fancy electrical chair. What he didn’t know was whether he was letting his personal feelings color his professional judgment. Was he overlooking some important clue in his quest to lock Schyler up? Was he damning an innocent man just because he happened to be obnoxious?
Frank had a lot of time to consider all this while he paced at the Coney Island trolley station and waited for Sarah Brandt to appear with Schyler. They’d discussed various methods of surveillance, and they’d quickly discarded the idea of having Frank follow them out from the city. Dirk knew what he looked like, and he’d be hard to miss in the close confines of the trolley. So Frank had assigned Broughan the task of overseeing their trip out. He only hoped Broughan was sober enough not to lose sight of them. Frank didn’t think Schyler had any reason to kill Sarah Brandt just yet, but he hadn’t really had any understandable reasons to kill anyone else, either. Frank didn’t want to take any chances.
He scratched absently at the false beard he wore in an effort to keep Schyler from recognizing him. He doubted the beard would fool anyone, though. His best bet was simply to stay out of sight, which was what he planned to do most of the time. Now, if Mrs. Brandt could be trusted not to go looking for him in the crowds and tip Schyler off that they were being followed, he would be fine.
He’d been pacing for over an hour, watching trolleys arrive and disgorge their passengers without seeing his quarry. Another one was approaching the station, and Frank stepped back inside the building, where he could watch without being seen.
He saw her at once, even before she got off. He’d seen her wear that hat many times, but he probably would have recognized her no matter what she was wearing. She was the kind of woman who stood out in a crowd. Something about the way she carried herself. He’d never known another like her. Not even Kathleen, with all her sass, would have gone after a killer all alone. At what point did courage become folly? Frank only knew he was not the proper person to judge such a distinction.
Schyler looked the part of gentleman-about-town. He was dressed as if he was going to the races with his society friends. Sarah Brandt looked just as she always did. Was her smile too bright? Perhaps a little strained? Would Schyler notice? If he was the killer, he’d miss nothing. Frank had to resist the urge to rush out there and confront him, which told him more than he wanted to know about his feelings for Mrs. Brandt. Usually, he had all the patience in the world waiting for the trap to spring on his prey. But usually, he didn’t particularly care about the fate of the bait. Today he cared very much indeed.
Another reason to hope Schyler was the killer. As soon as they locked up the man who’d been murdering all these young women, Frank would no longer have to encounter Sarah Brandt. He could return to his solitary existence and everything would be as it was before.
He only wished he believed that.
He watched the two of them as they made their way out of the trolley and onto the platform. Schyler offered her his arm, and Frank felt his hackles rise. But she pretended not to notice and pointed at something instead of tucking her arm into his. They started off toward the park. Did Schyler look suspicious? Had she given herself away already? Frank no longer trusted his instincts.
Waiting until they were almost out of sight, Frank finally stepped out of the station. That’s when he saw Broughan stumbling down the steps of the trolley. He was drunk and making no effort to hide it. Frank wanted to thrash him. What if Sarah had needed help? What if she’d asked the wrong question and angered Schyler? What use would a drunk have been?
Frank wanted to slam Broughan up against the wall and ask him those questions rather forcefully, but if he did, he’d lose Sarah in the crowd. He settled for giving him a black look before setting out after them.
They had paid their admission and gone into the park. Frank waited until he saw what direction they were headed before doing the same. The laughter and screams of delight from the crowd mocked him as he made his way into the throng. He’d never felt less carefree in his life.
SARAH SMILED AT Dirk, although her face felt stiff. She hadn’t expected to be frightened. Not that she was afraid exactly. Dirk wouldn’t harm her here, not with hundreds of people around, and certainly not with Malloy nearby. But she was nervous. Anxious. Unable to relax. Her mission was so important, and one false word could spoil everything. She should have let Malloy talk her out of this. He’d certainly tried hard enough. He was probably right, too. Even if Dirk was the killer, he was hardly likely to confess it to Sarah, no matter how clever she might be.
“What are we looking for today?” Dirk asked pleasantly as they strolled through the park. “Do you have more information on this fellow you think killed the girl…? What was her name? Gilda?”
“Gerda,” Sarah supplied, wondering if he could really have forgotten. “No,” she said. “Today I want to forget all about killers and their victims. I just want to have a good time.”
“You chose an odd destination for our outing, then,” Dirk pointed out. “I could have taken you to a museum or to dinner or a show or-”
“Don’t you ever get tired of doing the proper things, Dirk?” she asked, hoping she sounded as rebellious as she should. “I do. Sometimes I think I’Il scream if I have to sit through another dinner party.” Not that she attended many anymore, but Dirk wouldn’t know that.
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Most women I know would faint to hear one of their own talking like that.”
“Most women you know?” she repeated skeptically. “Probably not that girl I saw you with that day we first met here.”
“Ah,
“Do I?” she asked.
“Well, you know about my fondness for shop girls, at least,” he replied with a secretive grin.
“Is there more, then? What other ugly secrets could you have?”
“None I would share with a lady,” he replied.
“Do you share them with your shop girls?”
He frowned at this. “Is that why we came? So you could berate me for my lapses in judgment?”
“Is that what you consider them?” She didn’t wait for an answer, knowing he wouldn’t admit to it. “No, I’m just curious. How did you happen to discover that you had a… a fondness for shop girls in the first place?”
“Oh, Sarah, you really can’t be interested in hearing about my follies,” he protested uneasily.
“Nonsense, I’m fascinated. Are you doing it to embarrass your family? Are you planning to bring one of these girls home one day and present her as the future Mrs. Dirk Schyler?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He seemed shocked at the very idea.
“But you are trying to rebel, aren’t you? Why else would you keep company with girls of that sort?”
He was plainly uncomfortable discussing this, which was all the better. “I’ve never given the matter any thought,” he insisted.
“Well, think about it now,” she insisted right back. “At first I thought it was just that you… Well, I’ve been married, so I understand that a man has needs. I thought you were simply using these girls to meet those needs. But then I realized that a man of your means could keep a mistress to satisfy him in that way if that was all he was interested in. Such an arrangement would be safer, surely. You wouldn’t have to worry about disease or even about possible rejection. Surely, all these girls don’t succumb to your seductions, Dirk.”
“Sarah, you shock me,” he said, his voice hoarse with disbelief.
“Do I? I’ve shocked many people with my attitudes. That’s what comes of living alone and earning your own living, I suppose. You lose all sense of what is proper. I thought I’d found a soul mate in you, however. I thought you were a man who understood what it’s like to break the bonds of society. At least tell me how you first discovered an interest in pursuing these girls.”
“Are you thinking of following in my footsteps?” he asked in an effort to put her on the defensive.
“Perhaps,” she allowed with a small smile.
He smiled back, reluctantly. “I was coerced,” he said. “In the beginning, at least. My friends were bored one evening, and one of them said he knew a place where we could meet some attractive… uh… harlots. He took us to one of those places where they have dances. We asked the door-man to introduce us, but he insisted that he was unable to tell the respectable girls from the other kinds, and he left us to our own devices.”
“And were you able to tell?”
“Not at all,” Dirk assured her, warming to the story. “They all looked alike. And they all seemed quite pleased to have such well-dressed gentlemen paying attention to them. We bought drinks for some of them and engaged
