Death on the Cliff Walk

by Mary Kruger

  Brooke’s lips twitched. “Er, yes. I am Miss Cassidy. You are Monsieur Pepin?”

  “But of course. But, pardon, I did not introduce myself, non? I am Richard Pepin, chef extraodinaire.”

  Her lips twitched again as he bowed. He was short and dapper, with a highly-waxed black mustache and snapping black eyes. She could well believe he had a temper. “Sit down, monsieur. Now,” she said, sitting herself, “why did you wish to see me?”

  “Ah, you Americains, always so blunt, non? To be honest, mademoiselle, I am here to do you a very great favor.”

  “Oh?”

  “Oui. I am offering to you my services as chef.”

  “I thought you were employed by the Vandenbergs.”

  Pepin’s eyes flashed. “Bah! Them. Impossible! And the staff—encroyable! Always at my knives and my pans, putting things here, putting things there, never back where they belong, no.” He mimed putting knives back in a drawer as he spoke. “Now my paring knife is missing. And my pans, my precious copper pans—one cochon of a maid used my omelet pan to sauté onions. Onions! Encroyable!”

  “Er, yes. But don’t the Vandenbergs think well of you?”

  “Them? Bah,” he said again. “Madame, she will not eat what I prepare, no matter what it is. Non. Always she sends it back. And Monsieur Vandenberg, he is never home.” His smile was sly. “Out with a lady friend, eh?”

  “Really?” Brooke said, diverted.

  “Mais oui.” He gave an elaborate, very Gallic, shrug. “With a wife like that, who can blame him?”

  Brooke smothered a smile. He was somehow more French than any Frenchman she’d ever met, making her wonder how many of his mannerisms were real, and how many staged for effect. “Well.” She rose. “I can’t promise you anything. We do have a cook already and I doubt she’s thinking of leaving. But I will talk to my aunt about you.”

  “A cook. Bah. With me you would have a chef premier, mademoiselle.” He, too, rose. “But I shall resign myself to my fate.”

  “Good.” Brooke pressed the button that signaled Hutton. “Hutton will see you out,” she said, and left the room, her spirits considerably lighter. Life did indeed go on. She would put the incident with Eliot behind her, just as he someday would. He would recover from the blow she’d dealt him, which, she suspected, had hurt his pride more than anything else. As for herself, she could now stop feeling guilty, and could plan her life her own way. She was free. For the first time in five years, she was free.

  The stewards from the Priscilla had, as requested, come to the police station to explain the curious circumstances of Paul Radley’s traveling arrangements. Like Mr. Harris, both agreed that he traveled on Thursday nights. When pressed to explain why he’d also taken a stateroom on Fridays, both looked at each other blankly. That particular stateroom was occupied by a Mr. Taylor, one of them finally said. He had no idea who that was, but Matt did. Taylor was Radley’s valet. Why he’d traveled separately was another matter.

  “We’re on to something,” Matt said with satisfaction after the stewards had left. “Radley could have committed the murders.”

  “Yeah.” Charlie flipped through the pages in his notebook. “He was here when they all were committed, but he kept that quiet from everyone. But the staff at the Muenchinger-King Cottage remember it. I checked that this morning.”

  “Did he keep it from Rosalind, I wonder?” Matt brushed a finger across his mustache. “He could have been the man she was going out to meet.”

  “Seems likely, doesn’t it?”

  “Mm. If Rosalind wanted to do something that wasn’t allowed her, she’d have to do it in secret. Radley could have been in it with her.”

  “I’ll lay even money he was.”

  “Mm.” Matt brushed his finger across his mustache again. If nothing else, they needed an explanation of his odd travel arrangements. “We’ll go talk to him,” he said, and picked up the telephone, asking for Hôtel Soleil, the Radleys’ home. That produced the interesting news that Paul had yet to arrive from New York. Matt rang off, and instantly asked for the Muenchinger-King Cottage, the tony boarding house where many of society’s finest, with no fixed address in Newport, stayed. Yes, Mr. Radley was staying there, he was told, and yes, he could come to the phone. Matt’s smile was grim as he spoke to Paul, and then rang off again. “I think we’ve got him,” he said, rising and reaching for his jacket. “He’s agreed to meet us at his house. Get us a buggy, Charlie. I want to get this settled.”

  “Sure thing, Cap.”

  A short time later they stepped down from the buggy in the drive at Hôtel Soleil and went in, to the same paneled reception room where they had interviewed Radley before. Paul came in after a few moments, his face hard. “What is this all about?” he demanded, without preamble.

  “Sit down, Mr. Radley,” Matt said, refusing to be rattled.

  Paul remained standing. “You will not be staying, gentlemen. Ask your questions and leave.”

  Matt looked at him for a long moment. “Very well. Why did you lie to us, Mr. Radley?”

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “No? Your staff here thought you were in New York. Why are you staying at the Muenchinger-King Cottage?”

  Paul’s look was disdainful. “I didn’t expect to come down last night, and so I didn’t notify the staff. Rather than put anyone out, I decided to stay at Muenchinger’s.”

  “That’s a thumper, Mr. Radley. You were also here the night Rosalind died.”

  “I was on the steamer from New York. I’ve told you that already.” His smile was frosty. “Check with the Fall River line if you doubt me.”

  “Oh, I have, Mr. Radley,” Matt said, and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man’s eyes flicker. “You neglected to tell us that your valet was in the stateroom you claimed to occupy. Don’t bother denying it,” he added, as Paul opened his mouth to speak. “We have witnesses who will confirm it.”

  Paul didn’t answer for a moment, but stood there considering them, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. “I see,” he said finally.

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  “What would you have me say?”

  Matt braced his hands on the table that separated them, leaning toward him. “You were here when Rosalind died. You came here on Thursday, not Friday, and you did it in such a way that no one would know. That looks suspicious to me.”

  “I don’t really care how it looks, detective.”

  “Where were you that night?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t push me.” Matt leaned forward even farther, and again Paul’s eyes flickered. “I can find that out, too. It’ll be better for you if you tell me.”

  “What I did that night is none of your affair.”

  “Were you with Rosalind?”

  “No. But I don’t expect you to believe that.”

  “Where were you, then? Come on,” he said, when Paul didn’t answer. “If you won’t cooperate we’ll have to take you down to the station.”

  “A threat, detective?”

  “No. A promise.” Matt kept his gaze steady. When Paul still didn’t answer, he abruptly straightened. “Guess that’s it, then. Sergeant, take him in.”

  “No,” Paul said, pulling away as Charlie reached for his arm. “Don’t.”

  “You’ll talk to us, Mr. Radley?”

  “Yes. Dammit.” Paul turned away, pulling his etched silver cigar case out from an inner pocket. “I suppose I’ve no choice. You’re right. I was here. But I was not with Rosalind.”

  “Where were you, then?”

  Paul paused a moment, lighting his cigar, and then waved out the match. “With a lady.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. We’ve had a long-standing liaison. She’s married, of course.”

  “And you were engaged.”

  Paul shrugged. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Not for the first time, Matt pitied Rosalind. “Did Rosalin
d know about this?”

  “Of course not! It’s not the sort of thing one talks about.”

  “Isn’t it.” Matt peered at him. “Who is she?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, come on, Mr. Radley,” Matt said, setting down his notebook. “You’re not stupid. You know why I’m asking you these questions.”

  “Of course I do. But if I tell you her husband will find out, and I can assure you, that won’t be pleasant. Why do you think I travel as I do? So he won’t find out. He comes down from New York on Fridays. I come on Thursdays to avoid him. If he asks, however, I have ticket stubs for Friday.”

  “Which is what you showed us. So. You were here on the night Rosalind died. That’s opportunity. You believed she was seeing someone else; that’s motive. And you have the strength needed to strangle a woman. Yet you tell us you were with a lady, but you won’t tell us her name.” Matt’s gaze was hard. “This looks bad, Mr. Radley.”

  “To you, perhaps. You think I killed Rosalind.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “I think you did.”

  “Then prove it. And you’d better have better evidence than you did against Olmstead,” he snapped, and stalked out of the room.

  “He’s right, Cap,” Charlie said into the strained silence. “We don’t really have any evidence against him.”

  “Dammit, I know he’s right. We’ll have to find the evidence. We’ll go back to the station, look at the reports one more time.” His face was grim. “There’s something in them I’m missing, but I’ll find it if it kills me. One way or another, we’ll get him.”

  “Yes, Cap.”

  “And don’t call me Cap.”

  “Anything you say, Cap.”

  Back in his office, Matt took off his jacket and sat at his desk, eyeing the stack of reports balefully. Dammit. They were close to breaking this case, so close, but not quite there. Radley was right. They didn’t yet have the evidence they needed against him. The last thing he wanted to do just now was to comb through reports, but it had to be done. He was not going to arrest another man without first building a solid case against him.

  Pulling the first report toward him, he read it carefully, then pushed it aside and read another. And a third. In the early days of the investigation the police work had been thorough, exhaustive. Anyone who had any connection to the murdered girls had been questioned, once and then again. With Rosalind’s death, the questioning had broadened to include the summer people. There were reports on the Olmsteads, the Belmonts, the Vanderbilts; reports on Miles Vandenberg and Eliot Payson, on Mamie Fish and Tessie Oelrichs. It was a name in one of these that suddenly leaped out at him, a name that at the beginning of the investigation had meant nothing, but which meant everything now. Matt put the report down and stared into space, putting it all together. Facts that had previously been unrelated now meant something: a tennis game, trips to New York, a red rose in an etched silver vase. Facts that fit so well that he wondered he hadn’t seen it all before.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Matt muttered, standing so fast that the papers scattered on his desk. He knew. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who the Cliff Walk Killer was.

  The news that Brooke had broken her engagement to Eliot Payson spread quickly. The fact that their relationship was strained had been evident last evening at Lindhurst, when they studiously avoided each other, and it hadn’t taken long for the reason to become known. Now, the morning after giving Eliot back his ring, Brooke sat in the morning room at Belle Mer with her aunt and several guests, and tried, as she sipped her tea, to pretend that nothing had changed.

  The ritual of morning calls usually didn’t proceed in such a way. Usually what it entailed was dressing in one’s finest day ensemble, climbing into one’s carriage, and stopping at the houses of various friends. There a footman would be dispatched to leave one’s calling card. Then, social duty done to that particular acquaintance, it was on to the next house. Rarely did people actually leave their carriages to go inside, since the people they called on were making calls of their own. In such a way, friendships could be maintained without people ever actually having to talk to each other.

  Things were different this morning, the news having brought the curious to Belle Mer. Aunt Winifred was furious over this latest turn of events; hadn’t they had enough scandal this summer? In the face of her friends’ questions, however, she presented as serene a front as Brooke did. Yes, she was sorry about the engagement, but far more concerned about her niece’s happiness. She had plans, she proclaimed, and immediately began discussing ideas for a grand dinner party, to be held at Belle Mer. If her guests remained unconvinced, they were too polite to show it.

  Over the rim of her teacup, Brooke’s gaze met the amused one of Miles Vandenberg, sitting across the room. She rolled her eyes a bit as Winifred elaborated on her plans, and taking that as a signal of sorts, Miles rose and came to sit next to Brooke on the pink brocade sofa. “So life goes on, it seems,” he commented, in a voice meant for her ears alone.

  “Apparently,” Brooke muttered, curious as to why Miles was here, the only male in a group of women, but glad, as well. Of all the cottagers, he was the only one who seemed to share her views on society. “If everything goes wrong, give a party.”

  “Not a bad philosophy, actually. Thank you.” This to the maid who handed him a fresh cup of tea. “Is that a new girl?”

  Brooke looked up in surprise. “Lucy? Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. You had a girl working here. Pretty thing, with red hair.”

  “Annie?” Brooke said before she could stop herself, and a nasty suspicion crossed her mind. But it couldn’t be, she thought, banishing the idea.

  “Is that her name?”

  “Yes. Annie McKenna.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s who I meant.”

  “We had to let her go.”

  “Who are you talking about, Brooke?” Winifred said.

  “Annie, Aunt Winifred.”

  “Annie?”

  “Annie McKenna.”

  “Who? Oh, her.” Winifred made a face and turned back to Mrs. Stanford, seated beside her. “Shocking thing. One of our maids. We had to let her go. Why, she was arrested on Illumination Night, for streetwalking, of all things.”

  “Well, if I’d known that,” Miles drawled, again in a low voice.

  “Miles!” Brooke stared at him. “Is that who you’re interested in these days? Maids who can’t defend themselves against you because you’re their employer?”

  “You make me sound quite the monster, Brooke.” He took a sip of tea. “I thought she was pretty. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  Remembering what the Vandenbergs’ former chef had told her, Brooke wasn’t so sure. “I suppose not.”

  “Next thing you know, you’ll be accusing me of being the Cliff Walk Killer.”

  The suspicion she’d had a few moments ago returned. “Are you?”

  He stared at her for a moment, before putting back his head and laughing. “Good God, no! Why would I do something like that? Besides, he’s been arrested.”

  “What is so funny, Miles?” Winifred called.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” he said, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Well, come and talk to me anyway. I could use some amusement.”

  “Of course. Excuse me, Brooke?”

  “Certainly,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes. Of all the absurd things for her to say! Of course Miles wasn’t a killer. He’d certainly had little to do with Rosalind while she was alive; why would he wish her dead?

  “Now,” Winifred said, in a carrying voice. “What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing very much,” Miles said, leaning back against the sofa. He should have looked incongruous, out of place, a man lounging against crimson brocade, but somehow he didn’t. “Actually, we were discussing the Cliff Walk Killer.”

  Winifred pursed her lips in distas
te. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. I told you it wasn’t interesting.”

  “Thank God he’s been caught,” Mrs. Warren, a stout matron of middle age, said. “Why, do you know I had trouble getting any of my staff to go out on errands? They refused to use the Cliff Walk. Can you imagine? They said it wasn’t safe, even in broad daylight. Such insolence. I had to let several of them go.”

  “Yes, I’m relieved it’s over,” Winifred said, mechanically. “Who are you inviting to dinner next week?”

  “Oh, my dear, I let my secretary take care of that kind of detail. Of course it would be a relief to you, after what you had to go through.”

  Winifred’s smile was fixed. “Yes.”

  “I still cannot get over what they did to you and Henry. And then to have it turn out that the real killer was a common laborer.”

  “Well, it certainly couldn’t have been one of us,” Mrs. Stanford chimed in. “Such a lower class crime. And a gardener, of all things.”

  “Appropriate, considering the roses,” Miles commented.

  “What roses?”

  “The ones that were found near the bodies.”

  “I never heard that. I must say, though, that I agree with Amelia. I’m glad he’s been caught. Aren’t you, Miss Cassidy?”

  Across the room Brooke sat still as stone. “Yes,” she said through stiff lips, hardly aware of what she said, her teacup arrested halfway to her mouth. The roses. No one knew about them. She well remembered Matt telling her that. No one knew roses had been found near the bodies, except for herself, the police, and—the killer. Dear heavens. Her suspicions had been correct. Miles Vandenberg was the Cliff Walk Killer.

  Chapter 16

  Matt had spent the previous morning and most of the afternoon gathering evidence. John Harris had come into the station, along with the stewards from Priscilla, and Matt had received confirmation of what he had suspected. His suspect had made the trip between New York and Newport many times, though he’d claimed he hadn’t. More interestingly, some of those times coincided with Nellie Farrell’s trips to New York. Since he’d used Nellie as an alibi for the night of Rosalind’s murder, that prompted Matt to send patrolmen with pictures of the suspect to Nellie’s neighborhood. Though none of the neighbors could identify him conclusively, more than one said that it looked like the man who had called on her. Clinching that aspect of the case was the elderly gentleman at the Reading Room who had admitted testily that, yes, he’d known who Nellie’s protector was, but until this moment hadn’t wanted to implicate him. They had their man for one murder. Matt wanted more, though.