“No wonder they think Nelson did it,” the old woman sighed. “A man who didn’t want to be forced into marriage kills his paramour in a fit of rage.”
“Nelson would never have a fit of rage,” Sarah reminded her.
“Oh, Mrs. Brandt,” she cried, burying her head in her hands. “What are we going to do?”
Sarah only wished she had an answer. “Malloy will find the killer,” she tried again.
“But if he doesn’t, Nelson will go on trial, and the newspapers have already convicted him. Remember what happened to that Italian girl? The one who killed her lover? She only did what any woman would have done in her position, and the newspapers made her out to be the devil incarnate!”
“Not every woman in her position would have slashed the man’s throat in a public place,” Sarah reminded her.
“But don’t you agree she was justified? He’d seduced her and then refused to marry her and called her names in front of all those people and then said he was sailing back to Italy to leave her in disgrace. But when the newspapers got through with her, she was a wicked vixen who’d killed an upstanding gentleman for no reason at all. And that’s what they’re doing to Nelson!”
“But don’t forget, they’re giving that girl a new trial, and this time the newspapers are telling the truth about what happened.” Indeed, they’d painted the victim as black this time as they’d painted Maria Barberi the first time.
“Only because some rich woman championed that girl’s cause and got her a new trial. Unless someone champions Nelson, he’s going to die.” Mrs. Ellsworth’s wrinkled face crumbled in grief and then she was sobbing into her hands.
Sarah took the woman into her arms and offered what comfort she could, but even as she patted the bowed shoulders, she knew she had to do more. She had to do what Mrs. Ellsworth had said and what Malloy had warned her against, because if she didn’t try to save Nelson Ellsworth, he very likely
Frank found the law firm of Smythe, Masterson and Judd in a building uptown identified only with a small brass plate. Apparently, people who needed the services of these gentlemen knew what they did and where to find them, so they didn’t need to advertise.
Inside, the offices were furnished richly, in dark masculine colors with none of the feminine frills so common in private homes. Paintings of men hunting adorned the walls above overstuffed chairs, and the place smelled of expensive cigars.
The clerk seemed a little alarmed when Frank walked in. Like most people, he recognized Frank immediately as a policeman, even though he wore an ordinary suit of clothes and should have been indistinguishable from thousands of other men in the city. People always knew, though, and Frank had long since given up trying to fool anyone. He usually found that actually worked to his advantage.
“May I help you?” the young man asked.
“I’d like to see Gilbert Giddings,” he said, offering no other explanation. He didn’t want to say anything that might get Giddings in trouble later if he’d had nothing to do with Anna Blake’s death. He didn’t want to get himself into any trouble either. Antagonizing an attorney unnecessarily made about as much sense as poking a bear in the eye with a stick.
The mention of Giddings’s name, however, only seemed to alarm the clerk more. “Please wait… uh, have a seat and I’ll… I’ll be right back,” he stammered as he hurried off into the rear offices.
Frank hardly had time to sit down before the clerk was back. He seemed a bit calmer, and he escorted Frank down a hallway to a large office at the far end. Frank was extremely impressed that Giddings commanded such magnificent accommodations until he realized the man behind the desk was not Gilbert Giddings.
The clerk made his escape without introducing him.
“I was looking for Giddings,” Frank said.
“I know. Wilbur told me,” the man behind the desk said. He was an older man with just the slightest bit of white fuzz left on his round head. He didn’t stand, probably because it was an effort to wrestle his equally round body up out of the oversized chair in which he sat. Or else because he didn’t think Frank was worth the effort. He also didn’t invite Frank to sit. “I’m Albert Smythe, the senior partner here. Perhaps I can help you instead.”
“I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy with the New York City Police,” Frank replied, “and only Giddings can help me.”
“Then you have wasted your time coming here, Mr. Malloy. Mr. Giddings is no longer employed here.”
6
FRANK DIGESTED THIS INFORMATION. GIDDINGS HAD given no indication of this earlier today. He had, however, offered his business card without protest, probably because he knew Frank wouldn’t find him here. “That’s interesting,” Frank said, betraying no reaction. “I don’t suppose you know where he is now employed.”
“I do not believe he is employed anywhere,” Mr. Smythe said.
And if he was, Smythe wouldn’t have told a policeman, Frank thought, but he said, “I need to speak with him on official business. Even though he no longer works for you, maybe you could help me locate him.”
“I am not in the habit of assisting the police,” he said without the slightest compunction.
“That’s a shame,” Frank replied, not offended in the least. “You see, I need to speak to Giddings about the murder of a young woman who may have been carrying his child. If he’s arrested for the crime, I might be annoyed enough by your lack of cooperation to make sure the newspapers mention the name of your law firm as his employer.”
Smythe’s bloodless lips tightened and a slight flush rose on his flabby, white neck, but he betrayed no other outward sign of his true emotions. “You are an expert negotiator,” he allowed grudgingly. “You should have been an attorney.”
Frank couldn’t help a small grin. “My mother wanted me to have a respectable profession.” Since police work was considered completely disreputable by people like Smythe, Frank wouldn’t have been surprised to be summarily thrown out.
But Smythe merely nodded his acknowledgment of the barb. “Wilbur will help you find Giddings’s address.”
He must have given some sort of silent signal, because at that moment the clerk knocked and came into the office, a questioning look on his young face.
“Please provide this gentleman with Mr. Giddings’s home address, Wilbur. Good day to you, sir,” he said, dismissing Frank.
“I’ll remember your assistance,” Frank promised.
“I’ll be happier if you forget you ever heard my name,” Smythe said and went back to reading the papers on his large, shiny desk.
Wilbur escorted Frank back to the front office and bid him be seated while he found the information Frank wanted. A few moments later, the boy handed him a sheet of expensive, watermarked paper bearing the neatly printed address of a house in the genteel neighborhood near Gramercy Park.
Frank carefully folded the paper and put it in his pocket, taking his time as Wilbur continued to wait apprehensively. Maybe he was afraid Frank would arrest him or something. He felt like shouting “Boo!” just to see the fellow jump, but somehow resisted the urge.
Out on the street, Frank checked his watch and found that he still had time to stop by the Giddings home before going to his own flat for supper. Giddings’s house was on his way home anyway.
Most nights he worked too late to see his son before the boy went to sleep. For too long, he’d used his job as an excuse to completely avoid the anguish that seeing Brian caused him. Not only was the boy’s existence a constant reminder of the mother who had died giving him life, but his pitiful condition was a painful affront, proving how helpless Frank was at the hands of fate.
Sarah Brandt and her meddling had changed all that. Everyone else had branded Brian a feeble-minded cripple, but she saw what no one had ever noticed. She’d shamed Frank into taking the boy to see a surgeon who had
