by R. J. Koreto
“Do you think she killed Lynley? Or rather, tried to kill Victoria and then killed Lynley? But why? And we can’t forget it was a last-minute decision.”
“I don’t know how she was involved, but she was. Maybe she was the killer—she was certainly in the right place. We’re going to call on her tomorrow. I want another view of that conversation. Someone went to a lot of risk and trouble to kill Brackton that night. Perhaps there was a reason he had to die that night, before he did or said something else, as I said, but I think there may be another possibility. Someone hated him so much they’d take any risk to kill him that night.”
CHAPTER 16
I saw Alice into the apartment, as usual, and Mrs. Cowles was there to greet us. We hadn’t told her what happened the previous day on Houston Street. Not that it was anyone’s fault, but there was no need to upset her or to have a conversation about what Alice was doing in a barbershop.
“I understand you called on Victoria Brackton,” said Mrs. Cowles. Alice and I both saw what was happening. We were both still on probation, and Mrs. Cowles wanted to let us know she was keeping an eye on us.
“Yes, I thought it would be a kindness.”
“Yes, it was. But you were hardly a close friend of the Bracktons’. Wasn’t she surprised to see you?”
Now, a lesser woman would’ve made an excuse at that point, which might’ve made Mrs. Cowles even more suspicious, but Alice just stuck out her chin and said, “I am Alice Roosevelt. Everyone is always pleased to see me, in good times and bad.”
“Oh, are they now? I’m delighted to hear that,” said Mrs. Cowles. “I’m sure you were a great solace to her. I’m assuming that your motivation was only to comfort the afflicted and not to indulge your fascination with crime.”
“Of course,” said Alice, wide-eyed and full of innocence. I put on my best poker face. “And I expect to visit her again, once the initial mourning period is over and she finds herself alone. She doesn’t even have any children, I believe.” And then Alice made a very good impression of being casual. “Of course, it would help if I knew a little bit more about her late husband and her marriage. As you said, he was a difficult and unreliable man, but she seemed to mourn him. I wonder why.”
Mrs. Cowles gave Alice a speculative look. “Very well. If you’re going to pursue a friendship with Mrs. Brackton during her mourning period, I suppose it’s fair to say that despite her late husband’s difficult nature, he had a superficial charm. It would do you well to know that many men of poor character hide their deep deficiencies with a casual charm.”
“It must’ve been more than superficial if Mrs. Brackton genuinely loved him.”
Mrs. Cowles smiled wryly. “That’s a wise observation, Alice. You are old enough to know that women and men always don’t form attachments for logical reasons. You should think about that when choosing a husband. I have some letters to write now but will see you at dinner.” With that, she swept out of the entranceway.
“That was interesting,” said Alice. “Mr. St. Clair, I would like your opinion. Is that true? Do women really love unsatisfactory men?”
“All the time. And men love unsatisfactory women.”
“Well, that much I knew. You only have to look at which women are surrounded by men at a debutante ball to see the foolishness of men. But I had hoped most women had more sense. It will bear thinking about in this case. For all her unhappiness, I think Victoria is genuinely mourning her husband. We’ll consider that further. Anyway, it was a productive and entertaining day. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, when we’ll discuss how to approach Delilah Linde. I think she’s keeping a secret.”
“Your aunt will find out. Sooner or later, it’s going to be pretty clear what you’re up to, Miss Alice.”
She just smiled. “I’m just making social calls. And half of Society was at that party, anyway. I shall sleep the peaceful sleep of the pure of heart, Mr. St. Clair. Meanwhile, you still roll a cigarette so much better than I can. Could I impose upon you to roll me one now?”
After a companionable smoke, I went down to my room. I wasn’t as at ease as Alice was. We had landed in the middle of something, and I couldn’t see the connections yet. But like Alice, I didn’t have any trouble falling asleep. Working men rarely do.
* * *
I felt refreshed the next morning and joined Alice in the breakfast room. There was a pile of bacon, and then the maid came in with plates of French toast, well soaked with egg and fried a perfect golden brown. The usual excellent hot coffee completed the morning.
“My aunt already had her breakfast,” Alice said. “She has morning meetings of one sort or another and is just gathering a few items in her room.” That was fine with me. I didn’t dislike Mrs. Cowles. Indeed, I admired her. But she made me nervous over breakfast, as if she’d catch every little mistake in manners.
We heard a ring at the front door, which was surprising because usually the doorman downstairs called up. It must have been someone the doorman recognized. Or someone who slipped by. Either way, it was odd, and I quickly intercepted the maid heading to the door and looked through the peephole myself. It was Captain O’Hara, and I opened the door.
“What brings you here? In the better families, no one makes social calls this early. You should know that.”
“Very funny, St. Clair. It’s not a social call, as you damn well know. You did me a good turn with Simon Rutledge, who was very grateful for my discretion.” He grinned. “And actually, you did me a second good turn … but we’ll come to that. Anyway, I know you and Miss Alice have a lot of interest in the Brackton murder, as you were there, so since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d call in person.”
And then I heard Alice’s quick footsteps. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out something interesting was going on at the front door.
“Captain O’Hara. What brings you here at this early hour?”
He looked at Alice, took off his hat out of respect, then looked at me a little uncomfortably. “Oh, go ahead and out with it,” I said. “Miss Alice will only get it out of me, anyway.”
“It seems one of our witnesses was just killed. Delilah Linde, who was with Brackton when he was poisoned. She was poisoned herself. Found dead this morning.”
Alice looked like she had been slapped. She had been counting on getting some information out of Mrs. Linde, who was the closest witness to the poisoning and a possible suspect.
“I felt I owed you the information before it became public,” O’Hara said. And before Alice tracked you down to your office in the Tombs where you couldn’t easily get rid of her, I thought. “We’re still trying to untangle this, and I’ll let you know if we find out any more. Miss Roosevelt, St. Clair, have a good morning.” He turned but wasn’t nearly fast enough for Alice.
“Oh, no you don’t, Captain. I have a lot of questions. Come with me right now.” She actually grabbed him by the arm and dragged him inside. “We have bacon and French toast. Our cook always makes more than enough. And hot coffee.”
Dulcie stuck her head out of the kitchen to see what the fuss was about and was struck dumb at the sight of Alice propelling a New York City police captain into the family breakfast room.
“Some more coffee,” I said to Dulcie. “That’s a good girl.” She scowled at me. It was bad enough she had to serve Secret Service agents, but now cops, as well?
Captain O’Hara looked very nervous. City cops weren’t welcome in good houses in any situation, certainly not as guests. But like Alice said, there was plenty of French toast and bacon, and soon the maid came out with more coffee, and O’Hara relaxed enough to help himself.
“So you said she was poisoned?” prompted Alice.
“Right. The doc said it was probably late last night, but she wasn’t found until this morning. It seems she and her husband sleep in separate rooms.” He grinned. “Damned if I know why. I had met her at the Rutledges’. If I had a wife who looked like that, there would be no separate bedrooms.”
>
I guess in telling the story he forgot where he was, so I gave him a quick smack on the side of his head. “For God’s sake, O’Hara, watch your mouth. Miss Alice is only eighteen.”
He had the grace to blush, which is more than Alice did.
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
“Both of you just stop it,” said Alice. “It’s going to take a lot more than that to shock me. Now tell me step by step what happened.”
“Right, yes. Mr. Linde had already turned in for the night in his room. A maid found Mrs. Linde in her bed and a bottle next to her. Looked like a small wine bottle with a cork. The maid said it had been delivered after dinner.”
“For Mrs. Linde?” asked Alice.
“That’s right. It was addressed to her. The maid was very sure of that. The doorman said some street kid delivered it. Even if we could find him, I’m guessing he’d have no idea who gave it to him.”
“But there must’ve been a note. Who would drink wine that came from an anonymous messenger?”
“You’re right,” said O’Hara. “And it wasn’t wine. There was a note supposedly from Simon Rutledge saying he had heard Mrs. Linde hadn’t had any punch because she had been feeling unwell, but she could have some now.”
“That’s grotesque,” said Alice. “Men do silly, mock-chivalrous things like that, so she wouldn’t question it. I’m assuming you’ve already checked with Simon Rutledge and found he didn’t send it.”
“Of course. We wondered if maybe she meant to share it with her husband, but Marcus Linde says he always hated Rutledge punch. Apparently almost everyone does. I guess you have to be rich to do something so bad with liquor no one wants to drink it.” He shook his head at that. “He said he thought Simon was being ‘a bit much’ sending the bottle to his wife but put it down to shock.”
“We know that Delilah Linde liked the punch but was not having any because of digestive issues,” said Alice. “It was discussed at the party, so it was probably widely known there. But probably not known to anyone else.”
“Was Delilah Linde the intended victim at the party all along and not Mr. Brackton?” O’Hara wondered.
I felt bad that we were keeping Victoria Brackton’s secret from O’Hara, but we had made a promise.
Mrs. Cowles walked into the breakfast room. She raised an eyebrow with perfect elegance. It had been a modest surprise when Alice had invited me as a breakfast regular, using the excuse that it was efficient to go over the day’s plans over coffee. But a New York City police captain?
O’Hara quickly stood, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Alice was equal to the task.
“Aunt Anna, this is Captain Michael O’Hara of the police department, who worked with Father when he was commissioner. Captain O’Hara, my aunt, Mrs. Cowles.”
It looked to me like O’Hara considered giving an explanation and then decided that was a nonstarter. But Alice rolled with it.
“It’s about security issues, Aunt Anna. Now that I’m back in New York, I expect to be much more visible, and I thought it would be prudent to coordinate my protection with both the police department and the Secret Service.”
“I see. How practical of you, Alice,” Mrs. Cowles said with just a hint of sarcasm. “Captain O’Hara, members of the police are always welcome at the Roosevelt table. And Alice, if you decide to augment your breakfast meetings with naval officers, firemen, or the cast of the Folies Bergère, just remember to let Dulcie know in advance so she can buy enough bacon. Good day, all. Gentlemen, please try to discourage Alice’s interest in crime. Alice, people are coming for dinner tonight, so don’t be late.”
With that, she was gone. I was used to it by now, but O’Hara seemed a little overwhelmed.
“Miss Alice, your aunt knew you were lying. This will come back to us,” I said.
“I know. But in politics, everyone lies. The important thing is to make sure the lie is plausible.” She waved her hand to indicate that discussion of this particular topic was over. “Captain, what are your plans?”
“I don’t really know. I’m wondering if it’s just random, someone killing rich people. Maybe anarchists.” That was like a bucket of cold water in my face. Not anarchists. Not again.
“Hardly,” said Alice. “This is too subtle and complex for anarchists. Although it might be a lunatic.”
“Well, I’ll have to talk to the detectives and see if they’ve turned up anything. Miss Roosevelt, thanks for your hospitality. St. Clair—”
“Did you say you owed me something again?”
“Oh, yeah. That mechanic we arrested—Carlyle. I owed you for getting him out because if you hadn’t done it then, I’d have to do it now. He couldn’t have mixed up a batch of that Rutledge punch and slipped it to the Lindes. And the Lindes patronize another garage for their motorcar, so there’s no connection. I guess we start from the beginning. But if we get stuck, this gets passed over my head. I’m going to have to arrest someone. But I don’t know why.”
“That’s an odd phrase,” I said. “What do you mean you don’t know why you have to arrest someone?”
“Mr. Rutledge said it to me that night. It was kind of offhand, like he didn’t know what he was saying because he was tired and upset. He said, just to me, ‘The thing is that he was a widely hated man. I don’t blame whoever did it. But we have to find him, anyway.’” O’Hara shrugged, as if he couldn’t understand the ways of the rich. “What I’m saying is, if a poor man was killed, a poor man no one liked, anyway, we wouldn’t spend five minutes looking for the killer. But here we have a rich man no one liked, even the other rich people, and we have to find who did it.”
I thought of what Alice had said earlier. It didn’t matter if you didn’t like the man; you were all part of the same group, the same clubs, and that meant everything. I thought of the XVII, and I knew Alice did, too.
“They take care of their own,” I said.
O’Hara nodded at that and seemed to understand. “Anyway, thanks again,” he said after some thought. I saw him out, and when I got back, Alice was musing over her coffee.
“It wasn’t an outsider. We’re sure of that now,” said Alice. “This is inside. The use of the punch. Someone who knows details of how these people live.” Then she frowned in thought. “We keep talking about one person. But what if it’s not? I suppose it’s possible that Delilah is the original killer, and she was killed in turn for revenge, although we don’t know any reason.”
“Possible. But as you say, we don’t have any motives for anyone yet.”
“No. But let’s keep an open mind on possibilities. Anyway, I don’t care if his wife just died. We’re going to question Marcus Linde today.”
“Miss Alice, you hardly knew his wife. You don’t know him at all. What kind of excuse are you going to make?”
“It’ll take you about fifteen minutes to drive there. I’ll have something by then.”
CHAPTER 17
Marcus Linde may have been mourning his wife, but if he had to mourn, he had a comfortable place to do it. His house was really grand, much like the Rutledges’. I liked how shiny the floor was in the entranceway, and I think it was real marble. You could practically see your face in it.
“I’m afraid there was a tragedy today, and Mr. Linde isn’t receiving anyone,” said the butler.
“I have heard. I’m Alice Roosevelt, and I’m here in an official capacity, sent by my father, the president, to speak with Mr. Linde in this difficult time.”
We were apparently just going to have to hope that Mr. Linde never sent a thank-you note to the president about this.
The butler wavered for a moment. He knew exactly where Alice stood within Society and was just wondering if her appearance and position trumped the usual rules.
“One moment. Please follow me,” he finally said. He led us to a parlor off the entranceway before leaving to see if we were to be admitted.
It wasn’t one of those dark and heavy rooms. There was just on
e bookshelf against the brightly papered wall, a few comfortable chairs, and some tables with some delicate-looking knickknacks.
“Mrs. Linde decorated this room. This shows a woman’s touch,” said Alice. “No man would set a room up like this.”
“And what does that tell you?” I asked.
“That Mr. Linde let her have her way. Not all men do that. Mr. Brackton probably didn’t. Did you look around the foyer? The same spare, clean look. He let her have her way, the new, young wife married to an older man. I suppose he really loved her.”
The butler came back and said, “Mr. Linde will see you now.” His eyes flickered to me, but Alice rolled right over him. “Thank you. My bodyguard will come with me.”
We followed him upstairs, and again, it seemed like a much more cheerful place than most of the other grand houses I had visited with Alice. We were shown into what seemed to be a sort of study. Here was one room Delilah had not been allowed to decorate, with its solid wood furniture and shelves containing the fine leather-bound books that every gentleman’s study in New York had to have. It was a comfortable but dark room, with none of the light Delilah had given to the other rooms we had seen.
Marcus Linde was sitting in a tall, leather-backed chair, wearing a suit even I could tell was a little old-fashioned. I guessed he was in his sixties, and Delilah Linde had been not quite thirty, so that was quite a difference.
He had probably been handsome as a young man and even now still looked distinguished. He had strong bones in his face and deep blue eyes that were still full of life, even if I could see the sadness there now. His hair was that silvery white that had probably once been the same pale yellow as mine. Although getting on in years, he didn’t seem in poor health. Maybe he had just reached that stage where he was tired of people.
“Miss Roosevelt. I was on the board that helped choose your father as commissioner some years ago. I wouldn’t have thought he’d have remembered, or heard about my bereavement so quickly that he sent his daughter to me to extend his commiserations.”
