you stay and have luncheon with us, Mr. Malloy?” Mrs. Decker said.

“No, I—” he tried, but she was having none of it.

“You must eat, to keep up your strength,” she pointed out. “Everything's ready, and Allen Snowberger isn't going to leave town, even if he did blow up his partner. He'll be right there waiting for you whenever you arrive. Sarah, would you ring for the maid and tell her to set an extra place?”

Now he was going to
eat
at Felix Decker's house. At least the old man wasn't there. Frank figured he wouldn't have been invited otherwise. Decker might tolerate him in his professional capacity, but sitting down at table with him was asking way too much.

 
 
^“
M
R. MALLOY HAS VERY GOOD MANNERS,” SARAH'S mother observed later, after they had seen him off on his mission to find Snowberger.

“You sound surprised, Mother. Did you expect him to eat with his fingers and wipe his mouth on the tablecloth?”

“Don't be sarcastic, dear,” her mother chided. “It isn't becoming. You know what I meant. He has a certain delicacy of mind I wouldn't have expected, either.”

“Mother, you naturally inspire gentlemanly conduct in men,” Sarah said with a smile. “I can assure you, Malloy can be extremely indelicate when he wants to be.”

“Is he indelicate with you?” she asked with some interest.

Sarah wasn't going to answer that question. “Let's just say he doesn't hesitate to tell me when he finds my conduct unacceptable.”

“Which is often, or so I gather. He seemed extremely displeased that you're involved in all this. Doesn't he appreciate your help?”

“Oh, yes, although he'd probably never admit it. In this case, he's concerned for my safety, though.”

“Your safety?” her mother said in alarm.

Sarah shrugged. “I suppose there's a chance someone might try to blow up the Van Dyke house, too.”

“Why would they bother? Gregory is already dead.”

“My point exactly,” Sarah said with satisfaction. “Malloy likes to consider all the possibilities, however.”

“I suppose he must, if he's going to solve this puzzle.

Now, what shall we do to pass the time until he finds Allen and questions him?”

Sarah considered the possibility of whiling away a long, boring afternoon at her mother's house with dismay. “I really should pay a visit to the mission,” she decided. “I haven't been there in days.”

Her mother smiled. “You want to see little Aggie, don't you? The child you told me about.”

Sarah was afraid to admit how much, even to herself. “She's become very attached to me. I don't want her to feel I'm just one more person who has abandoned her.”

“I'd like to meet this little girl myself,” she said. “Why don't I go with you?”

Sarah's first instinct was to refuse, and she wasn't sure why. Was she afraid for her mother to meet Aggie? Or was having her mother meet Aggie more of a commitment than she wanted to make right now?

Her mother misunderstood her hesitation. “Don't worry about taking me into the Lower East Side again. I'm sure I'll survive another visit.”

Sarah looked at the frilly gown she wore. “May I suggest you dress a bit more conservatively than you did the last time? Do you have anything that's actually
plain
?”

Her mother smiled indulgently. “Maybe I could borrow something from the maid.”

 
 
F
RANK WAS BEGINNING TO WONDER IF MRS. DECKER had been wrong about Allen Snowberger leaving town. He'd gone straight to Snowberger's office after leaving Mrs. Decker's house. Snowberger wasn't there, and no one knew when he might appear. They directed him to Snowberger's home, which turned out to be an apartment in one of the new buildings on Fifth Avenue's Marble Row, just a block from the Van Dykes.

The doorman insisted on escorting him up. Probably he didn't trust a cop in a building like this, full of expensive things. But no one answered the door at Snowberger's flat, even though the doorman had said he was home.

“Doesn't he have any servants?” Frank had asked.

“A girl who comes in to clean, but she doesn't live in. His valet does, but he's been gone all day on some errand.”

“What kind of errand?”

“How should I know?” the doorman asked, offended. “I don't pry into the tenants' private business.”

“You seem to know pretty much everything else,” Frank pointed out. “I thought you said Mr. Snowberger was at home.”

“I saw him come in, but . . . Well, he may have gone out when I was busy elsewhere,” the man admitted reluctantly. “You might try his gentleman's club.”

Frank had banged on the door a few more times, but still got no response. Having no other options, he'd gone to check Snowberger's club with no luck.

Now he was back. The sun was setting and no one had seen Snowberger anywhere since he'd returned to his flat right after he'd left the Van Dyke house. The doorman wasn't happy to see Frank again.

“He hasn't come back yet,” he protested.

“Let's check anyway,” Frank suggested less than kindly.

The doorman gave in with little grace.

“Why does Snowberger live in an apartment?” Frank asked as they rode up in the fancy elevator. “I figured he'd have one of these mansions along here.”

“He did, until his wife passed away. I suppose he didn't see any reason to keep up a big place when he was alone.”

“How long has he lived here?”

The man considered. “About six months, I guess.”

Frank frowned. That would've been about the time he lost the money in the deal with Van Dyke. Snowberger had sold his big, fancy house and moved to a flat with only one live-in servant. His protests that losing the money hadn't mattered to him seemed less convincing now.

Frank pounded on the door again, and once again, no one answered. Now he was starting to believe Snowberger had fled. He wouldn't have wanted the doorman to see him leaving with luggage, so he'd have sneaked out when the man wasn't looking. He also would've sent his valet away on some phony errand so the man wouldn't know what he was doing. Frank needed to check inside to see if his belongings were gone.

“Open the door,” he told the doorman.

“I can't do that!” he protested in alarm.

“Then I'll have to kick it in.”

The poor man gasped “Wait, I . . . I'll get the key.”

He'd just turned toward the elevator when they heard a cracking noise from inside. “What's that?” Frank asked.

“I don't know. I—”

Before he could complete the thought, they heard a roar of shattering plaster and breaking glass. Without waiting for permission, Frank threw his shoulder against the door, instinctively turning the knob. To his amazement, it gave beneath his hand and his weight carried him staggering into the room. The door hadn't been locked at all!

The small entry hall opened to a larger parlor and beyond it a dining room. The whole area was filled with a cloud of plaster dust, but no smell of gunpowder. He'd expected gunpowder. He could see what looked like two legs on the floor in the dining room beneath a pile of debris.

As the cloud of dust began to settle, Frank identified the hole in the ceiling where a chandelier had recently hung. That chandelier and part of the ceiling comprised the debris now covering the body on the floor. Frank hurried to where it lay and began pulling pieces of bent metal and broken plaster and glass off the body. The instant he uncovered the head, he knew this man hadn't been killed by an explosion. The face was blue and the eyes bulging. A rope had been fashioned out of a sheet and knotted around the neck. The other end was tied to the remains of the chandelier. He must've been hanging there a while before his weight finally pulled the electric light fixture loose.

Frank had never pictured Snowberger as a suicide. The act was too cowardly for such a proud man. Had he done it out of guilt or fear of discovery? Was he ashamed of his crime, consumed with guilt for what he'd done to his partner, or afraid of the public humiliation that would come if he was discovered? Frank looked around for anything that might be a note explaining his act. A confession of murder would be helpful, too. He saw nothing.

“Is he . . . dead?” the doorman called from where he stood in the front hall.

“I'm afraid so. You'd better call the police.”

“I thought you
were
the police!” the man said, newly outraged.

“I am,” he assured him impatiently. “I just need some help with this. Now hurry up!”

The man disappeared, and Frank stared down at what remained of Allen Snowberger.

 
 
S
ARAH HADN'T EVER EXPECTED TO BE SITTING ACROSS from her mother in the dining room of the Prodigal Son Mission while they shared a simple meal with the girls who had found refuge there. About a dozen girls, ranging in age from thirteen to sixteen, and their chaperone, Mrs. Keller, were eating at the two tables. Aggie sat beside Sarah on the bench, as close as she could get. Her small body felt good pressed up against her, warm and safe. Sarah had an overwhelming urge to keep her safe forever.