Secret of the White Rose (37 page)

She regarded me with serious, intelligent brown eyes—filled not only with hate but with resolute purpose.

“You should take off his gag. He’s having trouble breathing.” I cast a worried glance toward Alistair.

She laughed—a harsh, guttural sound. “Why? He had every opportunity to speak earlier. But he didn’t.”

“What would you have wanted him to say?” I asked. My voice was calm.

She began twirling the gun as her voice rose. “I wanted him to admit that he was wrong. That he and his friends did a stupid thing. And that my family suffered because of it.”

“You mean Leroy Sanders.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “You’ve been doing your homework. But I’ll bet you still don’t know the half of it. After all, he’s spent the better part of the last thirty years keeping this truth hidden.” She jabbed her gun at Alistair’s head. He winced.

She was distracted, I could see.

“Tell me more,” I said. If she kept talking, she wouldn’t shoot. And the more she talked, the more time I would have until help arrived. Or until I figured out a way to disarm her.

“Tell me about the white rose,” I said when she remained silent. “It seems to me you left it as a sign; you must have
wanted
us to catch you. Because if any one of us had associated it with the White Rose Mission, we might have gone to Mrs. Matthews and found you much earlier.”

It was something Alistair might have said—for he believed that the choices a criminal makes at any crime scene reveal something important about motive.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted. “It was a message to
them.
To my victims. There were white roses at my father’s funeral. They make me think of death.” Her eyes glazed over. “They also remind me of the White Rose Mission, which ruined my life. I ended up there, because of these men and what they did to my father.”

“I spoke with Mrs. Matthews myself,” I said. “She seems to want to do nothing but good.”

Marie swore softly. Then, her expression cold, she said, “Like many, she claims to mean well. The truth is different.” She walked to the other side of the room, glanced outside the door. Reassured, she turned back to me. “The White Rose Mission offers nothing but a different kind of slavery. Girls are trained, but for what? To be servants, toiling and scrubbing, never paid a decent wage. To be abused by men of the house who think you’re there for the taking. Like a prostitute.” Her voice was savage as she finished. “The White Rose Mission ruined my life when they sent me on my first assignment. I wanted to cause them some trouble.”

“Was your first position at the Jackson home?”

She shook her head. “The Jackson position was my second job; I begged Mrs. Matthews for it. And after what happened to me, she’d have done anything I asked. It was the perfect opportunity to take revenge for my father’s death and my family’s suffering.”

“But you can’t have done it alone,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm. “Three large men. And different methods of killing them. Besides, we know that Lars helped you. He purchased the gun, and he was at the Breslin.”

Her face softened for a moment. “Yes, Lars was a sweet, helpful man. I was sorry to have to kill him, as well.”

“But he was knifed to death in his cell,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

She smiled sweetly. “No one ever questions the cleaning lady. The men charged with protecting him never even noticed.”

They had actually suspected one of their own. In truth, I suppose they hadn’t cared about the anarchist that they believed was responsible for so much suffering.

“You are one woman,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t believe that you had the strength—or the knowledge—to kill three grown men without help.”

“I never said I didn’t have help,” she said, annoyed enough to enunciate the words slowly. “I said that I killed these men personally.”

“All right,” I said, encouraging her to go on.

“I started with the blackmail—and it worked better than I had expected.” She looked amused for a moment. “They were terrified when I sent them my first demand—not just because I knew about Leroy Sanders but because I knew about
them
. I made use of their old habit of using musical ciphers to send messages.”

“How did you even figure the code out?”

A smile flickered across her face. “I went through the judge’s old papers. I was looking for evidence, you see? And when I found his old letters and classbooks, I had a decent enough knowledge of music to figure out their code.”

“So if this was personal revenge, then why involve Lars and the anarchists?”

“I needed them,” she said simply. “I joined their cause because I shared their overall goal: they wanted to improve working conditions for people like me. But I soon discovered I had a better use for them. They offered me the training I needed to execute my revenge. They taught me how to make a bomb, use a gun, and wield a knife.” She nodded. “Yes, even a woman like me. It’s all about technique and confidence, not strength. And when I needed a little help—mainly so I wouldn’t be recognized—they gave me Lars. They all believed I was working for the cause, not my own goals. But that was fine.”

“You gave them part of the blackmail money, saying it was from the White Rose Mission,” I stated.

“Yes,” she said with satisfaction. “I brought them donations, which convinced them that I was a true comrade. So they helped me, without question.”

It was a relationship that had profited both of them, apparently.

“Judge Jackson and this man”—she jabbed at Alistair—“together with the other two are responsible. Now they must pay.”

Alistair grunted and twisted vigorously under his restraints.

“What did they do?” I asked. “You said that it was because of them that you ended up at the White Rose Mission…”

“As I wouldn’t have, had I grown up with my mother and father. Girls with families don’t have to come to this city looking for work when they turn eighteen. They don’t end up in mission homes, training to do slave labor for rich folks.” she said. “These men planted the evidence that sent my father to Auburn Prison for life. They destroyed his life,” she hissed, “which in turn destroyed mine and my mother’s. There was never any future for us after he went to Auburn. Never!”

She held up her hands, forcing them within my line of sight. “My family was musical. My mother taught me to sing and play piano. I dreamed of a future as a pianist before all the scrubbing and toiling made a wreck of my fingers. This world filled with capitalist evil and greed destroys us all.”

“You said they planted evidence…”

She inclined her head. “I’ll bet your friend didn’t tell you that, did he? That’s how they managed to send Leroy away. My innocent father.”

“What if they didn’t know the evidence to be wrong? What if it was just a mistake?” I realized I was asking the questions of myself as much as of Marie Sanders.

“There was no mistake,” she said coolly. “You forget: I gained access to Judge Jackson’s private files. I
know
what they did. It’s why your friend will die with this gag in his mouth. Because he had the chance to say something at the time and chose not to.”

“He could still clear your father’s name.”

Another harsh laugh. “It’s too late. For my father—and for me.” She crossed the room. “Now it’s time.” She checked her gun, locked the trigger in place.

“Help will be here any moment. Don’t add to the crimes you’ve already committed,” I begged.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her face steeled with resolve, “you won’t take me alive. I refuse to suffer my father’s fate.”

She picked up the gun and pointed it at me. I dove for the floor, narrowly missing the shot she launched in my direction.

I lifted my head just in time to see her point the Browning pistol at Alistair’s heart and pull the trigger.

“No!” I screamed.

The bullet hit its mark. Alistair’s body jolted from the impact, then relaxed, limp in the chair.

My mind numb, I scrambled to my feet.

She was heading for the window. She reached for the latch, opened it.

I got up and bounded across the room, determined to stop her. She would pay for what she had done to Alistair.

But I was just within reach of her, ready to grab her, when she spoke. And her words were so shocking that I paused for a split second—just long enough, it turned out, for her to get away.

“Tell Jonathan to take care of our daughter,” she said.

Then, with no hesitation whatsoever, she stepped through the open window and flung herself out into the night.

CHAPTER 31

3:30
P.M.

I pulled Alistair’s limp frame off the chair and onto the bed, untying the ropes that bound him. Then I ripped open his cravat, sending it flying, for I needed to stem the flow of blood.

There was no blood—and yet I had seen the shot strike his chest!

I felt for his pulse—and found it. I tapped his face, first the right cheek, then the left. He stirred, then moaned softly. He was still with us.

“Alistair!” I felt his chest, searching for a wound. “Alistair, can you hear me?”

Groggy, he opened his eyes with effort. “That hurt like the dickens,” he murmured.

“Where?” I undid his shirt to expose his chest—then stopped and whistled. For underneath his crisp white shirt, I saw the brass bullet itself exactly where it had stopped.

And what had caught its trajectory—and prevented it from entering Alistair’s chest—was the most beautiful woven silk vest I had ever seen. Strands of gold intermingled with royal blue and vibrant red in a shimmering pattern.

I could only stare at Alistair.

“Help me sit up,” he said. “My chest feels as though I’ve just lost a boxing match with Philadelphia Jack O’Brien.”

“But you’re alive,” I said quietly.

He coughed, and it was clear the movement sent tremors of pain throughout his body. “I’m alive thanks to the Reverend Casimir Zeglen of Chicago—and the best eight hundred dollars I ever spent.”

“Zeglen?” Something about the name sounded familiar.

“He’s the Polish priest who discovered that he could weave silk in such as way as to create a bulletproof vest. I’d read the article about his invention in the
Brooklyn Eagle.
He had experimented for years with steel shavings and moss, but nothing worked until he got the silk weave right.”

I’d known the technology existed; in fact, bulletproof vests in some form had been around since the early 1800s. But they were far too expensive for anyone on the detective force to make use of.

“It’s so thin.” I felt the material, marveled at it.

“Only an eighth of an inch thick.” Alistair coughed again. “It literally catches the bullet and spreads its force. No wonder my chest is killing me.”

“You bought it because you were worried…”

“After Angus was shot, yes,” he replied.

I nodded. “I have a lot of questions for you. But they can wait.”

For Isabella stood in the doorway—and I watched as her expression of horror turned to immense relief when she realized that Alistair was unharmed. As the room filled with police detectives, I extricated myself, promising to meet up with the Sinclairs later on.

On Thirty-fourth Street, Marie Sanders’s limp corpse still lay at odd angles in a pool of blood on the sidewalk where she’d fallen. A group of policemen attempted to block the sight from horrified passersby as enterprising journalists snapped photographs.

Alistair had always said there was no such thing as a born criminal. They were created, generated by circumstance and environment. I could think of no better example than that of Marie Sanders. For if she had spoken the truth, then Alistair and his three associates had sown the seeds that had turned a young woman into a tortured soul bent on revenge.

*   *   *

Downtown at Mulberry Street headquarters, the commissioner stroked his handlebar mustache while he stared at me in disbelief. “So you’re telling me that a dame called Marie Sanders was responsible for murdering two judges and a Barnard professor, not to mention the attempted murder of Alistair Sinclair.
Not
the anarchists.”

“She personally committed each murder,” I said, “with help from the anarchists. They trained her and provided her support because they believed she was working to further their goals. But she was out for personal revenge.”

“And she used the Swede?”

“She manipulated him, yes. She told him that she needed his help to destroy the capitalist enemy.”

The commissioner only grunted.

I went on to tell him everything, excluding no detail as to how I had discovered everything and emphasizing that many of the anarchists locked up had played no specific role whatsoever.

“Jonathan Strupp in particular,” I said, “played no part in either the murders or the bombing itself.”

“No matter,” the General said with a sweep of his hand. “We’ve reclaimed this city at last—and found sufficient evidence to put away all those who would have destroyed it. As Strupp would have,” he said with a sharp look, “given half the chance. You see, I’m not looking to parse out the details of individual responsibility. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all guilty.”