“I suppose. All the same, it’s a crying shame he didn’t say anything about all this sooner. If the police had known right away, they might have been able to trace the fellow. ‘Crashing through the bushes,’ was he? He might have left footprints, broken branches, other signs the police could have followed up. Now it’s way too late.”
But Hilda was thinking of something else. “John, would you find Mr. O’Rourke for me, please? I must go to Aunt Molly.”
18
Give us grace and strength to forbear and persevere....
—Prayer by Robert Louis Stevenson, d. 1894, inscribed on his memorial in Edinburgh
The visit with Molly was not as painful as Hilda had expected. She told Patrick about it that evening when he had come home from work and heard the news.
“She is the most wonderful woman I have ever known, Patrick. Even my mother is not so strong as she. When I told her, she sat for a little, so still I was afraid maybe she had stopped breathing. Then she looked up at me and thanked me. Thanked me, Patrick, for bringing her such news! I did not know what to say. Then she said, ‘It is better to know. Remember that, child. It is always better to know than to imagine. Now I must go and tell Mr. Malloy.’”
“I’d’ve thought he shouldn’t get such news while he’s still not well,” said Patrick.
“I said something like that, and she said, ‘He must know, too. Now he has only one son.’ I did not know what she meant, Patrick. I thought Clancy’s brother died long ago.”
“He did.” There was a tear in Patrick’s eye. He didn’t dash it away, but let it trickle down his cheek.
“Patrick, I—I am sorry. I should have told you more carefully. I thought you did not like Clancy.”
“No more I did, and though I’m sorry for Aunt Molly and Uncle Dan, I can’t say I think Clancy’s a great loss to the world. That’s not why I’m cryin’.”
Hilda looked her puzzlement.
“She meant me, darlin’. She meant I’m their son now—their only son.”
After that there was nothing for Hilda to do but join Patrick in tears.
* * *
Next morning Hilda woke early. She had slept well for a change, and though her body felt slow, ungainly, and sluggish, her mind was racing.
Patrick was still asleep. It was Sunday, after all, and he had been working very hard for weeks. Hilda did not, she told herself, deliberately try to wake him, but she made enough noise getting out of bed and into her dressing gown that he unwillingly opened his eyes.
“Patrick, I have been thinking.”
He groaned and closed his eyes.
“No, do not go back to sleep. Listen. How can they have a funeral for Clancy when they do not have his body?”
“Don’t know. Now can I go back to sleep?”
“No. I think, what would I do if I had just killed someone? And it is easy. It is night. No one will see me. I will put him in the river.”
Patrick yawned mightily. “Good thing you’re not a murderer. You’d do it too well. But girl, you never saw Clancy when he came back to town. He’d put on weight. And Sam Black’s house is—well, I don’t know exactly where, but a good few blocks west of here. How’s a man goin’ to move that heavy a weight a couple of miles to the river?”
“And that is what I thought next! And I think, I would use a wheelbarrow. He could not go on the streets, not the brick ones, anyway. It would be too noisy. But it would be quiet if he stayed on the grass, or on dirt streets. And it has not rained for nearly a month. Could it not be that, even after all this time, the police could find the tracks of a wheelbarrow?”
“Maybe they could. But what good’s that goin’ to do? They couldn’t prove who owned the blasted thing, and anyway there’s no law against trundlin’ a barrow, even halfway across town.”
“You are not awake yet, Patrick.” Hilda sounded pitying.
“That I’m not.”
“And you are cross. But when you have had some coffee you will feel better, and you will think better.”
So it wasn’t until Hilda had rung for Eileen, and the little maid had brought them coffee, that she explained.
“If they can find the tracks of a barrow, or a cart, they will know where the body was taken. And if it was to the river, as I think, they will know where to start looking for it. Because Aunt Molly and Uncle Dan must have the body so that they can bury it and begin to mourn properly.”
Patrick took her hand. “I’m sorry I was cross before, darlin’. You’re absolutely right, and I’ll stop in at the police station before I go to Mass.”
Hilda elected to stay home from church. She was very tired after an active and emotionally trying day. Besides, she wanted time to think about the new knowledge Andy had provided.
It was, in a way, good to know for certain what had happened to Clancy. Aunt Molly was right about that. At least he had died quickly, painlessly. And he had, quite certainly, been up to no good.
What was he up to? Why had he come back to South Bend? It was a terrible risk. His collaboration in the murder of a prominent politician a few years ago had not been forgotten. The police were not the only ones eager for a little talk with Clancy Malloy. And while Clancy was stupid in some ways, he had always been very careful of his own skin.
What had been worth taking that risk? He was a gambler, of course. He must have been gambling for stakes high enough that the reward seemed worth the risk.
Well, he’d lost the bet this time. Poor Clancy. All his life he’d gambled for more and better, never content with what he had—a loving family, a good home—everything, seemingly, a man could want. And he’d ended with nothing, not even his life.
In the unlikely attitude of pity for Clancy Malloy, Hilda abruptly fell asleep.
Patrick woke her when he came home. He was quite late; it was after one.
“This is not a saint’s day or something, is it, Patrick? You were very long at Mass.”
“I called in at the police station again on me way home. You were right all down the line, me girl. It was a handcart, not a wheelbarrow, but they traced the tracks from the back of Sam’s house to the river bank just above the LaSalle Avenue bridge. They’re draggin’ the river now, but they reckon they won’t have to work long. The river’s low and slow, as dry as the weather’s been.”
“Have you told Aunt Molly?”
“Not yet. Better to wait, I thought, till they’ve found him.”
“Maybe—” Hilda chewed her lip “—maybe it would be good to tell her he may be in the river. He—it—the body will not be—”
Patrick nodded soberly. “It’ll not be pretty, over a month in the water, and warm water at that. And fish... Here! I ought not be talkin’ this way, and you so near your time!”
“It is all right, Patrick.” She laid her hand on his. “I am upset, but not by talk. We speak only of things that are true, even if they are not good. Nothing about this is good.”
“No.” Patrick sat still, clasping her hand. “No, that’s wrong. There’s one thing good. Once they find his body and Dan and Molly get him decently buried, Clancy Malloy will never make their life hell for them again.”
Hilda shook her head, Patrick thought in protest at his language, but she said, “No, Patrick. He was their son. They will never stop grieving for him. The sorrow will never end. It does not matter that he was not a good son. This I know, Patrick, now that I will soon be a mother. Aunt Molly carried him for nine months. She gave him life, in pain and weariness. He was blood of her blood, bone of her bone. She will never forget, and she will always grieve.”
Patrick took her in his arms.
* * *
It was, in fact, Monday afternoon before the body of Clancy Malloy was found in the river. It was, as foreseen, badly damaged by water and water creatures. Patrick, called on to identify the horrid thing, averted his eyes from the unrecognizable face. “The clothes look like his,” he said, “and for certain that’s the ring he had on the last time I saw him. I’d know that stone an
ywhere. That’s Clancy.”
So they took him to the undertaker’s to be made as presentable as possible before his parents had to see him, and Patrick went to tell Aunt Molly.
He had not seen her in a few days, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. But the face she held up for him to kiss was serene, if a little more lined. He didn’t like the way she was dressed. She wore black, as she often did, but solid black, unrelieved by the little touches of lace she usually wore. “I’ll wear this until after the funeral,” she said in response to his look. “It seems only decent. But I’ll put my lace back on as soon as I think I won’t shock the whole family. Mr. Malloy doesn’t like seeing me this way.”
“Nor I don’t, either, Molly. But you won’t have to wear it long. They found him this morning, so you’ll be able to plan the funeral soon.”
She did not speak. She closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she clutched her handkerchief. Patrick took a breath to speak, but she shook her head. “A moment, please, dear,” she whispered.
The single tear was all she allowed herself. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “Thank you, my dear, for seeing to this for me.”
“I shouldn’t have broken it to you that way,” said Patrick. “I didn’t mean to—”
Molly shushed him with a gesture. “When something unpleasant must be said, it’s best to be quick about it and get it over. I’m deeply grateful for all you’ve done. Now I must tell his father, if you’ll excuse me.”
Her back ramrod-straight, her head erect, the rest of her tears unshed, she left the room to perform her next duty.
19
The child is father of the man....
—William Wordsworth, “My Heart Leaps Up,” 1802
The manhunt went on, but the focus had shifted. The police had stormed Sam Black’s house as soon as Andy had told his story, but Sam wasn’t home, and neither were most of his clothes and personal effects.
“Skipped town, by gum!” said Sergeant Lefkowicz, looking as though he would like to have used a stronger expression. “If that young nuisance Mueller had told us what he knew sooner, we’d have caught Black red-handed!”
The sergeant was sitting on Hilda’s front porch, the day after Clancy had been found. If there was a breath of air to be caught, Lefkowicz hadn’t been able to catch it. At Hilda’s invitation, he had unbuttoned his heavy wool uniform jacket and loosened his collar, but sweat still poured down his face. He took another swig of the beer Eileen had brought out.
“But Mr. Black was not red-handed,” Hilda pointed out. “He did not kill Clancy. Andy said he came out of the house and found him dead.”
“Figure of speech,” muttered Lefkowicz. “Black knew a lot about it, even if his hand didn’t strike the blow. Who knows but what he lured Malloy to the house so his accomplice could kill him? For sure Black lied to us about knowing where Malloy was, and we need to talk to him!”
“Yes.” Hilda fanned herself with a lace fan Patrick had given her. It was pretty, but the effort of moving it only made her hotter. She sipped at her lemonade. “Sergeant, why was Clancy killed?”
“Miss Hilda, I’m a whole lot more interested in who killed him, and I’ll bet that Black knows—”
“Because, if we know why he was killed, we will be able to find out who did it. Who wanted him dead?”
“Well,” Lefkowicz began, and then hesitated. “Ma’am, seeing he was a relative of yours, I don’t want to speak ill of him.”
“He was no relative of mine, and I did not like him. I do not think even his family liked him. They loved him, of course, but that is not the same thing.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t. But you know as well as I do that there are lots of people in this town who didn’t like Clancy Malloy, and a good number who had reason to want him kept quiet.”
“People do not kill because they do not like a person. Even hating someone does not usually lead to killing him. But to keep someone quiet... Sergeant, you are talking about politics, yes?”
“It was politics first got him into trouble, you remember. Politics and gambling.”
Hilda remembered. She had met Clancy at a time when his father, Daniel Malloy, was running for a county office. It was his first foray into office, and his last, as it turned out, but at the time he was eager to win the seat, minor though it was. His rival, Republican John Bishop, was killed during the campaign, which made Dan’s victory hollow and tainted, and he had given up the seat shortly after the election.
But of course the worst blow the family had had to bear was Clancy’s involvement in Bishop’s murder. Apparently he was only a witness who had been kept quiet by a shrewd mix of threats and bribery, having to do with his gambling debts, but in the eyes of the law, and of his family, that amounted to criminal complicity.
And who was the man behind the scenes, the puppeteer who had so successfully pulled Clancy’s strings?
“What,” asked Hilda, “has become of Mr. Vanderhoof?”
Lefkowicz took a deep breath and put down his empty glass. “Now, Miss Hilda, that’s the kind of question you ought not to be asking just now. He’s a slippery man, Vanderhoof, and the Pinkertons and the police would like to know what he’s been doing these past couple of years. But he’s a powerful, influential man, and he’s got the reputation of not caring much who he hurts.”
“He hurt us. Hurt our family. Stole the money we’d saved to bring Mama and the others to America.”
“Yes, and your family wasn’t the only one, not by any means. But he’s not to be taken lightly, do you understand? You’re not to try to find out anything about his affairs. Patrick and I have been friends a long time, but if I let you get mixed up with Vanderhoof, he’d never speak to me again, and that won’t be the worst of it, either. I mean it, Miss Hilda. You leave Vanderhoof to us.”
It was far too hot to argue, and besides, Hilda badly needed a nap. She shrugged and asked the sergeant if he would like another glass of beer, in that unmistakable tone that indicated his answer should be no.
She was too hot and uncomfortable to sleep for long, though, and when she woke she thought about what Lefkowicz had said. At the very mention of Mr. Vanderhoof, he had become alert and wary. She was reminded of a cat scenting an enemy. His very hackles had seemed to rise, his figurative tail to bristle.
She had never had any intention of trying to trace Mr. Vanderhoof’s movements, or find out what his activities were these days. Now, though...
There is a very old story about the woman who, having to leave her children alone for a time, gave them detailed instructions about what they were and were not to do in her absence. “And don’t put beans in your ears!” Until she said it, such an idea had never occurred to the children, but of course when she came home every last one of them had to have the beans painfully removed.
Surely it wouldn’t do any harm if Hilda were just to put out a few feelers. Sven, she felt sure, would be glad to look into the matter for her. He still felt keenly the loss of the four hundred dollars that Mr. Vanderhoof had taken from them. Even though the Malloys had kindly paid the transportation for the rest of the Johansson family to come to America, the idea of being taken in still rankled. Yes, Sven would be happy to learn what he could.
She wouldn’t tell Patrick, though. He was all too apt, these days, to lay down the law about her activities. Besides, he often talked to Sergeant Lefkowicz, and she didn’t want the policeman to know, either. Tomorrow, she would send for Erik and have him take a message to Sven. In that roundabout way, even the servants wouldn’t know what she was doing.
She would have done well to remember what she so often said to others, that the servants know everything.
That settled, she turned over, placed herself in the direct stream of air from the electric fan, and fell asleep.
Patrick was late coming home from the store. “I had to stop and see Aunt Molly,” he explained when he had settled in the parlor with a glass of beer. “I’ve made most of the fu
neral arrangements, but I had to ask her about a couple of things, and she’s fair distracted, what with Uncle Dan to think of, and Cousin Mary comin’ in from Chicago on the evenin’ train.”
The funeral was to be on Thursday. Hilda would not go to St. Patrick’s, of course, but she did plan to attend the graveside ceremony. “For that is not in a Catholic church, and I can wear a shawl to cover up, even if I nearly faint with the heat.”
“I don’t like the idea of you faintin’, darlin’. Could you not stay in the carriage, close by? That would show respect, but you wouldn’t have to stand in the heat. Or you could stay home. Aunt Molly said you weren’t to feel you had to come. She understands, havin’ had three herself.”
“And now she has only one daughter,” said Hilda. “Life is sad, Patrick.”
“That it can be,” he acknowledged, and finished his beer.
* * *
Hilda sent for Erik the next day, as planned, and he arrived in a combative mood. “And what’s gonna happen to Andy?” he demanded as soon as he saw Hilda on the porch.
“What do you mean, happen to him? Do you think the police will do something to him? Do not be foolish.” She was feeling as tired and hot and miserable as she ever had in her life, and was very cross. “That is not why I asked you to come here. I want—”
Erik wasn’t having a good day, either. A neighborhood dog had chewed the strap on his brand-new roller skate, a fact he hadn’t noticed until the strap broke. He was skating down a hill at the time, and had skinned both knees and one elbow, and torn his pants. Mama would have plenty to say about that when she came home from work. And he was hot, too. “You didn’t ask me to come,” he interrupted. “You dragged me away, and I was just about to go swimmin’. And I don’t care what you want. Andy’s scared stiff the crooks are gonna come and get him, and what are you doin’ about it?”
It was like a blow to Hilda’s solar plexus. She leaned forward on the porch swing so suddenly it nearly threw her off.
“I did not think about that. Oh, Erik, you are right! I must—I do not know what I must do.”
Murder in Burnt Orange Page 13