Litchfield drew in a deep breath. “I believe that Donald may have wound up amongst those orphans. In fact, I think there’s a good chance he’s one of a group being taken to California tomorrow.”
Litchfield’s declaration made Rinehart want to stare. A glance at Shaw told him the captain felt the same way, but both men managed to control their reaction.
Shaw merely pursed his lips and asked, “What makes you think that?”
“I told you, the police believe Donald escaped from the mansion on the night of the murders. He had to go somewhere. The detectives checked all the hospitals and the . . . morgue.”
His wife made a slightly choked sound and tightened her hand on his.
“No bodies matching my nephew’s description were found that night or the next several days,” Litchfield went on. “In fact, I’ve seen to it that the detectives keep checking those places, and ever since that terrible night, no bodies resembling Donald have ever turned up.”
That could just mean that the murderers had caught up to the boy after all and concealed the body so well that it hadn’t been found, but Rinehart knew the Litchfields didn’t want to hear that. He glanced at Shaw again, and saw that same thought in the captain’s gaze.
“Donald has to be somewhere,” Litchfield said. “What better place for a child to hide than among other children? He had been there at the orphanage before, you see, when Grant and Claire visited the place. He would have known that he’d be able to blend in there.”
Rinehart couldn’t help but say, “You’re giving a six-year-old a lot of credit, Mr. Litchfield. If he was as scared as you say, he probably wouldn’t be thinking straight enough to realize he could hide out at an orphanage.”
“Well, perhaps it was all instinctive on his part, without any real, coherent thought.”
“Maybe,” Rinehart said with a shrug, although he didn’t really believe it.
“Mr. Litchfield,” Captain Shaw said, “it’s been six months. Did this business about the Children’s Aid Society just occur to you?”
“That’s right. And it might not have even now if I hadn’t come across some papers of my brother’s dealing with his support of the institution.”
“I’m not trying to beat the agency out of a fee, but why don’t you go to the police, have them visit the orphanage and see if Donald is there?”
“Because”—Litchfield looked down at the floor, cleared his throat, and glared—“because I’m afraid. You see, someone wanted my brother dead.”
Rinehart asked, “Do you mean you’re afraid for yourself? Surely it was just a botched robbery or something of that sort. That wouldn’t represent any threat to you.”
Litchfield shook his head stubbornly and snapped, “I never said I was afraid for my own safety. It’s Donald I’m concerned about. And I don’t believe the killings were any sort of botched robbery. The men who killed Grant and Claire were sent there to murder them that night, pure and simple. I’m convinced that they intended to kill Donald as well. But they missed him somehow, and whoever was behind the crime may still desire to have him killed.”
Shaw said slowly, “I think I understand. You didn’t want to tip off the killers by involving the police.”
“To put it bluntly, I no longer trust the police,” Litchfield declared. “Grant had many enemies, one of whom must have hated him enough to set those killers on him. I have no way of knowing whether that man, whoever he is, may have paid off some of the detectives on the case to help him find Donald.”
Rinehart rubbed his chin and frowned in thought for a moment. “You might be right about that, sir. There are plenty of coppers on the force who aren’t exactly honest. No more than they have to be, anyway.”
“I know that, and that’s why I’ve come to you gentlemen with my theory,” Litchfield said. “Your agency has a reputation for the utmost honesty and discretion.”
“That’s the only way we can stay in business,” Shaw pointed out.
“I made inquiries at the Society—in the guise of being one of their benefactors, you know—and discovered that a group of children is leaving tomorrow, as I mentioned. Among them are several boys of Donald’s approximate age.”
Rinehart said, “It would be easy enough to go down there and have a look at them for yourself. You’d know your nephew if you saw him, I take it?”
“Of course,” Litchfield replied, sounding irritated by the question.
Reasonably so, Rinehart supposed.
“But you see, I don’t want him found just yet.”
Shaw frowned and shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“I’m hiring your agency for a two-pronged assignment,” Litchfield said. “I want a man to go with those orphans and keep a watch over them, noting where all the boys who might be Donald wind up. At the same time, I want the rest of the available resources of this office devoted to the task of finding evidence that will prove which of my brother’s business rivals was behind his murder.”
“The police have already investigated the case. If they made no progress—”
“As we’ve already discussed, I’m not convinced that the police have given the matter their best effort.”
That’s convoluted and more than a little paranoid, but there might be something to it, Rinehart mused. Anybody rich enough to want Grant Litchfield out of the way could probably afford to pay off the coppers. All that would be necessary to steer the case down all the wrong blind alleys were a few detectives on the take.
“If you want to find out who’s behind this,” Rinehart said, “then I’m your man. I can get started right away—”
“No, Mr. Rinehart, I want you to go with the Orphan Train,” Litchfield broke in. “Captain Shaw says you’re his best man, and I’m relying on you to keep my nephew safe while the agency’s other operatives break the case here in New York.”
Rinehart stared in surprise for a moment before he said, “You want me to . . . go West? Out to the frontier?”
Litchfield nodded solemnly. “I think that would be best, yes.”
* * *
Detective Rinehart shook his head and grumbled, “Of course, what the client wants, the client gets, as long as it’s within reason.” His boss was the one who determined what was reasonable, and he’d agreed with William Litchfield.
That was how Ed Rinehart found himself on the station platform, about to climb onto a train bound for Chicago and points west, all the way to California. All the way across vast stretches of the continent where, it seemed to him, civilization had barely taken hold. He had no idea what to expect, other than the fact that it would be savage and primitive.
When the conductor shouted the all-aboard, Rinehart took a deep breath and went up the steps of the nearest car. It was his job, after all.
CHAPTER 11
The Litchfield mansion,
Riverside Drive, New York City,
the previous evening
William Litchfield paced back and forth in front of the crackling blaze in the fireplace. The heat felt good, but it didn’t seem to reach quite all the way to the cold core at the center of his being. He had been chilled for months, and it seemed that the malady would never go away.
He had a snifter of the finest brandy in his hand, but he had forgotten it momentarily as his thoughts wandered. He paused in his pacing and looked around the opulently furnished study where he stood.
Everything bespoke wealth, from the paneled walls to the overstuffed furniture to the valuable paintings on the walls. A large bookcase filled with beautiful leather-bound volumes took up most of one side of the room. The brass fittings of the gas lamps gleamed in the warm light.
It had been his brother’s room, and Litchfield seemed to feel him there, despite the passage of time. In fact, the presence of Grant and Claire still permeated the entire mansion. Litchfield had been opposed to moving in after the murders—he and his wife had a perfectly good house of their own out on Long Island, after all—but Deirdre had insi
sted, and as happened most of the time, she got what she wanted.
Litchfield looked down at the drink in his hand as if he were surprised to find that he was holding it, then lifted the snifter to his lips and drained the rest of the brandy. Like the blaze in the fireplace, it warmed him . . . but not enough to get rid of that infernal persistent chill.
A light tapping sounded on the study door. He set the empty snifter on a sideboard and turned in that direction. “Yes?”
An elderly man in butler’s livery opened the door. He had a round, florid face and a mostly bald head. In a British accent—the best butlers were British, Deirdre had decided—he said, “There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir.” It was clear from the servant’s tone that he didn’t think the visitor was a gentleman at all.
Litchfield had been expecting it. He had sent word to the visitor earlier in the day that he needed to see him. He told the butler, “Send him in, Hennings.”
“Of course, sir,” Hennings murmured, still vaguely disapproving of the whole matter.
The stuffy old goat didn’t dislike the situation any more than he did, thought Litchfield. Things were as they were, and nothing could be done except try to make the best of everything.
The butler withdrew, leaving the study door slightly ajar. Litchfield thought about pouring himself another drink but decided not to. If he had a drink in his hand when the man came in, he would feel like he had to offer him one as well.
And Litchfield didn’t want to have a drink with Laird Kingsley as if the two of them were friends. It was bad enough he had to do business with the man.
The door opened and Kingsley walked in. The suit he wore was well-cut and cost quite a bit, though nowhere near as much as Litchfield’s suit, of course. The man’s thick dark hair was combed sleekly across his head. He was clean-shaven, although he was the sort where dark stubble began to appear within an hour of him taking a razor to his face.
He smiled. He fancied himself suave and liked to put on airs, liked to act as if he were just as good as the people in the circles he aspired to, but of course he wasn’t. Under that smooth façade was a hooligan, a common criminal just like his father and grandfather. Litchfield had looked into the man’s background. His grandfather had been Bloody Tom Kingsley, leader of the gang that had ruled a good portion of New York’s underworld forty years earlier.
Laird Kingsley might dress himself up, but the blood of murderers and brutes still ran in his veins.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Litchfield?” he asked.
“That’s right. There’s been a new development in the case.”
For just a second, Kingsley’s eyes opened a little wider, and a look appeared in them like one that might have been seen in the eyes of a wild animal caught in a trap. Then he regained control of himself and asked, “Oh? What sort of development?”
“I believe I know where my nephew is hiding.”
That atavistic gleam appeared in Kingsley’s eyes again, but he banished it even more quickly and murmured, “Is that right?”
“Have you heard of the Children’s Aid Society?”
Kingsley seemed to think about that question, then shook his head. “I can’t say as I have.”
“They’re the ones who put together those so-called Orphan Trains the newspapers talk about. They take children who have lost their homes and families and place them with families in the West.”
“Well,” mused Kingsley, “Donald is an orphan.”
For a second, Litchfield felt a wave of red rage go through him. He wanted to grab one of the several fireplace pokers leaning in a stand close beside him, sweep it up, and smash the man’s evil brains out.
But of course that was impossible. If he attacked Kingsley, in all likelihood the man would take the poker away and use it against him until all the life had been pounded from him. It wouldn’t be the first time Kingsley had beaten a man to death. Litchfield was certain of that.
“Tell me where the place is,” Kingsley went on. “I’ll take some men and go down there later tonight—”
“No,” Litchfield interrupted. “Good Lord, no. There’s been enough notoriety here in New York. If some orphan is mysteriously killed, the press will come clamoring around and might discover the truth.”
Kingsley shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. “I think you’re worrying too much, Mr. Litchfield. The press doesn’t give a damn what happens to orphans. Nobody cares about them except a few do-gooders like this . . . what did you call it? The Children’s Aid Society?”
“I want things done properly this time,” Litchfield snapped.
Kingsley’s handsome face hardened as he said, “Listen, what happened before wasn’t my fault. We’ve been over that a dozen times. None of us knew the kid had discovered that old smuggler’s tunnel leading out to the carriage house. I had all the doors and windows covered so nobody could get out. If he’d tried to escape that way, one of my men would’ve nabbed him.”
“There’s no need to rehash all that now,” Litchfield said coldly. “It’s enough for me to tell you how I want things done. You work for me, after all.”
“Well, there’s that,” Kingsley admitted with a shrug. “How do you want me to handle it?”
“I believe that Donald will be among the group of children heading West on a train tomorrow. The train is bound for California. You and as many of your men as you deem necessary will follow on the next train.”
“Why not just go on the same train?”
Litchfield shook his head. “No, I don’t want anything that could possibly ever lead back to me. That’s why I deal only with you, and your men have no idea who your employer is. Correct?”
“Sure. I’ve kept ’em in the dark. They don’t care who they’re working for as long as they get paid.”
“And paid well, I might add.” Litchfield took a deep breath and clasped his hands together behind his back. “You’ll be close enough behind the lad that once you’re in California, you can find him and . . . take care of the matter . . . before there’s been enough time for him to be adopted. Make it appear to be an accident if you can . . . run over by a carriage or a wagon in the street, something like that. But if you can’t, just use your best judgment. It’ll be a tragedy . . . a young boy going all the way to California to find a new home, only to be killed before that can happen . . . but it’ll be on the other side of the continent and no one will ever think to connect it with anything that happened here.”
“And you’ll be safe.” Kingsley looked around. “Safe in your brother’s house, with your brother’s money.”
Litchfield stiffened and burst out, “Damn you!”
“I’m not judging you, Mr. Litchfield. It’s none of my business. Just saying that once this is taken care of, you’ll be in the clear.”
With an effort, Litchfield brought his anger under control. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve engaged a detective agency to investigate the case here in New York and send an operative west with the orphans to keep an eye on them.”
Kingsley’s eyes widened again, with surprise instead of fear. “Why in the hell would you do that?” he demanded.
“For appearance sake, of course. It has to look like I’m still devastated by my brother’s murder. As far as everyone else is concerned, I must be the benevolent uncle, still searching for my poor nephew. If by some chance the boy in California is ever identified as Donald, no one will suspect me because, after all, I was trying to protect the child, wasn’t I?”
For a long moment, Kingsley stared at him, then said, “No offense, Mr. Litchfield, but you think too much. You didn’t need to do all this. But I suppose it’s too late to stop what you’ve set in motion—”
“It is.”
“So we’ll just make sure this detective you’ve hired doesn’t get in the way. If he does, too bad for him.” Kingsley rubbed his chin and frowned. “Or maybe once he’s served his purpose, it would be bette
r for him to die in an accident, too. Lots of people do, you know.” His tone became brisk. “What about the agency’s operatives here? What if they poke around enough to uncover the truth?”
Litchfield shook his head. “That won’t happen because they’ll be following clues that I provide, clues that will implicate Grant’s business enemies and send them along one false trail after another. They’ll stay busy carrying out a very earnest investigation, but in the end it will come to nothing and I’ll dismiss them, as anyone in my situation would do.”
“If it all works, you’ll wind up behind a wall of respectability that no one will ever penetrate,” Kingsley admitted.
“None of this would have been necessary if the job had been completed as planned six months ago.”
“Back to that, are we?” Kingsley smiled humorlessly and shook his head. “All right, we’ll leave it. Anything else?”
“No. You understand?”
“Sure. It might help if I knew more about those people from the Society, so I’ll know who we may be dealing with.”
Litchfield turned to his desk, picked up an envelope, and held it out to his visitor. “I took the liberty of preparing such information.”
“Good. Who’s this detective who’s going with the kids? You know his name?”
“Rinehart, I believe it is. He seemed like a competent man.”
“Competent or not, if we have to take care of him, he’ll never see it coming.” Kingsley said good night and left the study.
Once the man was gone, the iron grip that Litchfield had maintained on his emotions slipped somewhat. He went to the desk, leaned over and rested his fists on its polished top, and took several deep, shuddery breaths.
He was still standing like that when the door opened again. He straightened and started to turn, saying, “There won’t be anything else tonight, Hennings—” He stopped short when he saw that it wasn’t the butler who had come into the room. His wife stood there in a silk dressing gown, her long dark hair brushed out so that it hung around her shoulders, as beautiful as ever.
“Mr. Kingsley was here?” asked Deirdre.
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