The Edge of Dreams (28 page)

It seemed as if I had an immediate affirmation of my decision, because right after I had made it, we had another visitor. It was Dr. Werner, standing on my doorstep in his immaculate black suit and tall black hat, monocle in his eye. “Mrs. Sullivan.” A nod and click of the heels punctuated this. “I am passing through the area so I come to deliver the mixture I had promised. It should help ease the headaches and help you sleep.”

“You’re very kind, Doctor,” I said. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”

He held up a hand. “Consider it a gift from me. I am glad to help. Take it right before bedtime, as it will make you sleepy.”

I took the bottle from him. “My friends are also grateful that you saw Mabel Hamilton,” I said. “It now seems that she witnessed something so shocking that she had blocked it from her conscious mind.” I wasn’t sure how much of this Daniel would want me to reveal, and his findings had also not yet been confirmed.

“This young lady must be treated with the utmost delicacy,” Dr. Werner said slowly, deliberately. “Her memory must not be forced, do you understand? She must be given time to heal.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to write a note to that effect, that her aunt can show to the police. The young officer in charge of the case has been threatening to lock her up to make her remember.”

“But that is unthinkable. Barbaric,” he said. “It must not be allowed. The child can only heal in peace and serenity. Away from this place. I recommend a fine clinic in Switzerland. I could personally supervise her treatment there. But her family, they do not like to send her away. I fear for her, Mrs. Sullivan. And I will be happy to report my findings and recommendations to your ignorant police.” Then he clicked his heels again in that very Germanic way. “I have taken enough of your time. I bid you adieu.” And he strode off.

I went inside and put the bottle carefully on the mantel in my bedroom, out of the reach of small hands. Now that I had it, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to take it. If it made me too sleepy, would I hear Liam if he woke and cried in the middle of the night? I decided to take only a fraction of the dose tonight and see what effect it had.

Twenty-five

I was conscious of dreaming, but this time they were pleasant dreams. I was floating in a sea of colors, and I was warm and I could fly. I came to slowly, like a diver coming to the surface from deep water, as I felt myself being shaken.

“Molly, are you all right?” Daniel’s voice was demanding from far away.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, forcing my eyes open.

“No, but it’s past eight o’clock. You never sleep this late, and Liam had been crying for you. My mother is feeding him breakfast. She told me to let you sleep, but I wasn’t sure…”

“I took a little of the medicine Dr. Werner prescribed for my headaches,” I said. “I had lovely dreams. Perhaps I needed to catch up on a good sleep.”

“Perhaps you did.” He patted my shoulder. “I must be off now.”

I sat up, feeling the world sway uneasily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t make your breakfast.”

“It’s all right. My mother made me oatmeal, eggs, and ham so I’m well fortified. I’ll see you later, then.”

I still felt strange and disconnected as I washed and came downstairs. Did I want a medicine that put me so soundly to sleep, albeit to pleasant dreams instead of nightmares? I decided I’d rather have the headaches. I slapped cold water on my face and told myself to buck up, as I had big plans for today. Mother Sullivan looked concerned and disapproving when I told her I had things to do and asked if she could watch Liam for me.

“Off gallivanting again? You’ve been told to rest, my girl.”

“I know, but there are things I’ve been putting off that really must be done.”

“Then let me take care of them for you,” she said.

I shook my head. “I’m afraid you can’t. There are some people I have to visit.”

“Part of Daniel’s work again?” she said. “Has he actually asked for your help, or will he see it as interference?”

“It’s just a few small details I might be able to find for him,” I said. “He really has so much on his plate at the moment.”

“If you think you’re up to it, and he’ll appreciate your—” she had been about to say “interference,” I’m sure, but she swallowed back the word and said “help” instead. And she turned her back on me.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I was up to it, but I gave Liam a big kiss, hugged Bridie, and smiled in a confident manner as I went to find my hat and set off. My plan was to visit Simon Grossman’s family. And if I still had energy after that, I’d go to see the judge.

I had just reached the end of Patchin Place and was about to hurl myself into the busy stream of pedestrians around the Jefferson Market when someone called my name, and I saw a boy forcing his way through the crowd, running toward me. It was Thomas, Nuala’s son.

“Miss Molly,” he called and came to a halt beside me, panting as if he’d run a long way. “I’m glad I caught you.”

“I’m glad too, Thomas. Have you found out anything for me?”

“I have,” he said. “The kids who sweep the crossings on the Bowery not far from Mulberry said that a skinny little runt had been boasting that some guy gave him a whole dollar to deliver a letter. So I found the kid and he took a bit of persuading…” he gave me a gap-toothed grin, “but I told him he’d be in trouble from my brother, who’s a Junior Eastman, if he didn’t talk. So he looked scared then, and said it was a young guy, skinny, tall, and dressed like he could be a student. He said he didn’t believe the guy was the sort who’d part with a whole dollar and he thought the bill might be fake, but then the guy gave him four quarters.”

“Did he say how he spoke? Where he might have come from?”

“He said he spoke real refined. That’s why he thought he was a student, ’cos it ain’t too far from the university where the guy met him.”

“A student,” I said. “I see. Anything else you can tell me about him?”

“He said the guy had good boots. He was shabby looking, but his boots were good. And he seemed nervous and wanting to be away from there.”

I reached into my purse and took out a dollar bill. “This one is real, I promise you, Thomas,” I said. “You did good work. Thank you.”

“Anytime, Miss Molly,” he said. “If you want any errands run, just ask me.”

I couldn’t think of anything else he might do for me, but I promised I’d call on him if I was in need. I watched him swagger off with a whole dollar in his pocket. Then I continued on my way to Washington Square. Was it significant that the person who had paid the urchin to deliver a note had looked like a student? Perhaps there was a connection to the university after all. Then I had a thought that pricked my balloon of optimism. The man Daniel was seeking was clever and cocky. The student had probably only been one in a chain of delivery boys. The writer of the note had probably paid the student to deliver it. The student had gotten cold feet as he approached police headquarters and decided to pay a street child to do his dirty work instead. I was no nearer to the truth.

I stood looking across Washington Square, where students stood in clusters or headed to class, books tucked earnestly under their arms, and my gaze fell onto Fritz’s café. The person who paid a street boy to deliver the note to police headquarters had been young, and skinny, and looked like a student. A student—responsible for such diverse crimes? It didn’t make sense. I toyed with what I had suggested before, that some kind of secret society, a modern-day Hellfire Club, was responsible for the killings. Somehow I couldn’t make myself believe it. Then I decided on a more plausible explanation. Students are always hard up. Some, like Simon Grossman, have run up gambling debts they can’t tell their parents about. Maybe there was a puppet master responsible for these crimes, paying a student, or students, to do his bidding. And Simon, essentially honorable, had refused and threatened to go to the police, and had been silenced with cyanide.

I looked up as spatters of rain fell onto me. I realized I should have brought a brolly with me, but I wasn’t going to waste time going home now. I was energized by the thought of having something positive to tell Daniel. And I’d also mention my earlier visit to Fritz’s café, where it was hinted that Simon had run afoul of Italians with his gambling debts.

So I ignored the threat of rain and was passing the fire station when I heard someone calling me. It was Abe, one of the firemen.

“You were the lady who asked me about the fire on Eleventh Street,” he said. “You asked if there was anything strange or unusual. Well, I thought about it, and I remembered something. The little girl had something in her hand when I saw her carried away.”

“What sort of something?” I asked.

“Paper,” he said. “A piece of paper.”

“And what happened to it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Don’t know. The whole roof fell in just about then and I had no time to think.”

My heart beat faster. Was it possible there had been a note after all, clutched in the sleeping girl’s hand? I thanked him, and instead of going to the El station I walked up Sixth Avenue to Eleventh Street. The skeleton of Mabel’s burned house was a sorry sight. Two blackened box trees outside what had once been front steps leading to a front door. The rest was little more than a pile of rubble. I tried to pick my way around, but realized this was too much for me. I couldn’t risk falling again in my present condition. But I would tell Daniel when I saw him that there might, indeed, have been a note.

So I resumed my former mission and went across to catch the Third Avenue El up to Thirty-second Street, where Simon Grossman had lived with his parents. It was in the respectable Murray Hill neighborhood and the house itself was a pleasant brownstone, like the others in the block, but was distinguished by having a brass plate beside the door, advertising
L. Grossman, Physician
.

Now I hesitated. If I went up the front steps and knocked at the front door, presumably it would be answered by the doctor’s receptionist, and I’d have to make up an excuse for why I had come. I tried to think of an illness I could feign. Then suddenly I realized I couldn’t do this. When I had been a detective I had been a single woman, alone in the city and living by my wits. Now I was married with a child of my own. Simon had been the apple of his father’s eye. I simply couldn’t question Dr. Grossman about who might have wanted to see him dead. I had no right to open old wounds. I could picture all too well how I would feel if anything terrible had happened to Liam and some inquisitive female came to quiz me about it. I was sure Daniel would have done a thorough job. Surely he’d found out about Simon’s gambling debts and the Italian connection, and he would have already looked into them. But as I’d said to the young men in the café, dropping cyanide into a coffee cup was not their mode of operation. A knife between the ribs as Simon walked home late at night would do the job efficiently, with less risk of being caught. My second theory of a puppet master, making students do his dirty work, seemed more plausible. And I was certain Simon’s parents would know nothing about that.

Having come this far, I really didn’t want to walk away empty-handed. If there was any hint of gossip, the servants would know of it, and I’d found it was usually easier to get servants to talk. I went around the corner to see if there was a servant’s entrance at the back of the house, but could find no other way in. So I was forced to walk away. In truth I was rather disgusted with myself that I had not been able to face Simon’s parents, or even to have questioned a servant. I was becoming soft and sentimental since I’d had a child. I tried to focus my thoughts on the next person on the list. The judge’s wife, poisoned with arsenic. And I realized that I lacked the gumption to go there either. What excuse could I give to a judge to get him to talk about his wife’s death? Men in his position were skilled at sniffing out falsehoods and impostors. He’d see through any lame excuse in a minute, and I could hardly say that I was secretly helping the police to solve his wife’s murder. Judges have connections, and if he complained about me to the commissioner, or another of Daniel’s superiors, my husband would be in more trouble.

So the next person I could possibly question was Terrence Daughtery, the son of the woman who had been electrocuted in her bathtub. That involved a crosstown jitney, still horse-drawn and moving at a snail’s pace. I realized it was quite probable he’d be at work at this hour and I’d be wasting my time, but when I tapped on the door of the unassuming house in Chelsea it was answered by a painfully thin man, pasty-faced and with soulful dark eyes, probably in his thirties or early forties. His hair was already receding, and he was wearing a black mourning suit that made him look even paler. He glanced at me warily.

“Can I help you?” he asked. He had a high, clipped, almost effeminate voice.

I decided to use the magazine ploy again. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Daughtery,” I said. “My name is Mrs. Murphy. I work for a women’s magazine, and I’ve been asked to write a piece on the dangers of the modern age, especially the introduction of electricity into the home. I understand that you have recently experienced a tragedy brought about by electricity. I wondered if you’d share your feelings with our readers, and perhaps be able to warn them.”

He continued to stare, trying to size me up. “My feelings?” he said with bitterness in his voice. “What do you imagine my feelings are? I’ve lost the best mother in the world. She sacrificed everything to give me a good education. She took care of me through a long illness. And to die in this way … I still can’t get over the unfairness of it.”

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I can understand how painful it must be to talk about it. But if we can make one other family aware of the dangers of these newfangled household appliances, then at least some small good will come out if this tragedy, won’t it?”

“I’m not sure that we can blame the lamp or electricity,” he said. He looked up and down the street, then said, “I suppose you’d better come in. Mother would not have approved of chatting on the doorstep like common servants.”