Mrs. Giddings blinked in confusion. “What?”
“What night did your son get paid and your husband stay at home?”
“The night that woman was killed,” she said with a trace of impatience.
“And which night of the week was that?” he pressed, testing her since her answers had come too easily.
She took a moment to consider. “Tuesday,” she said finally.
“Your son gets paid on Tuesday?”
If he’d thought to catch her in a lie, he was disappointed. She was either a good liar or was telling the truth. “Harold does day labor. Sometimes he gets paid at the end of the day and must get another job the next morning.”
Frank nodded. He could check on what the son had been doing that day, but it might not be easy. The people he was working for could be hard to find, since they probably would have moved on to new jobs by now. He might not even know their names, and even if he did and Frank could find them, they might not remember him. In any case, they’d have no idea whether Harold or his father had been at home that night or not.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if I can hurry my husband along,” she said. “I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary,” she added with more than a trace of malice.
Frank didn’t take offense, however. He’d been insulted by far more talented people than Mrs. Giddings. He took a seat on the worn sofa to wait, and finally, he was rewarded by the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hallway.
Frank literally winced at the sight of Gilbert Giddings. The man looked as if he’d be better off dead. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his face ashen. He held himself closely, as if he were extremely old and feeble-or were afraid of jarring his aching head. He wore a collarless shirt, wrinkled trousers, and carpet slippers. His hair was uncombed and his face unshaven.
“Good morning,” Frank said more loudly than necessary.
Giddings grabbed his head with both hands and groaned. This was going to be even easier than he’d hoped.
“Better have a seat, Giddings,” Frank suggested in a more moderate tone. “I’ve got a few questions to ask you.”
“I’ve already told you all I know,” Giddings said in a hoarse whisper as he shuffled to a chair and carefully lowered himself into it.
“Where were you the night Anna Blake was killed?” Frank asked, getting up from his seat and walking over to where Giddings sat. Standing over someone, even if they were in fine fettle, was always a good tactic when interrogating them.
“What did my wife say?” Giddings asked, looking up through squinted eyes.
“Don’t you know where you were?” Frank asked in amazement. “Or are you two trying to get your stories straight?”
“No, I-” Giddings started to say, but he’d forgotten to moderate his tone, and he had to grab his head again. “She told me I was home but…”
“But what?” Frank asked, making as if to grab Giddings by the shirt front.
He cringed away, as terrified of being manhandled as he was of loud noises. “Please, don’t hurt me,” he begged. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!”
“Where were you the night Anna Blake was killed?” he repeated with far less patience.
“I don’t know,” Giddings whined. “I don’t remember!”
“What do you mean, you don’t remember? It was only a week ago.”
“I know, but I… sometimes, I forget things.”
“What kind of things?” Frank asked skeptically.
“Things that happen when I’m drunk,” Giddings admitted as tears filled his eyes. “She drove me to this. I can’t help myself!”
“Your wife?” Frank guessed.
“No,” Giddings said, starting to shake his head vehemently but stopping abruptly when he realized how much pain that would cause him. “No,” he repeated more softly, hands bracing his head again. “Anna did it. She was never satisfied. She said she’d go to my wife and my employer and ruin me! I had no choice! So I borrowed the money from a couple of the estates our firm handles. I was going to pay it back, just as soon as I…”
“As soon as you what?” Frank asked curiously when he hesitated. “As soon as you killed Anna?”
“No!” Giddings said too loudly and winced at the pain. “I didn’t kill her,” he added softly.
“I thought you couldn’t remember what happened that night,” Frank reminded him.
“I don’t. I mean, I don’t know.” Giddings blubbered, awash in self-pity. “I don’t know anything anymore.”
“I guess that means you also don’t know if your wife and son were home that night, either,” Frank said.
Even through his haze of pain, Giddings heard the implication. “My wife and son had nothing to do with this. How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“They had a very good reason to want Anna Blake out of the way,” Frank pointed out. “She’d taken everything they had and ruined you. They both must have hated her.”
“That doesn’t mean they killed her!” Giddings protested in a horrified whisper. “Harold is only a boy and my wife could never harm another human being!”
Frank figured his wife was very close to harming Gilbert very seriously if he didn’t sober up and start taking responsibility for his family again. That was only an opinion, however, and try as he might, he had a difficult time imagining a lady like Mrs. Giddings stealing through the darkened city streets with a knife concealed in the folds of her cloak so she could murder her husband’s mistress. Women hardly ever killed with knives except in the heat of passion or self-defense. They didn’t like making a mess. And Anna Blake wasn’t killed in the heat of passion or self-defense, as far as Frank could determine, certainly not if her killer had arranged to meet her for just the purpose of killing her.
“Would your wife lie to protect you, Giddings?” Frank asked.
He looked up with his rheumy eyes and frowned. “I have no idea.”
“Would she lie to protect your son?” Frank asked.
Giddings face drained of what little color was left. “No,” he said, his eyes filled with horror.
Frank didn’t think he was answering the question.
10
SARAH MADE HER WAY QUICKLY DOWN BANK STREET, clutching her umbrella against the rains that had returned and trying not to look at the Ellsworths’ front porch. Not seeing Mrs. Ellsworth there, waiting to speak a cheery word and commiserate with her, was too depressing after the day she’d had. At least the baby she had delivered today had been born healthy. This morning, upon returning home from her parents’ home where she’d spent the night, she’d been trying to decide what she could do that would help exonerate Nelson Ellsworth when an elderly gentleman had come to her door. He’d begged her to come immediately.
His granddaughter was giving birth, he told her, and indeed she was, even though she was only thirteen and hardly more than a baby herself. The girl was, in fact, his great-granddaughter, the illegitimate child of his granddaughter who’d died giving birth to her. He and his wife had taken the child to raise, since their daughter had long since deserted the family. They’d hoped to be able to keep this girl-child from the fates of her mother and grand-mother, but she’d been seduced-or raped, the difference was slight for a girl so young-by some older boys in the neighborhood. Even the girl herself had no idea which of them had fathered the child. In spite of all odds, the baby and the mother appeared to be doing well, however, and the baby was a boy. If nothing else, he’d never give birth to a child before even reaching maturity. Of course, he might die of disease or neglect before reaching maturity, too. Sarah couldn’t allow herself to think of such things, though. If she did, she’d give up completely.
She’d purchased a copy of the Evening World from a newsboy on Fifth Avenue, but she hadn’t looked at it yet. If Webster Prescott had written another story about Anna and Nelson, she didn’t want to discover it until she was sitting down in the privacy of her own home.