Murder on Marble Row (6 page)

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Quentin said, a little surprised. “He'd been a bit down in the mouth for the past few months, you know. Business troubles, he'd tell me.”

“What kind of business troubles?”

Quentin shrugged. “I don't like to talk about the family.” Of course he didn't. Servants who told tales about their employers found themselves dismissed without a reference.

“It might help me find out who killed Mr. Van Dyke,” Frank prodded. “No one will ever know what you told me.”

Quentin glanced at the door that stood open to the hallway. Frank strode over and closed it purposefully. Then he turned back to Quentin.

“Mr. Van Dyke, he didn't say much, but what he did say ...”

“What kind of trouble was he having?” Frank prodded.

Quentin looked distinctly uncomfortable. “No one will know?”

“No one,” Frank assured him.

“He was mad at Mr. Snowberger. That's his partner.”

“I've met him. What was he mad about?”

“You have to understand, they never did get along, but this time . . . Well, he thought Mr. Snowberger was cheating him somehow.”

“Cheating him? You mean taking money from the business?”

“I don't know. Like I said, Mr. Van Dyke don't talk much. He'd just grumble a bit now and then. He'd say Snowberger thought he was getting away with it, but he was wrong. Mr. Van Dyke knew what was going on, and he'd put a stop to it.”

Just as Frank had feared, this case wasn't going to be simple. If Snowberger was stealing from the company, and Van Dyke had found out, Snowberger might have decided to kill him before Van Dyke could expose him. “Did Mr. Snowberger know that Mr. Van Dyke was angry with him?”

“I don't know, but I thought they must've made it up, because Mr. Van Dyke was so cheerful this morning. And he had a present for Mr. Snowberger.”

“A present? What kind of a present?”

“He got him a bottle of special brandy. That's why I was sure they must've made up their fight. I never knew him to give Mr. Snowberger a present before. Mr. Snowberger likes his brandy, and Mr. Van Dyke ordered this from France. The bottle had gold on it and everything. He took it with him this morning to give it to him. Saw him carry it out when he left.”

“Did he say anything to you about it?”

Quentin tried to remember. “Just that . . . I think he said something about how this would make things right between them.”

So maybe Snowberger wasn't a suspect after all. Frank felt a small sense of relief. Prosecuting a man in his position would be extremely difficult, even with irrefutable evidence, and Frank doubted he'd find that kind of evidence.

The brandy did help explain one thing, though—what Van Dyke had been doing at his liquor cabinet so early in the morning. He'd probably been putting the bottle inside for safekeeping, not knowing a bomb had been planted there. Did whoever planted it know about the gift or know that Van Dyke would be opening the cabinet that morning? Not likely. Probably, Van Dyke took a nip in the afternoon or early evening. If it was a habit with him, someone would know, someone close to him. Like his partner.

Or his son.

Frank would have to find out where Creighton Van Dyke was as quickly as possible. That would mean questioning Alberta Van Dyke. Which probably meant dealing with Sarah Brandt, too.

Frank managed not to groan aloud at the thought. He distracted himself by thoroughly searching Gregory Van Dyke's rooms, much to the chagrin of his valet.

 
 
S
ARAH COULD SEE THAT ALBERTA WAS TIRING. “YOU need to get some rest now,” she said. “The next few days will be difficult.”

Alberta closed her eyes against the thought. “Yes, they will, especially with Lilly in charge of everything.”

“Won't that fall to Creighton? He's the oldest son, after all,” Sarah remembered.

Alberta looked at her sharply, as if seeking some hidden meaning behind her words. Seeing none, she said, “Creighton isn't here.”

“He's not? Where is he?” She was thinking he might have taken a European tour or something.

“He . . . he left home several months ago. He lives with . . . with some friends. He . . . Oh, dear.” She raised a hand to her forehead and rubbed it as if to soothe an ache. “I guess I might as well tell you. That policeman already found out, and everyone else will know soon enough.”

“What?” Sarah asked in alarm. “Has something happened to Creighton?”

“He's taken up with some very strange people. Anarchists, they call themselves.”

Sarah could only gape at her in stunned silence. Anarchists killed people with bombs! Everyone knew that!

“Creighton couldn't have had anything to do with Father's death,” Alberta insisted, as if reading her mind. “He and Father had quarreled, but Creighton wouldn't kill him! He's not that kind of person.”

Sarah hadn't seen Creighton in many years, so she had no idea whether he was or not. “How on earth did he get involved with people like that?”

Alberta rubbed her forehead again. “He's always been a little rebellious. He and Father were constantly at loggerheads about something. I think . . . I honestly think that if
Father
had been an anarchist, Creighton would have become a conservative businessman, just to spite him.”

“My sister Maggie was like that,” Sarah remembered sadly. Maggie had left home, too, after quarreling with their father, but the consequences for a rebellious female were much greater than for a male. Maggie was dead.

“I'm not sure why, but Creighton started by going to some of their meetings. He was searching for something, I think. Something he could believe in. Then he met this girl.”

“Oh, dear,” Sarah said, beginning to understand.

“Yes,” Alberta agreed. “She's Russian or maybe German. I'm not sure. Very pretty but just as insane as the rest of them. Full of hatred and ideas that don't make any sense at all to rational people. And of course she believes in free love.”

“I see,” Sarah said, and she did. The whole picture was clear now. Creighton had been looking for a philosophy of his own that would thoroughly shock his father. Then he'd met a girl who offered him not only new ideas but carnal satisfaction as well. The combination must have been irresistible.

“They live on the Lower East Side in a tenement with a lot of other Russian and German immigrants.” She looked at Sarah beseechingly. “Someone should warn him that the police think he killed Father.”

“Do you think he's guilty?” Sarah asked. “Do you want him to run away?”

“Of course not, and I don't think he's guilty! But when did that ever stop the police from arresting someone? They're looking for a person who planted a bomb, and everyone knows anarchists plant bombs. They'll blame him and his friends because it's easy, and Lilly will be only too happy to let Creighton be accused.”

“Detective Sergeant Malloy isn't that kind of a policeman,” Sarah told her. “I know him, and I've seen him work. He won't rest until he finds the truth.”

“How on earth do you know a policeman, Sarah?” Alberta asked in amazement.

“It's a long story, but you can take my word. Creighton has nothing to fear from Detective Malloy if he's innocent.”

Alberta was unconvinced. “Still, someone should warn him. Sarah, do you know anyone who could take a message to him?”

Sarah almost volunteered herself. She often went into those neighborhoods to deliver babies, but she didn't want to seem too eager. “I think I could find someone. Do you have his address?”

Alberta gave her the address of a building just south of Houston Street in the German Jewish neighborhood. Sarah knew the area well.

 
 
F
RANK WAS LOOKING FOR A SERVANT TO SEND UP TO Miss Van Dyke's room to ask if he could question her when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up to see Sarah Brandt descending.

The sight of her always amazed him. She seemed to be lit by some inner fire that gave her a presence or a glow, setting her apart from every other woman he'd ever known. He felt the familiar ache of a longing that could never be fulfilled. He had only a moment to admire her before she saw him looking up.

“Malloy, I'm so glad you're still here,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

She probably had some silly idea about who the killer was, and he'd have to convince her it wasn't possible. He didn't have time for that. He had to find out who had killed Van Dyke before Roosevelt got impatient and put somebody else on the case. “I need to speak with Miss Van Dyke,” he said, hoping to distract her.

“She can't see you now,” she said as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “She's too ill. That's what I need to talk to you about.” She looked around to see if they were alone. She noticed the parlor door was closed.

“Mrs. Van Dyke and your mother are in there,” he explained. “Some minister is with them.”

“Good, come with me.”

To his annoyance, she headed off toward the back of the house without waiting to see if he would agree. Having no choice, he followed her down the hall and into a dimly lit room. A glance around told him this must be Van Dyke's study. The huge and snarling head of the pelt he'd seen hanging in Van Dyke's bedroom hung on the wall opposite the door, but it was only one of many exotic animals mounted in various poses of ferocity on every wall. Before he could take in more than that first impression, she closed the door behind them.

“Malloy, Mr. Van Dyke's oldest son is an anarchist,” she told him.

Was that all? “I know. His wife told me. That's what I have to see Miss Van Dyke about. Her stepmother said she's the only one likely to know where to find him.”

“You aren't going to arrest him, are you?” she asked in alarm.

He bit back the sharp retort that sprang instantly to his lips. Getting into a shouting match with her here would be stupid. “I need to question him,” he said as calmly as he could.

“He wouldn't have killed his own father!”

“Maybe not, but his friends might have,” he countered.

She couldn't dispute that. “Alberta gave me his address. She wants me to warn him that the police are looking for him.”

“What?”
he cried, remembering at the last second not to shout.

“But that's not all. I don't know whether it has anything to do with the bomb or not, but . . . Alberta Van Dyke is with child.”

3

F
RANK WASN'T SURE HE'D HEARD HER CORRECTLY. “SHE'S what?”

“She's going to have a baby. Which means she has a lover. But I mentioned that I thought I'd read she was engaged—to give her an opportunity to tell me about the man in her life—and she insisted she hadn't even had a gentleman court her for years.”

Frank was still confused. “How did she explain the baby then?”

“She didn't. I didn't tell her I knew.”

“If you didn't talk about it, how do you know there's a baby?”

“Because she's been ill, and I asked her questions, and I saw her . . . her body, and I know. I've seen enough women in that condition before. She has all the signs.”

Frank scratched his head in bewilderment. “All right, even if it's true, what does this have to do with her father's murder?”

She rolled her eyes, silently telling him she thought he must be a dunderhead. “Alberta is my age, more than old enough to be considered definitely a spinster,” she explained patiently. “She said herself she hasn't had a suitor in a very long time. That means there's some mystery about who fathered her child.”

“You think she might have been forced?” Frank asked, growing more disturbed by the minute.

“It's possible, but she doesn't act as if she's experienced that kind of an outrage. I've seen enough who have to know how they react.”

“Could the father be . . . someone in her family?” he asked reluctantly. They both knew that happened far more often than anyone wanted to believe.

“Dear heaven, I hope not. It seems unlikely because of her age, though.”

“If she wasn't forced and it's not a member of her family, then she must have a lover,” Frank pointed out.

“And since she denied having any suitors, we have to conclude that it's someone her family wouldn't have considered acceptable enough to call on her.”

“A servant?” Frank guessed.

“Entirely possible,” she agreed. “But whoever it is, if her father wouldn't allow her to marry him, and then she discovered she's with child . . .”

“Alberta and her lover might have decided to kill him so they could be together,” Frank finished. “Of course, this might have nothing at all to do with who killed Van Dyke,” he reminded her. “Blowing your own father to kingdom come is an ugly thing to do, no matter what your reason.”

“Yes, but we don't know who the lover is. He might be an anarchist, too. If Creighton knows some, Alberta might, too. But even if Alberta and her lover aren't involved at all, we can use the information to frighten Alberta, to get her to tell us everything she knows.”

Frank felt a familiar tightening behind his eyes, the first symptom of the headache Sarah Brandt frequently gave him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and got hold of his temper before replying. “Mrs. Brandt, you keep using the word ‘we,' but I believe I already made it clear that you are not to be involved in this case.”

“You told me to stay away from this house because it might explode,” she reminded him. “I don't think I'll be in much danger going downtown to see Creighton Van Dyke.”