Murder in Burnt Orange (13 page)

A boy's will is the wind's will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “My Lost Youth,” 1858

And a remarkable tale it was.

“Promise you won't tell nobody, miss!”

“I cannot promise that, Andy. If you tell me what I think you will, I must tell Mrs. Malloy. You see that.”

Reluctantly, Andy saw. “But you mustn't let anybody know it was me who told you. You mustn't!”

“People already know,” said Hilda gently. “Mr. Bolton knew it was you from whom the rumor came. If you are afraid, Andy, what you must do after we talk is go and tell your story to Sergeant Lefkowicz. He is here. Many policemen are here, and the reason they are here is to protect you and your friends.”

“The police don't care about the likes of us, miss. They're here to see we don't make trouble.”

“Not this time. This has been planned, Andy. I knew you could not come to me safely, so I have come to you—with many witnesses. You see, when people know you have told the police what you know, you will be safe. If someone wanted to harm you before you could tell...”

Andy got the point. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Yes, miss. Sorry, miss. But I was so scared—I saw it, miss.”

Hilda was confused. “You saw what?”

“I saw them kill Clancy Malloy.”

For a moment Hilda thought she was going to faint. She turned as white as the fluffy summer clouds floating in the deep blue August sky. John handed her a glass of lemonade.

She waved it aside. “I am all right. It was yoost—
just
that I was surprised.” What a weak word, she thought, but in her astonishment she could not think of the proper English word. “Andy, tell me everything. When did this happen?”

“A long time ago, miss. Almost as soon as they started huntin' for him. And it was my fault!” He swallowed hard. At his age, tears were a grievous sign of weakness. He was nearly a man; he couldn't cry.

Hilda had coped with many a case of Erik's near-tears. She forbore to offer sympathy. “Andy! It is not your fault. I do not suppose you killed him?”

“No, miss, but—”

“Then do not be foolish. Tell me what happened.”

“Well, miss, when we all heard about Mr. Malloy bein' so bad, with his heart and all, and it all bein' Clancy's fault—”

“Wait! How did you know it was Clancy?”

“Aw, miss!
You
know. When somethin' happens to a big, important man like Mr. Malloy, the whole town knows. It was Mike, see, the elevator boy at Malloy's, and he told Joe, who was deliverin' from Hibbard's, and then—”

Hilda waved away the rest. “Yes. I had forgotten.” She felt a momentary sadness. She was no longer a part of that network of servants and delivery boys who knew everything almost before it happened. “Go on.”

“So when I found out how sick he was, I was pretty mad, see, 'cause Mr. Malloy, he's a real nice man. He's an honest politician, even, and there ain't many of that kind around. And Mrs. Malloy, she's real good to us boys—like you, miss—and here she was worryin' herself half-sick over Mr. Malloy, and it was her own son that done it! That Clancy never was no good, miss. Oh!”

His hand flew to his mouth. He began to stutter an apology.

“It is all right, Andy. He is no—he was no relative of mine, thank the
Herre Gud
, and his own family know what he was. Go
on
.”

“Well, I just wanted to give him what he deserved. I'm not so big, miss, but I'm tough, and that Clancy, he'd gone soft. I seen him oncet when he first come back to town, and he didn't look so good, sort of pale and puffy-like. So I reckoned if I could find him, I could give him a good fight. I guess I wasn't thinkin' too clear, miss, just sort of boilin' over with what he done to his pa.”

Hilda was too troubled even to notice Andy's grammar, much less correct it. “So you went to look for him,” she prompted.

“Not right then. I was still workin', and I figgered it was better to wait until night, anyway. So when I got off work I went home, and then when Ma and Pa and the kids had all gone to bed, I snuck out. There's a good tree by the bedroom window, and I can move real quiet when I want to.

“I had a pretty good idea where he might be, too. 'Cause when there's lots of funny business goin' on, I figger it's maybe mixed up together, you know?”

Hilda nodded.

“So there was this business of Clancy bein' back, and up to no good if he was hidin' out in the store, and there was the fire and all, and the wrecks, and I thought—” he paused for breath “—I thought, if Sam Black was behind some of it, maybe he and Clancy were workin' together, so maybe I'd find Clancy at Sam's.”

“I thought the same thing, Andy, later on. So the police went to find out. But he was not there, and Sam said he had not been there.”

“He was there, all right, miss. That was where he got killed. I saw it.”

His voice was sounding shaky again. Hilda, by this time, had herself well under control. “Tell me,” she commanded.

Andy gulped and went on. “See, I knew where Sam lived, because when there was all that talk about him, some of the boys told me. It's on up Colfax a ways, out of the fancy houses like yours and into the little ones, you know? It was real dark, and there's no streetlights when you get that far west, but I found the way easy enough.

“When I got there, there was a light on, an oil lamp, inside the house. So I figgered, a light when it's close to midnight, he's got company, or he's expectin' some. And I reckoned it was Clancy, so I got as close as I could and hid in the bushes and tried to look in the window, but it was too high off the ground for me to see much. I couldn't see anybody inside, but if they'd been around the other side of the room, I couldn't've seen 'em anyway. The window was open, though, 'cause it was a warm night, and I couldn't hear nobody talkin', so I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe he'd just went to bed and left the lamp burnin', but that's a pretty stupid thing to do. So I was tryin' to figger out what to do next, when somebody came up the front walk.

“Well, I'll tell you, miss, I thought I'd die on the spot, I was so scared. I couldn't see hardly anythin', you know, no moon or nothin', just the light from the lamp. And this guy—”

“You could see that it was a man?” asked Hilda, interrupting.

“I wasn't sure, not then. See, he was walkin' real quiet, or tryin' to, but that front walk is gravel, so he couldn't help makin' some noise, and he sounded kind of heavy. And he couldn't walk on the grass, because there's bushes on each side of the walk. After a minute or two, when he didn't say nothin' or come to get me or anything, I realized he couldn't see me, not even as much as I could see him, which wasn't much, 'cause I was hid in the bushes up close to the house. So I thought he'd ring the doorbell or knock on the door or somethin', but he just stood there, not movin', or anyway I didn't hear the gravel crunch anymore. And I could see a kind of shadow where I reckoned he was, just a little darker than the rest of the dark.

“I couldn't move or he'd hear me. I didn't hardly breathe. And pretty soon I heard some little sounds like he'd got off the walk and up on the porch, to get inside. And that's when...”

Andy stopped.

“Did Mr. Black come out of the house, Andy? Is that what happened?”

“No, miss. It wasn't Sam Black killed him. Someone come up behind him, real fast, crunchin' on the gravel walk. I couldn't tell what was happenin' till I heard a sort of crack, like—like somebody hittin' a baseball a real good one. And then there was this awful thud and a crash, and I heard somebody runnin' away. And then the door opened, just so wide—” Andy measured a space with thumb and forefinger “—and Sam Black looked out and said—well, whispered, I guess—he said, ‘Clancy? That you?' And when he didn't hear nothin' he opened the door wide and the lamplight shone out and he saw...”

“Yes. You can leave out that part. Clancy was dead?”

“He wasn't movin', and his head—I reckon he was dead, miss. And I reckon Sam Black was 'most as scared as I was. He went back in the house, anyways, and I lit out of there fast as I could.” Andy's fist clenched, and he gave a little dry sob. “See, miss, I reckon if I hadn't gone there lookin' for Clancy, whoever it was wouldn't have found him. I led him there, and it's my fault!”

“Now, Andy,” said John, who had been silent through the recitation, “that's a mindless sort of thing to say, and not what I'd expect of a bright boy like you. Think, boy! If the man who killed Clancy had followed you, he'd have got there before Clancy, and he'd have known you were there. Do you think he wouldn't have disposed of you first?”

Andy digested that, his fist slowly relaxing. “Then you reckon I had nothin' to do with it?”

“Plainly the man followed Clancy. If we knew where he picked up his trail, we'd know a lot more.”

“Followed him,” said Hilda slowly, “or already knew where he was going. It was a good plan, I think. The man killed Clancy in a place where someone else, Sam Black, could be blamed. So it was not likely that Sam would tell the police. He would do just what he did—take the body away, probably to the river, and say he had never seen Clancy. He is smart, whoever did this. Andy, you do not have any idea who it was?”

“No, miss. I was too scared to see hardly anything, and anyway it was too dark.”

“Not even his size?” asked John. “Tall, short, thin, fat?”

“I never saw him at all! I didn't even hear him come till the last minute. I just heard that crack, and then Clancy fell, and I heard the man runnin' away.”

“Ah! You heard him running? That would give some idea of his size. Did he sound heavy or light?”

Andy thought about that. “Heavy, I guess. He was sort of crashin' through bushes and stuff, and maybe his feet thudded on the ground. But I can't say for sure. I was—”

“You were frightened,” said Hilda soothingly, with a warning look at John, “and no wonder. But you do not have to be frightened anymore. I am glad you have told us, Andy. Now go back with your friends, and tell them everything. Be sure to say you do not know who the man was. And tell Sergeant Lefkowicz. You see, Andy, if everyone knows, you are in no danger.”

“I guess,” he said dubiously, but as he left the carriage, Hilda saw that he was headed in the direction of a group of policemen.

“Why did you send him away so fast?” said John in a grumbling tone of voice. “There were a lot more questions I wanted to ask him.”

“That is why. He could not bear any more. He had been very brave, but he could not talk about it any longer. If you, John Bolton, had seen murder done when you were his age, would you not have been frightened and worried, too?”

“I suppose. All the same, it's a crying shame he didn't say anything about all this sooner. If the police had known right away, they might have been able to trace the fellow. ‘Crashing through the bushes,' was he? He might have left footprints, broken branches, other signs the police could have followed up. Now it's way too late.”

But Hilda was thinking of something else. “John, would you find Mr. O'Rourke for me, please? I must go to Aunt Molly.”

Give us grace and strength to forbear and persevere....

—Prayer by Robert Louis Stevenson, d. 1894, inscribed on his memorial in Edinburgh

The visit with Molly was not as painful as Hilda had expected. She told Patrick about it that evening when he had come home from work and heard the news.

“She is the most wonderful woman I have ever known, Patrick. Even my mother is not so strong as she. When I told her, she sat for a little, so still I was afraid maybe she had stopped breathing. Then she looked up at me and thanked me.
Thanked me
, Patrick, for bringing her such news! I did not know what to say. Then she said, ‘It is better to know. Remember that, child. It is always better to know than to imagine. Now I must go and tell Mr. Malloy.'”

“I'd've thought he shouldn't get such news while he's still not well,” said Patrick.

“I said something like that, and she said, ‘He must know, too. Now he has only one son.' I did not know what she meant, Patrick. I thought Clancy's brother died long ago.”

“He did.” There was a tear in Patrick's eye. He didn't dash it away, but let it trickle down his cheek.

“Patrick, I—I am sorry. I should have told you more carefully. I thought you did not like Clancy.”

“No more I did, and though I'm sorry for Aunt Molly and Uncle Dan, I can't say I think Clancy's a great loss to the world. That's not why I'm cryin'.”

Hilda looked her puzzlement.

“She meant me, darlin'. She meant I'm their son now—their only son.”

After that there was nothing for Hilda to do but join Patrick in tears.

* * *

Next morning Hilda woke early. She had slept well for a change, and though her body felt slow, ungainly, and sluggish, her mind was racing.

Patrick was still asleep. It was Sunday, after all, and he had been working very hard for weeks. Hilda did not, she told herself, deliberately try to wake him, but she made enough noise getting out of bed and into her dressing gown that he unwillingly opened his eyes.

“Patrick, I have been thinking.”

He groaned and closed his eyes.

“No, do not go back to sleep. Listen. How can they have a funeral for Clancy when they do not have his body?”

“Don't know. Now can I go back to sleep?”

“No. I think, what would I do if I had just killed someone? And it is easy. It is night. No one will see me. I will put him in the river.”

Patrick yawned mightily. “Good thing you're not a murderer. You'd do it too well. But girl, you never saw Clancy when he came back to town. He'd put on weight. And Sam Black's house is—well, I don't know exactly where, but a good few blocks west of here. How's a man goin' to move that heavy a weight a couple of miles to the river?”

“And that is what I thought next! And I think, I would use a wheelbarrow. He could not go on the streets, not the brick ones, anyway. It would be too noisy. But it would be quiet if he stayed on the grass, or on dirt streets. And it has not rained for nearly a month. Could it not be that, even after all this time, the police could find the tracks of a wheelbarrow?”

“Maybe they could. But what good's that goin' to do? They couldn't prove who owned the blasted thing, and anyway there's no law against trundlin' a barrow, even halfway across town.”

“You are not awake yet, Patrick.” Hilda sounded pitying.

“That I'm not.”

“And you are cross. But when you have had some coffee you will feel better, and you will think better.”

So it wasn't until Hilda had rung for Eileen, and the little maid had brought them coffee, that she explained.

“If they can find the tracks of a barrow, or a cart, they will know where the body was taken. And if it was to the river, as I think, they will know where to start looking for it. Because Aunt Molly and Uncle Dan must have the body so that they can bury it and begin to mourn properly.”

Patrick took her hand. “I'm sorry I was cross before, darlin'. You're absolutely right, and I'll stop in at the police station before I go to Mass.”

Hilda elected to stay home from church. She was very tired after an active and emotionally trying day. Besides, she wanted time to think about the new knowledge Andy had provided.

It was, in a way, good to know for certain what had happened to Clancy. Aunt Molly was right about that. At least he had died quickly, painlessly. And he had, quite certainly, been up to no good.

What
was
he up to? Why had he come back to South Bend? It was a terrible risk. His collaboration in the murder of a prominent politician a few years ago had not been forgotten. The police were not the only ones eager for a little talk with Clancy Malloy. And while Clancy was stupid in some ways, he had always been very careful of his own skin.

What had been worth taking that risk? He was a gambler, of course. He must have been gambling for stakes high enough that the reward seemed worth the risk.

Well, he'd lost the bet this time. Poor Clancy. All his life he'd gambled for more and better, never content with what he had—a loving family, a good home—everything, seemingly, a man could want. And he'd ended with nothing, not even his life.

In the unlikely attitude of pity for Clancy Malloy, Hilda abruptly fell asleep.

Patrick woke her when he came home. He was quite late; it was after one.

“This is not a saint's day or something, is it, Patrick? You were very long at Mass.”

“I called in at the police station again on me way home. You were right all down the line, me girl. It was a handcart, not a wheelbarrow, but they traced the tracks from the back of Sam's house to the river bank just above the LaSalle Avenue bridge. They're draggin' the river now, but they reckon they won't have to work long. The river's low and slow, as dry as the weather's been.”

“Have you told Aunt Molly?”

“Not yet. Better to wait, I thought, till they've found him.”

“Maybe—” Hilda chewed her lip “—maybe it would be good to tell her he may be in the river. He—it—the body will not be—”

Patrick nodded soberly. “It'll not be pretty, over a month in the water, and warm water at that. And fish... Here! I ought not be talkin' this way, and you so near your time!”

“It is all right, Patrick.” She laid her hand on his. “I am upset, but not by talk. We speak only of things that are true, even if they are not good. Nothing about this is good.”

“No.” Patrick sat still, clasping her hand. “No, that's wrong. There's one thing good. Once they find his body and Dan and Molly get him decently buried, Clancy Malloy will never make their life hell for them again.”

Hilda shook her head, Patrick thought in protest at his language, but she said, “No, Patrick. He was their son. They will never stop grieving for him. The sorrow will never end. It does not matter that he was not a good son. This I know, Patrick, now that I will soon be a mother. Aunt Molly carried him for nine months. She gave him life, in pain and weariness. He was blood of her blood, bone of her bone. She will never forget, and she will always grieve.”

Patrick took her in his arms.

* * *

It was, in fact, Monday afternoon before the body of Clancy Malloy was found in the river. It was, as foreseen, badly damaged by water and water creatures. Patrick, called on to identify the horrid thing, averted his eyes from the unrecognizable face. “The clothes look like his,” he said, “and for certain that's the ring he had on the last time I saw him. I'd know that stone anywhere. That's Clancy.”

So they took him to the undertaker's to be made as presentable as possible before his parents had to see him, and Patrick went to tell Aunt Molly.

He had not seen her in a few days, and he wasn't sure what to expect. But the face she held up for him to kiss was serene, if a little more lined. He didn't like the way she was dressed. She wore black, as she often did, but solid black, unrelieved by the little touches of lace she usually wore. “I'll wear this until after the funeral,” she said in response to his look. “It seems only decent. But I'll put my lace back on as soon as I think I won't shock the whole family. Mr. Malloy doesn't like seeing me this way.”

“Nor I don't, either, Molly. But you won't have to wear it long. They found him this morning, so you'll be able to plan the funeral soon.”

She did not speak. She closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she clutched her handkerchief. Patrick took a breath to speak, but she shook her head. “A moment, please, dear,” she whispered.

The single tear was all she allowed herself. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Thank you, my dear, for seeing to this for me.”

“I shouldn't have broken it to you that way,” said Patrick. “I didn't mean to—”

Molly shushed him with a gesture. “When something unpleasant must be said, it's best to be quick about it and get it over. I'm deeply grateful for all you've done. Now I must tell his father, if you'll excuse me.”

Her back ramrod-straight, her head erect, the rest of her tears unshed, she left the room to perform her next duty.