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.

“Then they won’t mind if I look around, will they?”

“Michael, what’s going on?” an irritated voice called.

“Some copper says he needs to see you,” the fellow who claimed to be Mr. Fong called back. He stepped aside so a much smaller man could take his place at the door.

This man was clearly Chinese. He wore a blue silk robe with dragons all over it, and he kept his arms crossed and his hands tucked into the voluminous sleeves. His raven-black hair was long and braided down his back. He looked Frank over shrewdly with his dark, narrow eyes.

“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked with far more courtesy than the first fellow had shown.

“Are you Mr. Fong, the one who owns this place?” he asked.

“Yes, I am, Mister…?”

“Malloy,” Frank said. “Detective Sergeant Malloy. I need to speak with you. Privately. About one of your customers.”

“I am sure if you speak to the captain, he will explain to you that we pay our protection directly to him. If you have any problems-”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with your arrangement with the captain,” Frank said, growing impatient. “Look, a man’s been murdered, and somebody we think might’ve done it is claiming to have been here when the man was killed. I’d like to come in peacefully and discuss this with you, unless you’d prefer that I come back with some other officers to help me force my way inside. Michael there looks like he’d welcome a fight.”

Mr. Fong’s eyes glinted as he smiled politely. “My son is very fond of fights, but I am not. Please come in.”

As he did, Frank tried to see some resemblance between Mr. Fong and the younger Mr. Fong, who was standing nearby and looking sulky. Michael was nearly twice the size of his father, and he wore his jet-black hair cut short, Western style. His tailored clothes were distinctly American. Except for the sallowness of his complexion and the distinctive slant of his eyes, he might have passed for the proprietor of a prosperous Irish bar.