“Mrs. Blackwell seems to attract men willing to do her kindnesses,” Frank observed, but Potter didn’t seem to understand the reference.
“Now there is the matter of the reward,” Potter said, all business again. “Although you didn’t actually capture the killer, you have identified him and closed the case satisfactorily. That, I believe, entitles you to at least half of the reward. For your trouble, Mr. Malloy,” he added with a condescending smile.
The offer was generous, since most people would have refused to pay anything at all under the circumstances. Frank remembered Brian’s surgery and knew he could use the money. But still…
“I’m afraid I can’t accept any reward for this,” he said, even though the words wanted to lodge in his throat.
“What? Why not?” Potter asked in astonishment.
“Because I’m still not convinced Calvin is the killer.”
“But if he confessed…” Potter gestured helplessly.
“He didn’t confess,” Frank said, wondering if Potter knew more about this than he should.
“His very suicide is a confession,” Potter insisted, fingering his watch fob anxiously. “You said so yourself!”
Frank knew he hadn’st, but he didn’t want to argue. “I have a few more people to question before I can be sure.”
“Honestly, Mr. Malloy, most police detectives are only too happy to solve a case! I can’t believe any of them would want to keep investigating when the killer has already been discovered.”
What he meant, of course, was that most detectives would grasp any solution to a case, correct or not, in order to collect a reward. Frank didn’t like to think he’d ever done such a thing. His standards weren’t high, but at least he’d never knowingly punished an innocent man. Still, he’d sometimes taken the wrong guilty man, a man who perhaps hadn’t committed the crime he was investigating but had committed many others for which he was unpunished. At some point the truly guilty party would be punished for something else. Guilty men were punished, one way or another, and it all worked out in the end.
And once he might not even have looked quite so closely at a case like this. He might not have even noticed that Blackwell’s death was a murder in the first place. No one wanted it to be, least of all those closest to him. Frank had changed a lot, and he knew perfectly well when and why.
Sarah Brandt was ruining him.
“It wouldn’t be right to blame Calvin for his father’s murder if he didn’t do it,” Frank pointed out. “Think of his mother.”
“I don’t know his mother, but I do know Mrs. Blackwell. She is the one whose welfare I must consider. I’m afraid if you insist on pursuing this matter, I must withdraw the reward entirely.”
“You do what you think is right, Mr. Potter,” Frank said without the slightest regret. Virtue might really be its own reward, but Frank was thinking more about Sarah Brandt’s favor, which seemed an even greater reward. “Mrs. Blackwell is very lucky to have you looking out for her interests, Mr. Potter,” he added without the slightest trace of irony. “Will you break the news to her that her husband’s killer has been found?”
Plainly, Potter hadn’t considered this possibility. “I… well, I suppose it’s logical for me to be the one to do so.”
“And does she know who Calvin Brown was?” Frank asked blandly.
Potter seemed confused again, but only for an instant. “Certainly not! Letitia has no idea that Edmund was married before, much less that he had a family.”
“Then how will you explain that his son killed him?”
Potter started to bluster. Frank wasn’t sure if he was angry or merely confounded. “You… I… It really isn’t my place… I mean, perhaps it would be more appropriate for her father to…”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Frank agreed. “I was just going to inform Mr. Symington of Calvin’s death as well. Should I mention to him that it’s his fatherly duty to inform Mrs. Blackwell?”
“But Mr. Symington knows nothing of this either,” he protested.
“I believe you’re mistaken, Mr. Potter. You see, Calvin met with Mr. Symington when he was unable to get in to see his father. Mr. Symington knows everything.”
Potter had apparently been struck speechless. After a few moments of moving his mouth in vain, he finally found his tongue. “Well, in that case, it seems only right that Mr. Symington… I mean, he is her father, after all. He would be the most sensitive and… perhaps he won’t have to explain the relationship at all. We could just tell her that a young man killed Edmund. I could say he’d come to rob the house or something, and Edmund surprised him. That’s really all she needs to know, after all. Yes, that’s what I could do. And it really is my place to tell her, after all.” He seemed very pleased at his decision.
“I’m sure you and Mr. Symington will do the right thing,” Frank said, not sure at all. But at least Potter hadn’t said anything to give Frank second thoughts about his being the killer. Potter was merely a fool, and a besotted one at that, but being a fool wasn’t against the law. Yet.
FRANK HADN’T GIVEN any thought to how difficult it might be to locate Maurice Symington. He did, after all, have his main residence in Westchester County, but Frank was fairly certain he would be staying close to his daughter until her husband’s killer was caught. At least that’s what Frank would have done, in Symington’s place. Potter had told him Symington was probably staying at his gentleman’s club, one of many in the city that catered to the needs of wealthy businessmen, but he wasn’t there when Frank went to the place. They suggested looking for him at one of the businesses that he owned. Finally, Frank realized he could telephone around and see if the man was anywhere about. He coerced the club steward into allowing him to use their telephone, and after half an hour of telephoning and waiting and shouting into the speaker to make himself heard, he discovered that Symington was at his home in the country but was expected back tomorrow.
That left Mr. Fong.
As he approached the house that Letitia Blackwell had identified as the opium den, Frank realized that even a respectable lady like Sarah Brandt would not have hesitated to enter such a place. It looked exactly like the rest of the respectable dwellings on the street, although Frank knew perfectly well that they, too, might not be dwellings at all, at least in the usual sense. The upper-class brothels prided themselves on their prime locations and elegant furnishings. The neighbors might not like the comings and goings at all hours, but if the business paid its protection money to the police, it could operate for years unmolested, even in the best neighborhoods.
Still, Frank was beginning to wonder if Letitia Blackwell had misled him with a false address until the beautifully carved front door was opened by a burly man with slightly Oriental features.
He looked Frank over and judged him in an instant as unworthy of his notice. “Who are you?” he asked.
Frank noted that he was well dressed, if not well mannered, in a hand-tailored suit with a diamond stud in his tie.
“Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy of the New York City police,” Frank said pleasantly, showing his badge.
“You got no business here. We pay our protection to the captain every week. You got any complaints, you take them to him.”
“How do you know I just don’t want to make a purchase?” Frank asked, still pleasant.
The fellow looked him over and shook his head. “Not likely.”
“Well, then, how about if I tell you I want to speak to Mr. Fong?”
“I’m Mr. Fong,” the fellow said belligerently.
Frank shook his head, not fooled. “The Mr. Fong who owns the place.”
“He ain’t here.”
“I’ll wait, then. And maybe I’ll take a look around while I’m waiting, see who’s here and what they’re doing.”
“You can’t come in unless I let you, and besides, nobody’s doing nothing illegal,” the fellow protested.