He strode quickly down Bank Street, heading for the Ninth Avenue Elevated Train Station at Little West Twelfth Street. The train whose track ran on pillars two stories above the street would take him quickly uptown to the Van Orner house, where he would try to find out what Mr. Van Orner knew about his wife’s murder. And if he even wanted the police to find out anything about his wife’s murder. Frank hadn’t told Sarah that his only knowledge of the crime came from the report of the beat cop, who had come running when Mrs. Van Orner’s driver had opened the carriage door to find her lying in a heap on the floor of her carriage, her body already growing cold. Would Van Orner have even notified the police if he’d found her dead in her bed or slumped over at her dressing table? He would never know.
An hour later, Malloy stood on the front stoop of the Van Orner home. Dusk was falling, and the hour was much too late for callers. A wide-eyed maid took his card and left him waiting in the small, uncomfortable room just off the front entrance hall where they put visitors the maid suspected the family didn’t want to see.
After a few minutes, a young woman came into the room. Frank could usually tell from a person’s clothing alone what their place in the household was. This woman carried herself like one of the upper classes, back erect, chin up, hazel eyes confident and steady as she took his measure. She held her hands folded primly at her waist. Her clothing betrayed her, however. Her dress fit poorly, obviously a castoff from someone larger and older, judging from the style, and it was a sickly green that reminded Frank of old moss. She hadn’t done anything with her hair either. He thought it might be pretty and shiny if she’d let it down, but she had it pinned up just like his mother wore hers. Frank had the odd feeling she was
“Detective Sergeant Malloy?” she asked in a wellmodulated voice that made him think of Sarah’s mother and her friends. Who could she be?
“That’s right. I’d like to speak with Mr. Van Orner about his wife’s death.”
“Mr. Van Orner is very upset at the moment, as you can imagine. Perhaps I can answer your questions.”
“Perhaps you can,” Frank said, keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “Who are you, miss?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Miss Tamar Yingling. I am . . . I was Mrs. Van Orner’s secretary.” Her voice caught at just the right moment, and she appeared to be controlling her emotions with difficulty, just the way Mrs. Van Orner’s secretary should.
“I’m sorry, Miss Yingling. You must be pretty upset yourself.”
“I am, but Mrs. Van Orner didn’t approve of unseemly displays of emotion.”
Or maybe Miss Yingling didn’t really feel like making an unseemly display of emotion. He glanced around the inhospitable room. “Would you like to sit down while you give me the information I need, Miss Yingling?”
“If you think it will take a while, I suppose I’d better.” She perched on the edge of one of the two straight- backed chairs that were almost the only furnishings in the room. She sat perfectly erect, the way upper-class women did, with her back not touching the chair.
Frank took the other chair and reached into his coat pocket for the small notebook and pencil he carried to jot down details. “How long have you worked for Mrs. Van Orner?”
“Two years. I admired her very much, and I felt privileged that she chose me to help her with her work.”
“What work did you help her with?”
“Her rescue work. Perhaps you don’t know. Mrs. Van Orner had dedicated herself to assisting young women in escaping from a life of shame.”
“I understand she rescued prostitutes,” Frank said.
“Yes,” she admitted, obviously offended by his bluntness.
“Was that what she was doing today?”
“No, she . . . she was visiting the house she had purchased to give these unfortunate young women a safe place to live until they can support themselves with honest work.”
“Visiting the house or visiting somebody in particular?”
Miss Yingling didn’t like his questions. “She was visiting the young women who are living there now, to see how they’re adjusting to their new lives.”
“Were you with her?”
“I . . . I had gone with her from our office.”
“Your office?”
“Yes, her organization, Rahab’s Daughters, has an office in the United Charities Building. Her carriage picked us up and took us from there to the house.”
“Where is this house?”
“The location of the house is a secret. The young women who live there would be in terrible danger if—”
“Where is the house?” Frank repeated.
“Mrs. Van Orner would never allow me to—”
“Mrs. Van Orner is dead,” Frank reminded her. “She died after leaving that house. If you want me to find out who killed her, I have to talk to the people who saw her there.”
“Oh, my, I hadn’t thought of that, but Mrs. Van Orner would never—if she were alive, that is—would never allow us to reveal the location, and even if I told you the address, you couldn’t enter it anyway.”
“Why not?” he asked in surprise.
The color rose in Miss Yingling’s pale cheeks, a modest young woman forced to discuss a topic she found embarrassing. “Mr. Malloy, because of the lives the women who live in this house used to lead, Mrs. Van Orner decreed that no male would ever be allowed inside the house. She wished to avoid any hint of impropriety that might affect the ability of these women to return to respectability.”
That made sense, Frank supposed. He’d figure out what to do about visiting the house later. “So you were with her today. Can you tell me if she seemed concerned about anything? Had she had an argument with anyone or trouble of any kind?”
“Mrs. Van Orner disapproved of displays of emotion.”
“So you said. What does that mean exactly?”
“It means that if Mrs. Van Orner was upset about anything, she would never allow anyone else to suspect.”
“But you knew her very well. Maybe you could read her moods when other people couldn’t.”
Miss Yingling frowned.
“Or maybe you saw or heard someone bothering her.”
“Mrs. Van Orner was very concerned about the wellbeing of a young woman who had recently been rescued. She has a child, you see, and she will have a difficult time of it, I’m afraid.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Her name is Amy. I’m not sure what her last name is.”
The woman Sarah had helped rescue. “Did this Amy have an argument with Mrs. Van Orner?”
“Not an argument, no. Mrs. Van Orner doesn’t engage in emotional displays. This Amy is a difficult case, however. She isn’t nearly as grateful as she should be for what Mrs. Van Orner has done for her.”
“Do you know why?”
Frank had a feeling she knew perfectly well, but she said, “No, I don’t. We’ve seen this kind of thing before. Women beg us to rescue them, and when they realize how difficult their lives will be, they become angry. They often blame Mrs. Van Orner for their own troubles.”
“Is Amy angry at Mrs. Van Orner?”
“Not angry exactly. She refuses to make any plans for her future. She . . . she seems to think the father of her baby is going to take care of her, you see, and that . . . well, that isn’t very realistic.”
“Does she know who the father is?”
Miss Yingling hesitated a moment, long enough to let Frank know with a glance how inappropriate it was to ask a respectable young woman such a question. Then she said, “She claims to, but considering how she made her living . . .” She shrugged eloquently.
Frank figured if a prostitute claimed he’d fathered her baby, he’d be more than a little skeptical. Any man would. “Did Mrs. Van Orner try to make her see reason?”
“She had a private conversation with Amy today. I have no idea what happened, but afterwards, Amy was very angry and Mrs. Van Orner was very quiet.”
“Then what happened?”
