“I wouldn’t have any way to take care of a child,” Sarah explained, staring longingly at the doorway through which Aggie had disappeared.
“You don’t have to feel guilty,” Mrs. Keller assured her. “You do what you can, and we’re all grateful.”
But Sarah couldn’t help remembering what Mrs. Ellsworth had said. The heart finds a way.
13
CAPTAIN O’CONNOR WASN’T HAPPY WITH FRANK. Having one millionaire die in his precinct was bad enough, but two was inexcusable. He intended to hold Frank personally responsible. “What do you think Commissioner Roosevelt is going to say when he finds out you drove this poor bastard to suicide?” the captain asked angrily when he’d had a chance to survey the scene. He’d brought along his two pet detectives, and they were standing around, trying to look important while not getting in the captain’s way.
“He didn’t kill himself,” Frank told him.
O’Connor gave him a blistering look. “I guess he just stood up on the table and let somebody tie a sheet around his neck and push him off, then.”
Someone had shoved the substantial dining room table out from under the chandelier but left it close enough to stand on while attaching the wound sheet to the chandelier and Snowberger’s neck. Snowberger would have only had to step off the table to accomplish his purpose. But that wasn’t the way it had happened.
“He didn’t stand up on the table at all,” Frank said. “I figure whoever knocked him unconscious—”
“What?” O’Connor nearly shouted.
“I said, whoever knocked him unconscious managed to lift him up onto the table. He’s not a large man, so anyone who’s reasonably fit could’ve done it. It was a simple matter to wind the sheet into a rope, tie one end to the light fixture up there and the other end to Snowberger’s neck. I’m guessing he sat Snowberger up for that, so the length would be right. Then all he’d have to do is push him off the table. His feet wouldn’t quite touch the ground, and he’d choke in a few minutes.”
“A very nice fairy tale, Malloy, but what makes you think Snowberger wasn’t conscious when he was hanged?”
The dead man was now lying peacefully on the floor amid the rubble Frank had pulled off him. Frank hunkered down and lifted one of Snowberger’s hands. The fingers were dusty but otherwise unmarked. “Even suicides claw at the noose when they start choking. It’s a natural reaction. But there’s no marks on his hands or his throat.”
O’Connor still didn’t look impressed.
“Then there’s this gash behind his ear,” Frank continued, turning Snowberger’s head slightly so O’Connor and the detectives could see the hair matted with the blood that had also stained Snowberger’s shirt collar.
“He probably got that when the chandelier fell on him,” O’Connor snorted.
“By the time it fell, he’d been dead for a while. Dead men don’t bleed, Captain.” Frank pointed to several other places on Snowberger’s face where the skin had been broken in the fall. Not one drop of blood seeped from any of them. “This one happened when he was still alive. I found blood on the fireplace poker.” He pointed to where the poker sat in its stand. The killer had carefully replaced it, but he hadn’t wiped it completely clean.
O’Connor frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “I guess you think whoever killed his partner killed him, too.”
“I’m not guessing about anything. I’ve got to prove what happened.”
“Then have at it, Malloy, and may God help you. Let’s get this stiff out of here before it starts to stink.” With that he nodded to the orderlies from the morgue to get started. Then he turned on his heel and left, his detectives following.
Once the orderlies had taken the body away, Frank sent for the doorman again. This time he was much more cooperative. Frank made him sit down in the dead man’s front parlor, where he could see the rubble left from the falling chandelier.
“So he hanged himself, did he?” the man asked nervously.
“No, somebody killed him,” Frank said. “Tried to make it look like a suicide, but it wasn’t. Now tell me again when you saw Snowberger come in.”
“I didn’t notice the time. Around midmorning maybe. I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. He said hello, the way he always does, and walked up the stairs, like he usually does. He likes the exercise.”
“Did you see anybody else coming in? A visitor maybe?”
He thought about this a moment. “Not coming in, I didn’t. I saw somebody leaving, though.”
Frank managed not to grab the man by the lapels and shake him. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because you didn’t ask me,” the doorman reminded him defensively, as if he sensed Frank’s desire to throttle him. “You only asked me if I saw Mr. Snowberger leave, which I didn’t. Besides, the visitor didn’t leave until after you were here the first time.”
Good God, the killer could have still been there when Frank was pounding on the door! Holding his temper with difficulty, Frank continued, “Who was it you saw leaving?”
“I didn’t know him. I don’t even know if he was visiting Mr. Snowberger. He had his face turned away, and he was in a hurry.”
“Could it have been one of the other tenants?”
“No, I know all of them. And they all speak to me.”
“How would he have gotten in without you seeing him?”
“I could’ve been taking somebody up in the elevator. I told you, I was away from the desk a few times, so I thought maybe Mr. Snowberger went out when I didn’t see him.”
The killer could have taken the stairs up, the way Snowberger had, too.
“What time was it when this stranger left?”
“I don’t know. Maybe an hour or so after you left the first time. I wasn’t paying much attention. Before supper, at least.”
Frank figured the mysterious man was the killer, but he would have to speak to all the other tenants and find out if any of them had had a visitor that afternoon, just to make sure.
“What did this man look like?”
“I told you, I didn’t see his face.”
“What did you see?” Frank asked impatiently.
The man blinked uncertainly. “He was medium height, not fat or thin. He was wearing a black suit of good quality and a hat pulled down low. I . . . that’s all I noticed.”
He’d just described half the men in the city. Frank sighed wearily and let the man go.
Alone again, he took another turn around the apartment. This time he was looking for anything that might indicate Snowberger had constructed a bomb here. Even if he was now dead, he might’ve been the one who had set the bomb that killed his partner. In fact, that might be why someone had killed him. But an hour of searching failed to turn up so much as a pair of wire cutters. If Snowberger ever did any kind of manual work, he did it elsewhere. Remembering how soft and well groomed his hands had been, Frank figured the roughest thing he’d ever handled was a sheet of paper.
Frank did find a portrait of a young woman hanging in Snowberger’s bedroom. He had to look at it twice before he realized it couldn’t possibly be Lilly Van Dyke. The style of her dress was much too old-fashioned, and her hair was lighter. Still the resemblance was noticeable. Could this be Snowberger’s wife, the legendary Arabella who had been loved by both her husband and his partner? That would certainly explain why Van Dyke had chosen Lilly. He must’ve been disappointed when he found out her true character was nothing like the saintly Arabella. Had the resemblance been what attracted Snowberger, too? But surely, he’d known what she was really like long before he became involved with her.
Since both men were dead, Frank would never know the answers to his questions. He’d have to be satisfied with finding the killer or killers. He used Snowberger’s telephone to place a call to Commissioner Roosevelt’s home. He’d want to know about this before the newspapers came out in the morning.
SARAH WASN’T SURPRISED TO BE AWAKENED BY SOMEONE knocking on her front door the next
morning. People pounded on her door at all hours when a baby was coming. But this visitor wasn’t one of them. She recognized her mother’s coachman. He took off his hat and wished her good morning, his breath frosting in the morning air.
“Mrs. Decker asked me to deliver this message,” he explained, handing her a cream-colored envelope scented with her mother’s perfume.
Alarmed, Sarah tore it open, heedless of the richness of the paper. Inside was a note written in her mother’s elegant hand informing her that Malloy had found Allen Snowberger murdered in his apartment. Teddy Roosevelt had telephoned late last night to notify her father. She’d known Sarah would want to hear the news as soon as possible.
When she looked up, the coachman was smiling. “Mrs. Decker told me to wait for you. She said you’d probably want to go to the Van Dykes’ house.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” Sarah told him, hurrying back inside to get her things.
When Sarah came out of the house again, her next-door neighbor hailed her. Mrs. Ellsworth had appeared on her front porch with a broom, ostensibly to sweep but really to be available to find out where Sarah could be going in her parents’ carriage. The old woman would have recognized it from previous visits.
“Is anything wrong, Mrs. Brandt?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked with genuine concern.
Sarah hated discussing this on a public street, so she went over to Mrs. Ellsworth’s porch, where she wouldn’t have to shout to be heard. “Mr. Snowberger has been found murdered,” she explained.
“Oh, dear, poor man,” she said. “I knew something had happened. I sneezed this morning for no reason at all.”
Sarah knew better than to ask what she meant. “Perhaps you’re getting a cold.”
“Oh, no, I’m perfectly healthy,” Mrs. Ellsworth assured her. “Sneezing for no reason on a Friday means sorrow, you see. It means something different for each day of the week, Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger; sneeze on Tuesday, kiss a stranger—”
“Well, if you keep standing out in this weather, you might very well catch a cold,” Sarah warned, hiding a smile. “I’ve got to be off, now. I’m needed at the Van Dyke house.”
“Oh, of course, dear,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “I didn’t mean to keep you. I hope everyone is all right.”
Sarah hoped so, too.
THE MAID ELLA OPENED THE DOOR TO HER HALF an hour later, and she all but pulled Sarah inside. “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, I’m that glad you’re here. Everything’s at sixes and sevens!”
Sarah could hear raised voices coming from upstairs. She hadn’t expected such an uproar over Snowberger’s death. “What’s going on?”
“That policeman, Mr. Malloy, he came first thing to tell everyone about Mr. Snowberger. He tried to ask questions, but Mrs. Van Dyke started screaming something awful, and we had to put her to bed with some laudanum. Miss Alberta is near about to faint, but she won’t go to her room, and Mr. Tad is . . . well, he’s not himself.” Sarah figured he was drunk. “Then there’s that Russian woman.”
They heard a crash upstairs, and Ella winced. “She’s been screaming at Mr. Creighton since he brought her here last night.” The poor girl looked near tears.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sarah said. “Is Mr. Malloy still here?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Should I announce you?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll find my own way.”
This time Ella didn’t object. Plainly, she didn’t relish another encounter with the family and their hysterical guest.
“Katya, please,” Creighton was saying when Sarah reached the open doors to the front parlor. The couple were standing in the middle of the room, glaring at each other. “Don’t talk so fast. I can’t understand you!”
“I will not stay here,” Katya replied, speaking very slowly and distinctly in English and with a definite touch of exasperation.
“Good morning, everyone,” Sarah said brightly and loudly. Four faces looked up at her in surprise. One of them belonged to Malloy, and for once he looked happy to see her. Or maybe it was just relief she saw on his face. Alberta’s was the fourth, and she definitely looked relieved.
“Sarah, how good of you to come,” she said, rising from where she’d been sitting on the sofa watching her brother argue with his mistress. “Have you met Miss Petrova?”
Sarah smiled at Katya, who didn’t smile back. She was furious and rubbing her side absently.
“How are you feeling, Miss Petrova?” Sarah asked, instantly concerned.
“I am a prisoner here!” she exclaimed in outrage. “He will not let me leave!”
“Your place is with me,” Creighton insisted. “Why would you want to go back to the tenements when you can live in a mansion?”
Katya cried out incoherently in frustration, but the cry strangled in her throat as she doubled over on a stab of pain.
Sarah and Creighton rushed to catch her.
“Katya, what is it?” Creighton asked in alarm, forgetting his anger.
“Sit her down,” Sarah instructed, and they eased her into the nearest chair. “Where does it hurt?” she asked Katya.
The girl looked up with eyes filled with fear. “Here,” she said, rubbing her side.
“It’s probably just false labor,” Sarah said reassuringly. “Excitement can bring it on. Probably nothing to worry about, but we shouldn’t take any chances. Creighton, can you carry Miss Petrova up to”—she hesitated, wondering where Katya might be staying—“her room,” she finished uncertainly.
“Take her to the blue guest room,” Alberta said, taking charge of the transfer. “She’ll be more comfortable there than in your room.”
Creighton lifted Katya effortlessly and carried her out, with Alberta following at his heels. Sarah glanced at where Malloy stood watching helplessly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised. She pointed to the bell rope. “Ring for the maid. She’ll be happy to bring you some coffee.”
“Do you think something’s wrong with her?” he asked, and Sarah really looked at him this time. She saw an expression she’d never expected to see on his face—fear. For a moment, she couldn’t imagine what he could be afraid of, and then she remembered. His wife had died in childbirth.
“It’s probably what I said,” she assured him, even though she wasn’t sure herself. “I’ll take good care of her.”
With that, she hurried out.
She found Creighton in the third-floor hallway, pacing outside a closed door. “We put her in there,” Creighton said. “Bertie told me to get out.”
“Of course she did,” Sarah said brightly. “This is women’s business.”
“Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Have the cook send up some hot water, vinegar, and compresses. Also some warm milk and weak tea.”
Creighton bounded down the stairs to do her bidding, grateful to be able to take some action. Sarah went into the bedroom. It was a pleasant room facing the street and decorated in shades of blue. Katya lay on the bed, and Alberta was helping remove her shoes.
“How do you feel?” Sarah asked, going over to help. “Have you had any more pains?”
“No, I . . . ah!” She grabbed her side again, her face contorting. Alberta’s face went white, and she stared at Sarah with terrified eyes.
As soon as the pain passed, Sarah said, “We should get you out of these clothes so you’ll be more comfortable. Alberta, would you fetch Katya a nightdress?”
Alberta scurried out, probably as grateful as Creighton for something to do besides watching Katya.
“What is it?” Katya whispered, even more terrified than Alberta.
“False labor, like I said,” Sarah said, even though she feared it might be a miscarriage. “You just need to get comfortable and rest and be calm. Lie still and let me unfasten your dress. Do you feel anything wet between your legs?” she asked as casually as she could while she began unbuttoning the girl’s bodice.
Katya’s eyes widened. She knew the significance of the question. “No, not
hing,” she said quickly.
Sarah smiled. “That’s very good. Now take a few deep breaths and let them out slowly. Yes, that’s right.”
Sarah laid her hands on the small mound of Katya’s stomach and gently began to massage the side where the cramping had started. She also tried to detect some movement from the baby. The child was still very small and might lie motionless for hours, but even so, Sarah experienced a frisson of fear when she felt no movement.
An hour later, she had Katya settled comfortably. She’d drunk a cup of milky tea and had a vinegar compress across her forehead. The contractions had died away, and Katya had drifted off to sleep. Leaving a maid to sit with her, Sarah and Alberta stepped out into the hallway.
Creighton was still pacing outside.
“She’s asleep,” Sarah told him. “She just needs to rest for a few days, and no excitement.”
“I never should’ve brought her here,” he said. “She didn’t want to come.”
“This is the best place for her,” Alberta insisted. “You know that yourself. She doesn’t have to worry about anything here, and we can make sure she eats well and gets plenty of rest.”
“She doesn’t believe me, Sarah,” he said brokenly. “I told her what I plan to do with Father’s business, how I’m going to treat the workers fairly and show the world that’s the best way to be successful. But she doesn’t believe it will work. She thinks I’ve already been corrupted by my father’s wealth.”
Sarah didn’t know what to say. She could understand Katya’s skepticism. How many businessmen considered themselves humanitarians and good Christians and still thought nothing of cheating their workers at every turn? Could Creighton’s good intentions survive in such an environment? Was he strong enough to go against every tenet of popular wisdom?
“I’m sure you can work all that out later,” Sarah said. “Right now it’s important that she not get upset about anything. Only talk about pleasant things and distract her if she tries to argue with you.”
“I will,” he promised.
Murder on Marble Row Page 23
