Murder on Marble Row (7 page)

“You are not going into a den of anarchists!”
he said, forgetting not to shout this time.

She didn't even blink. “Creighton was my partner in dancing class when we were children, and I'll be bringing him a message from his sister. He has no reason to harm me.”

He wanted to shake some sense into her, but he knew that wouldn't do any good. Her head was like a block of marble. “You aren't going, and that's final.”

“How will you find him, then?” she asked, pretending concern.

“I'll get his sister to tell me where he is.”

She shook her head. “She won't tell you a thing, and if you try to make her, she'll cry and scream and even faint, and Lilly Van Dyke will have you thrown out, and you'll never be able to ask anyone in this house another question. She'll probably even ask Teddy to take you off the case, and you'd be disgraced.”

Fury turned his face hot. He hated it when she was right. He hated it even more when she tricked him into getting her way. He said the only thing he could to salvage his pride. “Then you're not going down there
alone
. I'm going with you.”

“Of course you are,” she said, surprising him all over again.

He had to clear his throat because it was all clogged with the arguments he was going to use to convince her. “We should go right away, before he has a chance to disappear.”

“That's just what I was thinking.”

Before he could blink, she opened the door to the study and went out into the hall. Once again he was left to follow.

Frank had thought they might get away unnoticed, but the parlor door opened just as they passed, and Sarah's mother stepped out, followed by a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in a clerical collar.

Mrs. Decker didn't look pleased to see Frank and her daughter together, and Frank couldn't blame her. “Sarah, you remember Reverend Carstens, don't you?” she said, ignoring Frank. He didn't mind. He'd already met the man when he first came in.

Sarah and the minister exchanged greetings and remarked on how terrible the tragedy was. He asked after Alberta Van Dyke, and Sarah told him she was too ill at the moment for visitors. After a few more minutes of meaningless conversation, he took his leave.

The moment he was out of earshot, Mrs. Decker said, “Is Alberta seriously ill? Should we call a doctor in?”

“No, that won't be necessary,” Sarah said diplomatically, “but she really isn't up to seeing anyone at the moment. She needs some rest. The next few days will be difficult.”

“They certainly will.” Mrs. Decker looked at Frank, her eyes dark with concern. “Are you finished here?”

“No, but I have to leave for a while. I'll be back tomorrow to finish questioning the servants.”

“I can't imagine why you're wasting your time here when he was killed at his office,” she said with a frown.

“Mother, Mr. Malloy knows what he's doing,” Sarah said to his surprise. “The explosion may have happened at his office, but the killer probably came from someplace else entirely.”

“Do you honestly think someone
here
did it?” Mrs. Decker asked in amazement.

“The people here can probably tell me who might have wanted to see Mr. Van Dyke dead, Mrs. Decker,” Frank replied as politely as he could, not willing to let Sarah defend him again.

Mrs. Decker looked at him, still frowning. He tried to read her expression, but she was too well-bred to allow her true emotions to show on her face. “I suppose Mr. Roosevelt wouldn't have sent you if he didn't think you were capable,” she allowed, as if she herself were reserving judgment.

“Mr. Malloy is extremely capable, Mother,” Sarah assured her. “And we're keeping him from doing his job. He must leave now, and I'm afraid I must go, too.”

“Oh, Sarah, I was hoping you'd come home and dine with us tonight,” Mrs. Decker said. Did she sound a bit desperate, as if she suspected her daughter was going into danger with a disreputable policeman?

“I can't. I have an appointment. But I'll see you tomorrow, I'm sure. I'll be back to check on Alberta, and if you're not here, I'll go to your house afterward. Mr. Malloy,” she added, turning to him with an expression of complete innocence. “May I walk out with you?”

When they were halfway down the stairs to the first floor, Frank said, “Neatly done.”

She smiled up at him over her shoulder. “Ironically, my mother taught me that trick.”

Outside, the sleet had slowed to a drizzle, so they didn't bother trying to find a Hansom cab and walked down to the Fiftieth Street Station of the Sixth Avenue Elevated Train.

She was wearing a hooded cape against the weather, and Frank turned up his collar and pulled his bowler hat down low. Dodging people with umbrellas and the sprays of water shooting up from passing vehicles, they didn't have much opportunity to talk. A public street wasn't a good place to discuss a murder in any event.

Neither was the train station, but no train was in sight when they reached the top of the long stairway that led up to it from the street, so they were forced to stand and wait. Frank glanced at her, feeling suddenly awkward. What had she thought when he'd disappeared from her life without a word? Probably that he cared nothing about her, which was what he'd wanted her to think. At least she'd never guess the truth, that he'd vowed never to see her again because he loved her too much to trust himself with her.

She drew a breath, and he knew she was going to say something. He braced himself for a rebuke.

“How's Brian doing?” she asked.

“He's . . . fine,” he stammered. “Just fine. Walks from the minute he gets up until he falls down asleep.” Brian could walk because Sarah Brandt's surgeon friend had fixed his club foot.

“I'm so glad,” she said. “I'd love to see him sometime.”

Frank wasn't going to reply to that. He was trying to keep her out of his life, not draw her into it. It was for her own good. Knowing Frank had already caused her too much pain. “I . . . I'm sorry about your friend,” he said, not quite able to meet her eye. Another loss for which he was responsible.

“The newspapers were very kind,” she said. “I know you made sure they didn't find out anything sensational.”

“The family called in some favors, too,” he said modestly. “How's that little girl at the mission? What's her name . . . Aggie?”

“She seems fine,” Sarah said a little wistfully. Frank knew she'd grown very fond of the little orphan girl she'd met at the Prodigal Son Mission. “It's hard to tell, of course, since she doesn't speak. I wish . . .”

Hearing the longing in her voice, Frank looked at her sharply, but the roar of an approaching train distracted them both. They hurried forward to be among the first to board, then rushed to get seats before they filled up. Frank directed her to the seats in the front of the car, where they were less likely to be overheard by someone in front of them.

The car smelled of damp wool and coal smoke and unwashed bodies, odors to which they had both become well accustomed.

Frank figured he'd better start questioning her so they wouldn't talk about anything else so personal . . . and so she wouldn't start asking him things he didn't want to tell her about the case. “What do you know about the Van Dyke family?”

Sarah seemed glad for the change of subject. Most women would have asked him what he wanted to know, but she had been involved in enough murder investigations that she didn't need to ask.

“Mr. Van Dyke's wife died when Tad—that's the youngest boy—was very young. Five or six, I think. He didn't remarry until about five years ago. I don't know much about Lilly Van Dyke. She wasn't in the same social circle as the Van Dykes and my parents before she married.”

“So she married for money.”

“She probably married for security. Most women do, Malloy, even poor ones. They need someone to provide for them.”

Sarah Brandt didn't, but Frank decided not to mention that. “Then why didn't the daughter get married?”

“I don't know. Some women just don't like the thought of marriage, and Alberta wasn't the kind of girl to attract suitors.”

“You mean she's homely,” Frank said to annoy her. “But her father would've given her a dowry, wouldn't he? That would've attracted suitors, even if Alberta didn't.”

She glared at him, but he pretended not to notice. “Considering her condition, someone must have found her attractive,” she pointed out.

“Someone she couldn't marry as long as her father was alive.”

“And someone she needed to marry very soon to avoid a scandal,” she added.

“Would her father be likely to relent and let her marry this man if he found out about the baby?”

She frowned, and too late he remembered her own sister had been in that situation. “They might have just sent her away somewhere to have the child. That's what they were going to do with Maggie before she eloped,” she reminded him.

“Alberta could have eloped,” Frank said.

“Perhaps she planned to. We don't have any reason to think she or her lover were involved in her father's death.”

“Not yet,” he said, baiting her.

She glared at him, but she didn't argue. “At least Tad doesn't seem to have a reason to want his father dead.”

“That we know of,” he reminded her, “What about the grieving widow? Any scandal associated with her?”

“I wouldn't know. You'll have to ask my mother.”

He stared at her in astonishment, certain he'd misheard her.

“My mother knows everything about everyone in her social circle,” she explained.

“Do you honestly believe she'd tell
me
any gossip about my betters?” he challenged.

She gave him a frown, but she didn't argue because she knew he was right. “She'll tell
me
whatever I want to know.”

“Then find out if Mrs. Van Dyke has a lover.”

She didn't like that one bit. “Why would it have to be a lover?”

“Because that's usually the reason a wife wants her husband dead, especially if the husband found out about it.”

“The slightest breath of scandal would ruin a woman in Lilly's position,” she reminded him. “Men may take as many mistresses as they like, but if a woman strays, her husband can throw her out into the street with nothing but the clothes on her back. I can't imagine Lilly would risk everything for some clandestine romance.”

“Then if it isn't love, it's usually money. She was a lot younger than her husband, and she didn't seem very upset that he's dead. Maybe she saw a way to keep her life just the way she wanted it only without the bother of a husband.”

“That does sound more like Lilly, but she would have to find someone who could make the bomb and set it off. Finding a person like that wouldn't be easy for someone whose social life is limited to balls, the theater, and visiting other rich women. Even if she did find someone who could make the bomb, why would he do it for her?”

“For money. She'll have plenty now that her husband is dead.”

“Are you sure? Have you seen his will?” she asked. “Even if Mr. Van Dyke left his wife a lot of money, he isn't likely to have given her control over it. Women can't be trusted to manage money, you know.”

He heard the disapproval in her voice, but he could see Van Dyke's point of view. “A woman like Mrs. Van Dyke would probably spend it all on new dresses in a month.”

“Maybe,” Sarah allowed grudgingly. “In any case, she'd never get the opportunity. A trustee would be appointed to manage her funds and give her an allowance and oversee paying her bills. A trustee probably wouldn't be willing to pay an assassin.”

“That still leaves love. Maybe some poor mug worshipped her from afar and was willing to do anything to prove his devotion to her.”

“Malloy,” she said in wonder. “I had no idea you could be so romantic.”

“There's nothing romantic about making a fool of yourself over some female,” he replied with a fierce scowl, which only made her smile.

“I'm sure you're right,” she agreed, still smiling.

Frank decided it was time to change the subject. “What do you know about Van Dyke's business?”

“Absolutely nothing. My father would know, though.”

Frank could feel his blood chilling in his veins at the mention of Felix Decker. Sarah's father was the last person on earth Frank intended to consult about this case or anything else. He didn't trust himself in the same room with the man. “Van Dyke's valet said he thought Snowberger was cheating him somehow,” Frank said, forgetting his vow not to tell her anything about the case.

“Good heavens,” Sarah said, all thoughts of her father forgotten. “If he was, he would have had a reason to want Mr. Van Dyke dead.”

“A bomb would be a good way to throw suspicion on Creighton or at least on some of Creighton's friends, too.”

“It's dangerous, though. Suppose someone else had been killed in the explosion?”

“Do you really think a man like Snowberger would care? How many people do you think die in his factories every year?”

This silenced her, but Frank instantly regretted his words. “I didn't mean—”

“No, you're absolutely right,” she said gravely. “Human life is held very cheaply if it belongs to someone poor and helpless. Men like Snowberger and Van Dyke and even my father have little regard for people like that, I'm sorry to say.” She sighed. “I don't suppose the valet knew how Snowberger was cheating?”