A Deadly Affection (12 page)

Ignoring the officers' shouts, I hurtled down the front steps and turned left, running full-out down the sidewalk. As I approached the corner, I heard a whistle blow. I dashed blindly into the intersection, cutting diagonally across it as drivers shouted and horns blared all around me. On the far corner, I glanced back. One of the officers was just starting through the intersection, blasting repeatedly on his whistle to summon help.

I didn't wait for assistance to arrive. Holding on to my hat, I raced across the next block and careened around the corner onto Fifth Avenue. Stately homes fronted by wrought iron gates lined the right side of the block. I ran a few more yards and turned in at number 1027, taking the steps two at a time. There was no time to wait for someone to answer the bell, so I did the unthinkable: I pushed the heavy door open and let myself in.

It closed with a solid thud behind me. I stood stock-still in the silent marble vestibule, catching my breath as I listened for sounds of pursuit outside. I heard two more muted whistle blasts, but they seemed to be moving up the avenue. When no one pounded on the door after several more moments, I concluded that my entry into number 1027 had gone unobserved.

I had no intention of going back out anytime soon, however. I was deciding whether to remain in the vestibule, or to go inside and announce myself, when the parlor maid appeared in the hallway.

“I beg your pardon, miss!” she exclaimed, pulling up short, her eyes darting around the vestibule in confusion. “I didn't hear the bell.”

“Well, I rang and rang,” I said, trying not to pant. “I suppose the bell must be broken. It's so dreadfully cold out, I thought I'd better just let myself in.” I took off my hat and coat and handed them to her with a smile. “Is Miss Emily at home?”

“Miss Emily?” she repeated, still gazing distractedly around the vestibule.

“Could you tell her Genevieve Summerford is here?”

Her eyes snapped into focus. “Miss Summerford? Oh my goodness, I didn't recognize you, it's been so long! Please, make yourself at home, and I'll let her know you're here.”

It had in fact been two years, I calculated, since I'd last paid a visit to Emily Clark. Though we'd never been fast friends, we'd commiserated through years of dancing classes, and there was a time when we'd visited regularly. I thought I should be able to muster sufficient conversation to outlast whatever search party might be organizing outside.

Emily seemed genuinely glad to see me when she joined me in the drawing room a few minutes later, and as we sat elbow to elbow on a deeply cushioned ottoman before the fire, catching up on each other's lives, I could almost relax enough to pretend it was an ordinary social call. We spoke of simple things: the new roof garden at the Colony Club, the figure-enhancing merits of Hoffman's tonic, and whether the North Pole would most likely be breached by ship or balloon. Though normally I shared Father's distaste for Moorish decor, tonight the Clarks' heavily furnished drawing room, with its deep green shades and hanging rugs and layer upon layer of pillows and shawls, provided welcome insulation from the outside world.

Eventually, our talk turned to recent social events and, inevitably, to the Fiskes' upcoming ball. “I suppose you're going?” Emily asked me.

“I suppose.”

“You don't sound very enthusiastic.”

“Well, you know how it is. The same old faces, talking about the same old things.”

“Now, you mustn't go all cynical on me,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Promise me you'll be there. We spinsters have to stick together, to spread the pity around.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I don't think anyone's putting you in the spinster category just yet. From what I've heard, you're more likely to be included in a Bowery ‘Believe It or Not' for all the offers of marriage you rejected last year. Speaking of which, whatever happened to that golden-haired fellow from London you were so keen on last time I saw you—the one with the fabulous library?” Emily, one of the few women in our set who actually liked to read, had a tendency to measure a man by the size of his library.

“The books were fakes,” she said with a sigh. “Every last one of them. Nothing but false covers with gilt trim.”

“Oh, Em…”

“It's a sign of the times, I'm afraid,” she said, sipping her tea. “Men today are all form and no substance.” She eyed me speculatively over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of golden boys, how's Bartie Mattheson? He must be glad you're back in town.”

“That's the second time today someone has put me and Bartie in the same sentence,” I told her with a frown.

She shrugged. “There are worse places to be. I know plenty of girls who'd like to share a sentence with Bartie Mattheson.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. I've known him since he was in short pants!”

“Yes, and he's always had a soft spot for you.”

I waved this aside. “Only because I never joined in when Billy Eastman called him Farting Bartie.”

We both laughed. I wished things could go on like this forever, just the two of us before the fire, making small talk, untouched by the world outside. But when the maid returned to ask if she should put on an extra plate for dinner, I reluctantly rose to go.

“Are you sure you won't stay?” Emily asked. “There's still so much to catch up on.”

“I'm afraid I can't. My parents will be expecting me. But I'll see you again on Saturday at the ball.”

“I'll take that as a promise.” She walked me to the vestibule and helped me into my coat, giving me a parting hug before she let me out into the night.

I cautiously descended the steps, relieved to see that the only policeman in sight was directing traffic two blocks up the avenue. My relief couldn't keep a pall from settling over me, however, as I watched the tide of humanity returning uptown. A side-whiskered man was climbing the steps to the building next door, jangling keys in his pocket, while two little girls with dancing frocks peeking out beneath their coat hems skipped past him on the sidewalk, holding their governess's hands. It was a familiar neighborhood scene, the wearily peaceful end to a busy day. Tonight, however, the well-ordered universe it suggested seemed to belong only to others, as out of my reach as a stroll in the park was now out of Eliza's. I'd spent years trying to ensure that I'd never be uprooted from that safe, predictable world again, and yet somehow, in just a few short hours, everything I'd thought was solid had been thrown into flux. And whatever I did to try to fix it only seemed to make things worse. Not only were my professional credentials in jeopardy, but now I was a fugitive as well. And for what? What had my latest little adventure gained me? Nothing but a list of dates and initials—hardly the compelling evidence I'd been searching for.

I passed through the gate and fell in behind a trio of young ladies bearing armfuls of Bergdorf Goodman boxes, staying close enough that I'd appear to be part of their group if anyone was still looking for me. Their lighthearted chatter made me feel even more alone. An elegant carriage spun past us on rubber wheels, carrying men in gleaming opera hats and women in flashing tiaras. I felt a pang as it rolled by, remembering what it was like to have nothing more pressing on my mind than what Broadway show to see or which dress to wear for dinner. By the time I reached home, my spirits had reached an all-day low.

Glancing into the dining room, I saw that the table had already been set for breakfast. Dinner was served promptly at six o'clock at our house and waited for no one. I proceeded to the sitting room, where I found Father reading the evening paper in front of a crackling fire.

He looked up as I entered. “There you are. We missed you at dinner.”

I sank onto the floor in front of his armchair and pulled off my damp shoes, stretching my feet toward the flames. “I'm sorry,” I said, flexing my icy toes. “The time got away from me.”

“I don't know why we bothered to install a telephone if no one is going to use it,” he grumbled, snapping his newspaper straight.

I dropped my head against the arm of his chair, too tired to spar with him. The day's toll seemed to have caught up with me all at once; I could have sworn there were little people hanging from my eyelids. I gazed up at the back of his newspaper, struggling to keep my eyes open and, for the second time that day, found myself staring into the face of Dr. Herman Hauptfuhrer. “East Side Doctor Murdered,” read the caption under the artist's sketch. “Guest of Czar Meets Grisly End.”

“What was it that kept you, if I'm not prying?” asked my father.

“I was visiting Emily,” I mumbled, twisting my head to view the article.

He folded the paper against his chest and looked down at me. “Emily Clark?”

“Yes.”

“I always liked Emily,” he said.

I pointed to the article. “Father, did you see this, about the doctor who was murdered?”

“Yes, I was sorry to learn of it. He struck me as a decent enough fellow.”

“You mean you knew him?” I asked in surprise.

“We ran into each other occasionally. He was friendly with members of the hospital board. His mother's a Maidlaw, if I'm not mistaken. I believe he was an expert on diseases of the blood.”

“Why do you suppose someone would want to kill him?” I asked, pulling my knees up under my chin.

“They say it was one of his patients.”

“I don't see how they could know that so soon,” I retorted. “They don't seem to have any motive.”

“Here,” he said, peeling off the front section and handing it to me. “I see that your morbid curiosity has been aroused. Gorge to your heart's content.” He went on reading where he'd left off.

I spread the page on my lap and scanned the article. It was essentially a recap of Officer Callahan's story, with allusions to “a blood-smeared blade” and a suspect who “appeared confused.” District Attorney Jerome was quoted promising a quick conviction, based on the evidence in hand. There was some biographical information concerning the victim as well: the doctor was indeed a Maidlaw, although not from the family's most illustrious branch. He'd attended Columbia and Harvard, was associated with two prestigious laboratories, and had practiced medicine in the city since 1878. He had special expertise in blood disorders and had been consulted regarding the health of several important personages, including, as Detective Maloney had informed me, Czar Alexander's hemophiliac son, Prince Alexei.

“You don't suppose he could have been involved in something sinister, do you?” I asked my father.

“Hmm? Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know. White slavery? Opium smuggling? Or…illegal adoptions, perhaps?”

He snorted and turned the page. “It's too bad we can't think of a more constructive outlet for that imagination of yours.”

I watched the firelight flit over his face, softening the lines of his mouth and chin. How bad would it really be, I wondered, if I were to tell him what had happened? He'd be angry, disappointed, alarmed—but he wouldn't refuse to help. And help was what I needed now more than anything. I hugged my knees against my chest, feeling a confession rise to my lips.

A log fell in the fireplace, loosing a shower of sparks. “Well,” Father said with a sigh, folding the newspaper, “it's getting late, and I have some correspondence to attend to.” He stood. “I'll leave you this.” He handed me the rest of the paper as I rose clumsily to my feet.

“Katie left some dinner on the warmer, if you're hungry,” he went on. “Don't forget to say good night to your mother before you go up.”

“No, I won't. Good night, Father.”

He walked to the door and turned. “By the way, I've given some thought to our discussion this morning, and I'm willing to admit that I've been pigheaded. You're a grown woman, after all, capable of making your own decisions. It was wrong of me to doubt you.”

“Oh no, Father, you needn't apologize. You were just—”

“I haven't finished. You'll be pleased to know that I spoke with the hospital board today and told them that you're no longer interested in the position.”

“You did?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“I wouldn't count them out altogether, though; it seems to me that once you've established a record of success, we ought to be able to interest them in this ‘class treatment' of yours. If it's as effective as you say, I should think there'd be a place for it at the hospital.”

“Why, that's…that's…” I gripped the back of the armchair. “I hardly know what to say.”

“You needn't say anything,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “I'm just glad we finally see eye to eye. Now, I suggest you get to bed early. You look exhausted.”

I listened to his footsteps move down the hall and up the stairs, shivering in the cooling air. I sank into his vacated armchair, burrowing into the cushions in a vain attempt to extract what little warmth remained. Except for the whine of the dying embers, the house was silent: the staff in their rooms upstairs or gone home for the night, Mother ensconced in the conservatory, and Father partaking of his nightly palliative in the study—three shots of whiskey, no more and no less, the same dose he'd downed every evening for the past fourteen years. I was alone once more.

But perhaps not completely alone, I thought. No doubt Eliza was holding me close in her thoughts, praying that I'd produce a miracle. I looked down at the newspaper as tears of fatigue and frustration blurred my eyes. Maybe if I read the article again, I'd discover something I'd overlooked. Pulling myself erect, I started from the beginning, focusing on one sentence at a time. But the information remained the same. Hauptfuhrer appeared to have led an exemplary life. He had had a conventional upbringing, a successful career, a wealthy clientele…