Murder on Marble Row (23 page)

“Because Brandt was killed in a robbery by some . . . some derelict.”

“He wasn't robbed,” Frank said.

“Of course he was. The police said—”

“He wasn't robbed,” Frank repeated. “He still had his medical bag. Mrs. Brandt still uses it. His watch was in his pocket and so was his money. Just a few dollars, but a robber would've taken it. He would've taken everything.”

“Maybe he was interrupted, frightened away or something,” Decker suggested.

“He wasn't.”

Decker stared at him, trying to make sense of it. “The police said—”

“They wanted you to offer a reward to make them work harder,” Frank repeated impatiently. “When you didn't, they stopped trying. That's what happens. They can't afford to work for free.”

“
Free?
The city pays their salaries,” Decker reminded him, outraged.

“The city pays us a pittance, Mr. Decker. We need every extra dollar we can get.”

“You can't be serious!” Decker insisted.

“I'm perfectly serious. People complain about police corruption, but rewards and . . .
bribes
save the city money and keep their taxes low.”

Decker was staring at him in amazement. Frank wasn't sure exactly what he'd said that was so amazing, but he took advantage of the moment.

“I asked you what you thought of your son-in-law, Mr. Decker. I gather you didn't approve of the marriage.”

Decker stiffened again, angry but too well bred to show it. “As I said, that's none of your business.”

“I guess you weren't too sorry when Dr. Brandt turned up dead.”

Well bred or not, Decker slapped his hand down on his desk. “I wanted my daughter to be happy.”

“She wasn't happy when he died,” Frank said.

“He wasn't the man she thought he was,” Decker snapped and instantly regretted his outburst.

Too late. “What kind of a man
was
he?” Frank pressed, leaning forward.

Decker sat back in his chair, his face scarlet with rage and something else. Guilt, perhaps? But over what?

“From all accounts,” Frank said, “Dr. Brandt was a saintly man who treated anyone who needed his services, whether they could pay or not. Nobody had anything to say against him.”

“Then you didn't talk to
everyone
, Mr. Malloy,” Decker said through gritted teeth. “When I thought he'd been killed by a stranger who just wanted to steal his watch, I saw no reason to delve any deeper into the mystery. I knew we could have hired a Pinkerton agent to investigate, but . . . When you start turning over rocks, you never know what might crawl out, do you? No good would come of revealing his true character to Sarah. He'd still be dead, and she'd be hurt.”

Now Frank was amazed. He almost forgot to press Decker. An angry man often says things he wouldn't dream of uttering any other time. “But now you know he wasn't killed by a stranger. He knew his killer, and the killer was a well-dressed man who'd tricked him into meeting him in a secluded place. They argued, Mr. Decker. What were they arguing about?”

“I don't know,” Decker said. “I have no idea.”

“What
do
you know?”

“Not who killed Brandt,” Decker insisted. “And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. As I said, I don't want my daughter hurt.”

“I'm never going to hurt her!” Frank said before he could stop himself.

He saw the light of understanding spark in Felix Decker's eyes. The two men stared at each other for a long moment.

Silently cursing himself for losing control, Frank rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Decker,” he said. “And the information.”

Without waiting to be dismissed, he headed for the door, but Decker stopped him.

“Mr. Malloy?”

Frank stopped and turned slowly, warily, to face him, ready for anything except what came.

“Are you in love with my daughter?”

Frank felt the familiar twist of pain he experienced every time he thought of the futility of his longing for Sarah Brandt. “What possible difference could it make, Mr. Decker? Good day.”

10

S
ARAH CERTAINLY HOPED MALLOY SOLVED THE VAN Dyke murder soon. She didn't know how much longer she could stand dealing with the Van Dykes, especially on four hours of sleep. Luckily, the baby she'd delivered last night had come much more quickly than expected. Still, she hadn't gotten home until the wee hours of the morning. Her body had demanded more sleep, but she had too many things to do today. Maybe later.

The Van Dykes' maid was quite happy to see her. “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, Miss Alberta will be that glad you've come,” she said, ushering her inside and out of the freezing cold and helping her remove her cape with unseemly haste.

“Is something wrong?” Sarah asked, wondering what might have happened in her absence.

“It's Mr. Reed, Mrs. Brandt. Mr. Van Dyke's secretary.

He came yesterday, and he's too sick to go home, but Mrs. Van Dyke won't have him here.” Then she covered her mouth with her hand, knowing she'd said too much. Servants who gossiped about their employers found themselves on the street.

This was much more interesting than she could have imagined. “Please take me to see Miss Alberta at once,” Sarah said.

The maid led Sarah upstairs and took her to the back parlor, the less formal room that the family would use for themselves. Sarah followed closely on the girl's heels, not hanging back and waiting to be announced, which was why she saw Alberta Van Dyke holding hands with Lewis Reed when the maid opened the door. Alberta dropped Reed's hand and jumped up from where she had been sitting a little too closely beside him on the sofa. Her face splotched red with embarrassment when she saw Sarah over the maid's shoulder. “Ella, you should have knocked!”

“Thank you, Ella.” Sarah gently guided the flustered girl out of the room and closed the door behind her before Alberta could chastise her again. “This must be Mr. Reed,” she said brightly. “I had no idea you were here, or I would have brought my medical bag.”

Taking advantage of Alberta's momentary confusion, Sarah went straight to Reed. If she had ever entertained the suspicion that Alberta's lover was a charming fortune hunter who seduced Alberta in hopes of marrying into wealth, one look at Lewis Reed quashed it. He might possibly be the most ordinary man she'd ever seen, and only love could view him differently. “I'm an old friend of Alberta's, Mr. Reed,” Sarah said. “I'm also a trained nurse. How do you feel?”

“I . . . fine,” he said uncertainly, glancing up at Alberta with dismay.

“Do you have a headache?”

“Yes, but—”

“Were you knocked unconscious by the explosion? Did the doctor say you have a concussion?”

“I believe so . . . I mean, I don't remember the explosion.”

“Your bandage is bloody, Mr. Reed. I think it should be changed. Alberta, would you send for some clean bandages and a bowl of hot water, please?”

“Yes, certainly, I . . . I'll ring for the maid,” Alberta said in alarm.

“I'm sure the Van Dykes appreciate your dedication, Mr. Reed, but you really should be at home resting. Didn't your doctor warn you against exerting yourself?”

Reed was staring up at her, his plain face slack with shock at her imperious attitude. “I . . . I had to make sure—”

“Mr. Reed was concerned about the
family
.” Alberta said quickly, before he could say anything revealing. “He wanted to offer his assistance in making the arrangements for Father's . . . funeral. The coroner hasn't released his body yet, but when they do, we want to have everything ready.”

“That's admirable, Mr. Reed, but also rather foolish. I can't believe anyone in the family would want you to risk your own health.” Sarah gave him a stern look that silenced any potential reply. “Were you injured anywhere else besides the wound on your head?”

“Just some . . . bruises. Nothing serious,” he said meekly.

Sarah glanced at Alberta, who was hovering nearby, wringing her hands. “How long have you and Mr. Reed been in love, Alberta?” she asked, hoping to catch her friend off guard.

Alberta's eyes widened in alarm and the color drained from her face. “I . . . I don't know what you mean,” she stammered.

Sarah looked down at Reed. He returned the look, aghast, his lips moving but no sound emerging. She turned back to Alberta, expectantly. “Your father must have been furious when Mr. Reed asked to court you. He would never have considered his secretary a suitable match for his daughter.”

“You're . . . mistaken,” Mr. Reed finally managed.

“Are you saying you never even
asked
his permission?” Sarah asked with mock amazement.

“No . . . I mean, yes . . . I mean . . .” He turned to Alberta helplessly.

Her shoulders sagged in defeat. “Lewis, I don't suppose any of it really matters now.”

“No, it doesn't,” Sarah agreed. “With your father dead, certainly no one will object to your marrying Mr. Reed.”

“You're probably right,” Alberta agreed with visible relief. “I'm sure Lilly will be more than happy to be rid of me, and my brothers won't object. They'll just be relieved their spinster sister won't be their responsibility anymore.”

This time the maid did knock, and Alberta instructed her to bring the things Sarah needed to change Reed's bandage. When she was gone, Sarah said, “Did your father know you've been seeing each other secretly?”

“Miss Brandt, we would never do such a thing,” Reed insisted.

“It's
Mrs
. Brandt,” Sarah corrected him.

“
Mrs
. Brandt,” he tried again. “I won't have you insulting Miss Van Dyke by suggesting that she disobeyed her father or—”

“I know your secret,” Sarah said to Alberta, ignoring Reed's defense.

“Wh . . . what secret?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, her face splotching red again.

“I'm a midwife, Alberta,” Sarah reminded her gently.

Alberta instinctively laid a hand on her abdomen, as if to protect her unborn child, while Reed struggled to his feet, instinctively wanting to protect the woman he loved. “I must insist you stop upsetting Miss Van Dyke. She's not well, and her father's death has been a terrible shock to her.”

“What were you going to do, Alberta? Would your father have allowed you to marry Mr. Reed, or were you planning to elope?”

Alberta was shaking her head wordlessly, and Reed took her arm and eased her down onto the sofa again.

Reed looked up at Sarah, with an angry frown. “He told me he'd ruin me if I ever tried to see Bertie again.”

“He would have made me get rid of the baby, if he'd known,” Alberta said, tears glistening in her eyes. “He never would've allowed us to marry. Thank God he's dead.”

 
 
F
RANK FOUND THE OFFICES OF VAN DYKE AND SNOWBERGER filled with the sounds of the repairs being made to Van Dyke's ruined office. A glance inside that room told him the workmen had removed the worst of the debris of the explosion and were replacing the blown-out windows. He moved on to Snowberger's office. The surviving partner didn't look happy to see him when his secretary showed Frank in.

“I hope you're here to tell me you've arrested some anarchists,” he said without bothering with a greeting.

“Not yet,” Frank said, taking a seat and making himself comfortable. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“I don't know anything about anarchists,” Snowberger said irritably “You'd do better to find Creighton Van Dyke. He's intimately acquainted with them.” He smiled at his own pun.

Frank didn't return it. “I'm not so sure anarchists killed Mr. Van Dyke.”

“That's absurd. Of course they did. They're the only ones who use bombs.”

“Unless somebody knew Creighton was involved with anarchists and wanted to cast suspicion on them,” Frank pointed out.

“That's a pretty elaborate theory, Malloy. Someone would have had to do a considerable amount of planning, which means he must have hated Gregory quite a bit. I can't imagine Gregory ever inspired that kind of hatred.”

“Can't you?” Frank asked with interest. “I've already managed to find
several
people who hated him that much, and I've just started looking.”

Snowberger frowned. He didn't like the way the conversation was going. “That's very interesting, but if you've found people like that, why aren't you out questioning them? You're wasting your time here.”

“Not if
you're
one of those people, Mr. Snowberger,” Frank said mildly. “I understand Mr. Van Dyke had allowed you to lose a lot of money in a business deal.”

“Who told you that?” Snowberger tried, pretending to be puzzled.

“Several people who wouldn't lie about it,” Frank said. “People who believed he did it deliberately, too.”

Snowberger didn't look worried. “My partner and I have been friends our entire lives, Detective. I can't believe he would do such a thing deliberately.”

“I think you can,” Frank disagreed, even though he knew he was tempting fate. If Snowberger complained to Roosevelt about his methods, his career could be over. “We both know why your partner bore you a grudge, and we both know he arranged for you to lose a large amount of money on a failed business deal. This would've given you a good reason to want revenge.”

“Mr. Malloy,” Snowberger said, managing to sound merely annoyed and not furious, “I believe I already told you that businessmen don't resort to murder in order to settle disagreements.”