Murder on Marble Row

by Victoria Thompson

  Tom, the doorman at Police Headquarters, greeted him as he held the door for him. Frank mumbled something in reply, but he was still deep in thought, trying to get what he knew about Van Dyke’s murder to make sense.

  The moment he stepped inside, the desk sergeant called his name, distracting him from his thoughts.

  “There’s a message for you from Captain O’Connor,” the sergeant informed him. “Wants you to telephone him.”

  Frank trudged upstairs to the detectives’ office and placed the telephone call to O’Connor’s office uptown, hoping his men had learned something helpful. The captain wasn’t very friendly when he finally came on the line.

  “Who do you think you are, telling my men what to do, Malloy?” he demanded.

  “I thought they were supposed to be helping me with the investigation,” Frank replied wearily. The last thing he needed was to get into a power struggle with a captain. “Did they find out anything about Van Dyke’s will?”

  “The lawyer wouldn’t tell them anything. Said it was confidential information. You want to find out, you’ll have to talk to him yourself.”

  O’Connor hung up, before Frank could even reply.

  Fine. One more unpleasant thing he had to do today, right after he informed Police Chief Conlin that Emma Goldman was back in the city.

  SARAH AND HER MOTHER SPOKE LITTLE ON THE TRIP back uptown to the Deckers’ townhouse. Sarah had accepted an invitation to stay for supper, and she was looking forward to a quiet evening with her parents. She was also hoping her father might have some insight into Mr. Van Dyke’s relationship with his partner.

  The two women settled comfortably in the back parlor, where the maid had laid a fire and brought them tea to warm them after their long, cold afternoon. Mr. Decker found them there later.

  “Sarah, how delightful to see you,” he said. He did look pleased, although it was hard to tell if one didn’t know him well. He touched her mother lightly on the shoulder by way of greeting, and took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs. “How are the Van Dykes?”

  “This is very difficult for them, as you can imagine,” her mother said. She briefly told him about Malloy bringing Creighton home and how he escaped.

  “I suppose that proves those anarchists were behind this terrible business,” her father said. “They’re the ones who use bombs, of course.”

  “Unless someone wanted Creighton and his friends to get the blame,” Sarah said, “and used the bomb to cast suspicion on them.”

  Her father raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Who gave you an idea like that?”

  “I got it myself, Father,” Sarah said, refusing to be insulted. Her father probably couldn’t help his attitudes toward women and their ability to reason. He’d been brought up with an irrational sense of male superiority, and it was rather late to change him. “After I spoke with Creighton and his friends, I don’t think they’re guilty.”

  Now her father was alarmed. He looked inquiringly at his wife, but she had picked up some needlework and was concentrating on it, as if completely unaware of the conversation going on around her. “When did you have an opportunity to speak to Creighton’s anarchist friends?” he asked sharply.

  “When I went to his flat.”

  Her father’s face flushed scarlet with outrage, but before he could speak, her mother said, “Creighton’s lady friend is with child, Felix. Sarah went in case the poor woman needed her help.” She hadn’t even looked up from her needlework.

  Completely disarmed, her father had no ready reply to make, so Sarah took advantage of the opportunity.

  “Father, there have been rumors that Mr. Van Dyke and his partner had quarreled about business. The talk is that Mr. Snowberger had cheated Mr. Van Dyke in some way. Do you know anything about that?”

  Her father stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “Sarah, this avid interest in a murder is extremely unseemly in a female, and asking me to betray confidences about my friends is unconscionable.”

  “Even if it helps find out who killed your friend?” Sarah challenged.

  “Sarah, I’m sure your father must feel uncomfortable discussing his friends’ foibles with you,” her mother said mildly. “He probably believes it to be disloyal.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” her father said. “That’s it exactly. Not to mention the fact that telling you could serve no purpose at all,” he added to Sarah, “since solving Gregory’s murder is not your concern.”

  Sarah felt the anger washing over her in a hot wave, but she checked her temper instantly. Arguing with her father was a waste of time. Nothing she said would change his attitudes, and if he had any idea how involved she and her mother had been in the investigation, he’d probably lock both of them in the cellar. She managed a smile. “I’m sure Mr. Malloy would appreciate any information Father could give him, though.”

  “Oh, yes,” her mother agreed. “Mr. Malloy is the detective Teddy assigned to investigate Gregory’s death, dear.”

  Sarah marveled at her mother’s ability to pretend they didn’t both know perfectly well who Frank Malloy was. Or that they both had been dismayed for months that Sarah had made friends with the police detective.

  “Have you met him?” he asked his wife with a frown, ready to disapprove.

  “He came to the Van Dykes’ house to speak to the family.

  He seems very competent,” Mrs. Decker said, her voice still mild, without the slightest indication she was trying to influence her husband. “And very well mannered, for a policeman.”

  This time Sarah’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought her mother’s opinion of Malloy’s manners would be so high after their conversation over lunch.

  “I suppose we’ll find out just how competent he is,” Mr. Decker observed.

  “Whether he is or not, he won’t be able to find Gregory’s assassin unless he knows everything, Felix. I’m afraid some people might conceal important facts out of a sense of delicacy and unwittingly allow Gregory’s murderer to escape without punishment.”

  “If Mr. Malloy is as competent as you seem to think, I’m sure he’ll manage to collect all the facts,” Mr. Decker said. “Now I’ll leave you ladies to your gossip.”

  With that, he withdrew from the room, probably to seek refuge in his study. Sarah watched him go with a sigh of frustration.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” her mother said. “If he has any information, he’ll make sure Mr. Malloy learns it.”

  “How do you know that?” Sarah asked in amazement.

  “I’ve been married to him for thirty-five years, dear. I can make him do just about anything.”

  Sarah smiled. She wondered if she would ever have had such a power over her husband Tom, if he had lived long enough for them to be married for so many years. Memories of Tom always brought a pang of loneliness—for him and for the family they never had—but this time she thought of a child with a real face.

  “Mother, I want to tell you about a very special little girl I met at the mission.”

  FRANK HAD BEEN TO THE OFFICES OF ATTORNEYS Smythe, Masterson and Judd before. They weren’t any happier to see him this time than they had been before, but after a short wait, he was admitted to the office of Mr. Judd.

  Judd was an aristocratic-looking fellow with a thin mustache and even thinner hair and a set of pince-nez perched on the end of his nose. His expression made him look as if his bowels had been locked for a while, but maybe he just didn’t like the police. Frank introduced himself, even though the secretary had already done that, and took a seat in one of his fancy leather chairs, since he doubted Mr. Judd would offer it.

  “I’ve been appointed by Police Commissioner Roosevelt to investigate the death of Gregory Van Dyke, and I need some information about his estate.”

  “I can’t imagine getting information about Mr. Van Dyke’s estate would help in any way to determine who killed him,” Mr. Judd said.

  “It could if his will gave somebody a reason to want him dead.”
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  “I have no idea what you mean,” Judd lied.

  “I guess you never had a client whose relatives were so anxious to get their inheritances that they helped the client along into the next world, but I can assure you that it happens a lot. My job is to find out if this is another one of those times.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told those other detectives—”

  “No, you won’t, because I’m smart enough to know a man’s will is public once he’s dead, and Gregory Van Dyke is very dead. So will you show me the will right now, or do I have to get a squad of patrolmen in here to go through your files until they find it?”

  Judd’s face turned nearly purple, and for a long moment he struggled with his urge to put Frank in his place. A squad of patrolmen would wreck his office, and even if he managed to get Frank fired for ordering such an outrage, his office would still be a wreck. Common sense won out.

  With poor grace, Judd jerked open one of the many drawers on his enormous desk and pulled out a large file folder. Slamming the drawer shut, he slapped the folder down on his desk and shoved it across toward where Frank sat.

  “Just give me the main points,” Frank said, having no intention of trying to wade through a legal document specifically designed to prevent laymen from understanding it “Who inherits?”

  “His son Creighton.”

  Frank blinked in surprise. Creighton was wrong about having been disinherited, which was too bad because it gave him or his friends a perfect motive for killing him. “Who else?”

  “No one else.”

  That couldn’t be right. “Didn’t Van Dyke make any arrangements for his other children or his wife?”

  “He instructs Creighton to give Mrs. Van Dyke an annual allowance, and to provide for his siblings as he sees fit.”

  Not very generous. “Is this what rich men usually do with their estates, leave everything to the oldest son?”

  Mr. Judd resented every word he had to utter to Frank, and his tone showed it. “I can’t speak for all ‘rich men.’”

  “Then what would a typical will say? Wouldn’t he have left money to his wife, and their house and furniture, too, at least?”

  “Most widows of wealthy men find themselves well provided for,” Judd grudgingly allowed.

  “How much of an allowance is Mrs. Van Dyke supposed to get?”

  Judd looked as if he’d swallowed a lemon. “Five hundred dollars a year.”

  Frank couldn’t believe it. He earned more than twice that in his regular salary alone, and he could never support his mother and Brian on just his salary. He pictured Lilly Van Dyke trying to live for a year on an amount that was probably equal to her monthly pin money. “And the other son and the daughter get nothing?”

  “Only what their brother wishes them to have,” Judd said.

  Frank tried to make sense of this. Creighton had rebelled and run off to live with people who despised his father and everything the Van Dykes stood for. Still he’d inherited the entire Van Dyke fortune, while Tad—who had toiled diligently in his father’s business—and Alberta—who’d been too afraid of her father to defy him and marry the man she loved—had received nothing. They’d have to make their own way or rely on their brother’s goodwill. And Van Dyke had given his wife the biggest insult of all, stripping her of every benefit she’d enjoyed as his wife and reducing her to poverty.

  There had to be an explanation. “How long ago did he make this will?”

  “He signed it a little more than a month ago.”

  Frank sank back in the chair. This wasn’t the answer he’d expected. An old will, made before Creighton had forsaken his family, might have entrusted him to take care of everyone else, but why would Van Dyke leave his fortune to a professed anarchist? “Are you aware that Creighton Van Dyke had left his father’s home?”

  “I’m well aware of young Mr. Van Dyke’s situation. His father explained everything to me.”

  “Did he explain why he left his fortune to a man who was fighting against everything his father stood for?”

  “I can only assume he felt Creighton would be the best administrator of his estate. Entrusting him with the care of his siblings showed his father had great confidence in him.”

  Frank didn’t believe that for a minute. “What about Mrs. Van Dyke? Sounds like Van Dyke wasn’t very happy with her. Or with his other two children, either, for that matter.”

  “I am legally required only to share the contents of the will with you, not to speculate on the reasons behind it,” Judd reminded him.

  “If Van Dyke even told you what they were,” Malloy said with a shrug. “I guess he considered you just a hired man. He wouldn’t have to explain anything.”

  Judd stiffened at the implication, but Frank continued relentlessly.

  “Anyway, it’s not hard to figure it all out. He was afraid if he left his daughter money, she’d be a target for every fortune hunter in the country and a lot more from England.” Everyone knew that impoverished British noblemen routinely came to the States looking for wealthy brides to support them. “He probably did her a favor. With no money, she might be an old maid, but she wouldn’t be taken advantage of. The younger son is a little harder to figure out, but he’s not as bright as his brother. Maybe his father thought he’d squander an inheritance. Or maybe . . .” Frank pretended to consider the matter. “Or maybe he did something his father didn’t like, so he cut him off without a cent. Now what could a young man do to make his father that mad?”

  Judd’s face was getting purple again. “This is ridiculous,” he tried.

  “I wonder if a jury would think so.”

  “Why on earth would a jury be involved?” Judd asked in alarm.

  “In a murder trial, everything becomes evidence. Mr. Van Dyke stopped Creighton’s allowance so he couldn’t support his anarchist activities anymore, but then he names him as his only heir. This gives Creighton a good reason for wanting his father dead. Van Dyke must’ve been a fool not to think of that.”

  “He wasn’t a fool,” Judd said, his voice nearly strangled.

  “What was he then?” Frank asked pleasantly.

  Judd’s narrow shoulders sagged in defeat. “First of all, Mr. Van Dyke had no idea he would die so soon after making the will.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “You’re right about his daughter. He wanted to protect her from . . . from someone unsuitable.”

  “Anybody in particular?” Frank asked conversationally. “Somebody who might’ve wanted him dead, for instance?”

  “I believe he mentioned that a man had . . . His daughter isn’t someone who naturally attracts admirers,” he explained.

  “I’ve met her,” Frank said, relieving him of having to say she was homely.

  “Someone her father felt was only interested in her possible fortune had expressed an interest in courting her. Mr. Van Dyke wanted to make sure she was always safe from men like that.”

  “How thoughtful,” Frank said without sincerity. “What about Tad, the younger son?”

  “Mr. Van Dyke didn’t say too much, but I got the impression . . .”

  “If you don’t tell me,” Frank warned when he hesitated, “I’ll have to imagine something much worse.”

  Judd sighed. “Apparently, Tad had greatly displeased his father.”

  “When I was a young man, I displeased my father every day,” Frank said.

  “This was something serious, so serious Mr. Van Dyke felt he could never be reconciled. I tried to convince him to leave the boy some money of his own. A daughter can live with a brother or eventually marry, but a son . . . Tad doesn’t strike me as the type of young man who could make his own fortune, and he’s been bred from birth to be a rich man.”

  “What was he mad at Tad about?”

  “He wouldn’t say. At first I thought perhaps he felt Tad simply wouldn’t be able to manage an inheritance, so I suggested a trust. That’s a legal vehicle that allows the heir to draw an annual income from
the inheritance but never to touch the principle. An arrangement like that would provide for Tad without allowing him to squander his money.”

  “His father wouldn’t do that?” Frank asked in amazement.

  “He didn’t want Tad to get a penny. Those were his exact words. I finally convinced him to let Creighton decide how to provide for him, but only by pointing out that complete poverty might drive Tad to do something that would bring disgrace on his family.”

  Frank nodded, beginning to get a clearer picture of Gregory Van Dyke’s state of mind before his death. “That leaves his wife. He must’ve been really mad at her.”

  Judd stared bleakly at Frank. “Mrs. Van Dyke is a careless young woman.”

  “Careless how? Did she spend too much money or did she take a lover?”

  “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t say,” Judd told him, fury making his voice ragged. “Mr. Van Dyke simply wanted to ensure that no other man received any of his fortune by marrying his widow.”

  “Did he think Mrs. Van Dyke had already picked out this man?”

  Judd looked as if he might have apoplexy, but he kept his voice even. “She may have picked out more than one.”

  “Why didn’t Van Dyke just divorce her, then? He obviously had cause, and that way, he’d never have to worry about her getting any of his money.”

  “Mr. Van Dyke didn’t believe in divorce. Now if you’re finished—”

  “Not yet,” Frank said, leaning forward slightly. “You still haven’t told me why he left his anarchist son his entire estate.”

  Judd drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if stalling for time. Finally, he said, “Because he wanted Creighton to know that whatever he might want, he was going to become a wealthy capitalist just like his father. If Creighton wouldn’t voluntarily assume his proper place in life, his father would force him to.”

  Now Frank asked the most important question. “Did Creighton know the terms of his father’s will?”

  “That,” Judd said without bothering to hide his satisfaction, “is a question only Creighton can answer.”