"Murder on Washington Square" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Victoria)

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 operated on his club foot, with a promise Brian would be able to walk when he was finished. Then she had seen the intelligence glimmering in Brian’s bright blue eyes when no one else had bothered to look for it, and she had realized that his mind was fine, except for being locked inside of a body that couldn’t hear. Soon Frank would make a choice about what kind of training he was going to get for the boy, but he’d decided to wait until his foot was healed before making any more changes in Brian’s young life.

Of course, he might have just been using that as an excuse. If the truth were told, it wasn’t the boy he was so worried about upsetting. His mother was difficult in the best of times, and now she was frightened. She wanted what was right for Brian, of course, but she didn’t agree with Frank about what that might be, especially if it meant Frank didn’t need her to care for the child any longer. Nothing he said made much difference, so arguing with her was frustrating and annoying. But he’d tolerate her tonight for the boy’s sake. In some ways it was a blessing Brian couldn’t hear.

Frank took the Third Avenue Elevated Train downtown and got off at Twenty-Third Street. He couldn’t help noticing how different this area was from the neighborhood where he lived, just a few blocks south. The city was like that, changing character almost from street to street, the comfortable middle-class living cheek-by-jowl with the desperately poor and the obscenely rich. As bad as things were in the city, with people being killed every day for a few coins and homeless children starving or freezing in every nook and cranny, he wondered that it wasn’t worse. If the poor ever decided to rise up, their sheer numbers would overpower those who considered themselves the powerful ones in the city.

If that ever did happen, which side would Frank be on? he wondered as he found the Giddings home in the middle of a row of neatly kept homes. Unlike similar homes located below Washington Square, such as the one where Anna Blake had lived, all these houses still held only single families. No boardinghouses or brothels here. Giddings had done quite well for himself at Smythe, Masterson and Judd. Until recently, that is.

Frank climbed the front steps, noticing they hadn’t been swept in a day or two. Giddings’s servants were poorly disciplined. Frank made a loud clatter with the brass knocker and waited. Although he’d made enough noise to rouse the dead, no one responded the first time or even the second time he pounded the metal against the shiny plate. Finally, he saw one of the front curtains move as someone looked out, and he gave the knocker another determined try, hoping to convince whoever was inside that he wasn’t leaving until someone answered the door.

At last the door opened a crack, just enough for someone to peer out.

“Who are you and what do you want?” a woman asked.

If this was a maid, she was poorly trained. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy from the New York City Police, and I’m here to see Gilbert Giddings.”

His tone told her he would force his way inside if necessary, and the door opened a bit farther. Now he could see the woman, and she wasn’t a maid. Her clothes were simple, a white shirtwaist and black skirt, which meant she could have been the housekeeper, except Frank knew she wasn’t. She held herself too stiffly, and her manner was too polished, too commanding, for her to have been a servant.

“Come inside before my neighbors hear you,” she said sharply and stepped aside to admit him.

The moment he entered the house, he knew something wasn’t right. It had a cold, empty feeling. A glance around told him why-it really was empty, or very nearly. The entry had no furniture or carpet, and when he glanced into the front parlor, he saw that it, too, had been cleared. It wasn’t the newness of a house recently inhabited, either. He could see where carpets had lain on the floors and bright places on the wallpaper where pictures had once hung.

“Mr. Giddings isn’t here,” she said.

Frank turned his attention back to the woman. “Are you Mrs. Giddings?” he guessed.

She seemed reluctant to reply, but finally, she nodded once. She might have been an attractive woman if her face hadn’t been so bloodless and pinched. Plainly, she was under a great strain and had summoned every ounce of her courage and strength to bear up under it.

“When do you expect him back?” Frank asked.

Her hands were gripping each other so tightly in front of her that the knuckles were white. “I don’t… Do you mind…?” She took a fortifying breath. “Could you tell me why you wish to see him?”

The question had cost her a great deal of effort, and Frank didn’t like the feeling of pity that stirred in his chest. Pity was an emotion that could get him in trouble if he let it blind him to the truth. Still, he had no intention of telling her his real reason for wanting to find her husband. He’d promised Giddings not to say anything to ruin him for at least a few days. He’d broken that promise with Smythe only because Smythe obviously knew about Giddings’s faults and the old attorney had no intention of making the news public. Mrs. Giddings would be hurt by the knowledge, however, so until it was absolutely necessary for her to know, he was determined to keep it from her.

“It’s a private matter,” he told her. “Nothing to concern you. I just need some information from him.”

He saw the muscles in her jaw work, as if she were clenching it to help maintain her composure. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim interior light, he could see that her dark hair, which was pulled severely back from her face and knotted at her neck, had streaks of silver running through it. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep, and tension practically radiated from her. “Did Mr. Smythe send you?” she asked.

“He gave me your address,” Frank admitted.

He’d thought the reply harmless enough, but Mrs. Giddings cried out. The sound was short and sharp, as if someone had struck her, and she instantly covered her mouth with one hand. “He said he wouldn’t prosecute!” she said when she’d regained a little of her composure. “He said if Gilbert resigned quietly, he wouldn’t press charges! Surely he hasn’t changed his mind. He only cares about his good name. He must know Gilbert would never say a thing!” She looked as if she might faint.

“Maybe you should call your maid or something,” Frank suggested, knowing he didn’t want to deal with a fainting woman.

“I don’t have a maid!” she said, her voice almost strangled with bitterness. “I’ve let all the servants go. Can’t you see? Why do you think I answered my own door? And we paid the money back. We had to sell almost everything we owned, but we paid back every penny. What more does he want from us?”

“What money is that?” Frank asked.

“The money Gilbert st-” she began, but caught herself. “You don’t know about the money?” she asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I thought you said you’re from the police.”

“I am,” Frank said, his mind racing for a way to ease her suspicions and keep her talking at the same time, “but Mr. Smythe didn’t give me any details.”

She took a step backward. “Why did you want to see Gilbert, then?”

“I told you, I need to ask him some questions.”

“About what?”

“It’s a private matter,” Frank repeated.

She wasn’t going to tell him a thing, he knew. She was probably going to order him out, too, but the sound of a door closing in the back of the house distracted her.

“Mother, where are you?” a male voice called.

She turned to Frank, nearly desperate now. “Get out of here,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Go before he sees you.”

But it was too late. A tall young man came into the hallway from the door behind the stairs, and he stopped when he saw Frank. “Who are you?” he asked with a frown.

His clothes were shabby and dirty, and he wore sturdy work boots. Giddings the Lawyer’s son was doing manual labor. Giddings had been fired from his job, his family had sold everything of value that they owned to pay Smythe a debt, and his young son was struggling to help. This was not a happy home.

“He’s no one,” Mrs. Giddings replied for Frank. “He was just leaving.”

“If you’re a bill collector, you can talk to me,” the boy said, striding belligerently up to Frank. He was still gangly with youth, probably no more than sixteen, but in spite of his ragged appearance, he had a dignity about him. He was like his mother in that. Determined to protect her, he lifted his hairless chin and glared at Frank. “You don’t have any right to come here. We’ve told you we’ll pay you as soon as we’ve sold the house.”

“I’m not a bill collector,” Frank said. He couldn’t help admiring the way the boy had assumed his manhood and all the responsibilities that went with it.

“Who are you, then?” he asked, looking him up and down with contempt.

“Harold, don’t get involved in this,” his mother begged. “Go to your room. I’ll take care of it.”

“You’ve taken care of enough,” Harold said stubbornly. “What do you want?” he asked Frank again.

“I came to see your father. If you’ll just tell me where to find him-”

“He’s probably at some bar,” the boy said, his lip curling with distaste. “He’ll be there until they throw him out and he doesn’t have any choice but to come home. But at least he won’t be with that woman anymore,” he said to his mother, laying a comforting arm across her shoulders. “I can promise you that.”

“What woman are you talking about?” Frank asked, wondering how the boy knew Anna Blake would no longer be receiving visitors.

“Stop it, Harold,” Mrs. Giddings said, this time in a tone that brooked no argument. “This man is from the police. Mr. Smythe sent him.”

“The police,” the boy echoed in alarm, all his bravado evaporating. “What do you want with my father?”

“What do you think he wants?” his mother asked, no longer bothering to hide her bitterness. “Smythe wasn’t satisfied with getting the money back. Now he’s going to put your father in prison.” A lesser woman would have broken under this weight, but Mrs. Giddings hung on to her composure with the last vestiges of her strength, determined not to humiliate herself in front of a stranger.

“I’m not going to arrest him,” Frank tried in an attempt to ease her anguish, but the boy wasn’t listening.

“It’s that woman,” Harold said, his voice shrill with rage. “She did this. She made him steal that money, and now he’s going to shame us by going to prison. I’m going to kill him!” he cried and would have made for the front door if Frank hadn’t grabbed him.

He put up a struggle, but he was no match for Frank’s superior size and strength, and his mother’s pleas. By the time Frank had subdued him, he was sobbing with fury and shame.

“Where can I take him?” he asked Mrs. Giddings, as he held the boy up on his feet. She led them down the hallway to the back parlor.

This room had also been scavenged for salable items, but a few pieces of furniture remained, among them a well-worn sofa. Frank sat the boy down on it. He slumped over, head in his hands, still weeping.

His mother sat down beside him, holding him to her and offering what comfort she could.

“Your husband stole money from his employer to pay off his mistress,” Frank said. He wasn’t asking a question.

Mrs. Giddings looked up from consoling her son, her eyes dark with hatred. “You already knew that.”

Frank wasn’t going to contradict her. Besides, he now knew that Giddings had stolen money to pay off Anna Blake and ruined himself and his family in the process, which meant Giddings had more reason to want Anna Blake dead than Nelson Ellsworth did.

“How long did your husband know this young woman?” Frank asked.

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Giddings said, patting her son’s back as he continued to weep out his grief on her shoulder. “Don’t you have any decency? And what does any of this matter? Leave us alone!”

Frank could have told her how it mattered, but he still wanted to spare her unnecessary anguish. If Giddings wasn’t the killer… He also wanted to ask the boy some questions, but he figured this wasn’t the time to get a straight answer out of him. Better to wait and catch him alone, without his mother to protect him. It wouldn’t take much at all to frighten the boy into telling everything he knew.

“Which bar does your husband usually go to?”

“He doesn’t consult me,” Mrs. Giddings told him, still stubbornly clinging to her pride. “I’m afraid we can’t help you.”

Or wouldn’t, at least. Frank figured she wasn’t going to make it easy for him to put her husband in jail, if that’s what he intended, no matter how angry she might be at him.

“Just tell your husband I called,” Frank said, and showed himself out.

So Giddings’s family knew all about his affair with Anna Blake. And Frank knew some interesting information about Giddings. He was desperate indeed if he’d stolen from his own law firm to pay her off. Unlike Nelson, he had a family and a reputation to protect from the scandal she could cause him, so he’d been ripe for blackmail. Frank was beginning to regret never having met Anna Blake in life. She must have been an interesting woman to have inspired such foolish devotion.

“I knew something terrible was going to happen,” Mrs. Ellsworth confided to Sarah as they cleaned up the kitchen after their meager supper. “Remember I asked if you’d heard knocking the other night?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, not really certain. She didn’t make an effort to remember all of Mrs. Ellsworth’s superstitions.

“I heard it three nights in a row. That means someone is going to die. I knew it was going to happen, and I was so afraid it would be someone I knew,” she said sadly as she took the dishes off the tray she’d taken up to Nelson earlier.

He hadn’t come down, and he’d barely touched the food on the tray. Sarah hoped it wasn’t only grief for such an undeserving woman that had him so upset.

“The things you worry about never happen,” Sarah said, quoting her mother. “It’s the things you never imagine that hurt you the worst.”

“That’s the truth,” Mrs. Ellsworth said with a sigh and looked up, as if she might be able to see her son if she did. “I just wish he could go to work. If he had something to take his mind off all of this, but…”

“But the reporters would never give him a moment’s peace,” Sarah said.

“I’m so afraid he’s going to lose his job,” the old woman said. “The people at the bank are only concerned about the good name of the bank. No one wants to leave their money in a place run by scoundrels and… and murderers.” She shuddered.

“Nelson isn’t a murderer,” Sarah reminded her.

“What difference does it make? The newspapers say he is, and so people believe that. Next I expect the neighbors to come and tell me we have to move because we’re giving the place a bad name.”

“That isn’t going to happen. Malloy and I are going to find who really did this so all our lives can get back to normal again. But first I’m going to track down that reporter Webster Prescott and make him write the truth about Nelson.”

Mrs. Ellsworth’s eyes lit up with hope. “Can you do that?”

“I’m certainly going to try. And if I have to, I’ll go to the bank and ask them to give Nelson the benefit of the doubt until we can get this thing settled.”

“Oh, Mrs. Brandt, I couldn’t ask you to do that!” she protested.

“You didn’t ask me; I volunteered. Besides, I’m sure my father knows the bank’s owner personally. He’ll be happy to put in a good word for Nelson,” she promised rashly. Her father certainly wouldn’t be happy to do any such thing, but Sarah felt certain she could prevail upon him to do it anyway.

“What on earth would we do without you?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked, taking Sarah’s hand in both of hers.

Frank wearily climbed the stairs to his flat. The sounds of family arguments and babies crying echoed faintly in the stairwell. He reached the door and knocked, not bothering to find his key. His mother opened the door without asking who it was.

“Ma, I’ve told you it’s not safe-”

“I saw you coming,” she said, waving away his protests. “Or rather the boy did. He watches for you every night.”

Frank felt a twinge of guilt, but he forgot it the instant Brian managed to crawl around her to reach him. His little face was so full of joy at seeing his father, Frank felt guilty again, this time because he knew he wasn’t worthy of such adoration. That didn’t stop him from picking the boy up and hugging him fiercely. Brian hugged him back, his thin arms clinging with amazing strength around Frank’s neck.

Brian’s red-gold curls were silken against Frank’s cheek, and he smelled sweet and clean and innocent when Frank buried his face in the soft curve of his neck. The only thing missing was Brian crying, “Papa! Papa!” the way other boys his age would have. Of course, other boys his age would have run, not crawled, to greet their fathers, but soon that should change as well.

“How’s he doing?” he asked his mother as he carried Brian over to the sofa and sat down, setting the boy on his lap. He inspected the cast, which was growing dirtier every day.

“He don’t cry so much or try to get it off,” she reported, disapproval thick in her voice just the same. “I don’t think it hurts him much anymore. Or maybe he’s just used to it.”

“How’ll you keep up when Brian starts running around the place?” Frank asked, only half in jest. “It won’t be long now.”

She crossed herself, as if to ward off a curse. “It ain’t good to wish for too much,” she reminded him. “You’ll just be disappointed.”

Brian was showing Frank the cast, trying with gestures to convince him to take it off. “In good time, son,” he said, even though Brian couldn’t hear him. “Then you’ll be able to walk.”

His mother made a rude noise. “I’ll get your supper.”

“Are you going with me when I take Brian to get the cast off?” Frank asked.

She just gave him one of her looks and retreated into the kitchen.

The next morning Frank decided to begin his day with a visit to the morgue. It was Saturday, but he was sure to find someone around, and he wanted to learn all he could about how Anna Blake had died. Chances were slim he’d discover anything that would help him identify her killer, but it was worth a chance. Besides, he now had two men who could possibly have been the father of her child. Maybe if the coroner could tell him how far along she was, he could figure out which one really was. He wasn’t sure what that would tell him, but the more information he had, the better off he’d be.

The entire morgue smelled of death, even the offices, and Frank steeled himself against the grimness of the place. The gray walls and barren corridors seemed to stretch for miles and echo with the sound of his footsteps. He found the coroner in his shabby little office, writing a report. Dr. Haynes looked up, his eyes weary behind his glasses.

“Which one is yours?” he asked, not bothering with a greeting. In a place like this, social amenities were meaningless.

“Anna Blake, stabbed in Washington Square,” he added, in case the name meant nothing.

Dr. Haynes shuffled through some papers on his desk and found the one he was looking for. He peered closely at it for a moment. “I thought that one was Brougham’s.”

“I’m helping him,” Frank said without blinking.

Haynes stared at him in amazement but made no comment on this astonishing bit of news. “What do you want to know, besides that somebody stabbed her and she’s dead?”

“Do you know what she was stabbed with?”

“A knife,” Haynes said just to be aggravating.

“You’re better than that,” Frank chided, trying to stir what might remain of the man’s pride. “Big, small, butcher knife, stiletto, or what?”

“Bigger than a stiletto. She wasn’t killed by the Black Hand,” he said, referring to the Italian secret society famous for using the thin-bladed knife. “Smaller than a butcher knife. The blade was no longer than six inches. Probably just an ordinary kitchen knife, in fact. They didn’t find it, whatever it was.”

“If it was lying around, someone would’ve taken it. That’s a pretty desperate bunch in the Square after dark. What else can you tell me about her?”

Haynes studied the report another moment, his forehead wrinkled in thought. Frank imagined him picturing the dead woman in his mind, trying to recall what she looked like. But maybe he was just being fanciful.

“She didn’t get stabbed where she was found,” he said after a moment.

“What makes you think that?” No one had even suggested such a thing until now.

“The way she bled. She’d bunched up her shawl and held it against the wound for a while, to keep it from bleeding, I guess. You could see where it was wrinkled and the one end was soaked with blood. But blood seeped down the whole front of her skirt anyway. That means she was on her feet for a while before she got too weak. I don’t think somebody who got stabbed would just stand still in the middle of the Square on a dark night if they could stand at all, so she was probably trying to get herself some help.”

“Why didn’t she just call out?” Frank wondered aloud.

“Who there would help her?” Haynes replied.

“You’re right. She’d be a fool to let that bunch know she was wounded. They’d fall on her like vultures, taking whatever she had and leaving her to die. She must’ve been trying to get back home, where she’s be safe.”

“Did she live close by?”

“Just a couple blocks from the Square. How far could she have gone with a wound like that?”

“Not far. You could check for blood stains on the ground. She probably left some along the way.”

Frank shook his head. “It rained that morning. Even still, after three days, I doubt there’d be any trace left. The Square is a busy place.”

Haynes nodded. “But if she was walking, maybe somebody saw her.”

“In the dark? And if they did, how will I find them?” Frank replied in disgust. “Decent people would’ve been locked in their houses, and the others wouldn’t tell a cop anything.” He sighed. “What else can you tell me about her?”

“What else do you need to know?”

“How far along was she?”

“How far along?” Haynes echoed in confusion.

“She was expecting a child. How far along was she?”

“She wasn’t expecting a child.”

Frank stared at him in amazement. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as I can be. I saw her insides, you know. Not only that, she was using a sponge.”

“Where would she be wearing a sponge?” he asked in confusion.

Haynes grinned and shook his head. “I forget you Catholic boys don’t believe in those things.”

“What things?”

“Things that keep a woman from getting pregnant.”

“How would a sponge do that?”

Haynes’s grinned widened. “A woman puts it up inside of her. Keeps the man’s… uh, seed from getting in to make a baby. From what I saw, this one had seen some recent use, too.”

Frank sank down in the dingy metal chair in front of Haynes’s desk. This was very interesting information. “Can I see that report for myself, Doc?”

“Help yourself, if you can read my chicken scratching.” Haynes handed the paper to him.

This changed everything, Frank realized as he painstakingly deciphered the crabbed handwriting. Anna Blake wasn’t what she’d seemed at all, and Frank had a good idea he’d uncover some even more unsavory facts now that he knew the truth about her. He also had a feeling he might find a lot more people who wanted her dead besides poor Nelson.

But the biggest problem he had now was how he was going to tell Sarah Brandt about the sponge.

Sarah looked up at the imposing building on Park Row that housed the World. Mr. Joseph Pulitzer had spared no expense in making his building the most ostentatious on the street where all the major newspapers in the city had their offices. Standing twenty-six stories, it had been the tallest building in the world when it was built a few short years ago, and it still towered over most of the city. The title of tallest building hadn’t stood very long before someone built a taller one in Chicago, but the building’s dome was covered with copper that glittered like gold in the morning sunlight. Surely that would distinguish it for a longer time. Outside on the sidewalk, a lighted globe, seventeen feet in diameter, showed the points of the compass. People loved a spectacle, and Pulitzer gave it to them with his building and with his newspapers.

Sarah had to thread her way through the jumble of pushcart vendors displaying their fruits and vegetables to the hoards of people walking across the Brooklyn Bridge in both directions. The entrance to the bridge was nearby, and between the crowds of workers coming and going on the bridge and those employed in the newspaper offices, the vendors did a brisk business.

Inside, Sarah could feel the rumble of the giant presses that churned out the morning and evening editions of the World. The sensation made the building feel as if it were alive and trembling. Everywhere people, mostly men, were coming and going in a great hurry, either off to find news or coming in to write it. She’d thought that Saturday morning would be a good time to catch Webster Prescott in, but now she was afraid she’d been mistaken. Did reporters ever go to their offices? She realized she was woefully ignorant of the habits of newspapermen. For all she knew, he spent all his time standing on the sidewalk outside the homes of those unfortunate enough to have made themselves newsworthy.

Sarah made her way to the elevators, checked the building directory, and gave the correct floor number to the operator when the car arrived. A few moments later, the operator opened the doors on an enormous room that covered the entire floor of the building. Sarah stepped off the elevator with a confidence she didn’t feel, and the elevator doors slammed shut behind her.

The room was lined with row after row of desks, broken only by the columns that supported the ceiling. Tall windows on all four sides let in the sunlight and revealed a breathtaking view of the city in every direction. No one else seemed aware of the view, however. About a third of the desks were occupied by men writing furiously or typing on typewriters. Others, most of whom were hardly old enough to be called men, were hurrying here and there, carrying sheaves of papers, depositing them on desks and picking up more.

One of these boys glanced at her curiously as he passed, and she stopped him. “Excuse me, but could you tell me where Webster Prescott would be?”

“Pres? Sure,” the boy said, scanning the room. “His desk’s over there and… looks like he’s sitting at it, too. Can you see him?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, peering in the direction he indicated. “Thank you.”

She made her way through the noisy room, drawing more curious stares which she ignored. This far above the presses, she could no longer feel the vibrations of them, but the clatter of typewriters and the rumble of men’s voices were equally loud and disturbing. She tried to imagine sitting in a room like this all day and cringed at the thought. But then, the reporters would be out a lot, getting their stories, so perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it might seem.

She stopped in front of Prescott’s desk. He was engrossed in the story he was writing, but when her shadow fell across it, he looked up. She saw the recognition register on his face and the frown as he tried to dredge up a name to go with her face.

“Sarah Brandt,” she supplied.

“Nelson Ellsworth’s neighbor,” he added happily. He obviously thought her presence meant something good for him, a scoop perhaps. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Brandt. Let me find you a chair.”

He borrowed one from a neighboring desk where no one was sitting and pulled it up for her. “What brings you here this fine morning?” he asked pleasantly when she was settled and he’d taken his own seat.

“I’ve come to ask you a favor,” she said.

His smile evaporated. He’d be wanting her to do a favor for him. “I’ll be happy to help if I can,” he said, although she could see he was only being polite so as not to alienate a potential source of news.

“I want you to print the truth about Nelson Ellsworth.”

Now she had his attention again. “What truth do you want me to tell?” He reached blindly for the notebook that lay open on his desk and pulled a pencil from over his ear.

“First of all, Nelson didn’t kill that woman.”

This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “But the evidence-”

“-is misleading. It seems that Mr. Ellsworth wasn’t the only man with whom Miss Blake was involved.”

“She had another lover?” he asked, brightening again.

“Yes, and this one is married.”

He began to scribble notes in his book. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “But he’s certainly an even likelier candidate than Nelson, and unless the newspapers stop blackening Nelson’s name, he might well be convicted of the killing anyway, even though he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Nelson was genuinely in love with Anna Blake and wanted to marry her. She’s the one who refused. She wanted him to give her money instead.”

Prescott’s young face creased into a frown. “That’s very strange.”

“I thought so. No honest woman would prefer money to respectability. Nelson Ellsworth is an innocent victim in this. I think Anna Blake deliberately chose him, thinking he would be easy to fool. I’m not exactly sure what her plan was, but she wasn’t interested in snagging an eligible husband. She could have had one in Nelson, and she refused him.”

“Even though she was… well, in a family way?”

“So it appears. I came down here to tell you that there’s a better story here than the one all the newspapers have been telling about Nelson, and it also happens to be the true one. You could make quite a name for yourself if you’re the first one to discover it, Mr. Prescott.”

His eyes were sparkling with anticipation, but he hadn’t forgotten his instincts. “Why are you going to all this trouble to protect Ellsworth, Mrs. Brandt?”

Malloy had warned her about the danger of doing this, but she’d hoped Prescott was too naive or inexperienced to think of it. She’d been wrong about that, but she still might be able to convince him of her good intentions. “Because his mother once saved my life, and I owe her a debt of gratitude. Nelson is her only son, and I can’t stand by and see him ruined and maybe even executed, especially when I know he’s innocent.”

Prescott wasn’t as easily dissuaded. “How can you be so sure? Can you give him an alibi for that night?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

“No, I cannot,” she replied, refusing to be ruffled. “An innocent man doesn’t need an alibi.”

Prescott shook his head sadly. “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, an innocent man needs an alibi most of all.”