Crimson Snow (26 page)

“It means he's up to something shady, or I'm a Rooshian.”

“But where is the other man, the one who was with him?”

“Don't know. Sorry, me girl. Lost him in all the confusion.

And it looks like the police lost the fellow I set them on, too.” For several policemen were walking back to the church, shaking their heads.

“It cannot be helped.” She was discouraged, and furious with the lout whose flash powder had cost her the best opportunity she'd seen yet to learn something useful. Slowly she made her way with the Malloys out of the church. The crowd was dispersing, climbing into the carriages that were waiting in line.

Hilda surveyed them. “I think perhaps everyone is going to the cemetery now. I had not planned to go, but I want to talk to Miss Jacobs's friends.”

“But how would we get there?” asked Mrs. Malloy gently.“We know no one here, and we have no carriage, remember?” “A cab?” said Hilda doubtfully.

“My dear.” Mrs. Malloy gestured. The few cabs available had been snapped up almost immediately and were now filled to capacity and waiting in line with the other carriages. The hearse began to move off, plumed horses snorting and dancing a little in the cold, and the procession slowly followed. The bystanders were hurrying away. The rain began to come down in earnest.

Hilda and the Malloys opened their black umbrellas and began to walk to the train station.

It was after five when they arrived back in South Bend, and raining harder than ever. Fortunately there was a telephone at the train station. Mr. Malloy called home, and soon his coachman arrived with a closed carriage. Hilda, whose teeth had begun to chatter, huddled gratefully under the fur rug. “Hot tea, the minute we get home,” said Mrs. Malloy, looking at Hilda with concern.

The rain was beginning to freeze by the time they reached the Malloy home. They hurried inside, took off their wet coats, and made for the roaring fire in the front parlor.

And there, sitting comfortably with a cup of tea in his hand, was Patrick.

He rose hastily as the women came into the room. “Aunt Molly, I hope you don't mind. I came with news, but you weren't home, so Riggs let me come in and get warm. I've only been here half an hour or so.”

“My dear boy, you're welcome any time, of course. Hilda, ring for more tea if you would. Patrick, dear, if you're warm enough let Hilda sit there in front of the fire. She's chilled through. What is your news?”

Patrick settled Hilda in the chair nearest the fire with a cushion at her back. He took one of Aunt Molly's shawls from a nearby chair and draped it across her shoulders. “Are you warm enough, darlin' girl?” he asked anxiously.

“I will be warm soon,” she said impatiently. “Do not fuss. Tell us your news.”

“Well, it's simple enough. I found Barnes.”

“You mean you found where the scoundrel was hiding?”

Riggs entered with tea and cookies, unasked. There was a decanter on the tray as well.

“Thank you, Riggs.” Mrs. Malloy smiled at him. “You read my mind.”

“The weather is most inclement, madam. Would madam wish to put dinner back, since you are having tea now?”

“Half an hour, perhaps. And Mr. Patrick will be joining us.” She poured out the tea, adding to Mr. Malloy's a dollop of whatever was in the decanter. “Now, Patrick, go on. You say you found Barnes hiding somewhere?”

“Not exactly. That is, I did find his hiding place. He didn't dare go back to his old roomin' house, of course, the one where he was stayin' before he got took on as a live-in, so he'd holed up in an empty house near the Studebaker warehouses. One of those they're gonna tear down to build the new automobile paint shop?”

Hilda nodded. She knew the area. “And you found him there? What did you do?”

“I found him, all right. And I walked straight back to the police station.”

“But Patrick! We talked about that. There is nothing he can be arrested for unless Colonel George tells the police he stole the papers, and—”

“I didn't ask the police to arrest him. He didn't need to be arrested. He was dead.”

Mrs. Malloy stood and poured some of the stuff in the decanter into Hilda's cup. “Get that right down, now.”

Hilda took a healthy sip and choked. “What is it?”

“Brandy. It's good for shock. You were as white as that napkin. Go on, drink it.”

She made a face. “Thank you, but—”

“It burns a bit, yes, and the taste is odd until you're used to it. Drink it right down.”

Shuddering, Hilda drank it. Mrs. Malloy studied her for a moment and then sat back down. “That's better. I didn't want you fainting on me, child. Now go on, Patrick. You found the man dead. Since you went for the police I assume he did not die of exposure.”

“No.” He hesitated, looking at Hilda for a moment, but the color had come back to her face. “Someone killed him, with a blow to the head. And I'm mighty glad that Hilda's been with you folks, Aunt Molly, because the first thing the police wanted to know was who he was and where he worked, and when I told them, the first person they thought of was Hilda.”

“Me! But I was afraid of him, not—”

“I know. But you know how the police are. And when the words Tippecanoe Place and murder get together, you know who's going to come to their minds.”

“Well, that's not a question now,” said Uncle Dan impatiently. “Hilda hasn't been out of our sight since yesterday afternoon, and the man was alive enough then. At least, I suppose he was. Do they have an idea when he died?”

“Don't know. He was cold when I found him, but he'd have cooled off fast in that old house with no heat.”

“However did you find him in such an out-of-the-way place, Patrick?” asked Aunt Molly. She wanted to move the conversation away from the condition of a dead body.

“Thought where I'd go if I was on the run,” said Patrick. “Knew he wouldn't go back to his roomin' house if he could help it, and they might not have kept his room for him anyway. He thought he'd be at Tippecanoe Place for weeks. He could've lit out, caught a train for somewhere, but if he did there was nothin' I could do about it. Anyway, if he was gone I didn't care. It was what he might do to Hilda if he was still in town that sent me after him. Besides, I was thinkin' he'd be wantin' to do somethin' with the papers he stole, and that'd almost have to be in South Bend. Maybe he took care of that yesterday when he first ran off, but maybe not.

“So I thought to myself, if I was him and had to lie low for a while, I'd have to have shelter somewhere. It's January. I wouldn't go to my friends, or anywhere I'd be expected to be. So then I thought of those old houses. Nobody lives close to them, and the Studebaker shops are far enough away that nobody much would be around. A man could break up some wood, doorframes and floorboards and that, and make a fire if he got too perishin' cold.”

“Had he done that?” asked Hilda. “You said he was very cold. And what about food?”

“No sign of a fire that I saw, but I didn't stop to take a tour of the house. Don't know if there was any food. He'd have had to steal it, if there was. Couldn't take the risk of goin' to a store, even if he'd had money. Somebody might see him.”

“I do not understand any of it,” said Hilda flatly. “I do not understand why he took those papers. I do not understand why he ran away. He could have put the papers back and said I was lying. I do not understand why he was killed. Oh! I have thought of something, Patrick. Did he still have the papers he stole?”

“If he did, they weren't on him. I went back with the police and watched while they turned out his pockets. There was nothin' in them except a couple of handkerchiefs and a penknife. Not even a billfold.”

“Ahem.” Riggs had entered the room on silent feet. “Dinner is served, madam.”

They dined well. Hilda wished she had removed her corset and changed clothes, there was so much good food. She always ate well, of course. Mrs. Sullivan was an excellent cook, and the servants were never stinted in the Studebaker household. But somehow food had a special savor when one could eat it at leisure, off expensive china in a luxurious room.

There was no conversation of murders and mysteries during the meal. Mrs. Malloy wouldn't have it, and Mrs. Malloy's word was law. But Hilda thought of little else. What had Mr. Barnes been doing, and why was he killed? Who was that man who ran away from the funeral? Who was the mysterious “Mr. Perkins”? Where was Nelka Chudzik? And above all, who killed Miss Jacobs?

After dinner they returned to the parlor. Hilda was restless. It had been a busy day in some ways, but she had spent a great deal of time sitting. She was accustomed to being on her feet all day. She couldn't seem to settle down.

Perhaps Mrs. Malloy noticed her fidgeting. At any rate, she smiled and said, “Now, Hilda. Patrick has told you we wanted you to come to see us on Sunday to discuss this matter of a house.”

 Hilda's restlessness turned instantly to excitement. Patrick, sitting in the next chair, reached over and took her hand.

“Since you're both here now, Mr. Malloy and I thought we could talk a little, and perhaps on Sunday we could look at one house he had in mind. It isn't new, but it's quite nice and very clean, and big enough for a family when they come along. Had you been thinking of what you wanted, either of you?”

So they talked about houses, the advantages of different locations, the ideal size, the modern conveniences a house should have, until Hilda's head spun. She had never considered these matters until the past few days. She didn't know what she wanted.

Then they talked about servants, and here Hilda had definite opinions. “I do not know how much money we will have, Aunt Molly, or how many servants we will need, but I want to pay our servants enough that they can live decently. And I do not want to have children working for me. Yesterday I met the maid at Mrs. Schmidt's house. She is a nice Irish girl named Eileen O'Hara, and I could see that she works very hard. She is twelve, and she has never been to school. It is not right!”

“No, it isn't,” said Aunt Molly gently. “But consider this, Hilda. If Eileen O'Hara were not working and bringing money home, her whole family would suffer. Everyone in your family works, and how old is your brother Erik?”

“Thirteen. But he works only after school. Mama will not let him take a day job, except in summer, until he has his education. And he
likes
his job.”

“That is fortunate, and your mother's desire to educate her family is admirable. Your family can afford to do that, because everyone makes enough money. What would happen if your brother Sven were unable to work, or your mother?”

“But—but—oh, what you are saying is true, but children should not have to work, not so hard as some of them do!”

“There's harder work than bein' a maid, darlin',” said Patrick.

“There's the mills in some towns, where the kids work mornin' to night. And the coal mines, where they get diseases and die when they're still little.”

“And there are the houses we talked about earlier, Hilda,” said Mr. Malloy. “Maybe you don't know that some of the girls there start very young.”

Hilda was growing angry. “I
know
all that, and it is wrong, all of it. A father, or a mother if she is the only one left, ought to make enough money to support the family. When the children are grown, they should go to work, but until then they should go to school. There should be laws!”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Malloy, “your feelings do you credit. You've wanted to change the world ever since I've known you, and probably before that, too, but you can't, you know. Not by yourself.”

“If women could vote,” Hilda began, rebellion in her voice.

“But they can't. What you can do, though, you and other women like you, is help those children. Hire a young maid, so her family gets the money they need so badly, and spend part of your time teaching her yourself. Treat her well, train her for a better position. Do what you can, seek others to assist you, and speak out! I have no doubt,” she added dryly, “that you'll do a fine job of that last.”

After the Pinkertons came…it was hard to tell whether
reporters were following the Pinkertons or the
Pinkertons were following the reporters.

—Eli B. Stephenson
   
Sarah Schaeffer Murder
    Mystery,
date unknown

 

 

27

B
Y THE TIME PATRICK went home that night and the Malloy household retired to bed, they had settled on the kind of house Hilda and Patrick wanted, in broad outline if not in detail. Small enough that Hilda could look after it with a minimum of servants, big enough for a growing family, old enough to look seasoned but new enough to be clean and equipped with electricity. “And not too fancy,” Hilda had insisted. “My family must feel good when they visit, as if they belong there.”

They set up a time on Sunday to go and look at the house Mr. Malloy had seen, and Hilda went up to bed so exhausted she could hardly climb the stairs. It had been a long and eventful day, at least emotionally. She fell into the soft, comfortable bed and if she had dreams they were forgotten by the time she woke.

Agnes brought her coffee in the morning. Mrs. Malloy must have spoken to her. Hilda sipped it cautiously, but Mrs. Hall had learned well. It was good.

“Agnes, how long have you worked as a maid?” she asked as the girl made up the fire.

“Four years now, miss.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eighteen, miss. 'Course, I weren't nothin' but a scullery maid to start, but Mrs. Malloy, she told Mr. Riggs he was to teach me the proper way to do, and she helped train me herself. Now I'm teachin' the scullery maid and the girl as comes in twice a week to help.”