“Well, no, but-”
“Now, if you told me that she had a lover after she got married, we might have something. They both would have a reason for getting rid of her husband, then, and the lover could’ve taken care of the nasty business of actually killing him. Any chance of that?”
It was Sarah’s turn to consider. “An unhappy woman is easy prey to seduction,” she mused. “Letitia had already been the victim of such a seduction twice, too, once with the schoolmaster and once with Blackwell. And she did go out every afternoon, supposedly visiting.”
“You think she was meeting a lover?” Malloy asked with interest.
Sarah frowned. “No, I think she went to an opium den.”
“Good God,” Malloy swore.
“Don’t be so shocked. Upper-class women go to them all the time. It’s the worst-kept secret in the city. Surely you already knew that.”
“I never gave it much thought,” he admitted. “I don’t have a lot of dealings with upper-class women. Or at least I didn’t used to.”
He was referring, of course, to the recent crimes they had solved together that had given him more contact than he’d wanted with such women.
“Well, it’s true,” Sarah said. “They veil themselves so no one will recognize them, but their clothing gives them away. Only wealthy women can dress so well.”
“All right, maybe Mrs. Blackwell met her lover at the opium den. Do you know which one she went to?”
“No, and I doubt she’d be willing to betray the place to me. She did mention a Mr. Fong, though. It sounded as if he was the one who sold her the morphine.”
“A Chinese?” Malloy’s interest was piqued again. “Does her baby look Chinese?”
“Malloy, really!”
“It’s possible, isn’t it? Does the baby look Chinese?”
“Not at all. He has red hair.”
“I guess Mr. Fong is no longer a suspect, then. But if we can find a redheaded morphine user…”
“Now you’re making fun of me,” she accused.
“No, I’m just thinking that maybe Mrs. Blackwell was unhappy, but that doesn’t prove she killed her husband. Find me her redheaded lover, though, either at the opium den or someplace else, and I might change my mind.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’ll do my best, Malloy, but probably the Symingtons just have a family history of red hair and there’s no lover at all.”
“Or maybe the Brown family does, for all we know,” Malloy agreed. “I’ll ask Calvin when I see him again.”
When they’d finished their meal and Malloy had eaten two slices of Mrs. Ellsworth’s pie, Sarah conducted him back into her office and sat him down at the battered desk that had been Tom’s.
“The files are in alphabetical order, so there’s no way to know which patients he’d been working with most recently without going through each one. I’m sorry,” she said, laying a pile of folders in front of him.
He shrugged. “I figured it wouldn’t be easy, and don’t get your hopes up, either. It’s still more likely he was killed by a common thief who chose him at random, and his death didn’t have anything to do with him personally.”
“If that’s the case, we probably will never find out who killed him, then, will we?” she asked.
She knew she was right, but Malloy just said, “Never is a long time.”
He started on the As, and Sarah returned to the kitchen to do the dishes. When she’d finished, she checked on him, bringing him coffee and lighting a lamp because the sun was setting. Finally, she sat down by the front window and tried to knit, but she kept watching Malloy out of the comer of her eye, wondering if he’d found anything yet. Surely he’d say something if he had, but the only time he spoke was occasionally to ask her the meaning of a medical term.
After what seemed an age, she heard a clock outside striking nine. Malloy heard it, too. “Is it that late already?” he asked, stretching his shoulders wearily.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, gratefully putting her knitting aside. She’d probably have to pull out all that she’d done tonight, since she’d been paying so little attention, she’d completely ruined the pattern. “Did you see anything interesting?”
“I saw a lot that was interesting, but nothing that somebody’d get killed over,” he said, standing and arching his back to stretch out the kinks. “I’d better be going. The neighbors will talk if I stay too late.”
“The neighbors will talk about you coming at all,” she replied, rising to see him out. “Don’t worry, though,” she assured him when she saw his worried frown, “my reputation isn’t in any danger. They’ll just be speculating on how soon we’re going to be married.”
“Married?” Malloy looked horrified.
“Anytime a gentleman calls on a lady regularly, that is the expected outcome,” she told him, amused by his reaction. “I’m sure our real relationship is beyond their ability to comprehend.”
“That’s because the police don’t usually use midwives to solve murder cases,” Malloy told her, “not even in Teddy Roosevelt’s modem police department.”
“Well, they should certainly consider using women of some kind in solving crimes,” she replied in the same vein. “You see how successful you’ve been the times I’ve helped you solve a case.”
“It’s time I left,” Malloy said diplomatically, “neighbors or no neighbors.”
“You’re right. If we continue this conversation, I’m sure we’ll only argue. I’ll get your hat.”
He settled the bowler on his head and said, “Thanks for supper.”
“Thank you for working on Tom’s case,” she replied. “I never thought anyone would care about it again.”
“Like I said, don’t get your hopes up. You know there’s not much chance we’ll find anything after all this time,” he said.
“I do know that, but it means a lot to me that you’re willing to try.” To her chagrin, she felt tears welling in her eyes.
He was plainly uncomfortable with her gratitude and the remnants of her grief. “That’s my job,” he excused himself. “Keep an eye out for that redheaded lover,” he said to lighten the mood.
“Don’t worry,” she replied with a forced smile. “I’m determined to be the one to solve this case.”
“When you do, I’ll put in a good word for you with Roosevelt. Maybe he’ll make you the first female detective sergeant.”
She was still laughing when she closed the front door behind him. Malloy had, of course, never even met Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt, while Sarah had known him all her life. And the thought of anyone, even Teddy, appointing a female police detective was too funny for words.
FRANK HAD NO desire ever to see Amos Potter again, but the man had offered him a generous reward for finding Edmund Blackwell/Eddie Brown’s killer, so he felt a certain obligation to solve the case. If that meant asking Amos Potter a few more questions, then he’d overcome his personal prejudices just this once.
Only when he’d decided he should see Potter did he realize he had no idea where to find the man. He’d never needed to inquire before because Potter had so conveniently made himself available at Blackwell’s house until now. But when Frank stopped by the next morning, Potter wasn’t there. The butler, Granger, reluctantly gave him Potter’s address. Frank thought Granger looked ill, so maybe that had weakened his resolve to be as unhelpful as possible to Frank’s investigation. Whatever the circumstances, however, Frank finally located Amos Potter’s residence in a shabby but respectable street between Greenwich Village and the infamous neighborhood known as the Tenderloin.
Potter lived on the fourth floor of a formerly grand home that had been converted into cheap flats. He opened the door in his shirtsleeves. He was unshaven, and his collarless shirt was open at the throat to reveal a few meager wisps of salt-and-pepper chest hair. His suspenders hung down at his hips, and his trousers were old and wrinkled.