Murder on Marble Row

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Murder on Marble Row Page 17

by Victoria Thompson


  “Mr. Malloy,” Decker said by way of greeting. “I see you got my message.” He didn’t get up or offer to shake hands, which was fine. Frank had no intention of shaking his hand.

  “I came as soon as I could,” he lied.

  “Have a seat. I have some information you might find helpful.”

  Still wary, Frank sat in one of the chairs. Hundreds of other occupants had broken it in nicely, and he found it quite comfortable. “I thought you’d want to know how the case is progressing,” Frank said.

  “My daughter informed me that you haven’t identified the killer yet,” he said. “Unless that’s changed since last night.”

  “No, nothing’s changed,” Frank admitted, trying to imagine Sarah explaining the case to her father.

  “My daughter said you don’t believe the anarchists are responsible.” It sounded like an accusation.

  “I haven’t eliminated them as suspects, but I try to keep an open mind. A lot of people might think they should be locked up even if they didn’t do it, but that would mean the real killer would go free.”

  Decker’s pale eyebrows rose in surprise. Frank didn’t know if that was good or bad, so he didn’t allow himself to relax.

  “Who do you believe killed Van Dyke?”

  “I don’t think he was killed to make a political statement,” Frank said, not really answering the question.

  Decker considered his reply for a moment as if trying to judge him by it. Then he said, “You’ve heard a rumor that Allen Snowberger had cheated Van Dyke in business.”

  It wasn’t a question. Again, Sarah must have told him that. Frank hadn’t missed the fact that he hadn’t spoken of her by name to him. It was an interesting omission. “Several people said that Mr. Van Dyke had been angry with Mr. Snowberger. They said he’d accused Mr. Snowberger of cheating him, but there’s no evidence of any financial irregularities in the company.” At least none that he’d found yet, he silently amended.

  “I’m sure you won’t find any, either,” Decker said as if reading his thoughts. “Both Allen and Gregory were too astute for either of them to cheat the other—at least not in their business.”

  Frank heard the qualification in his voice. “But they might cheat each other outside of the company,” he guessed, wondering why Decker was telling him all this.

  “The word cheat implies something illegal, Mr. Malloy. Neither of them would stoop to that, either.”

  In spite of himself, Frank was intrigued. “What would they stoop to?”

  Decker’s aristocratic face pinched with distaste. “You must understand that Gregory and Allen had known each other all their lives. Their fathers were partners, and they inherited that partnership.”

  “But they weren’t exactly friends,” Frank said.

  “Their families raised them to be, but they were more rivals than friends. And then they met Arabella.”

  “Arabella?” Frank thought that was a pretty fancy name for the kind of woman he was picturing, a woman who would drive a man to murder his partner.

  “She was Allen’s wife. Not at first, of course. This was years ago. They both fell in love with her and courted her, but she chose Allen. Gregory never forgave him, even though he eventually married, too. He was always devoted to Arabella, and when she died a little over a year ago, he blamed Allen.”

  Had Van Dyke suspected murder? “How did she die?”

  “They were traveling abroad, and she caught a fever of some kind. She hadn’t wanted to take the trip, but Allen had insisted. She came home in a box, and Gregory held Allen responsible.”

  “So he took revenge?” Frank asked, trying to figure out how all of this tied together to cause Van Dyke’s death.

  “Not revenge exactly. Gregory found an investment opportunity. He invited several of us to join him in it. The investment did very well for a time, and then Gregory advised us to sell out. Those of us who followed his advice made a lot of money. Those who didn’t . . . well, they lost a lot of money.”

  “I guess Snowberger was one who didn’t sell out. Why not?”

  “Let’s just say that Gregory neglected to warn him.”

  Frank thought this was a rather cold way of avenging the death of the woman you loved, but he didn’t say so. Maybe this was as passionate as rich men got about love. “Snowberger must’ve been angry.” But was he angry enough to blow his partner to pieces with a bomb?

  “Naturally. He understood exactly what Gregory had done to him, but he didn’t kill Gregory, Mr. Malloy. That would be a hollow victory because Gregory wouldn’t ever know about it, and he wouldn’t suffer.”

  Frank remembered the mutilated body he’d seen at the morgue and thought Van Dyke had suffered quite a bit. “What would he have done to make him suffer?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but I do know Allen took his revenge in an effective way well before Gregory was killed. I know because he told me he had, although he wouldn’t tell me what he had done. I also know because Gregory was furious with him. In all the years I’ve known them, I’ve never seen him angrier. If Gregory had killed Allen, I could believe that was the reason, but of course he didn’t. Gregory is the one dead, and I can assure you, Allen wasn’t responsible. As far as Allen was concerned, he was satisfied that he had evened the score once and for all.”

  If that was true, it would be a great relief to Frank. Snowberger was somebody he definitely wanted to cross off the list. He was too rich and powerful ever to bring to justice. “Do you have any ideas about what Snowberger did to Mr. Van Dyke?”

  “No. He was very mysterious, and very smug and pleased with himself, though. He seemed quite sure he’d gotten the ultimate revenge, something that Gregory could never top.”

  Frank would have to make certain Decker was right, of course, although the thought of asking Snowberger to tell him how he’d taken revenge on his dead partner wasn’t appealing. But then, nothing about this case was appealing, least of all Felix Decker.

  Decker looked across the desk at him, still sizing him up, so Frank returned his stare. He tried to imagine Decker in a dark alley beating his son-in-law’s brains out. “What did you think of Tom Brandt?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  Decker stiffened. “I can’t see that’s any of your business,” he said coldly. If he’d been tolerating Frank until now, he had no intention of doing so any longer.

  Frank took a calculated risk. “I’m trying to find his killer.”

  Decker was a hard man to read, but Frank had lots of experience. His expression was surprise and nothing more. “Surely, you can’t have any hope of doing so after all this time. The police told us when it happened that it was useless to even try.”

  “You should’ve offered a reward,” Frank said mildly. “They might’ve tried harder.”

  Now Decker’s expression grew shrewd. “Are you asking for a reward now?”

  Frank felt his hackles rise, but he refused to take offense. Decker had made a logical assumption. “No, and I don’t expect one. I’m just trying to give Mrs. Brandt some peace.”

  Decker considered Frank’s claim for a moment. “Do you think finding her husband’s killer will give her peace?”

  Frank figured he had nothing to lose. “That depends on who the killer is, I guess.”

  Decker didn’t even blink. “Assuming you can even find him. Where do you propose to begin?”

  “I’ve already begun. I have a witness who saw the killer.”

  “Good God!” he exclaimed, showing the first trace of actual emotion. “Are you sure?”

  Frank looked for any trace of guilt or apprehension, but he saw none. “I’m sure,” Frank said with more confidence than he felt.

  “Then why don’t you arrest him?” he demanded. He didn’t sound like he was afraid of being arrested.

  “Because the witness would know him if he saw him again, but he doesn’t know who he is.”

  “Who is this witness? Is he someone reliable? Why didn’t he come forward before
?”

  “He saw a swell committing murder. He was too afraid to come forward.”

  “A swell?” Decker repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before. Maybe he hadn’t.

  “A rich man, or at least somebody who was well dressed.”

  This disturbed Decker. He frowned. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “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

  SARAH 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—”

 

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