“Happy?” Frank echoed. “How could you tell?”
“He called me by name. He said, âGood morning, Tad.'
That's my nickname, short for Thaddeus. He hasn't called me Tad in years,” he added with a touch of amazement.
“Did he say anything else?”
“I don't . . . Just something about it being a fine morning or a good day or something like that.” The boy's blue eyes were wide.
Frank looked up at where the sleet was making streaks on the window just to make sure he'd remembered the weather correctly. It had been miserable all morning. “Are you sure that's what he said?”
“I know, it doesn't make any sense. But that's what he said,” the boy insisted.
“I take it your father wasn't normally so cheerful in the morning?”
“He hardly ever said anything besides good morning, if that.”
“Then what happened?” Frank asked.
“I got up and left for the office. I always try to get here before he does.”
Frank wondered at that, but he'd find out more later. Right now, he just wanted the facts. “And he stayed behind and ate his breakfast?”
“Really, Detective,” Snowberger protested.
“Couldn't this wait . . .?” the captain began, but Frank silenced them both with a look and turned back to the boy.
“Your father stayed behind?” he prodded.
“Yes. I mean, I suppose he did.”
“And you traveled to the office. How did you get here?”
“I walked. I like the exercise. Don't get much sitting at a desk.”
“You don't mind walking in weather like this?” Frank let his skepticism show.
The boy flushed. “My father uses the carriage himself, and I don't wait for him. As I said, I like to get to the office early.”
“You could take a Hansom.”
“They're hard to find in the rain,” the boy reminded him irritably.
Frank nodded his agreement, ignoring the irritation. “Did you see your father again?”
“No, not until . . .” He shuddered and tried to take another drink from his glass, but it was empty.
Frank took it from his hand and silently indicated O'Connor should refill it. “You said you heard the explosion. Where were you?”
“I was downstairs. That's where I work, with the other clerks.”
“Mr. Van Dyke believed his son should learn the business from the ground up,” Snowberger explained defensively. Frank wondered whom he was defending.
“Tell me exactly what you heard,” Frank said to the boy.
He tried to remember. “A loud boom. We thought the building was falling down.”
“You and the other clerks?” Frank guessed.
He nodded. “But then nothing else happened. I mean, nothing fell on us. Nothing collapsed. We must've stood there for a while, trying to figure out whether to run or crawl under our desks. Then I realized that whatever happened had happened upstairs. I ran up to see what it was.”
“And what did you see?”
“Smoke, coming from my father's office. We thought it might be a fire, but when we got there, we didn't see any flames.”
“You said âwe,' ” Frank pointed out. “Who was with you?”
“Some of the clerks. Dickie, I think, and Sam. We ran into Reed's office. That's my father's secretary. We could hear him moaning. The door to my father's office had fallen on his desk, and he was underneath. We started pulling it off of him. I was calling for my father, but he didn't answer. I kept thinking he must not be there yet. Sometimes he didn't come in until later, and when he didn't answer . . .”
O'Connor thrust the refilled glass into his hand, and the boy took a fortifying sip. Frank couldn't help noticing he didn't choke or even wince at the taste. In spite of his youth, he was an experienced drinker.
“You and the other clerks pulled the door off of Mr. Reed's desk,” Frank reminded him.
The boy winced at the memory. “He was covered with blood. I've never seen so much blood . . . at least not until . . .” The color was draining out of his face.
“Mr. Van Dyke,” Frank said sharply, pulling the boy's attention back. “You rescued Mr. Reed?”
“Yes.” The boy stared into Frank's eyes, as if determined not to see anything else, even in his mind's eye. “He was hurt, but not too badly. The door had knocked him to the floor and he'd cut his head, but he was saying my father's name over and over. That's when I thought . . . dear God.” He covered his eyes with his free hand.
“You realized your father must have been in his office,” Frank guessed. “So you went to find him.”
The boy nodded miserably.
“That's enough,” Snowberger declared. “I'm going to send Thaddeus home now. He's been through quite enough today, and he needs his family around him. I'm sure they will need him, too.”
As if summoned by a silent command, two young men appeared and assisted young Mr. Van Dyke to his feet. From the looks of them, they'd also been involved in the rescue efforts.
When they were gone with Thaddeus Van Dyke, Frank looked at O'Connor. “Did someone question Mr. Reed, the secretary?”
“They took him straight to the hospital,” he replied, a trifle belligerently. “He wasn't in any condition to answer questions.”
Frank nodded. He'd get to Reed later. Then he turned to Snowberger. “I have a few questions for you, too, sir,” he said, adding the “sir” only because he needed the man's cooperation. “While everything is fresh in your mind. People tend to forget things as soon as they get away from a tragedy. It's human nature not to want to remember.”
Snowberger looked put upon, but he surrendered with a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, but I will be of even less help than Thaddeus was. I wasn't even in the building at that time.” Without being instructed, he took the chair the boy had vacated.
“Where were you this morning?” Frank asked, opening his notebook again.
“At home. I very seldom come into the office before ten.”
“Was that Mr. Van Dyke's habit as well?”
“Yes, as his son pointed out.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual in Mr. Van Dyke's behavior lately?” Frank asked.
He frowned. “Not that I can recall, but he was hardly likely to have been worried about some anarchist planting a bomb in his office.”
Frank refused to be intimidated. He gazed back at Snowberger unblinkingly. “We don't know that anarchists are responsible.”
This annoyed Snowberger. “Who else could it be? No civilized person blows someone up!”
Roosevelt had said the same thing. “Civilized people don't commit murder at all, Mr. Snowberger,” Frank said. “Do you believe that anarchists had a reason to kill Mr. Van Dyke?”
The color rose in Snowberger's neck, and it wasn't from anger. He actually looked embarrassed. “People like that don't need reasons!” he insisted.
Frank suspected Snowberger was lying, but he couldn't say so to his face, not if he hoped to keep his job. “You may be right, but just in case, did Mr. Van Dyke have any particular enemies? Someone who might have benefited from his death? Or who might have wanted revenge?”
“Certainly not!” Snowberger informed him, outraged.
“I can't believe a man as successful as Mr. Van Dyke hasn't made enemies, Mr. Snowberger,” Frank prodded.
Snowberger wasn't going to budge. “Men don't settle business disagreements with bombs, Detective. If they did, New York would be a pile of rubble.”
He was definitely right about that. Frank decided to change the subject. “Do you know of any reason why Mr. Van Dyke was especially cheerful this morning? Did he have some recent business success? Or perhaps a personal one?”
“I'm afraid I would have no idea,” Snowberger snapped. “Don't let Thaddeus mislead you, Detective. He's just a boy, and he's had a terrible shock. He may not even be remembering everything clearly. His father may have greeted him cheerfully one day last week and now he's sure it was today, because he wants to have parted on good terms with his father. The mind plays tricks on us, as you pointed out yourself.”
“Did the boy get along with his father?” Frank asked, ignoring the provocation.
Snowberger blinked in surprise. “I . . . I'm sure he did. Fathers and sons . . . Gregory expected a lot from his sons, but . . .” He gestured vaguely.
So Tad and his father
didn't
get along. Frank made a mental note. “You said âsons.' Does Mr. Van Dyke have other sons?”
Now Snowberger was visibly uncomfortable. “There's an older boy, Creighton,” he admitted reluctantly.
“Does he work here, too?”
“No.”
Frank was certain there was something very intriguing about young Creighton. “Do you know where I could find him?”
“I have no idea. You'll have to consult his family.”
Frank had every intention of doing just that. “One more question, Mr. Snowberger. Was Mr. Van Dyke in the habit of drinking liquor first thing upon his arrival at work?”
O'Connor gasped in outrage at the implication, and Snowberger sputtered furiously. “What kind of a question is that?” he demanded.
“A perfectly logical one,” Frank said. “The bomb was apparently in the liquor cabinet. I was wondering why Mr. Van Dyke would have been opening it at nine o'clock in the morning.”
“I'm afraid I can't help you there, Detective,” Snowberger said icily. “You'll have to discover that for yourself.”
Â
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HE VAN DYKES LIVED ON THE SECTION OF FIFTH Avenue in the 60s called Marble Row because all of the houses were fronted with marble. The Vanderbilt family members had made a contest out of mansion building in this neighborhood, each trying to outdo the other in size and stateliness. Marble Row was less grand than the Vanderbilts' mansions, but no less opulent for all of that. The Van Dykes' home was the kind of place where the servants earned more than Frank did.
A very snooty butler escorted Frank up to the second-floor parlor, where three women sat in varying stages of grief. Frank always found it difficult to judge the ages of wealthy females because they were so well kept, but he guessed the oldest of the women to be nearing fifty while the other two were closer to thirty. The older, blond woman sat on the sofa beside one of the younger women and was comforting her as she wept into a hankie. The third woman sat alone in a chair nearby, her hands folded primly in her lap while she studiously avoided looking at the weeping woman.
The butler announced him. “Detective Sergeant Malloy from the police.”
“Mrs. Van Dyke,” Frank said, addressing the older woman, who was the only one who looked up. “I'm sorry to disturb you at this time, but I have some questions that must be answered immediately if I have any hope at all of catching your husband's killer.”
The woman stared back at him, her gaze steady, her clear blue eyes unreadable. She looked upset, but not as if her whole world had suddenly crumbled around her. For an instant he considered the possibility that she might not be too sorry that her husband was dead. Then he started wondering why she looked so familiar to him. He was certain they'd never met.
The dark-haired woman sitting on the sofa beside her had finally looked up. She had the face of a China doll, as clear as porcelain with large blue eyes and full lips. “I'm sure we know nothing that will be of any assistance to you,” she said. “My husband must have been killed by a stranger. No one who knew him could possibly wish him harm.”
Frank was startled but not stupid. He needed only a moment to realize the dark-haired woman was the widow, regardless of her age. Rich men seemed to have no trouble at all attracting young, beautiful women, no matter how old and ugly they might be. Of course, he couldn't judge what Van Dyke had looked like before the bomb. Perhaps he had been a match for his attractive bride in looks, at least.
“You're probably right, Mrs. Van Dyke,” he agreed, “but we need to investigate all possibilities.”
“Of course you do,” the other young woman said. She was as plain as Mrs. Van Dyke was lovely. Her hair was the color of straw and scraped back in an unbecoming style. She looked pale and drawn and possibly even ill. “Lilly, don't be rude. At least pretend you want to find out who killed my father.”
“How dare you say a thing like that? Your father and I were
devoted
to each other,” Mrs. Van Dyke informed her angrily. She turned to Frank. “He was making me a surprise gift for our anniversary. He'd been working on it for weeks, and he was going to give it to me tonight!”
“Your anniversary isn't for another month,” Van Dyke's daughter said snidely.
“He said he couldn't wait to see the expression on my face,” Mrs. Van Dyke said proudly. “I told you, we were devoted to each other.”
The daughter made a rude noise.
Mrs. Van Dyke sniffed haughtily. “It's a pity his own children treated him so shabbily. If I'm not mistaken,
you
were more upset over his secretary getting injured than your father being killed.”
“Mr. Reed was an innocent bystander and didn't deserve any of this!” the daughter exclaimed, her homely face mottling with color. “But I most certainly am
not
more upset about him than about Father!”
Mrs. Van Dyke glared at her, but when she turned back to Frank, she was all feminine charm and vulnerability. “You mustn't pay my stepdaughter any mind. She's understandably distraught, and she's been ill.”
Miss Van Dyke returned the glare, but her stepmother ignored her.