Murder on Marble Row

by Victoria Thompson

“Yes,” Alberta agreed. “She’s Russian or maybe German. I’m not sure. Very pretty but just as insane as the rest of them. Full of hatred and ideas that don’t make any sense at all to rational people. And of course she believes in free love.”

  “I see,” Sarah said, and she did. The whole picture was clear now. Creighton had been looking for a philosophy of his own that would thoroughly shock his father. Then he’d met a girl who offered him not only new ideas but carnal satisfaction as well. The combination must have been irresistible.

  “They live on the Lower East Side in a tenement with a lot of other Russian and German immigrants.” She looked at Sarah beseechingly. “Someone should warn him that the police think he killed Father.”

  “Do you think he’s guilty?” Sarah asked. “Do you want him to run away?”

  “Of course not, and I don’t think he’s guilty! But when did that ever stop the police from arresting someone? They’re looking for a person who planted a bomb, and everyone knows anarchists plant bombs. They’ll blame him and his friends because it’s easy, and Lilly will be only too happy to let Creighton be accused.”

  “Detective Sergeant Malloy isn’t that kind of a policeman,” Sarah told her. “I know him, and I’ve seen him work. He won’t rest until he finds the truth.”

  “How on earth do you know a policeman, Sarah?” Alberta asked in amazement.

  “It’s a long story, but you can take my word. Creighton has nothing to fear from Detective Malloy if he’s innocent.”

  Alberta was unconvinced. “Still, someone should warn him. Sarah, do you know anyone who could take a message to him?”

  Sarah almost volunteered herself. She often went into those neighborhoods to deliver babies, but she didn’t want to seem too eager. “I think I could find someone. Do you have his address?”

  Alberta gave her the address of a building just south of Houston Street in the German Jewish neighborhood. Sarah knew the area well.

  FRANK WAS LOOKING FOR A SERVANT TO SEND UP TO Miss Van Dyke’s room to ask if he could question her when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He looked up to see Sarah Brandt descending.

  The sight of her always amazed him. She seemed to be lit by some inner fire that gave her a presence or a glow, setting her apart from every other woman he’d ever known. He felt the familiar ache of a longing that could never be fulfilled. He had only a moment to admire her before she saw him looking up.

  “Malloy, I’m so glad you’re still here,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

  She probably had some silly idea about who the killer was, and he’d have to convince her it wasn’t possible. He didn’t have time for that. He had to find out who had killed Van Dyke before Roosevelt got impatient and put somebody else on the case. “I need to speak with Miss Van Dyke,” he said, hoping to distract her.

  “She can’t see you now,” she said as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “She’s too ill. That’s what I need to talk to you about.” She looked around to see if they were alone. She noticed the parlor door was closed.

  “Mrs. Van Dyke and your mother are in there,” he explained. “Some minister is with them.”

  “Good, come with me.”

  To his annoyance, she headed off toward the back of the house without waiting to see if he would agree. Having no choice, he followed her down the hall and into a dimly lit room. A glance around told him this must be Van Dyke’s study. The huge and snarling head of the pelt he’d seen hanging in Van Dyke’s bedroom hung on the wall opposite the door, but it was only one of many exotic animals mounted in various poses of ferocity on every wall. Before he could take in more than that first impression, she closed the door behind them.

  “Malloy, Mr. Van Dyke’s oldest son is an anarchist,” she told him.

  Was that all? “I know. His wife told me. That’s what I have to see Miss Van Dyke about. Her stepmother said she’s the only one likely to know where to find him.”

  “You aren’t going to arrest him, are you?” she asked in alarm.

  He bit back the sharp retort that sprang instantly to his lips. Getting into a shouting match with her here would be stupid. “I need to question him,” he said as calmly as he could.

  “He wouldn’t have killed his own father!”

  “Maybe not, but his friends might have,” he countered.

  She couldn’t dispute that. “Alberta gave me his address. She wants me to warn him that the police are looking for him.”

  “What?” he cried, remembering at the last second not to shout.

  “But that’s not all. I don’t know whether it has anything to do with the bomb or not, but . . . Alberta Van Dyke is with child.”

  3

  FRANK WASN’T SURE HE’D HEARD HER CORRECTLY. “SHE’S what?”

  “She’s going to have a baby. Which means she has a lover. But I mentioned that I thought I’d read she was engaged—to give her an opportunity to tell me about the man in her life—and she insisted she hadn’t even had a gentleman court her for years.”

  Frank was still confused. “How did she explain the baby then?”

  “She didn’t. I didn’t tell her I knew.”

  “If you didn’t talk about it, how do you know there’s a baby?”

  “Because she’s been ill, and I asked her questions, and I saw her . . . her body, and I know. I’ve seen enough women in that condition before. She has all the signs.”

  Frank scratched his head in bewilderment. “All right, even if it’s true, what does this have to do with her father’s murder?”

  She rolled her eyes, silently telling him she thought he must be a dunderhead. “Alberta is my age, more than old enough to be considered definitely a spinster,” she explained patiently. “She said herself she hasn’t had a suitor in a very long time. That means there’s some mystery about who fathered her child.”

  “You think she might have been forced?” Frank asked, growing more disturbed by the minute.

  “It’s possible, but she doesn’t act as if she’s experienced that kind of an outrage. I’ve seen enough who have to know how they react.”

  “Could the father be . . . someone in her family?” he asked reluctantly. They both knew that happened far more often than anyone wanted to believe.

  “Dear heaven, I hope not. It seems unlikely because of her age, though.”

  “If she wasn’t forced and it’s not a member of her family, then she must have a lover,” Frank pointed out.

  “And since she denied having any suitors, we have to conclude that it’s someone her family wouldn’t have considered acceptable enough to call on her.”

  “A servant?” Frank guessed.

  “Entirely possible,” she agreed. “But whoever it is, if her father wouldn’t allow her to marry him, and then she discovered she’s with child . . .”

  “Alberta and her lover might have decided to kill him so they could be together,” Frank finished. “Of course, this might have nothing at all to do with who killed Van Dyke,” he reminded her. “Blowing your own father to kingdom come is an ugly thing to do, no matter what your reason.”

  “Yes, but we don’t know who the lover is. He might be an anarchist, too. If Creighton knows some, Alberta might, too. But even if Alberta and her lover aren’t involved at all, we can use the information to frighten Alberta, to get her to tell us everything she knows.”

  Frank felt a familiar tightening behind his eyes, the first symptom of the headache Sarah Brandt frequently gave him. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and got hold of his temper before replying. “Mrs. Brandt, you keep using the word ‘we,’ but I believe I already made it clear that you are not to be involved in this case.”

  “You told me to stay away from this house because it might explode,” she reminded him. “I don’t think I’ll be in much danger going downtown to see Creighton Van Dyke.”

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

  She did
n’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.”