“That isn't safe. You should have your own carriage,” her mother said.
Sarah refrained from responding to that ridiculous suggestion. The expense of keeping a horse and carriage and someone to take care of both would be horrendous. She heard a train rumbling closer to the station. “It isn't too late to change your mind, Mother,” she said.
“Nonsense,” she replied, peering warily down the track at the approaching train.
Mrs. Decker was momentarily embarrassed when she realized she had no money with which to pay the fare. Ladies in her social position seldom carried cash. Wherever she shopped, she had an account, so she never needed to worry herself with actual money. Sarah came to her rescue and managed not to smirk at her mother's dismay.
The car was far from clean, and for a moment, Sarah feared her mother would refuse even to sit down. At last she did so, however reluctantly and only after Sarah fearlessly took her own seat. The air inside the car was cool but close, rank with the odors of many bodies crowded in day after day. Sarah discreetly ignored her mother's reaction, and then the car jolted into motion again.
Mrs. Decker was clutching the back of the seat in front of her rather tightly with her kid-gloved hands, which Sarah also ignored until her mother said, “Good heavens!”
Sarah looked at her in surprise to find her staring out the window. The train ran only a few feet from the buildings on both sides of Sixth Avenue, beside the third-floor windows. “You can see right into those people's homes!” she whispered incredulously.
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“That's horrible! How can people live like that, with no privacy? Strangers can see everything they do!”
“They also pay less rent than the people on the other floors. For some, that's more important than privacy.”
Her mother looked at her in amazement, almost as if she were certain Sarah had to be teasing. After a moment, she said, “You're serious, aren't you?”
“Absolutely. I said you'd see things that would disturb you, Mother. This is probably the least shocking thing you'll see today.”
They rode for a few minutes in silence. Mrs. Decker kept staring at the passing windows as if unable to turn away, even though the sight horrified her. At last Sarah took pity and distracted her.
“Mother, do you think Creighton had anything to do with his father's death?”
At first Mrs. Decker seemed startled by the question, and then Sarah could see her purposefully refocusing her attention. “I have no idea. He was a perfectly normal child, but I haven't seen him in years. And he
did
reject everything his family stood for when he took up with those anarchists.”
Sarah didn't bother to point out that some people might think the determined accumulation of wealth wasn't a particularly noble philosophy on which to turn one's back. “What do you know about the rest of the family? Could anyone else have had a reason to want Mr. Van Dyke dead?”
Mrs. Decker glanced around, probably afraid someone might overhear, but no one seemed particularly interested in their conversation, even if they could have overheard it above the noise of the train. “Gregory Van Dyke was a difficult man,” she said.
“He and Father were friends, weren't they?”
“They'd known each other all their lives,” her mother reminded her. “And a man behaves differently with his friends at his club than he does with his family at home.”
“In what way?” Sarah asked, fascinated by this bit of information.
“Really, Sarah, this isn't a topic I want to discuss,” her mother said, looking cautiously around again.
“But we need to discuss it. If Mr. Van Dyke's family hated him, they'd also have a good reason to want him dead.”
“I refuse to speak ill of the dead,” her mother said primly.
“Then his murder will never be solved,” Sarah informed her. “I'm afraid the only way to solve a mystery like this is to find out all about the dead person. That means searching out the secrets he hid from the world and all the petty and mean things he did during his life.”
“That's just gossip!” her mother reminded her.
“Exactly. Gossip is the key to solving any murder.”
Mrs. Decker frowned her disapproval. “You have become remarkably knowledgeable about solving murders, Sarah.”
“Unfortunately, I've had to, but the fact remains, if we intend to find Mr. Van Dyke's killer, we must know as much as we can about him.”
“I thought your friend Mr. Malloy was in charge of finding the killer,” her mother said.
She'd put just the slightest emphasis on the word
friend,
but Sarah pretended she hadn't noticed. “He's doing the best he can, but you know as well as I that no one is going to tell Malloy anything unflattering about Mr. Van Dyke's personal life. If he doesn't have the facts, he can't do his job.”
“So he's assigned you the distasteful task of uncovering these facts,” her mother said with a frown.
“I volunteered, because I knew you'd never gossip with Mr. Malloy,” Sarah replied.
“What kind of a man would allow a lady to be involved in something like this?” she asked, thoroughly offended.
“The kind of man who wants to see justice done, Mother.”
Her mother gave her a pitying look. “Everyone knows the police don't care anything about justice, Sarah.”
“If that's true, and you shouldn't be so quick to judge
everyone
on the police force, it's because they aren't allowed the luxury of doing what's right all the time. People who have money and power can do whatever they want and never have to fear the police because no one wants to offend themâor risk their wrath.”
“That's ridiculous! No one would allow someone to commit crimes, whatever their social status!”
“Mother, your memory must be fading. The rich commit crimes every day for which they're never punished, and you know exactly to whom I'm referring.”
Sarah could tell from her expression that she remembered the people they both knew who had, for all practical purposes, gotten away with murder. “They did pay for their crimes,” Mrs. Decker reminded her.
“Which was just luck,” Sarah reminded her in return. “But if a rich man killed Mr. Van Dyke, he might very well have nothing to fear, even if Mr. Malloy manages to find the proof that he did it.”
“Teddy would never let that happen,” Mrs. Decker insisted. She'd known Commissioner Roosevelt all his life, so she felt justified in using his nickname.
“He might have no choice, Mother. He's not exactly the most powerful man in the city, as we both know. All Malloy can do is give him the opportunity to make the correct decision. But as I said, he needs your help.”
Her mother's expression was troubled. “I'm sure I don't know
anything
that would help,” she hedged.
“Oh, Mother, don't be so modest,” Sarah chided gently. “Remember what I said about gossip? You may not spread any, but I know you hear plenty of it. All we have to do is figure out which bit of that gossip will lead us to the killer.”
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V
AN DYKE'S SECRETARY, LEWIS REED, LIVED IN A MODEST rooming house not far from Tompkins Square. Frank lived in the same neighborhood, and he knew it to be respectable but working class.
The landlady, a plump Irishwoman in her fifties, showed him upstairs to Mr. Reed's rooms. Reed's sitting room was furnished comfortably with good-quality but slightly shabby furniture someone wealthy had probably discarded. A small fire burned in the grate to ward off the chill, and Reed sat in an overstuffed chair nearby with a quilt across his legs. He'd propped his feet on an ottoman and his bandaged head rested on a pillow wedged between it and the back of the chair.
He'd apparently been dozing, but he was awake when the landlady ushered Frank into the room. A slight man, probably of average height, Reed had brown, thinning hair, from what Frank could see of it around the bandage. His long, narrow, and very ordinary face was pinched with pain and unusually pale. He wore a dressing gown and slippers.
Frank introduced himself “Sorry to bother you, Reed,” he added, taking a seat on the sofa without being invited. “I know you're not feeling well, but I need to ask you a few questions about what happened yesterday.”
Reed winced. “I'm afraid I don't remember very much. The doctor said that's because I was hit on the head. They told me the door blew off Mr. Van Dyke's office and . . .”
“Yes, that's what happened,” Frank confirmed. “I'm more interested in what happened
before
the explosion. Have you seen anyone unusual around the office building lately?”
“What do you mean by unusual?”
“Someone who didn't belong there. He might have been sneaking around in the alley behind the building or trying to get into the basement.”
“Many people walk through the alley,” he reminded Frank. “It's a busy neighborhood.”
Frank figured if he'd noticed someone who looked like an anarchist carrying a bomb, he would have said so long since. “Did you see Mr. Van Dyke come in that morning?”
Reed started to nod and then caught himself, grabbing his head as if to hold it in place. Frank remembered Alberta Van Dyke making the same gesture but for a much different reason. “Yes,” Reed finally said, somewhat raggedly. “I'm always at my desk at seven o'clock.”
“How did Mr. Van Dyke seem to you that morning?”
“Seem?” he echoed uncertainly.
“Was he the same as usual or was he worried or happy or sad or what?”
Reed's broad forehead wrinkled with the effort of remembering. “Now that you ask, he did seem oddly cheerful that day.”
“Cheerful?”
“Yes, he . . . Well, he didn't usually say very much, especially in the morning. He wasn't a man for idle conversation. That morning, though, he greeted me in a very pleasant manner.”
“What did he say?”
“I'm not sure I . . . no, wait. He said it was a fine day,” he remembered with a trace of amazement.
“Did you think that was odd?”
Reed looked pained. “It was sleeting.”
“Yes, it was,” Frank confirmed. “Did he say anything else?”
Reed took a moment to remember. “I . . . I think I asked if he'd been shopping.”
“Why did you ask him that?”
“Because he was carrying a package.”
“What kind of package?”
“I don't . . . A nice box of some kind, I think. I had the impression it must contain something expensive.”
“What did he say when you asked if he'd been shopping?”
“He said yes, that he had a special surprise for Mr. Snowberger. He seemed very pleased with himself.”
This would be the bottle of French brandy the valet had described. “Was Mr. Van Dyke in the habit of giving people gifts for no reason?”
“Not at all, especially . . .” He stopped suddenly and looked guiltily away.
“Especially what?” Frank prodded.
“I . . . I really don't know what I was going to say,” he said apologetically. “I guess I'm not thinking very clearly since the . . . accident.”
“Were you going to say especially since Mr. Van Dyke found out his partner was cheating him?”
Reed looked genuinely surprised. “Cheating him? Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Because that's what he told someone,” Frank said, failing to mention the “someone” was his servant. “He thought Snowberger was stealing money from the company.”
“That's impossible,” Reed insisted. “I would've known something like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I examine all the financial statements, and I prepare the reports for Mr. Van Dyke and Mr. Snowberger. If there were any irregularities, I would have seen them at once.”
“Isn't the purpose of embezzling to make sure no one finds out?”
Reed seemed offended now. “I keep track of every penny that comes into the company, and I know where every one of them goes. Both Mr. Snowberger and Mr. Van Dyke earn generous salaries, even though they don't really need to work at all. Neither of them would have a reason to cheat the other, and if they tried, I'd know about it.”
“But something was wrong,” Frank reminded him. “Something that caused bad blood between them.”
“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Reed said.
“Of course you do. You said you were surprised Van Dyke was giving Snowberger a gift because they'd been angry with each other for a while.”
“I had noticed some . . . some extra strain between them for several months,” Reed admitted reluctantly.
“I understand that you don't want to say anything bad about Snowberger now that he's in full charge of the company, but whose fault was the argument they had?”
“Mr. Malloy, neither gentleman confided their personal business to me.”
“Ah, but a good secretary knows everything that's going on. Your job depends on it.”
Mr. Reed was annoyed. Frank could tell because his neck got blotchy and red. “Mr. Van Dyke was angry with Mr. Snowberger. Mr. Snowberger wasn't . . .”
“Wasn't what?” Frank prodded when he hesitated.
“He didn't seem to be angry, not the way Mr. Van Dyke was. You must understand, they never really liked each other, and neither one of them was what you would call a man of great passion. They conducted themselves with decorum and reserve.”
“Cold fish,” Frank judged.
Reed shrugged one shoulder in agreement. “For Mr. Van Dyke to allow his anger to show proved he was quite disturbed.”