Murder on Marble Row

by Victoria Thompson

  The color rose in Creighton’s face. “We don’t need the government to declare us married.”

  “Marriage is slavery,” Katya insisted angrily. “Make woman slave. Petya and I, we are free.”

  “What about your little bastard? Is he going to be free, too?” Malloy asked with feigned interest.

  “Malloy, that’s enough,” Sarah chided as the girl laid a protective hand over the mound of her stomach and glared murderously at Malloy. “Creighton, we don’t know if you had anything to do with your father’s death or not, but everyone else will believe you did. If you’re innocent, you need to help Malloy find the real killer as quickly as possible.”

  “How could I help? I don’t know anything about it,” he insisted.

  “You can find out things I can’t,” Malloy said. “And you’ve got a better reason than I do to catch the killer.”

  “Really? Didn’t my stepmother offer a large enough reward?” Creighton said with disdain. Everyone knew the police didn’t exert themselves to solve a crime unless they would be well paid for doing so.

  “Not yet,” Malloy said mildly. “But I’m sure she’ll pay handsomely to have you executed for the murder.”

  Creighton lunged to his feet, and Malloy shoved him right back down again.

  “You better get it through that thick skull of yours that you’re in a lot of trouble here, you and your wife,” Malloy said contemptuously.

  “She didn’t have anything to do with it!” Creighton cried, finally beginning to understand.

  ‘Then you’d better start telling Detective Malloy everything you know,” Sarah advised him. “Even if it involves your friends.”

  “Unless you’re willing to be executed to protect them,” Malloy said.

  “And leave your wife and baby alone and helpless,” Sarah added.

  “Tell them nothing!” Katya insisted. “I am not afraid!”

  Creighton looked at her for a long moment. “You should be, my darling. You should be.”

  4

  SARAH WATCHED AS TEARS FILLED KATYA’S DARK eyes. Whatever her political beliefs, she obviously loved Creighton and was frightened for him. Perhaps she was also frightened for herself and her child. She certainly had good reason.

  “I should lock you up,” Malloy was saying to Creighton. “Just to make sure you don’t disappear.”

  “Or so you can make me confess to something I didn’t do,” he replied bitterly. “I know how the police work.”

  “If you don’t help me find the real killer, I won’t have anyone else to blame, now will I?” Malloy replied reasonably.

  The two men were glaring at each other like dogs ready to start snarling over a bone.

  “Stop it, both of you,” Sarah snapped. “This isn’t accomplishing anything. Creighton, don’t you want to find out who killed your father, if only to clear yourself?”

  He didn’t reply as quickly as Sarah had hoped, but at last he said, “I suppose so, although I don’t for a minute expect justice to be done in such a corrupt society.”

  “There’s never any justice in solving a murder,” Malloy informed him, “because the victim is still dead.”

  Creighton looked at him in surprise. He probably hadn’t expected philosophy from a lowly cop, and Sarah played on the momentary advantage.

  “Malloy, you don’t really want to arrest Creighton, do you? Not if he’s innocent, I mean.”

  Malloy frowned blackly, but he said, “No matter what your politics, Van Dyke, you’re still the son of a millionaire. It would be almost impossible to get you convicted even if you’re guilty. I sure don’t want to go to all that trouble if you aren’t. And if it’s one of your anarchist friends, wouldn’t he want to step forward and become a martyr for the cause or something?”

  “You mean like Alexander Berkman?” Creighton asked sarcastically, naming the man who had tried to assassinate Henry Clay Frick. “Rotting in a prison doesn’t make a very good martyrdom.”

  “Frick didn’t die,” Malloy reminded him. “Your father’s killer will be executed in the electric chair.”

  Katya made a sound of distress and quickly covered her mouth.

  Malloy studied her for a moment. “Do you know anything about this?” he asked.

  She shook her head, her dark eyes wide. “Nothing,” she whispered.

  “Was it your brother?” Creighton asked with a frown.

  “No, Misha would not do this,” she insisted, her eyes bright with a new terror.

  “Who’s your brother and where is he?” Malloy asked sharply.

  “He would not do this. I would know!” Katya said frantically.

  “Are you sure?” Malloy challenged. “He’d probably try to protect you. Where can we find him?”

  “You can’t,” Creighton said. “Not if he doesn’t want to be found, and I doubt he’s anxious to talk to the police about anything.”

  “Then I suppose you’re all I’ve got, Van Dyke. I don’t have any choice but to run you in.”

  Creighton glared at Malloy, his expression one of pure hatred. Sarah could see that arresting him would only make him less likely to cooperate.

  “Don’t you think you should take him to the Van Dyke home first?” she asked.

  Creighton transferred his glare to her. “I’d rather go to jail.”

  “I know your sister needs to see you. She’s very upset,” Sarah tried. “And she’s been ill.”

  “Ill?” he asked in alarm. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied without compunction. “It could be something serious, and the shock of your father’s death has only made it worse. Your stepmother hasn’t been very sympathetic, and Tad’s reaction to everything was to get drunk. She needs you, Creighton. She doesn’t have anyone else.”

  He rose to his feet. “Then I must see her,” he said to Sarah.

  “No, is trick!” Katya cried, pushing herself to her feet also.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Creighton told her. “I need to see Alberta and make sure she’s all right. What happens after that . . . Well, I’ll deal with it.”

  “I’ll just go with you,” Malloy said mildly. “To make sure you arrive safely.”

  Creighton frowned. “Suit yourself. Then you can arrest me, if you think it will do any good, but not until I’ve seen my sister.”

  “Fair enough,” Malloy agreed.

  Creighton went to where his coat hung on a peg on the wall and began to shrug into it. Malloy looked at Sarah questioningly.

  “Go ahead. I need to go to the mission,” she told him, referring to the Prodigal Son Mission, where she had been doing volunteer work. It was only a few blocks away. “I didn’t get there at all yesterday.”

  He nodded, but he wasn’t happy. He didn’t like the thought of her walking around this neighborhood alone, even though he knew she did it all the time in the course of her work.

  “Petya, do not trust them,” Katya pleaded, going to where Creighton stood by the door.

  He took her hands in both of his and pressed them to his chest. “I’ll be all right,” he assured her tenderly. “And I’ll be back. I promise.”

  She didn’t look as if she believed him, but she didn’t protest. From the way her shoulders sagged in resignation, Sarah guessed that she was accustomed to accepting the unacceptable.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of money, and pressed it into her palm. Then he was on his way, out the door without a backward glance.

  “Don’t get too far ahead of me, Van Dyke, or I’ll think you’re trying to get away,” Malloy called, heading out after him.

  Sarah watched the two men disappear down the dark stairwell, then turned back to Katya. All the color had drained from her face, and her dark eyes looked hollow.

  “Please, sit down,” Sarah said, taking the girl’s arm gently and leading her back to the chair Creighton had vacated. This time she didn’t resist, as if all her spirit had gone with Creighton. Sarah glanced around and saw
a teapot on the table. She found a clean cup and poured some of the dark black liquid for Katya.

  “Drink this,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”

  The girl obeyed, taking a long sip of the lukewarm brew. Then she set the cup down on the table and stared into it forlornly.

  “Are you hungry?”

  The girl looked up, and Sarah was relieved to see some of her spirit had returned. “I do not need help. My friend is midwife. She live downstairs.”

  “Would you like me to get her? Or someone else? You shouldn’t be alone.”

  The girl tried to maintain her defiance, but her eyes grew moist and her lower lip quivered. “Petya . . . Creighton,” she corrected. “He will go to prison?”

  “Not if he didn’t kill his father. Do you know something that could help?”

  Sarah held her breath as the girl considered her options. Finally, she shook her head.

  “Are you willing to see the father of your child executed for something he didn’t do?”

  Katya looked away. She didn’t want Sarah to see her pain or her indecision. As much as Sarah hated the thought of seeing Creighton charged with his father’s death, that might be what it would take to make Katya betray whomever she was protecting. Since Creighton had mentioned Katya’s brother, Sarah had a good idea who it was, too.

  Before she could try again to convince the girl to cooperate, the sound of several people running up the stairs distracted her. A woman appeared in the doorway, but she stopped dead when she saw Sarah. She took in Sarah from head to toe in one sharp glance, then turned to where Katya sat and said something to her in Russian.

  Katya replied wearily, and the other woman clasped her hands together in distress. By then two men had appeared behind her. Sarah recognized one of them as one of the men who had fled earlier. The other was a stranger. They both hung back, content to allow the woman to deal with the situation.

  “Do you speak English?” Sarah asked.

  “Of course I speak English,” the woman said with just the faintest accent. She was a small woman but not delicate. Her body was compact and solid, as if she contained more energy than she could ever use. She wore her dark hair pulled back into a sensible bun and had wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sarah Brandt, a friend of Creighton Van Dyke’s. And who are you?”

  She raised her chin a notch in silent defiance. “I am Emma Goldman, a friend of Katya Ivanovna.” She’d said her name as if she expected Sarah to recognize it.

  She didn’t.

  “Good,” Sarah said. “Miss Ivanovna is very upset, and she shouldn’t be alone in her condition.”

  Miss Goldman looked at Sarah with contempt. “What do you know about her condition?”

  “I’m a midwife,” Sarah replied, surprising her. “She looks as if she may not be getting enough to eat. She’s very pale and—”

  “I am also a midwife,” Miss Goldman said contemptuously. “I studied in Vienna.”

  Sarah was impressed and allowed Miss Goldman to see it.

  Vienna had the best medical schools in the world. “Then I’m sure you know that Miss Ivanovna needs proper nourishment, for her baby.” Sarah glanced at the cheap, tin pots sitting on the stove. “If she had some iron pots to cook with, that would help.” The iron from the utensils got into the food somehow and helped prevent anemia.

  “Her name is Petrova,” Miss Goldman said. “Katya Ivanovna Petrova. Miss Petrova.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I didn’t know. But I’m sure if you studied in Vienna, you know about the iron pots and the importance of proper diet.”

  “These things are not so easy when you are poor,” Miss Goldman pointed out sternly.

  “Creighton Van Dyke isn’t poor,” Sarah replied. “Or at least he doesn’t have to be,” she added, glancing around the sparely furnished flat.

  “He renounced his wealth for the corruption that it is,” Miss Goldman said righteously.

  “Miss Goldman, I see far too many women die in childbirth because they were too poor to feed themselves properly. I can’t believe it would be a corruption for Creighton to properly care for Katya and his child. When I see him again, I will point that out to him. In the meantime, I trust that you will look after Miss Petrova.” She looked down at where Katya still sat, seemingly oblivious to the drama taking place around her. “Katya, if you need anything, please let me know.” She reached into her purse and drew out one of her cards and laid it on the table. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Goldman,” Sarah said and started for the doorway, in which the three visitors still stood.

  They gave way grudgingly, and Sarah passed by them without a word, managing to exchange glances with the man who had fled earlier to let him know she recognized him. Fortunately, no one followed her down the stairs. If she’d managed to get herself into difficulty, getting herself out would have been only half the problem. The other half would be explaining to Malloy why she should still be allowed to help him with the case.

  FRANK HAD A LITTLE TROUBLE KEEPING UP WITH VAN Dyke in the congested streets of the Lower East Side. He was tall enough that he couldn’t just disappear, though, so Frank was able to keep him in view. To Frank’s surprise, Van Dyke stopped at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the Bleeker Street Elevated Train Station and waited for him to catch up.

  His expression was defiant, but he refused to meet Frank’s eye. “I don’t have any money for the train. I gave it all to Katya.”

  Frank bit back a grin. “Come on. My treat.”

  Van Dyke followed him reluctantly up the long stairway, and they waited in silence for the next train to come. Finally, Van Dyke said, “Is my sister really ill?”

  “She looked like it, and Mrs. Brandt said she was. She took to her bed and couldn’t answer any questions about your father’s death.”

  “What could she possibly know about that?” he asked resentfully.

  “Enough to be worried you had something to do with it,” Frank replied.

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “Then why are you so reluctant to answer my questions?” Frank inquired.

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because I’m the only friend you’ve got. Your father’s widow was only too happy to tell me you’re an anarchist.

  When word gets out, your father’s friends will easily believe you killed the old man for his money. Everybody knows anarchists have no love or loyalty.”

  “That isn’t true!”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Frank said. “I only said everybody believes it. You want to overthrow everything they hold sacred. They’ll hate you for turning against your own kind. They’ll want you to be guilty so they can get rid of you and feel a little safer.”

  His young face hardened as he stared off into the distance, refusing to acknowledge what Frank had said.

  “Who do you think did it?” Frank asked after a few moments.

  Van Dyke pretended he hadn’t heard.

  “You asked Katya if it was her brother. That’s why you don’t want to say anything, isn’t it? You don’t want to hurt her.”

  “He wouldn’t have done it without telling me,” Van Dyke said, still refusing to look at Frank.

  “Wouldn’t he? What if he was afraid you’d be too cowardly—or too honorable—to kill your own father.”

  “He’d have nothing to gain from it!” Van Dyke said in exasperation.

  “What do anarchists have to gain from killing anyone? They do it, though, don’t they? They want to frighten rich people and impress poor people. They kill to make a point, not to gain in any way. You know that as well as I do.”

  Frank saw the muscles of his jaw tighten as he fought against responding to the provocation.

  “Of course, if your father was dead, you might inherit some money,” Frank observed.

  Van Dyke looked at him sharply, his eyes wary. “I doubt it. I’m sure my father disinherited me.”

 
“Are you?” Frank inquired. “But even if he did, would Katya’s brother know it?”

  “Money means nothing to them,” he insisted.

  “Doesn’t it? Who pays the rent on your flat? Who buys the food?” Frank grabbed Van Dyke’s hand and forced his fingers open, revealing a smooth palm. “Doesn’t look like you’ve been doing much manual labor.”

  Van Dyke jerked his hand free. “We live communally. Everyone contributes what they can.”

  “If you don’t work, what do you contribute? Besides fathering bastard children, of course.”

  Van Dyke turned on him, instantly furious. His face crimson, his eyes fierce, he looked as if he were going to take a swing at Frank, which is what he’d expected and was ready for. But he only said, “You filthy-minded son of a . . . Don’t you dare talk about her! You aren’t good enough to speak her name!”

  Frank stared back as innocently as he could. “Who? Katya?”

  This time Van Dyke’s whole body jerked, as if his every instinct demanded he attack Frank and pound him into the ground. But some stronger force held him back. Frank was beginning to think there was something to the theory that the rich had all the spirit bred out of them.

  “I can’t believe they keep you around just because you’re so handsome, Van Dyke,” Frank said. “You must contribute something. Rich fellow like you must have some money of his own. You pay their rent, don’t you? Maybe you even support them completely. That would give them more time to do whatever it is they do. What is it they do? Sit around in saloons drinking and talking, making speeches and printing pamphlets? They wouldn’t want to give that up to get jobs, would they? What happened, Van Dyke? Did you run out of money? Did your father cut off your allowance?”

  Van Dyke looked as if he was going to explode with fury, which was exactly what Frank had been working for, but just then a train pulled up. Almost desperately, Van Dyke rushed toward it, jostling people who got in the way. Frank was close behind him, but by the time they were inside the car, Van Dyke was back in control of himself again. He’d taken a seat next to an elderly woman holding several packages in her lap. There were no other seats nearby, so Frank had to stand in the aisle to make sure Van Dyke didn’t decide to get off at the next stop and disappear.