Murder On Gramercy Park

15

DUDLEY’S LANDLADY HAD GRUMBLED AND COMPLAINED about every one of Sarah’s requests. Sarah thought she should have been grateful someone was willing to clean one of her rooms for her, but no, she’d just been unhappy because Sarah was inconveniencing her with her demands for supplies. She’d been even less enthusiastic about providing supper for Sarah and the patrolman who was guarding Dudley’s room, until Sarah had offered to pay her for her trouble. Sarah had regretted her offer as soon as the food had finally arrived, though. It was barely edible. She also wanted a rich beef broth for Dudley, if he regained consciousness, but she figured there was no use asking the landlady for it. Maybe she should send a message to Mrs. Ellsworth, who would be only too happy to prepare something if she asked.

It was getting rather late now, though. Perhaps she’d wait until morning. Dudley might not even make it through the night, although he seemed to be sleeping naturally now. Perhaps his wounds weren’t as serious as they appeared. Perhaps they wouldn’t fester and poison him either, although she considered that unlikely. But Dudley was young and healthy. Maybe he could survive even that. She didn’t think much of him as a man, but he hadn’t done anything worthy of death, either, since it now seemed unlikely he’d killed Edmund Blackwell.

After a while she grew bored with conjecture and resumed her housekeeping duties. So far she’d changed the sheets and given the bloody ones to the landlady, and she’d scrubbed the blood off the floor. The rest of the room still needed to be swept, and if she was really bored, she could scrub that, too. Heaven knew when it had last been done.

Sarah started sweeping at the other end of the room, working her way over to the bed. She swept slowly, trying not to stir up too much dust, but the room was small, and she was at the bed in a matter of minutes. Being careful not to disturb Dudley, she slipped the broom under the bed and tried to gather up as much dirt as possible without accidentally striking the bed frame and startling him. She’d just dragged a pile of dust bunnies and debris out when Dudley groaned.

“Water,” he croaked.

Sarah dropped the broom and quickly fetched him a glass of water. Blood loss created a mighty thirst, and if she quenched it, he might even be able to say a few words. She held the cup to his lips and let him drink as much as he wanted. At last he dropped back against the pillow, exhausted.

“Mr. Dudley, can you hear me?” she asked.

His eyes flickered and then opened. He stared at her with no sign of recognition. “Who…?”

“I’m Sarah Brandt,” she explained. “Letitia Blackwell’s midwife. We met at her home the other day.”

Dudley showed no sign of remembering. He seemed to be using all his energies trying to focus on her face.

“Mr. Dudley, do you know who attacked you?”

“Attacked?” he asked weakly, obviously puzzled.

“Someone broke in here and stabbed you while you were sleeping last night. Do you know who it was?”

He frowned, trying hard. “I don’t…”

“You were asleep,” she prodded him.

“I woke up,” he recalled after a moment. “The pain…”

“Did you see who did it?”

“The pain… woke me… dark…”

“Someone tried to kill you, Mr. Dudley. Who was it?” she demanded, wanting to shake him but knowing that would only make things worse.

“I don’t… too dark… couldn’t see…” His eyes closed in a grimace of pain. He needed another dose of morphine. “Hurts,” he murmured.

Sarah sighed with disappointment and began to prepare his dose. How ironic it would be, she mused, if he survived and became a morphine addict, too.

When Dudley was once again in a drug-induced sleep, Sarah remembered what she had been doing when he’d awakened. Picking up the broom, she had started to sweep the mess from under the bed into the dustpan when something shiny caught her eye. She reached down and picked it up, and that’s when she knew who the killer was.

“Officer Moran!” she called, summoning her guard. “You must find Mr. Malloy right away!”

FRANK NEEDED TO tell one more person that Peter Dudley was dead, but he’d been having a difficult time locating Amos Potter. He wouldn’t have been quite so determined if he’d gotten a better reaction from Maurice Symington. He’d fully expected Symington to act surprised at learning Dudley was dead, but he hadn’t expected the act to be quite so convincing. Symington was behaving normally in first trying to get Dudley in trouble for supposedly blackmailing Letitia and then trying to bribe Frank to name Dudley as the killer, and finally by trying to convince Frank to rule all three deaths suicide. Why hadn’t Frank been satisfied with calling Blackwell’s death a suicide in the first place? Calvin Brown would still be alive, and Dudley wouldn’t be dying. Frank could’ve saved himself a lot of trouble and the other two a lot of suffering if he’d just gone along with the killer’s plan in the first place.

And who would thank him even when he did find the killer? Assuming he could, that is. Nobody but Sarah Brandt, that’s who. Which was, Frank had to admit, quite enough, thank you very much. It had better be, too, because he was likely to make some powerful enemies if he wasn’t careful. Or even if he was. Whoever said honesty was the best policy had never been a policeman.

The hour was growing late, and the city was growing dark when Frank climbed the stairs to Potter’s flat once again. He was there earlier in the day, but Potter hadn’t been home. He was going to try once more, having left the man a note saying he’d be back, before giving up for the evening and finding himself some supper.

The smells of cooking filled the stairwell, making Frank’s stomach growl. He thought longingly of a meal eaten in Sarah Brandt’s pleasant kitchen. Thank heaven that was out of the question tonight. She had other obligations, and Frank knew it was time to stop seeing her anyway. No good could come of it, as his mother would have pointed out to him if he’d allowed her to speak of Sarah Brandt at all. But tonight he wouldn’t even need to make a decision about whether to go to her place or not.

Potter’s door opened seconds after Frank knocked. He’d obviously been waiting for the policeman to arrive. He still wore his suit coat, and as usual, he was fiddling nervously with his watch chain. “Come in, Mr. Malloy,” he said too jovially. “What can I do for you? Your note was very mysterious.”

“I wasn’t trying to be mysterious,” Frank said, taking the chair Potter indicated. “I just had some news for you that I wanted to give you in person.”

“Have you finally decided to close the investigation?” he asked hopefully. “Although it pains me to think a boy could actually kill his own father, I don’t really see any other solution to this unfortunate incident.”

“I’m afraid there’s been another murder, Mr. Potter,” Frank said, watching the other man’s face carefully.

And just as carefully, Potter betrayed no emotion except a mild curiosity. “I can’t imagine who-” he began, then caught himself. “Good heavens, it can’t be! Is Letitia all right?” he asked worriedly.

“She’s fine,” Malloy assured him, although he would have sworn Potter wasn’t really worried about her.

“Then who…?”

“Peter Dudley.”

Potter frowned. “Peter…? Oh, yes, that gentleman I met at Letitia’s the other day. He’s dead, you say? Whatever happened to him?” He didn’t seem too upset, but then why should he be? Dudley was nothing to him, except perhaps a rival for Letitia’s affections.

“Someone stabbed him.”

“Good heavens! I don’t know what the world is coming to. I never imagined I would know three men who died under unpleasant circumstances.”

“Why not?” Frank asked. “Once a killer gets started, it’s difficult to know when to stop.”

“You can’t imagine this Dudley’s death is connected to Edmund’s in any way,” Potter protested. “They didn’t even know one another. Why would the same person want to kill them both?”

“Why else would Dudley have been killed?” Frank asked in return. “He was just a simple bank clerk.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Potter sniffed. “Besides, we both know that Edmund’s killer is dead by his own hand. It’s only your stubborn refusal to admit it that has kept us from putting this whole awful business to rest.”

Frank saw no point in arguing the issue with Potter, who was determined to blame Calvin for the crime no matter what the evidence said. “Mrs. Blackwell was very upset to learn Dudley was dead,” he tried.

He struck a nerve there. Potter’s round, homely face reddened, but he said, “I believe they were good friends. And it’s always upsetting to hear about a violent death. I’m upset myself, and I hardly knew the man.”

He hadn’t looked upset until Frank mentioned Letitia’s reaction. Now he was fiddling with his watch chain again and looking as if he wanted to bolt. Probably he wanted to rush to comfort Letitia.

“Mrs. Blackwell was more than just good friends with Dudley,” Frank said, still probing for a reaction. “She and Dudley were planning to be married.”

“That’s preposterous!” Potter exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Her husband is hardly cold in his grave! Besides, she’d never marry a man like that. He’s nothing but a bounder and a fortune hunter.”

“I don’t suppose she’ll marry him now that he’s dead, of course,” Frank agreed mildly, “but she certainly intended to before. She’d even informed her father of her plans.”

“Mr. Symington never would have allowed it,” Potter insisted.

“I’m not sure he could have prevented it,” Frank said. “Mrs. Blackwell is of age and no longer dependent on him.”

“But… but…” Potter stammered. “I know he… He simply would have stopped it. Made her see reason or… or whatever it took.”

“Such as killing Dudley?” Frank suggested.

Potter’s small eyes grew as wide as they possibly could. Was it possible he hadn’t considered this possibility? He sat down abruptly. “I… I can’t believe… But surely, no one would blame him if he did,” he added quickly, warming to the thought. “I mean, to protect his daughter from this man who had tried to ruin her life and almost gotten her killed before.”

“Do you think I should accuse Mr. Symington of killing Dudley?” Frank asked curiously.

Potter gaped at him. “Certainly not! A man in Mr. Symington’s position would never stoop to such a thing! I was merely remarking that no one could blame him for wishing such a blackguard as Dudley out of his daughter’s life for good and all.”

“Death is pretty permanent,” Frank agreed.

Potter was growing impatient with this conversation. “Is there some reason you came here tonight besides to inform me this Dudley person has been murdered?”

“You mean have I found out who killed Dr. Blackwell yet?” Frank asked.

“I already know who killed Edmund,” Potter insisted. “For the love of God, when will you stop torturing poor Letitia and allow her to grieve in peace?”

Frank rose wearily to his feet to take his leave. “Very soon, I hope,” he said. “Although now we won’t be sure for whom she’s actually grieving, will we?” he added meanly.

Potter frowned, but he had nothing more to say and made no move to detain him.

As Frank descended the stairs and emerged from the building into the darkened city, he tried to make sense of all his impressions. Amos Potter acted like a man guilty of something. Maybe it was just lusting after his neighbor’s wife, but Frank’s instincts said it was more than that. If only Potter hadn’t offered him a reward for finding Blackwell’s killer. Could he have been so confident of Frank’s incompetence to believe Frank would never trace the crime back to him? Or had he made the offer to ensure that Frank wouldn’t trace the crime back to him? It seemed a risky ploy. Or a masterful one. Frank had not allowed himself to consider Potter as the killer until now. Could he have been fooled so easily? Or was he letting his dislike of the man color his judgment?

What he needed was a square meal and some fresh air to clear his head. Maybe then he’d be able to put all the pieces together and figure out the truth of all of this.

OFFICER MORAN HAD been gone a long time in his quest to find Malloy. Sarah didn’t know how long, because she hadn’t noticed the time when she’d sent him off on his errand, and in the meantime her lapel watch had stopped. She knew from the sounds of the city that the hour was growing late, though. Decent people were asleep, their windows dark. Those on the streets at this hour were assumed to be up to no good. A woman walking out now would automatically be assumed to be a prostitute. A man alone would be fair game for robbery or worse.

Sarah watched from the small window of Dudley’s room. She couldn’t see the street from here. The view was of the back of the opposite buildings and the small patch of ground in between where outhouses squatted and clotheslines stretched, crisscrossing the open space like a massive cat’s cradle. One by one, the lights of the other buildings blinked out, gradually obliterating even the poor view she had. The sounds of the house quieted, too, as the other tenants either went to bed or went out to prowl on this Saturday night.

Too bad she hadn’t thought to bring a book to read, although reading by the light of the single candle in Dudley’s room would have been difficult. About all she could hope was that she would somehow fall asleep sitting up in the straight chair as Dr. Woomer had done earlier.

Just when she was giving serious thought to waking the landlady to ask for bedding to make herself a pallet on the floor, Dudley groaned again. This time Sarah didn’t wait for him to ask for water. She took it to him and helped him drink his fill. His color looked a little better, but he was still dangerously weak.

“Mr. Dudley, can you hear me?” she asked. He was probably ready for some more morphine.

“Where… am I?” he asked, blinking at her as if trying to focus on her face.

“You’re in your rooms in your lodging house. Do you remember what happened?”

“No, I… I’m hurt,” he said in surprise.

“Someone stabbed you while you were asleep.”

“Someone stabbed me?” he asked in disbelief. “Who would want to do that?”

Sarah could think of several people who might want to dispose of him, in addition to the person who actually had tried to, and was surprised Dudley couldn’st, but she said, “Don’t think about it now. Is the pain very bad?”

He winced. “A little,” he admitted.

She fixed him another dose of morphine. Fortunately, he didn’t ask her what it was, so she didn’t have to lie. Considering his experiences with Letitia’s morphine addiction, he might not want to take it if he knew.

“There now, you’ll feel better in a few minutes. Just try to get some rest. Could you eat something?”

“No, I… No.” He closed his eyes, and Sarah thought the drug had started to work and he was asleep, but after a while he said, “Letitia.”

Sarah thought he might be dreaming, but his eyes were open again, and he looked alarmed.

“What about Letitia?” she asked, wondering if he’d realized someone had wanted him dead because of her.

“Does she know? About me, I mean? She’ll be worried.”

Sarah couldn’t help wondering just how worried Letitia would really be, considering Malloy was going to tell her he was dead. “Mr. Malloy went to see her,” Sarah said. “I’m sure he’ll tell her that I’m taking care of you.”

That lie didn’t seem to comfort him. “She’ll be very upset. She isn’t strong, you know,” he confided. “And she’s so afraid.”

“What is she afraid of?” Sarah asked, wondering if she should encourage him to talk. As his nurse, she should let him rest. But if she didn’t let him talk now, he might not get another chance, and the morphine would be taking effect soon.

“She’s afraid of everything,” he said. “And everyone.”

“Her husband?” Sarah asked curiously. “Did he abuse her?”

Dudley shook his head impatiently. “He suspected she was taking morphine again. He wouldn’t permit it.”

“She told me he searched her rooms,” Sarah remembered, “so she couldn’t keep any in the house. That’s why she had to go to the opium den.”

“She was worried about the baby,” he said.

“She had a right to be. Her baby could have died,” Sarah said, feeling the outrage all over again.

“No, not that. Mr. Fong said the baby would be fine. She was afraid… when the baby came…” His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes again. The morphine had begun its work.

Sarah stood there a moment, watching him to make sure he wouldn’t awaken again while she tried to think of what else Letitia might have been afraid. When the baby came, he’d said. What more could she have feared? Dying in childbirth? It was an understandable fear. Or maybe she was afraid that Blackwell would realize he wasn’t the baby’s father.

Sarah heard footsteps in the hallway. Someone was moving quietly toward Dudley’s room, but no one could move silently in this house because of the squeaky boards in the old flooring. It must be Malloy, at last, and she could show him what she’d found. She’d just set the bottle of morphine on the bureau as the door opened.

But her visitor wasn’t Frank Malloy.

Amos Potter stared back at her, even more surprised than she.

“What the…?” he began, and then he saw Dudley lying on the bed. “He’s not dead!” he cried. He turned on Sarah, furious. “Malloy lied! He’s still alive!”

“No thanks to you,” Sarah said. “I found your key, the one from your watch fob. You must have lost it in the struggle.” The one she’d seen him fiddling with time and again.

“Where is it? Give it to me!” He started looking around frantically, and Sarah instinctively felt her pocket where she’d put it for safekeeping.

Seeing the gesture, he lunged for her, but she was too quick for him, knocking over the chair as she dodged. He stumbled over it but managed to catch her arm.

“It’s too late!” she cried, struggling to break free. “Malloy already knows!”

“No, he doesn’st! He has no idea, or he never would’ve let me go tonight!” He caught her other wrist, and for a moment they grappled, Sarah scratching and clawing, Potter trying to reach the pocket of her skirt where she’d hidden the Phi Beta Kappa key.

Finally, it occurred to her to scream, so she did, as loudly as she could.

Potter started, but she’d only distracted him for a moment. He released one of her hands and grabbed for her pocket, but she drew back her free hand and boxed his ear. The pain, she knew from her medical training, was excruciating and could even cause deafness. Potter howled, flinching and releasing her other hand in reaction.

This time she lurched for the door, wondering vaguely why no one had yet come to her rescue. She’d taken only one step, however, when she came up short. Potter had grabbed her skirt. She heard the stitches at her waistband starting to pop. In another moment the fabric would give, but he might well overpower her before that. Then she saw the broom leaning against the wall where she’d left it. With one burst of strength, she threw herself at it. She felt her skirt giving at the waist and heard the rending of the fabric, and then her hands were on the broom.

Taking no time to think or to aim, she simply swung it as hard and as fast as she could. The wooden handle struck solid flesh, and Potter grunted, but he was on her again, too close for swinging. Almost without thinking, she drew the broom handle back and lunged toward Potter as he lunged toward her, meeting him with the handle aimed squarely at his midsection.

His gasp told her she had struck home. He went down in a heap, his face working furiously as he struggled, in vain, for breath. She only had a moment, she knew, so she gave him one more whack on the side of the head, just for good measure. If he was stunned, she’d have a bit of extra time.

As Potter lay poleaxed in a heap on the floor, Sarah snatched up her medical bag and dug down for a roll of bandages. In a matter of moments she’d tied Potter’s hands behind his back, and by the time he finally succeeded in drawing a full breath, she was binding his ankles just as securely.

“You… tried… to kill… me!” he said breathlessly.

“That’s funny coming from someone who’s killed two men and tried to kill a third,” Sarah said, using her considerable skill at bandaging to make sure Amos Potter wouldn’t be able to work himself free before Malloy turned up. “I only knocked the wind out of you. There’s a place right here,” she said, giving him a playful punch that made him whimper. “It’s called the solar plexus. It drives the breath right out of you. You think you’re dying, but you aren’t really hurt at all.”

“I didn’t kill… two men…” he gasped.

“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Potter,” Sarah told him cheerfully. “It’s plain as day. You killed Dr. Blackwell for heaven only knows what reason, probably something to do with his wife, and then you tried to convince Mr. Malloy that young Calvin had done it and killed himself out of remorse. Except you botched the suicide note-”

“But Malloy didn’t find the note!” he exclaimed.

Sarah smiled. “Malloy said only the killer would know about the note,” she told him triumphantly.

Potter moaned, but whether from pain or despair, Sarah couldn’t tell.

“And then you tried to kill poor Dudley because you didn’t want Letitia marrying him after you’d gone to so much trouble to make sure she was free,” Sarah concluded.

“You’re wrong,” Potter warned her. “About everything. You’ll never prove a thing.”

Sarah didn’t bother to reply. She got to her feet and tried to examine the damage to her skirt. “I’m going to have to send you my dressmaker’s bill, Mr. Potter,” she said as she tucked the damaged garment up as best she could. “You’ve seriously damaged my gown.”

This time he didn’t reply, although his glare was rather eloquent.

She righted the chair and sat down to wait for Malloy. She knew they wouldn’t have to prove Potter had committed the murders. By the time Malloy was finished with him, he would gratefully confess to everything. She almost felt sorry for him until she remembered poor Calvin Brown, who had died so needlessly for another man’s stupid obsession.

Sarah listened to the silence in the house and realized that still no one had come to her aid. “Where is everyone?” she asked of no one in particular.

“They’re either out or they’re drunk,” Potter said in disgust. “How do you think I got in here without anyone seeing me?”

And how else could he have attacked Dudley without drawing any attention? she realized.

“I’m very uncomfortable,” Potter tried after a few minutes.

“It could be a lot worse. Just be glad you aren’t dying of arsenic poisoning,” she said sweetly.

After that, he didn’t say a word until Malloy finally clumped up the stairs nearly an hour later. He actually swore when he saw Potter lying trussed on the floor of the tiny room. Then he looked around before finally settling on Sarah again.

“Where’s Moran?”

“I sent him to find you.”

He seemed relieved. “So he was the one who did this,” he determined, indicating Potter lying on the floor.

“Oh, no,” Sarah assured him. “I figured out Mr. Potter was the killer, and I sent Officer Moran to find you. Then Mr. Potter came back to find his key and-”

“At least tell me Dudley helped you,” he begged.

“Mr. Dudley is hardly in any condition to exert himself,” she pointed out. “Besides, I didn’t need any help. Mr. Potter really doesn’t have much imagination as an adversary, although he did tear my skirt,” she added, remembering.

Malloy looked like he might tear something of Potter’s. “He laid hands on you?” he demanded, outraged.

“He was trying to get this away from me,” she said, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing the key she had found under Dudley’s bed. “I found it when I was cleaning up. He must have lost it in the struggle with Dudley.”

Malloy’s face lit with understanding. “That’s what was bothering me about him this evening. He kept fiddling with his watch chain, but the key was gone. He must have noticed it then.” He turned back to Potter. “Is that what happened?”

Potter simply stared back, refusing to answer. Malloy had no patience for stubborn felons. He gave Potter’s kneecap a gentle kick.

Potter howled in pain again.

“Is that what happened?” Malloy asked again. “You realized you’d lost the watch fob here and came back to get it? You must’ve figured the room would be empty by now. We wouldn’t leave a dead body lying around very long, would we? How about a civil answer, Potter?” he added, preparing to issue another stroke of persuasion.

“Yes, yes,” Potter said quickly, before Malloy could administer any more blows. “I noticed it was missing. I knew if you’d found it, you would have arrested me when you came to my flat tonight. All I had to do was come back here and retrieve it, and you’d never connect me with Dudley’s death.”

“Except Dudley isn’t dead,” Malloy pointed out. “And you attacked Mrs. Brandt and tore her dress. I don’t have much respect for a man who’d do something like that.”

“I didn’t hurt her!” he exclaimed frantically. “I only tried to get the key from her. She was the one who attacked me!”

Malloy considered Potter’s current condition for a long moment before turning back to Sarah. “You have to tell me how you did this.”

She shrugged, it had been nothing at all. “A broom handle to the solar plexus.”

“The what?”

“Solar plexus. Right here.” She pointed. “One blow and the person is incapacitated for a short period of time.”

Plainly, this came as no surprise to him except for one thing. “How would you know something like that?”

Sarah gave him a smug smile. “There are things I know about the human body that would astound you, Malloy.”

“No doubt,” he said, thumbing back his bowler hat in amazement. “Even still, you’re lucky he didn’t hurt you, and Dudley, too, for that matter. What were you thinking, sending Moran off like that?” He sounded exasperated, but not really mad.

“I never thought about Potter coming back here. Why should he, if he thought Dudley was dead? In any case, no harm done.” She smiled again.

He didn’t smile back. Plainly, he thought a lot of harm had been done, or at least could have been. “What about Dudley? How’s he doing?”

“He’s sleeping. Morphine,” she added as an explanation.

“Good for him.” He turned back to Potter, who had been listening avidly, probably hoping Malloy had forgotten about him. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me about killing young Calvin, now would you?”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he insisted.

Malloy glanced at Sarah, trying to determine how far he could go without incurring her displeasure or arousing her distaste. Probably not far enough, he judged, and turned back to Potter. “You know, I really liked that boy. He had a lot of guts coming to New York to find his old man. If you’d just stuck with Blackwell and Dudley, I wouldn’t feel quite so strongly about this case, but the boy’s death really bothers me. Lucky for you, Mrs. Brandt is here, so I can’t ask the kind of questions I’d like to. But don’t worry, I’ll call for a wagon and take you down to the station, where we can talk in private about everything.”

Malloy’s mild tone didn’t fool Potter. The mention of the station house made his eyes widen. Sarah knew she should disapprove of Malloy’s methods, but she had also been fond of Calvin Brown. His killer deserved whatever Malloy saw fit to give him.

“Will you be all right here while I go find a call box?” Malloy asked her.

She gave him a pitying look, not bothering to remind him she’d been perfectly fine without him up until now.

He went out, muttering to himself.