Victoria Thompson - Murder On Astor Place

“Father!” she cried, her anguish as raw and cold as the wind.

“Give me your hand!” he said, shouting above the storm.

Slowly, painfully, still clutching the pole with one hand while reluctantly letting go with the other, she reached out to him while behind her, Malloy reached out, too, ready to grab hold and haul her down.

And just in that instant when VanDamm’s hand met Mina’s, the sky exploded in a blaze of light as lightning struck the pole to which Mina clung.

Afterward Sarah remembered it all in minute detail, right down to the color of Mina’s eyes as the electricity jolted through her and into her father, and sparks flew everywhere. Although it seemed to last a lifetime, the scene took no more than seconds, and then they were plunged into darkness again.

“Mina! Mr. VanDamm!” Sarah cried as the smell of burnt flesh filled her nostrils. Then she tripped over an obstacle she hadn’t expected, and she saw that there were three bodies down, not two. “Malloy!”

She practically fell over him. Had he been touching Mina when the lightning struck? Was he hit, too? He’d been flung on his back, and Sarah dropped to her knees beside him. “Malloy! Malloy! Can you hear me?” she screamed, slapping his wet face with both her hands. She was rewarded with a moan. She laid her palm on his chest and felt a heartbeat through the soaked wool, weak but regular. He was alive!

Then she turned to Mina and VanDamm, but she saw as soon as the next flash of lightning that they were both gone. The rain slashed down at their staring eyes, and neither blinked. And their hands, Sarah saw, were still touching, melded together by a force neither of them could deny.

SARAH FOUND THE apartment without any trouble at all. She was a little surprised by the neighborhood, but then she shouldn’t have been. Nothing about Malloy should surprise her.

She hefted the basket she carried higher on her bent arm and lifted her skirts with the other while she climbed the stairs to the second floor where the boys playing outside had assured her Malloy lived. Outside the door, she hesitated for a moment, entertaining doubts for the first time. She still wasn’t sure what had compelled her to find him. But then, what did it matter? She’d found him, and unless she wanted to turn around and go home, carrying her basket of cheer with her, she’d better knock and deliver it so she could clear her conscience once and for all.

A woman’s voice answered her knock, telling her to wait a minute, which she gladly did. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. She hadn’t thought about it, but she was fairly certain Malloy wasn’t married. Had he told her that or was it just her general impression of him? Then she saw the woman and knew he wasn’t.

She was small and round and wore her graying hair pulled tightly into a bun. Her plain face was as wrinkled as a prune, and she seemed as surprised to see Sarah as Sarah was to see her. “What is it, now? We’ve done nothing wrong,” she said with a fierce frown.

Sarah wondered who the woman thought she was. “I’m Sarah Brandt. I came to see Detective Sergeant Malloy. To see how he’s doing, that is.”

The woman’s suspicion turned instantly to surprise. “You’re here for Francis? Whatever for?”

“I… I was with him when he… when he was injured the other night. I called at the hospital, but they said he’d only stayed a little while. He was gone by the time I got there.”

“That’s been three days ago,” she said, suspicious again. “If you was so concerned, what took you so long to get here?”

Sarah smiled. “I had no idea where he lived, and it took me that long to find out.”

“Did it now?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture designed to be intimidating. “And why would you go to all the trouble?”

Sarah was beginning to wonder herself. “I was worried about him, and I… I felt a little responsible that he was hurt.”

The door to the next apartment opened and another old woman stuck her head out to peer curiously at Sarah.

“Maybe you’d better come in then,” the woman Sarah had decided was Malloy’s mother said. Mrs. Malloy gave her neighbor a haughty glance before ushering Sarah into the apartment where they could have some privacy.

The place was crammed with knickknacks and plaster saints, just as Sarah would have expected from a woman of Mrs. Malloy’s age and class, but it was neat as a pin nonetheless. Also what Sarah would have expected.

“Now, how does a woman like you know my Francis?” she challenged, looking Sarah over thoroughly, as if considering withholding her approval if Sarah didn’t have a reasonable explanation.

“I met him when he was working on a case. A girl I knew was murdered.”

Plainly, she doubted this very much.

Sarah wasn’t about to attempt to convince her. “Is Malloy here?” she tried.

“He stepped out for a while.”

“He must be feeling better then,” Sarah guessed.

“He wasn’t hurt much. The doctor said he was just stunned. His head aches, though he won’t admit it. Never would give in to being sick, not even when he was a boy. At police headquarters, they told him to take a few days off to rest.”

“Which he doesn’t appear to be doing,” Sarah pointed out.

Mrs. Malloy ignored her. “What’s that you’ve brought?” she asked, nodding at the basket on Sarah’s arm.

Now she felt a little foolish. “Some food. I thought he lived alone and might appreciate something homemade.”

Mrs. Malloy carefully digested this information, her pinched expression pinching even tighter. “And what would your husband be thinking of you traipsing all over town taking homemade food to other men?”

“I’m a widow,” Sarah said and watched understanding brighten the old woman’s faded eyes.

She sniffed her disapproval. “In my day, a woman didn’t go calling on a man. It wasn’t proper. Still isn’t, so far as I know.”

Sarah couldn’t help smiling. “I’m not calling on him, Mrs. Malloy. I just felt sorry because he got hurt and I was partly to blame. If you’ll just tell him I came by-”

“Frank’s not a free man,” Mrs. Malloy told her. “If that’s what you’re thinking, that he’s just got his old mother, and he’d leave her quick enough for a young, buxom widow like yourself, then you’ve got it wrong, my girl.”

Sarah could hardly keep from laughing aloud at the notion that she might have set her cap for Frank Malloy. Or even more preposterous, that he might be the least bit interested in her in return. Somehow managing to keep a straight face, she said, “I assure you, Mrs. Malloy, I’m not-”

“Because he’s got his boy to think of, he has, and he’s got no time for the likes of you or any other female.”

“His boy?” Sarah echoed in surprise.

“Yes, his boy,” Mrs. Malloy confirmed smugly. “Or didn’t you even notice him over there?”

Sarah looked where she was pointing and realized she hadn’t noticed the child playing in the far corner of the room, his back to them. For a second she marveled that a child could play so quietly she hadn’t even been aware of him, and then she marveled that he hadn’t come over to inspect their visitor the instant she entered the room, as any child would have done. From here, she could only see the red-gold curls his grandmother must be reluctant to cut, even though the boy was out of diapers.

Mrs. Malloy strode over to where the child sat and at her approach, he turned and finally noticed Sarah. His small face lit up with a glorious smile, and he dropped the toy soldiers he’d been carefully arranging and hitched himself around to face her.