“A dreadful business, to be sure,” he said, although his tone betrayed no hint of grief or even regret. “But I can’t imagine why you’ve come here. How do you suppose I can aid your investigation?”
He hadn’t asked Frank to sit down-a deliberate omission, Frank was sure-but Frank ostentatiously seated himself in one of the chairs facing the desk. They were leather and remarkably comfortable. He waited for Mattingly’s frown of annoyance before saying, “I’m looking for Hamilton Fisher. My sources say he works for you.”
Frank had been hoping for fear, or at least surprise, but he got only more anger. Mattingly’s thin lips whitened and his dark eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard of this man. I’m afraid your sources are mistaken. If that is what you came for, you wasted your time and mine. Now if you will excuse me, Mr. Malloy, I’m expecting a client momentarily.”
Frank didn’t move. “That’s funny, because my sources said that Fisher works for you as a sort of private detective. I guess even a high-priced lawyer like yourself needs to do some snooping every now and then. A fellow like this Fisher could come in real handy.”
“I told you, Detective Sergeant, I never-”
“Sure, whatever you say, but I just think it’s kind of funny that somebody who people say works for you was living in the same boardinghouse as Miss VanDamm and that he disappeared the same night she got herself killed. Now if I was of a suspicious nature, I might think this Fisher had something to do with her death or at least that he knows something the police might find interesting.”
Mattingly was used to disguising his true feelings, although a fury such as he was experiencing at the moment was impossible to completely conceal. He had the sense not to succumb to it, however, much to Frank’s disappointment. He took some time to gather himself, folding his knobby-fingered hands carefully on the desk in front of him. He studied the liver spots of the backs of those hands for a long moment, as if seeking some guidance there. When he looked up, he was in complete control of himself.
“Detective Sergeant, I have already told you, I am not acquainted with the gentleman you are seeking. I must ask you again-”
“Did you know Alicia VanDamm?”
For an instant, Mattingly almost lost his patience. “I know her entire family. Everyone knows the VanDamms.”
Probably, he meant, “Everyone who is anyone knows the VanDamms.” Frank wouldn’t qualify, of course.
“Do you know the VanDamms socially or professionally?”
“I can’t believe that is any of your business,” Mattingly said with the confidence of one powerful enough that he needn’t fear the police.
“And I can’t believe you don’t want to help me find out who killed Alicia VanDamm. The girl was strangled, Mr. Mattingly, and I’m trying to find and punish the brute who did it, and here you are, treating me like I’m the third cop to come in here asking you to buy tickets to the policeman’s ball.”
Frank got the impression that Mattingly wanted to wrap those long, bony fingers around his neck and choke him the way somebody had choked Alicia VanDamm. He only got that impression from his sixth sense, however, since Mattingly was doing his very best not to betray any emotion whatever. Finally, however, he allowed himself a bit more impatience.
“Really, Detective Sergeant, I think you are overstating the case. If I am short with you, it’s because you are wasting my time as well as your own, as I have already pointed out. You come in here asking me about a man I never heard of and accusing me of… well, accusing me of heaven knows what, and then you accuse me of withholding information that I do not have. I believe I have every reason to be annoyed with you, particularly when I have already asked you to leave. Don’t think I won’t mention this to your superiors.”
Oh, yes, Frank thought, please be sure to tell Commissioner Roosevelt just exactly how annoyed you are with me. Aloud, he said, “Thanks for your help, Mr. Mattingly. I’ll be sure to mention your assistance to Mr. VanDamm.”
“Do that,” he countered, calling Frank’s bluff beautifully. “And don’t be surprised if he has already heard about it from me.”
THE MAID BLINKED at Sarah in surprise. “Your mother?” she echoed in confusion. Perhaps she thought Sarah was daughter to one of the servants.
“Mrs. Decker is my mother,” she explained with a small smile.
For a moment, she was afraid the girl was going to close the door in her face in retaliation for telling such a bold-faced lie, but apparently she thought better of that impulse.
“I… I’ll have to see if she’s at home,” she said finally, and after another moment of thought, she invited Sarah inside to wait.
Although she had worn her best dress for the visit to the VanDamm’s today, Sarah knew she still did not meet the standards society had set for being fashionably attired. These days her clothing tended toward the practical rather than the stylish, and she might even, if she allowed herself to admit it, be a bit shabby in the bargain. If she was going to start moving in the more exalted social circles, as she had been these past few days, she would have to start paying some attention to her wardrobe again.
The girl returned almost immediately, and now her eyes were wide in her small face, and her manner had changed from hesitant to ingratiating. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Miss Decker, but I’m new, and I didn’t know. Mrs. Decker asks will you wait in the morning room until she comes down?”
Sarah released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as relief flooded through her. Although she hadn’t really expected to be turned away, the possibility had been there all the same. Her parents had been just as angry as she when she’d stormed out of their life after Tom’s death. But apparently, the years had mellowed them, too. Or at least the years had mellowed her mother.
Sarah was only too glad to wait. This wasn’t her mother’s usual afternoon “at home,” the time when she formally received visitors, so she wouldn’t be dressed properly. She would also never allow Sarah to see her for the first time in three years looking less than her best, so a delay was inevitable.
The morning room was the room her mother used for her private pursuits, writing letters, reading, managing the household. More simply furnished than the formal rooms where visitors were usually received, it had a comfortable, homey feel to it. Plainly, her mother wanted their first visit in three years to be unhampered by the rigid social conventions that ruled the rest of their lives.
The room smelled faintly of her mother’s perfume, the light floral scent she had used as long as Sarah could remember, and the aroma brought back bittersweet memories of happier times.
How could she have allowed so many years to pass without seeing her own mother? The argument that had separated them had seemed so very important at the time, but now, recalling the loving woman who had raised her, Sarah could only feel regret that she had been so stubborn. In punishing her parents, she had also punished herself by depriving herself of the comfort only a mother could give.
Restless with her memories, Sarah strolled around the room, examining everything. She recognized some of the pieces from the house on Washington Square where she had grown up. The desk was the same one her mother had always used. Sarah could remember darting between its graceful, curving legs as a child, trying to capture her mother’s attention.
On the desktop was a half-written note in her mother’s careful hand, thanking someone for a dinner party. The table in front of the window was new, but Sarah recognized the vase on it. Her mother had bought it at a market in Egypt on one of her trips abroad. A glass-fronted curio cabinet held other treasures, some of which Sarah remembered and others that were new. She was still studying them, remembering the stories behind them, when the door opened and her mother rushed into the room.