A Deadly Affection (32 page)

“How did he get up to the window?” I asked out loud. “He couldn't reach it from the bottom of the areaway.”

“Yes, how did he, do you suppose?” Father asked, looking at Officer Boyce.

“Easy as pie,” the policeman replied. “Come on outside, and I'll show you.” We all trooped outside and formed a shivering semicircle on the sidewalk. The officer pointed to one of the flat-topped, shoulder-high concrete posts that anchored the areaway railing. “All he had to do was climb up on that.”

From the top of the square post, it was only a step up to the ledge that ran beneath the drawing-room window. And from there, I saw with a sinking heart, a reasonably agile person could just as easily have climbed to the ledge under my own window on the next floor, using the deep decorative trim for hand and footholds. The thuds and scrapes I'd heard could have been the sounds of someone struggling to work the tumbler and jimmy together while balancing on the narrow ledge, someone who'd chosen my window for a reason, and who, when that window proved too difficult, had tried to get to me by coming through the drawing-room window instead…

I must have made a noise, because Officer Boyce said, “Now don't you worry, miss; the patrol will be making extra rounds on your block in the days ahead. But I don't think the burglar will be back. There are too many easier houses to break into.”

I looked up at my window again, searching for outward signs of disturbance, but couldn't detect any from the sidewalk. I shivered and rubbed my arms.

“Why don't we all go back inside before we freeze to death?” my father said. “I, for one, could use a good, strong cup of coffee.”

Katie hurried down to the kitchen to get the coffee and reheat our breakfast, while Mother went with Mary to close the drawing-room window and Father closeted himself with Officer Boyce to make out a report. I used the opportunity to run up to my bedroom. Crossing to the window, I released the complicated catch and pushed up the groaning sash. The exterior sill was deeply gouged and splintered, worse even than on the window below. I stared at it for several shallow breaths, then slammed the window shut and relocked the catch.

An image of Miss Hauptfuhrer's severed head flashed across my mind. I backed away and dropped onto my bed, staring at the window, aghast at how close the intruder had come. I'd always felt secure in my home before. Now, I felt frightfully exposed, as if I were living in one of those half-demolished houses one sometimes passed on the sidewalk, with the front wall missing and the plumbing and fireplaces open to view. If it was me the intruder was after, could a fancy lock or extra patrols really keep me safe? I didn't know how I was ever going to sleep in this room again.

I jumped at a tap on my bedroom door.

“Breakfast is being served, Miss Genna,” Mary called.

Tearing my gaze from the window, I rose shakily from the bed and followed her back downstairs.

I nursed a cup of tea and tried not to gag on my oatmeal as my parents rehashed the morning's discovery and discussed arrangements for the window's repair. I was sorely tempted to tell them about the attempt on my own window—to tell them everything, in fact, in the hope that they might somehow protect me. But of course, they could do nothing but worry along with me until I was ready to convey my suspicions to the police. And with Dr. Huntington's visit only two days away, I was loath to deviate from my original plan. So I sipped my tea in silence and struggled alone with my fears.

After breakfast, Father called the locksmith and arranged to have him come immediately to install yet another layer of protection on our windows. Since Father was needed at the lab and my mother had a horticultural society lecture to attend, I was elected to supervise the installation effort. Around noon, I telephoned the Brauns' shop to be sure Maloney hadn't dragged Eliza back to prison in handcuffs. Mrs. Braun assured me that her daughter was still at home and in tolerable spirits, although chafing at being confined to the flat.

By four o'clock, all the windows in the house—my own included—were sporting the latest in home security innovation, and I was feeling a little calmer. I was just returning from a snack of cornbread and raspberry jam in the kitchen, having finally regained my appetite, when Mary stopped me in the hallway and handed me an envelope.

“This came for you by messenger, miss, while you were downstairs.”

Dr. Summerford
was written in cursive lettering across the front. I turned it over. The back was blank. “Thank you, Mary.” I carried it up to my bedroom and slit it open. Inside, I found a single piece of paper containing three handwritten sentences:

Please come to the shop tonight at midnight. It's urgent that I speak with you. The door will be open.

Elizabeth

I sank into my desk chair. What could possibly be so important as to require a midnight rendezvous? I wondered if something had happened during Maloney's visit that Eliza was anxious to tell me about. Or perhaps it concerned Dr. Huntington's examination on Thursday. That would explain the midnight assignation; presumably her mother would be asleep by that hour, making it possible for us to speak privately.

Although I certainly wanted to speak with her, I balked at the idea of going out alone in the middle of the night. It would be a dangerous proposition under the best of circumstances, but now that I suspected someone wanted to do me harm, it struck me as downright foolhardy. Besides, I doubted the new guard Maloney had installed would let Eliza come down to the shop at midnight. I would go see her first thing in the morning instead, I decided, slipping the letter under my blotter.

As I straightened up the papers on my desk, however, the letter continued to nag at me. Eliza had called the matter urgent. I doubted she would have made such a request lightly. What if something had happened that required my immediate attention? I worried too that despite a lack of evidence, Maloney might be planning to haul her back to police court at any moment to slap her with a second murder charge. If that were to happen, I might never have another chance to speak with her.

I pulled the letter out again. If Lucille really had sent someone to kill me, he would likely wait for the police to stop making extra patrols around my house before he tried again. He wouldn't, in any event, expect to find me out on the streets at midnight. And if I went, I needn't be defenseless; I could take Father's pocket pistol with me.

But it wasn't only Lucille's henchman I was afraid of, I admitted to myself. A small part of me worried that I might be wrong about Eliza, that it was, in fact, she who had murdered Miss Hauptfuhrer and who'd been chiseling away at my window the night before. Though I could think of no rational reason for her to want to kill me, a private midnight meeting would give her a perfect opportunity to do so.

Still, I didn't see how in good conscience I could let fear of Eliza keep me from going. As both Simon and Maloney had reminded me, I was the one who'd gotten her out of prison, insisting that she posed no threat. Just yesterday, I'd told Simon it was safe to keep her out. How, then, could I justify cowering at home? If I believed she was dangerous, I should tell the authorities so immediately and help them put her back behind bars before she could harm someone else. But I didn't believe she was dangerous, not really. I crossed to the window and gazed down at the street. I had made the decision to stand by Eliza, and stand by her now I must.

• • •

So it was that at twenty minutes to midnight, a few moments after I'd seen the patrolman stroll past the drawing-room window, I slipped out the front door and started down the street behind him. The lights were extinguished in the houses along the block, blurring the familiar facades and creating shadows in every corner. I scurried down the sidewalk at a half trot, nervous as a rabbit out of its burrow, glancing behind me every few seconds to be sure I wasn't being followed.

My book bag hung over my shoulder, heavy with the weight of Father's pistol. I'd found the gun nestled in its case in the top drawer of his nightstand, next to a thin cartridge already filled with round-nosed bullets. I had never used a gun before, but the cartridge was obviously designed to fit into the cavity in the handle and slid in with a satisfying click. The pistol was a pleasingly compact thing, no longer than my hand, with straight, modern lines and an engraving of a rearing colt on its rubber grip. It had a hidden hammer that would keep it from firing if I dropped it, and a large safety hook that I trusted would prevent me from shooting myself in the foot. Although I didn't expect to have to use it, knowing it was in my bag made all the difference in the world.

Up ahead of me, the officer had reached the intersection and was turning left on Madison to continue his patrol around the block. I arrived at the corner a few moments later and turned in the opposite direction. As an additional safeguard, I had decided to forego my usual route across Ninety-Second Street and take Madison down to Eighty-Sixth instead, which was likely to be more populated at this hour. Although the blocks along Madison were largely residential, enough people were trudging up from the streetcar terminus at Eighty-Sixth Street to provide at least a modicum of company. I walked quickly with my ears cocked and my hand pressed over the lump in my bag, arriving a few minutes later at Eighty-Sixth Street.

As I'd hoped, the thoroughfare was still humming with late-night traffic. Further east, I could see the glowing heart of the German commercial district, lit up by thousands of tiny incandescent bulbs on the shop signs. As I drew closer, the sidewalks began to fill with couples on their way home from the theater and brewery workers coming off their shifts. Although the old eel seller was gone from the steps of the Yorkville Casino, I could hear a brass band playing inside as I went by, and see dancers wheeling past the upstairs windows.

It was with some reluctance that I turned right onto Third Avenue, leaving the theater lights and music behind. Here, under the El tracks, the sidewalks were empty, the barber shops and bookstores and singing clubs all locked up for the night. Even the tenements looked unusually forlorn, shorn of their daytime bustle. A cluster of milk bottles stood forgotten on a stoop, their caps popped off by frozen cream. Darkened windows stared blankly at me from both sides of the street, blind to my passing.

It didn't help my nerves when, a few minutes later, a freezing rain began to fall, flying sideways under my hat brim and bouncing off the pavement against my ankles. I turned up the collar of the plain cloth coat I'd worn to discourage robbers, wishing now that I'd worn something more substantial. Although a few headlamps were making their way up the avenue from downtown, I couldn't see another soul out on foot. I slipped my hand inside my bag, feeling the reassuring shape of the gun.

I had just crossed the Eighty-Fourth Street intersection when the freezing rain stopped as quickly as it had begun. I looked up to see black storm clouds breaking up overhead, combining with smoke from the electric generating plant to turn the sky a bruised, purplish-yellow. After the steady clatter of the sleet, the street now seemed preternaturally quiet. As I continued quickly onward I could hear nothing but the sound of my own footsteps, clicking against the wet pavement and echoing off the building walls.

Suddenly, I became aware that the echo had broken out of synchrony. Was that someone behind me? I swiveled around to look, but there was no one there. I started again toward the next intersection. I was halfway to it when my twitching ears picked up the faint sucking noise of flat soles leaving wet pavement, perhaps twenty feet back. I picked up my pace, tightening my grip on the pistol. To my horror, the other steps quickened in response.

Without turning for another look, I leaped off the curb and ran diagonally across the avenue, pulling the pistol from my bag. The sighting nub caught on the inside of the bag, resisting my tug. I jerked it free, too forcefully in my haste, causing the gun to bobble in my hand. I struggled to secure a grip but couldn't quite hold on. The gun dropped from my hand, landing with a clatter on the paving stones.

I stooped in midstride and peered down at the street, straining to make out the blue-black pistol against the wet paving stones. I thought I spotted it a few feet ahead and lunged toward it. As I did so, my left foot kicked something small and hard. I caught a glimpse of gleaming metal as the pistol skidded the rest of the way across the street and slid through the sewer opening in the curb, landing with a faint splash in the catch basin. Groaning in frustration, I pulled myself upright and followed it across to the opposite curb, jumping onto the sidewalk and running across the north side of Eighty-Third Street toward the shop. Simon's man should be keeping watching on the stoop up ahead. I searched for his figure in the darkness as I drew closer, ready to cry out for help—but the stoop was empty.

I hesitated, heart hammering, not sure whether to run across to the Brauns' shop or to continue on in search of help. Just then, the door to the bakery opened on the other side of the street and two men stepped out onto the sidewalk, carrying sacks of old bread. I nearly cried out in relief. One of the men turned to lock the door as the other put down his sacks to light up a cigarette. Emboldened by their presence, I spun around to confront my pursuer.

The wet sidewalk glistened, silent and empty, behind me. Scanning it from one end to the other, I thought I saw a movement near the entrance to an alleyway, some fifteen yards back. I cautiously retraced my steps. But the alleyway was empty when I arrived. I peered down it toward the dark yard at the other end, straining to hear over the pounding of my heart. I could see indentations in the slush, but it was impossible to tell if they were fresh, or even footprints. I had no intention of following them in to find out.

Glancing behind me, I saw that the bakers had picked up their sacks and were moving away down the sidewalk. I crossed the street and hurried in their wake to the Brauns' shop. A light was burning somewhere in the back. When I tried the door, it swung open. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, watching from inside for any sign of a pursuer. When none appeared after several minutes, I began to wonder if it might have been just a petty criminal hoping to snatch my bag. Or then again, I thought with chagrin, the whole thing might have been a figment of my imagination, which admittedly had been working overtime since I'd seen the jimmy marks on my window.

I checked my pendant watch. It was now three minutes before midnight. “Eliza?” I called quietly, peering through the door behind the counter. “Eliza, are you there?” I heard no response.

The counter hatch had been left open. I passed through it and continued silently into the back room. Everything was as clean and tidy as the last time I'd seen it, except that the door to the meat locker now stood ajar. The light appeared to be coming from inside it. I stepped around the door and looked in.

The locker was about ten feet wide by fourteen feet long, filled with slabs of waxen-looking beef that hung from iron hooks along either side. Blocks of ice behind the meat dripped through a wood slat grid onto the brick floor below. The light came from a gas ceiling lamp that hung above the narrow, central aisle.

“Hello?” I called, although the aisle was empty and there was no other place for a person to stand. The air from inside was damp and cold and held the scent of decaying flesh. I started to back away.

Suddenly, a tremendous blow against the middle of my back threw me forward onto the floor. I landed on my knees on the rough wooden slats, gasping for breath as the locker door slammed shut behind me. I scrambled to my feet and turned around, ignoring the pain in my back as mindless fear overtook me. I grabbed the lever handle on the door and yanked up on it.

It didn't move. I tried again with both hands, using all of my strength, but still the handle wouldn't budge. Whoever pushed me in must have locked it from the outside. “Let me out of here!” I cried, banging on the door with my fists. “Let me out!”

I pressed my ear to the door but could hear nothing from the other side. I straightened. Had someone been behind me on the street after all? Had he followed me into the store and pushed me in? I didn't see how it was possible; even if someone had been hiding in the alley, it would have taken him time to reach the shop and sneak in behind me, longer than the few seconds it took me to walk from the front room to the back. Had it been Eliza, then? Had she lured me here just to push me in? I put my ear back to the door. “Eliza?” I called. “Are you there?” I heard nothing but the steady dripping of melting ice.

I looked around for something to wedge under the door handle to force it open. The drainage slats were thin enough, but looked too soft and brittle for the job. I glanced up at the iron hooks, but they were welded onto the iron racks, which were bolted in turn to the ceiling. My gaze dropped to an overturned crate in the middle of the aisle. A box of matches on top suggested it was used as a step for lighting the overhead lamp. Perhaps it would be sturdy enough to use as a bludgeon. I carried it to the door and whacked it up against the handle from below, but only succeeded in breaking it into pieces.