Murder on Marble Row (8 page)

“No, but he did say that Van Dyke was planning to make up their argument today. He was taking Snowberger a bottle of liquor as some kind of peace offering.”

“I wonder if Mr. Snowberger knew his partner was going to forgive him,” she mused.

“I'll find out the next time I speak to him,” Frank said.

The train moved steadily down the elevated tracks that sat on girders three stories above the street. The cars were noisy and often overcrowded, but the speed of travel here above the tangle of wagons and carriages and horses that clogged every intersection in the city more than made up for everything else. Frank and Sarah had only a few minutes to consider all they'd been discussing before the train stopped at Bleeker Street in Greenwich Village.

“We need to get off here,” she told him, and they left the train.

“When are you going to tell me Creighton's address?” he asked, trying not to sound impatient as they made their way down the long stairway to the street level.

“As soon as we get there,” she replied innocently. “I can't risk having you run off and leave me behind, can I?”

“I'd never think of doing that,” he informed her righteously. “You might've given me the wrong address.”

She couldn't help grinning at that, and Frank grinned back.

They had to walk two blocks in the light rain before they found a Hansom available to take them up. Then the driver balked at going into the Lower East Side. When Frank heard Sarah give him the address, he didn't blame the man. “Just go down Houston Street and get us as close as you can,” Frank said, climbing in beside Sarah.

Still grumbling, the man snapped his whip, sending the scrawny horse into motion before Frank had a chance to get settled properly in the narrow confines of the vehicle designed for one passenger. He ended up sitting on Sarah's skirt, and it took them a few minutes of struggle to get untangled. He spent that time trying desperately not to notice how good she smelled or how close her soft, golden hair was to his face.

Their progress through the rain-wet streets was slow, but at least they were relatively dry in the shelter of the Hansom.

“What are you going to say to Creighton?” he asked her when they'd achieved some level of comfort on the seat.

“I'm going to tell him what happened to his father, and ask him to answer all your questions honestly.”

Frank managed not to roll his eyes the way she had to him earlier. They'd be lucky if Creighton Van Dyke didn't flee over the rooftops the instant he saw Malloy's big Irish figure turn the corner onto his street. Everyone in this section of the city would recognize him instantly as a cop, in spite of his ordinary business suit. No one would trust him for a second. Truth to tell, no one in this section of town had a
reason
to trust a copper, either, which didn't help the situation.

After what seemed like an eternity, Frank figured they were close enough to get out and walk the rest of the way. He paid the cabbie and let him go on his way after helping Sarah down. He couldn't help noticing the hem of her dress was wet, even though the cape seemed to be keeping the worst of the rain off her head and shoulders. She should be home where it was warm and dry, he thought angrily, not slogging through the rain looking for anarchists.

“If you've seen enough of my ankles, we should be going,” she said with a smirk and started on down the street.

Stung, he hurried to catch up to her, jostling pedestrians who got in his way.

The streets in this part of the city were lined on either side with the carts of peddlers selling everything anyone could need and a lot they probably didn't. No one living in the four- and five-story tenement buildings looming above ever needed to cook a meal or walk more than a few steps to purchase whatever they might require for survival. Money brought home by fathers and husbands quickly disappeared into the hands of the merchants camped at their doorsteps as women bartered for goods. The air smelled of the pungent odors of cooked meats and pastries and vegetables past their prime and the offal of the animals and the refuse of the humans. Shouts from the peddlers, advertising their wares, mingled with the shrieks of mothers calling their children and the squeals of children playing in the puddles below. Neighbors called to neighbors and women laughed, sharing a joke.

Frank was aware of every person, judging each of them for any threat he might pose either to Sarah or himself. People fell silent as they passed, recognizing him for who he was and wondering what trouble he was going to bring to them. The police always brought trouble.

He was so concerned with protecting Sarah that he almost didn't notice she had stopped in front of one of the tenements. He nearly stumbled trying not to knock her over.

“This is where he lives,” she said, looking up as if trying to see inside the grimy windows to find the correct flat.

“Do you know which number?”

“No, but I suppose everyone knows him.” A dirty little boy in mud-spattered rags stood in the doorway, watching them suspiciously. “Do you know where Creighton Van Dyke lives?” she asked him.

He just stared back blankly.

Frank's instinct was to frighten the boy into telling, but common sense told him the kid might not even speak English.

Sarah Brandt used a much more sensible approach. “A tall man,” she said, showing the boy how tall with her hand. “Yellow hair.” She pulled a lock of her own golden hair loose and wiggled it to illustrate her meaning.

Frank saw the light of recognition on the boy's grubby face. He produced a penny from his coat pocket. “Where is he?” he asked, holding up the penny for the boy to see.

Greed brought a spark of light to the boy's dull eyes, and he motioned for them to follow. He entered the dark hallway and started up the stairs, his wet feet leaving marks in the dust and dirt. Sarah followed, with Frank right behind. Naturally, the anarchists lived on the fifth floor, where the rent was cheapest. Frank was practically gasping by the time they arrived at the top of the stairs.

The boy reached for his reward, but Frank held it away from him. “Where is he?” he repeated, nodding at the closed doors along the landing. The boy pointed at one of them, and before Frank could move, Sarah was knocking on it, as boldly as you please.

Someone opened the door, and the boy snatched the penny and disappeared down the stairs before Frank could grab him. He heard Sarah asking for Creighton Van Dyke and braced himself to catch a fleeing fugitive.

 
 
S
ARAH LOOKED AT THE YOUNG WOMAN WHO HAD answered the door and knew she must be the one who had captured Creighton's heart. She stared at Sarah through coal black eyes set in a delicate face framed in raven curls. Had she been born in another time and place, a great painter might have had her pose as the Madonna. The Madonna with child, Sarah mentally corrected herself, seeing the small mound beneath the girl's apron.

“Is Creighton Van Dyke here?” she asked. Sarah could see several men sitting and eating at the table in the kitchen behind the girl. They had paused to see who was at the door, but none of them looked familiar.

“Who is it, Katya?” one of the men asked, rising from the table, and then Sarah recognized him, if only by his voice.

The slender young man in evening clothes who had partnered her at her debut had become a different person altogether. His golden hair had darkened a bit, and his shoulders were broader and his body more solid. He'd grown a beard and wore the coarse shirt and pants of a laborer, although she noticed they were too clean to have encountered much actual labor. He stood almost a head taller than the girl, and he looked out at Sarah over her.

“Creighton,” Sarah said in amazement.

He frowned, squinting to see her in the dim light of the hallway. “Who . . . ?” he began and then recognition dawned. “Sarah? Sarah Decker?” he replied, even more amazed than Sarah.

“It's Sarah Brandt now,” she said with a smile.

His eyes lit with pleasure. “How are you?” he asked as if they'd met on a street corner somewhere. He hadn't forgotten his old training in manners. “And what on earth are you doing here?”

He reached out, and she took his hands, squeezing hard. “I'm looking for you,” she said.

Beside them, the girl made a small sound of distress, and when Sarah looked at her, she saw both fear and hatred burning the girl's black eyes.

“It's all right, Kat,” he said. “Sarah is an old friend.”

“Is
he
old friend, too?” Katya challenged with a slight Russian accent, using her chin to point past Sarah to where Malloy stood in the shadows of the hallway.

“Creighton, this is my friend, Frank Malloy,” Sarah said quickly. “He was kind enough to escort me down her to find you.”

“Do not trust them, Petya,” the girl said. “He is police.”

Creighton stiffened instantly and dropped Sarah's hands. He was staring warily at Malloy, who stared back with that look he used to intimidate people. She wanted to smack him for frightening Creighton. “Mr. Malloy is a detective sergeant with the police,” she admitted. “He accompanied me down here because we have some bad news for you.”

The two other men who had been eating with Creighton had come to stand behind him, ready to offer whatever help he might need. Unlike Creighton, they looked as if they were no strangers to work and even violence. Their eyes were hard and their expressions threatening. Sarah held her breath while she waited for Creighton to decide whether to trust her or to turn his friends loose on them.

“What kind of bad news?” he asked, still keeping his gaze fixed on Malloy.

“About your father,” Sarah said.

His gaze shifted instantly to her. “Did he send you here? I can't believe it! Well, you can tell him he's wasting his time and yours. I'm not going back there. I could never live like that again.”

“He didn't send me, Creighton. He can't. He's dead.” She hated breaking it to him like that, but she was afraid to be subtle any longer.

He stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending. “Dead?” he echoed, as if he'd never heard the word before.

“Yes,” Sarah confirmed. “Someone planted a bomb in his office.”

Then, to her surprise, he turned accusingly to the girl. “A
bomb
?” he demanded of her.

“Petya, no,” she pleaded, shaking her head frantically.

He whirled to face the other two men and said something to them in Russian. They replied angrily, and Creighton started slapping at them. Malloy shoved Sarah roughly aside and grabbed Creighton's arm, twisting it up behind his back until he cried out in pain. The girl screamed and started beating on Malloy while the two men dashed into the front room of the flat. They could hear the sounds of a window opening and the men scrambling out onto the fire escape.

Sarah caught the girl's wrists and struggled with her a moment while Malloy shoved Creighton into the nearest chair. The girl stopped fighting and wrenched free, throwing herself down to her knees beside Creighton's chair. She was babbling in Russian, trying to get hold of his arm, but he jerked it away and turned toward the table, resting his elbows on it among the plates of food and burying his face in his hands.

“Katya!” Malloy said sharply, making the girl jump. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “Get him something to drink. Do you have any whiskey?”

“Vodka,” Creighton muttered.

The girl pushed herself up, using the edge of the table for support. She wasn't more than about six months along, but the baby was already a burden. She stumbled to where several crates had been nailed to the wall to provide cabinet space, and she pulled down a bottle of clear liquid. The bottle was scratched and stained from much use, the mouth stuffed with a scrap of rag. Obviously, the contents were home-brewed. She poured a generous amount into a tin cup and carried it back to the table.

Creighton didn't even look at it when she set it down in front of him. “What happened?” he finally asked Malloy.

“He went to his office this morning, opened a cabinet, and a bomb exploded. He died instantly.”

He closed his eyes. “My God.”

Malloy gave him a moment to absorb the news. “I don't suppose you know anything about it?”

Creighton looked up, his shock replaced by anger. “That's why you're here, isn't it? You think I killed him!”

“Your family said you'd taken up with a bunch of anarchists,” Malloy said. “Anarchists use bombs.”

“They use bombs to make a
statement
,” he said, still angry. “Not to kill someone for no reason.”

“Killing one of the richest men in the city would make a statement. It would say you and your friends are the stupidest men alive.”

“Malloy,” Sarah tried, but neither man paid her any mind.

“Do you think we're stupid because we want to change the way men like my father oppress other human beings?” Creighton demanded. “Because we think men should be free of tyranny?”

“Do you think killing your father is going to free anybody from tyranny?” Malloy challenged.

“Yes, my sister for one.”

“Is that why you killed him? To help your sister?” Malloy asked mildly.

But Creighton wouldn't be tricked so easily. “I didn't kill him. I didn't know anything about it until you walked in here.”

“Your friends did, though, or at least you thought they did. What did they say to make you so angry, Van Dyke?”

Creighton glared at him. “They said my father was a”—he glanced at Sarah and then continued more mildly—“an evil man and that he deserved to die.”