Murder on Astor Place (17 page)

“I’m not certain if Miss Mina is receiving or not,” he told her. “Or if she would make an exception for you, Mrs. Brandt. Would you like to come in for a moment while I inquire?”

Sarah was most happy to wait. Alfred left her sitting on an upholstered bench in the front hallway while he made his way into the nether reaches of the house to find Mina VanDamm and obtain her instructions.

The house was unnaturally still, as if even the clocks had stopped ticking in deference to the family’s grief. Abovestairs, the servants would be speaking in hushed tones, and the family would be closeted in their chambers. Sarah found it difficult to imagine that Mina was spending her time truly mourning her sister, although she would put on a good act for anyone who happened to call, as she had done for Sarah the other day. Mrs. VanDamm would undoubtedly be prostrate and probably heavily sedated. Her doctor wouldn’t need much convincing to prescribe an opiate to calm her, and many women of her class took them freely on far less provocation than the loss of a child. Finally, Sarah considered Mr. VanDamm. He’d looked haggard when she was here before, and she could easily imagine him mourning Alicia. Not, perhaps, with the obvious emotion his wife would display, but in his own way. The way her father had mourned Maggie, knowing his actions had caused her to die in such a horrible manner while still believing he had been right in those actions. How men like that could live with themselves, Sarah had no idea.

After a long time, Sarah heard Alfred’s shuffling steps returning. He emerged from a door at the end of the hallway, his expression properly somber but his eyes improperly bleak.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brandt, but Miss Mina is unable to receive visitors today. She said she was certain you’d understand.”

Sarah understood perfectly, but she wasn’t sure exactly why she wasn’t being admitted. Perhaps Mina truly wasn’t feeling up to visitors or perhaps she simply hadn’t bothered to dress and do her hair today so she wasn’t presentable. Or perhaps—and this was the reason Sarah feared most—she had decided Sarah wasn’t worthy of her attentions. If that was the case, then Sarah wouldn’t be able to obtain any more information from the family.

Concealing her disappointment, she thanked Alfred. He was escorting her to the front door when they heard the door to one of the other rooms open, and a gentleman emerged. He was slightly past middle years, wearing a suit that fit so well, it could only have been handcrafted to fit him. His thick hair was silver and painstakingly arranged. He nodded politely at Sarah, although she saw the question in his eyes. He wondered what someone like her was doing here, especially at this time.

“Mr. Mattingly,” Alfred greeted him, and every nerve in Sarah’s body jolted to attention. “I’ll get your hat in just a moment,” he promised, opening the front door to show Sarah out.

Was it possible? Could this be the attorney for whom Hamilton Fisher had worked? And what was his connection to the VanDamm family? Could he have been asked to hire Fisher to find Alicia for them? Although this was a most logical explanation, she couldn’t help remembering Malloy’s skepticism when she’d suggested that very thing. If the VanDamms had hired Mattingly to find Alicia, why hadn’t Fisher simply informed them of her whereabouts when he located her? Why had Fisher moved into the house where she was living and tried to strike up an acquaintance with her instead? But if Mattingly was acquainted with the family, and he was obviously an intimate friend if he’d been admitted when the family was in seclusion, then why would he have sent someone to find Alicia without their knowledge and then not told them?

Alfred made no move to introduce Sarah to Mattingly. A butler would never presume to introduce visitors to each other, and even if he had, an introduction between Sarah and Mattingly would have been in questionable taste, considering their different social classes. Not for the first time, Sarah silently cursed the rigid rules that governed society. In a different time or place, she might have simply introduced herself and made some inquiries of Mr. Mattingly that would give her the information she so desperately sought. Which was probably what Malloy would do if he were here now.

As Alfred ushered her out the door, she bit back a smile at the thought of how she would enjoy the privileges of being a police detective for even one day. Malloy would be interested to know that Mattingly was at least acquainted with the VanDamm family. But what was their relationship? Was he simply a close family friend or was he VanDamm’s attorney? And would even Malloy be able to find out? He wouldn’t know how to question these people or how to win their confidence. They’d see him as an Irish thug—or worse—and might even refuse to talk with him entirely.

Did the police have the power to force someone like Mattingly to answer their questions if he didn’t choose to? Somehow, Sarah doubted it, although she found the thought of the distinguished attorney being slapped around in the filthy interrogation room she’d seen extremely interesting. She thought that perhaps Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy might, too.

Sarah lingered on the sidewalk in front of the VanDamm’s house for a while, walking slowly so Mr. Mattingly might catch up with her when he made his exit. Then she might venture to strike up a conversation with him, if she could think of something sensible to say. But in the next moment a carriage pulled up at the VanDamm’s curb, and Mr. Mattingly went straight down the VanDamm’s front steps and climbed into it.

Too bad his carriage hadn’t been waiting there when she came out. She might have been able to get some information from his driver or his footman. Servants were an invaluable source of information about their employers, as Malloy had learned. But there was an equally reliable source that Sarah had not yet tapped. One from which she had cut herself off years earlier out of anger and bitterness.

When she thought about it now, however, she found her anger and bitterness had faded considerably. Perhaps the time had finally come to reestablish those ties. She had been thinking she should for a while now, but she hadn’t had a reason. Or rather, she hadn’t had an excuse. She’d needed such an excuse to salvage her pride, and now she had the perfect one.

S
ARAH HADN’T BEEN to the house since Tom’s funeral, and even then it had been strange to her. Although three long years had passed since her last visit, she remembered the way well. It wasn’t far from the VanDamms’s home, just around the comer on Fifty-Seventh Street and a few blocks east, which she walked with determined strides.

The noise from Fifth Avenue faded behind her as she went. There were no tracks or horsecars on Fifty-Seventh Street, nothing to disturb the elegance and serenity of the neighborhood. The house was even more imposing than she had remembered, one of a seemingly endless row of Italianate brownstone town houses that gleamed in the warm sunlight. The neighbors were such luminaries as the Auchinclosses, the Sloanes, the Rogers, and even the Roosevelts.

Malloy would probably make fun of her for even knowing such things.

But as Sarah reached for the perfectly polished brass knocker, she forgot all about Malloy. Anxiety suddenly twisted her stomach, but she refused to acknowledge it. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. She was a grown woman who had her own life, and nothing and no one could change that, certainly nothing and no one in this house, not unless she allowed it herself. And since she had no intention of doing so, she was safe from any attack on her independence.

Besides, she was certain not to encounter the one person she least desired to see here today because he was miles away.

A maid she didn’t know answered her knock, and the girl stared at her in surprise. Sarah didn’t look like the usual visitor to this house.

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she said, “and I’d like to see my mother, if she’s at home.”

A
s HE LOOKED at the plush surroundings, Frank figured he’d probably made a big mistake by coming here. The offices of Mattingly and Springer were plainly designed to appeal to people of a completely different social class. Folks like Frank probably came and went by the service entrance, if they came and went at all. From the way the clerk had looked at him when he’d walked through the hand-carved oak door, he guessed it was the latter.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked. Frank noticed he didn’t add “sir.” The fellow was young, not more than twenty-two or -three, and extremely thin. The bones of his face seemed to be straining to get through his tight, pale flesh. That alone would have made him unpleasant to look at, but his expression was pinched, too, like he smelled something bad. Maybe he did. Frank hadn’t changed his shirt in a day or two.

“I’m here to see Sylvester Mattingly,” Frank said. No “Mr.” Mattingly. No “please.” No “if he’s in.” Frank could be rude, too.

“Is this pertaining to a case Mr. Mattingly is handling?” the boy sniffed. Plainly, he doubted this very much.

“It’s pertaining to the death of Miss Alicia VanDamm.”

Frank would have bet the boy’s face was already as white as it could get, but he would’ve been wrong. His eyes even seemed to bulge out a little. Funny how the name VanDamm could get a reaction. Or maybe it was the fact of Alicia’s death.

Whatever it was, it had rattled the skinny clerk. He started fiddling nervously with his paper sleeve protectors, and he ducked his head so that his green eyeshade shielded his face. “Who ... ? May I tell Mr. Mattingly who is calling?” he stammered, no longer quite so sure of himself.

“Tell him Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City Police.”

At this, the boy’s head came up again, and this time his eyes were definitely bulging. “Please, have a seat,” he offered in a choked whisper before fairly running from the room.

He closed the inner door behind him, leaving Frank alone in the reception room. The place felt closed in, even though the room was large and had a high ceiling. Probably, the illusion came from the depth of the carpets, the thickness of the maroon velvet drapes, and the ornately carved plaster ceiling. Everything seemed heavy, from the oak of the doors to the oak of the clerk’s desk. Probably designed to absorb sound, so that every conversation held here would remain in strictest confidence. Frank figured the people who needed such a high-priced lawyer talked about a lot of things that needed to remain confidential.

Frank seated himself in one of the overstuffed chairs provided for visitors. Across from him hung a portrait of an elderly man who’d had lifelong bowel problems, if his expression was any indication. Frank noticed the elaborate chandelier hadn’t been wired for electricity, as if such a thing would be considered vulgar in this bastion of conservatism. All he could say was, Sarah Brandt better be right about Mattingly knowing where to find that Fisher fellow.

After a few moments, the clerk returned. “Mr. Mattingly is expecting a client very shortly, but he can spare you a few minutes. If you will follow me.”

Frank was sorry he hadn’t been there to see Mattingly’s face when the clerk had announced him. He wondered if he’d been as shocked as the clerk. If so, he’d had enough time to recover, Frank noted when he stepped into Mattingly’s office.

This room was just as plush as the outer room, although the colors were darker and duller, browns and tans this time. Mattingly sat behind a desk that seemed a mile wide and a half a mile deep. He didn’t seem pleased to see Frank, and he didn’t get up to greet him.

Frank couldn’t judge Mattingly’s height since the desk would have dwarfed even a large man, but he seemed insignificant sitting there in the high-backed chair. His hair was thick and white and expertly barbered. His coat was tailor-made and filled out his narrow shoulders with artful padding. His face sagged with age, and his eyes glittered like glass beneath heavy lids. He might be very good at concealing his emotions, but those eyes gave him away this time. Frank’s visit had made him furious.

Mattingly waited until the clerk had closed the door firmly, if silently, behind him before he said, “Detective Sergeant Malloy,” as if getting a feel for the words in his mouth. They seemed to have an unpleasant flavor. “I’m used to dealing with the police, but never with anyone below the rank of captain.”

Just as Frank has suspected. Mattingly wouldn’t waste his bribe money on a lowly detective. “This time it looks like you’re stuck with me. I’m the one investigating the death of Alicia VanDamm.”

“A dreadful business, to be sure,” he said, although his tone betrayed no hint of grief or even regret. “But I can’t imagine why you’ve come here. How do you suppose I can aid your investigation?”

He hadn’t asked Frank to sit down—a deliberate omission, Frank was sure—but Frank ostentatiously seated himself in one of the chairs facing the desk. They were leather and remarkably comfortable. He waited for Mattingly’s frown of annoyance before saying, “I’m looking for Hamilton Fisher. My sources say he works for you.”

Frank had been hoping for fear, or at least surprise, but he got only more anger. Mattingly’s thin lips whitened and his dark eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard of this man. I’m afraid your sources are mistaken. If that is what you came for, you wasted your time and mine. Now if you will excuse me, Mr. Malloy, I’m expecting a client momentarily.”

Frank didn’t move. “That’s funny, because my sources said that Fisher works for you as a sort of private detective. I guess even a high-priced lawyer like yourself needs to do some snooping every now and then. A fellow like this Fisher could come in real handy.”

“I told you, Detective Sergeant, I never—”

“Sure, whatever you say, but I just think it’s kind of funny that somebody who people say works for you was living in the same boardinghouse as Miss VanDamm and that he disappeared the same night she got herself killed. Now if I was of a suspicious nature, I might think this Fisher had something to do with her death or at least that he knows something the police might find interesting.”