Victoria Thompson: Murder on St. Mark’s place

“She did all right, even without any warning,” Frank allowed.

“She certainly did.”

They fell silent. Frank was dying to know why she’d wanted to contact him, but he wasn’t going to ask. He cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you that Otto confessed. They only gave him twenty years, though.”

“You thought he’d get a death sentence?” she asked.

Frank didn’t want to say he’d been hoping so, mainly because of the way the bastard had tried to kill Sarah. “They went easy on him because the girl wasn’t very respectable.”

“That’s outrageous!”

He’d expected her to be angry. “I guess we’re lucky they didn’t decide she deserved to be killed and let him off scot-free. How’s his wife doing?”

She frowned and looked away. “She won’t see me. She blames me for Lars going to prison. She still thinks Gerda’s death was an accident and Lars shouldn’t be punished for it.”

“After the way he treated her?” Frank couldn’t believe it.

She shrugged. “I’ve seen it too many times. You’d think that a woman would hate a husband who beats her, but it’s usually just the opposite. Those women tend to be even more loyal than women whose husbands are good to them. They never say an unkind word about them, and they defend them with their dying breath. And of course there’s the problem of her being left with no one to support her with her husband in jail. She blames me for that, too.”

“What will she do?”

“Take in lodgers, I suppose. And washing, perhaps. I don’t know. I’ve asked my friends at the settlement house to keep an eye on her. That’s about all I can do.”

She fell silent again, sipping her lemonade. Frank took a long gulp of his, then asked, “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“What?” she asked, as if her mind had been wandering. “Oh, no, that was something else entirely. It’s about Brian.”

Frank felt his defenses rise, but he tried not to sound defensive. “What about him?”

“Have you made a decision about which school you’re going to send him to?”

Frank shrugged. “He’s still too young. And I’ve got to convince my mother to send him anyplace first. At least I’ve gotten her to agree to meet some deaf people who have a boy Brian’s age. We can see how the sign language works.”

“I’m sure it’s a hard decision for you to make. But at least you know he can be educated now. That’s important.”

Frank nodded, not trusting his voice.

“But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Do you remember I told you that I was going to contact a surgeon who might be able to help Brian’s foot?”

Frank had forgotten all about that. He nodded again, not liking where this was going.

“Well, I talked to him the other day. He’d be happy to examine Brian and see if there’s anything he can do. No promises, of course, not until he’s done an examination, but he’s very good. There’s even a chance Brian might be able to walk almost normally.”

POLICE HEADQUARTERS WAS quiet when Frank returned that evening. A few drunks were chained together, sitting on the benches, and the desk sergeant barely spared him a glance when he strode past. He climbed the stairs, past the commissioner’s offices, where Teddy Roosevelt still held court during the day, past the chief of detectives’ office, and on to the dusty room where the old files were kept. Even in the feeble light of the gas jet on the wall, Frank didn’t have much trouble finding what he was looking for. The file of an unsolved murder, three years old. Dr. Thomas Brandt.

Frank was relieved to discover he hadn’t worked on the case. The file was thin. No one had worked very hard on it at all, in fact. The trail would be stone cold, the killer probably long since dead or in jail for some other crime. Solving the case was virtually hopeless. Just as finding the killer of those young girls had been hopeless. Just as finding out who killed Gerda Reinhard had been hopeless.

But Frank wasn’t going to let that stop him. When Brian went to visit this surgeon, Frank would owe Sarah Brandt a debt of gratitude. And if Brian was someday able to walk, he’d owe her more than he could ever repay. If he could find her husband’s killer, however, he just might make a start of it.

Usually, I pride myself on the historical accuracy of my novels, but this time I took one small liberty with the facts. By 1896, the Elephant Hotel, where Sarah finds the merchant who sold the red shoes, had been abandoned for several years. In fact, it burned shortly afterward, in September of 1896. It did exist, however, and was very much as I described it during its heyday. Since it was such a delightfully absurd part of Coney Island, I just had to use it in the book, and I hope you’ll forgive my lapse in accuracy for the sake of whimsy.

If you missed the first book in this series, Murder on Astor Place, I hope you’ll track it down and find out how Sarah first got interested in solving murder mysteries and how she happened to join forces with Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. And don’t worry, I tried very hard not to give away the ending of that book in this one, so you can still be surprised! By all means, let me know how you liked both books, too. You may write to me at P.O. Box 638, Duncansville, PA 16635, or send me E-mail via my Web page at:

www.victoriathompson.com

Until next time!