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HE CORONER GREETED FRANK AS HE STEPPED INTO HIS untidy office. The smell of death seemed to have seeped into this room, or perhaps Doc Haynes had brought it with him.
“What did you find out about Van Dyke?” Frank asked, moving a pile of papers to take a seat on the only chair in the room.
“Pretty much what we thought. Bomb killed him.”
Frank gave him a look, and he shrugged.
“Not much else to say, is there? He was standing right over the bomb when it exploded. The thing was packed with nails, and they tore him up pretty good. At first I thought he probably never knew what hit him, but then there's that wire in his hand.”
“The engineer said strange things happen when something explodes,” Frank said.
“Maybe, but part of the wire doesn't get blown into a person's hand. From what I saw, it looks like he had the wire
in
his hand when the bomb blew up.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
“I know. Wasn't the thing rigged to explode when he opened the cabinet?”
“No, it had wires running down to the basement under his office. Somebody had to pull the wire outside the building to make it explode.”
“How did pulling the wire make it go off?”
“Something about making two wires touch, and that sent electricity from the battery to set off the fuse.”
Dr. Haynes shook his head. Something still didn't make sense. “Then somebody would've been waiting and had to know just when Van Dyke opened the cabinet. How would he know just when to pull the wire?”
“I don't know.”
“Why did Van Dyke open the cabinet just then?”
“Near as we can figure, he'd brought a present for his partner and was putting it in there.”
Dr. Haynes frowned. “Why didn't he just give it to him? Why put it away?”
“His partner wasn't at work yet. It was a bottle of brandy, and we think he was putting it in his liquor cabinet, maybe for safekeeping or to hide it or something.”
“So nobody could've expected him to be opening his liquor cabinet that early in the morning,” Haynes said.
“No, which is why I can't figure out why the killer chose that moment to blow him up.”
Haynes thought about it, silently acting out the motions a man would make opening a cabinet and putting something in it. “Doesn't work,” he decided. “Van Dyke was holding that wire when he died.”
“Are you sure?” Frank said in surprise.
“No other way it could've got in his hand like that. He was holding the wire. He must've opened the cabinet and seen the bomb. The killer didn't know he'd be opening the cabinet, so he wasn't ready to blow it up. Van Dyke saw the bomb, though, and maybe he thought he'd pull the wire off so it wouldn't explode.”
“But when he touched it, he somehow triggered it,” Frank said with growing excitement. This meant that many of the people he knew couldn't have set the bomb off could now be suspects.
“That's the only thing that makes sense,” Haynes said.
Frank's excitement faded as quickly as it had blossomed. “Still doesn't tell us who put it there, though.”
“No, but that's not my job to figure out,” Haynes reminded him with a touch of satisfaction. “You're on your own there, Francis, my lad.”
As if he needed a reminder. Frank pushed himself out of his chair. “Thanks for the information, for all the good it did me.”
“My pleasure,” Haynes said and went back to his paperwork.
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ELIX DECKER'S OFFICE WASN'T WHAT FRANK HAD EXPECTED. Frank figured he owned the building, but his name wasn't on it. The elevator operator took him to the seventh and top floor, and let him out in a large but plainly furnished room where a middle-aged man sat at a desk, working in a ledger book.
He looked up at Frank from under his green eyeshade and took him in with one swift glance. The man recognized Frank for what he was. People always knew he was a policeman, even though he wore a suit just like half the men in New York.
Using the anger he already felt for Felix Decker, Frank braced himself for the hostility he usually encountered from the clerks and secretaries who wanted to protect their employers from contamination by the lowly police, but the man simply said, “You must be Detective Sergeant Malloy. Mr. Decker is expecting you.”
He got up and went to announce him. Before Frank could wonder if he should sit down, the fellow told him to go on into Mr. Decker's office and held the door open for him. Although every instinct rebelled against it, he did.
The office was large but not enormous. High ceilings gave it an airy feel and must have helped in the summer's heat. Tall windows overlooked Fifth Avenue. Decker's desk dominated the room, but only because it sat in the center. Frank thought of all the attorneys he'd visited. None of them would have had a desk so ordinary. Two leather chairs of obvious good quality had been placed in front of the desk for visitors, but they were well worn, as was the rug on the floor. Nothing was exactly shabby, but even Frank could see Decker didn't waste good money on ostentation. He supposed when your social position was as secure as Decker's, you didn't have to impress anyone.
“Mr. Malloy,” Decker said by way of greeting. “I see you got my message.” He didn't get up or offer to shake hands, which was fine. Frank had no intention of shaking his hand.
“I came as soon as I could,” he lied.
“Have a seat. I have some information you might find helpful.”
Still wary, Frank sat in one of the chairs. Hundreds of other occupants had broken it in nicely, and he found it quite comfortable. “I thought you'd want to know how the case is progressing,” Frank said.
“My daughter informed me that you haven't identified the killer yet,” he said. “Unless that's changed since last night.”
“No, nothing's changed,” Frank admitted, trying to imagine Sarah explaining the case to her father.
“My daughter said you don't believe the anarchists are responsible.” It sounded like an accusation.
“I haven't eliminated them as suspects, but I try to keep an open mind. A lot of people might think they should be locked up even if they didn't do it, but that would mean the real killer would go free.”
Decker's pale eyebrows rose in surprise. Frank didn't know if that was good or bad, so he didn't allow himself to relax.
“Who do you believe killed Van Dyke?”
“I don't think he was killed to make a political statement,” Frank said, not really answering the question.
Decker considered his reply for a moment as if trying to judge him by it. Then he said, “You've heard a rumor that Allen Snowberger had cheated Van Dyke in business.”
It wasn't a question. Again, Sarah must have told him that. Frank hadn't missed the fact that he hadn't spoken of her by name to him. It was an interesting omission. “Several people said that Mr. Van Dyke had been angry with Mr. Snowberger. They said he'd accused Mr. Snowberger of cheating him, but there's no evidence of any financial irregularities in the company.” At least none that he'd found yet, he silently amended.
“I'm sure you won't find any, either,” Decker said as if reading his thoughts. “Both Allen and Gregory were too astute for either of them to cheat the otherâat least not in their business.”
Frank heard the qualification in his voice. “But they might cheat each other outside of the company,” he guessed, wondering why Decker was telling him all this.
“The word
cheat
implies something illegal, Mr. Malloy. Neither of them would stoop to that, either.”
In spite of himself, Frank was intrigued. “What
would
they stoop to?”
Decker's aristocratic face pinched with distaste. “You must understand that Gregory and Allen had known each other all their lives. Their fathers were partners, and they inherited that partnership.”
“But they weren't exactly friends,” Frank said.
“Their families raised them to be, but they were more rivals than friends. And then they met Arabella.”
“Arabella?” Frank thought that was a pretty fancy name for the kind of woman he was picturing, a woman who would drive a man to murder his partner.
“She was Allen's wife. Not at first, of course. This was years ago. They both fell in love with her and courted her, but she chose Allen. Gregory never forgave him, even though he eventually married, too. He was always devoted to Arabella, and when she died a little over a year ago, he blamed Allen.”
Had Van Dyke suspected murder? “How did she die?”
“They were traveling abroad, and she caught a fever of some kind. She hadn't wanted to take the trip, but Allen had insisted. She came home in a box, and Gregory held Allen responsible.”
“So he took revenge?” Frank asked, trying to figure out how all of this tied together to cause Van Dyke's death.
“Not revenge exactly. Gregory found an investment opportunity. He invited several of us to join him in it. The investment did very well for a time, and then Gregory advised us to sell out. Those of us who followed his advice made a lot of money. Those who didn't . . . well, they
lost
a lot of money.”
“I guess Snowberger was one who didn't sell out. Why not?”
“Let's just say that Gregory neglected to warn him.”
Frank thought this was a rather cold way of avenging the death of the woman you loved, but he didn't say so. Maybe this was as passionate as rich men got about love. “Snowberger must've been angry.” But was he angry enough to blow his partner to pieces with a bomb?
“Naturally. He understood exactly what Gregory had done to him, but he didn't kill Gregory, Mr. Malloy. That would be a hollow victory because Gregory wouldn't ever know about it, and he wouldn't suffer.”
Frank remembered the mutilated body he'd seen at the morgue and thought Van Dyke had suffered quite a bit. “What would he have done to make him suffer?”
“I don't know exactly, but I do know Allen took his revenge in an effective way well before Gregory was killed. I know because he told me he had, although he wouldn't tell me what he had done. I also know because Gregory was furious with him. In all the years I've known them, I've never seen him angrier. If Gregory had killed Allen, I could believe that was the reason, but of course he didn't. Gregory is the one dead, and I can assure you, Allen wasn't responsible. As far as Allen was concerned, he was satisfied that he had evened the score once and for all.”
If that was true, it would be a great relief to Frank. Snowberger was somebody he definitely wanted to cross off the list. He was too rich and powerful ever to bring to justice. “Do you have any ideas about what Snowberger did to Mr. Van Dyke?”
“No. He was very mysterious, and very smug and pleased with himself, though. He seemed quite sure he'd gotten the ultimate revenge, something that Gregory could never top.”
Frank would have to make certain Decker was right, of course, although the thought of asking Snowberger to tell him how he'd taken revenge on his dead partner wasn't appealing. But then, nothing about this case was appealing, least of all Felix Decker.
Decker looked across the desk at him, still sizing him up, so Frank returned his stare. He tried to imagine Decker in a dark alley beating his son-in-law's brains out. “What did you think of Tom Brandt?” he asked before he could stop himself.
Decker stiffened. “I can't see that's any of your business,” he said coldly. If he'd been tolerating Frank until now, he had no intention of doing so any longer.
Frank took a calculated risk. “I'm trying to find his killer.”
Decker was a hard man to read, but Frank had lots of experience. His expression was surprise and nothing more. “Surely, you can't have any hope of doing so after all this time. The police told us when it happened that it was useless to even try.”
“You should've offered a reward,” Frank said mildly. “They might've tried harder.”
Now Decker's expression grew shrewd. “Are you asking for a reward now?”
Frank felt his hackles rise, but he refused to take offense. Decker had made a logical assumption. “No, and I don't expect one. I'm just trying to give Mrs. Brandt some peace.”
Decker considered Frank's claim for a moment. “Do you think finding her husband's killer will give her peace?”
Frank figured he had nothing to lose. “That depends on who the killer is, I guess.”
Decker didn't even blink. “Assuming you can even find him. Where do you propose to begin?”
“I've already begun. I have a witness who saw the killer.”
“Good God!” he exclaimed, showing the first trace of actual emotion. “Are you sure?”
Frank looked for any trace of guilt or apprehension, but he saw none. “I'm sure,” Frank said with more confidence than he felt.
“Then why don't you arrest him?” he demanded. He didn't sound like he was afraid of being arrested.
“Because the witness would know him if he saw him again, but he doesn't know who he is.”
“Who is this witness? Is he someone reliable? Why didn't he come forward before?”
“He saw a swell committing murder. He was too afraid to come forward.”
“A
swell
?” Decker repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before. Maybe he hadn't.
“A rich man, or at least somebody who was well dressed.”
This disturbed Decker. He frowned. “That's impossible.”
“Why?”