CHAPTER I

Frank hunkered inside his overcoat against winter's late afternoon chill as he stopped on the sidewalk outside the Knickerbocker Club to catch his breath. The trip from the riverfront warehouse uptown involved more walking than Frank normally liked to do, but the jam of wagons in the city streets made it by far the fastest mode of cross–town transportation. Then he had boarded the Sixth Avenue Elevated Train, the only truly fast mode of transportation in the city, squeezing into a packed car for the trip uptown. Another brisk walk over to Fifth Avenue, and here he was.

New York had hundreds of men's clubs, few more exclusive than the Knickerbocker. Micks need not apply, nor much of anyone else, as far as he knew. Except for a few of the Jewish upper crust, membership was restricted to descendants of the original Dutch and English settlers of the city. Knickerbockers. Some said the nickname Knickerbocker came from the knee–length pants the early colonists wore. Others said from a story by Washington Irving. What did he care? Even though they allowed Jews to belong, he'd bet a year's pay no Irish Catholic had ever crossed the threshold.

So why in God's name had Decker set their meeting here and not at his office? Unfortunately, the only way to find out was to go inside.

He climbed the front steps and gave the imposing brass knocker a serious thump. The door swung wide, and he exchanged glances with a man got up for a fancy dress ball in his cutaway and stiff white shirt. Fortunately, Frank had been around enough rich people to know the fellow who answered the door was a servant, no matter how he might be dressed.

Frank opened his mouth to quickly explain his presence here before the butler could slam the door in his face—it had happened before—but the fellow said, "Mr. Malloy, Mr. Decker is expecting you," before he could speak.

He stepped back to allow Frank to enter and took his hat and coat, then led him down a short hallway. Thick carpets muffled their footsteps, and Frank inhaled the scent of expensive cigars and old leather. Dark paneling covered the walls, and decorative light fixtures muted the glare of the electric lights. Nothing but the best. As they reached a small sitting room, he caught sight of Felix Decker who was apparently trying to pace a hole in the expensive carpeting.

"Mr. Malloy has arrived," the butler said, then took his leave.

The tall elegant man stopped instantly and strode forward, offering Frank his hand. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Malloy."

As if he could have refused. Frank simply nodded as he returned Decker's firm handshake.

"Please, sit down." Decker indicated the Chesterfield sofa. A liberal amount of silver threaded Decker's fair hair, and his blue eyes held the wisdom and cynicism of age, although today they were troubled in a way Frank had never seen before. Decker took the closest chair and rubbed his hands together as if uncertain exactly what to do with them.

Felix Decker was upset. Frank didn't think Felix Decker ever got upset.

"Have you been here before?" Decker asked.

"No." Frank didn't bother to explain his theory that he was the first Irish Catholic to ever to enter the club by the front door.

"We aren't a particularly old club," Decker said. "We formed back in seventy–one, when some Union Club members felt the membership requirements there had become too liberal."

Frank had no trouble believing that at all.

"I tell you this so you'll understand the men with whom you'll be dealing."

Frank didn't think Felix Decker was going to propose him for membership, so he couldn't imagine needing to have any contact with the other members at all. "Dealing?"

"Yes, you see, one of our members was found dead here this afternoon."

"Dead or murdered?" Simply finding somebody dead wouldn't prompt anybody to send for a police detective.

Decker drew a deep breath. "At first we assumed he had simply passed away from natural causes. A bad heart, perhaps. He seemed to be dozing peacefully in his chair, but when one of the waiters accidentally bumped the chair and he didn't react... Well, he was quite cold, so they knew he had been dead for a while."

"But now you don't think he just passed away."

"No. You see, we sent for an undertaker. He was the one who noticed the bloodstain on the chair and then on Devries's clothing. He quickly determined that he had been stabbed in the back."

"So somebody here stabbed him?"

"Certainly not. At lease we are fairly confident it couldn't have happened here without Devries raising some kind of alarm, so it must have happened prior to his arrival. As far as I can ascertain, he appeared here sometime in the mid–afternoon and went to the library to read the newspapers. He complained to one of the staff of not feeling well. He asked for some brandy but only drank a small amount, and then he fell asleep, or so everyone thought."

This wasn't making sense. If a man got stabbed, why wouldn't he get medical attention? Or at least stay at home and tend to his wound? Why would he go out to his club of all things? "Was it possible he didn't know he'd been stabbed?"

"The wound is small, according to the undertaker, and it had bled very little. I can't imagine he would have been traveling around the city if he'd suspected he was mortally wounded."

"Did the undertaker think this small wound could have killed him?"

Decker pressed his lips together, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. "Mr. Robinson, the undertaker, suggested as much. He said he has seen similar things before in his line of work. Most of the bleeding occurs inside the body, apparently."

Frank supposed such a thing could happen. He'd seen someone die from being stabbed with a hat pin, of all things. "Did Robinson refuse to take the body?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I gather he was perfectly willing to be discreet, but he felt the club should know, in case we wanted to deal with the matter ourselves."

So they were back to dealing again. This, Frank assumed, was to be his part in it. "What did you decide?"

Now Decker looked positively gray around the gills. Plainly, he wasn't used to discussing such unpleasantries, at least not within the walls of his beloved Knickerbocker. "We called together all the board members who happened to be on the premises this afternoon. I'm sure you understand we want the club's reputation protected at all costs."

"Then tell the undertaker to pack up the body."

"Please do not judge us so harshly." He was angry now, and Frank didn't blame him. "If Devries did indeed die by the hand of another, we would also like to see justice done."

Frank leaned back on the surprisingly uncomfortable sofa and studied Decker for a long moment. He didn't like this one bit, probably because he didn't believe Decker' protests about wanting justice. "Are you saying you want me to find out who killed this Devries character?"

"Find out, yes. That's exactly what we want you to do."

"And then what?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Usually, when I solve a murder, I arrest the killer, and he goes to trial, and then, if he's found guilty, he goes to prison or gets executed." Of course, it wasn't always so neat, but he didn't need to mention that to Decker. "Is that what you want?"

"It all depends."

Ah, now we're getting down to it. "On what?"

"On who is responsible for Devries's death. You must realize this is why I summoned you, out of all the detectives in New York, Mr. Malloy, because I know you can be trusted."

Frank didn't know how trustworthy he was, but he knew Decker rarely called him Mister. He must be feeling desperate.

"What you mean is I know how to keep a secret."

"I would have said you know how to be discreet."

He was right about that. Frank nodded.

"You will make your report to me, when you have all the facts, and then I will take the matter to our board to decide."

Now this was something Frank could understand. The rich looked out for each other. He assumed it was much like the police department, where you watched out for your own and stood up for them when they were in trouble. Frank couldn't imagine why rich people would need that kind of help, but he knew it was available to them.

"Just so I'm clear, what happens if I find out one of your club members is the killer?"

"Then you would not need to take any action at all. We would take care of the matter among ourselves."

Frank doubted the club had an electric chair on the premises to "take care" of murderous members or even a cell or two for confining the drunk and disorderly ones. "You'd let a killer go free?"

"Malloy, you know as well as I do your chief would never allow you to arrest any member of this club, no matter what he had done. If you did, he would be freed with an apology from the Mayor within hours, and you would lose your job."

Frank did know this. He'd just wanted to find out what Decker had in mind. "Then why call me in at all?"

"If Devries's killer is someone you can bring to justice, you may do so with our blessing. If the killer is someone whom the law cannot touch, then we will take care of the matter ourselves. That is all you need to know. Now, are you willing to assist us?"

Did he really have a choice? Decker and his kind were more than capable of taking care of him if he refused. "Devries's family and the other members of your club aren't going to want an Irish cop nosing around in their business." That was the real problem with calling Frank in on this, and Decker should've known it.

"They will when I introduce you, and if anyone fails to cooperate with your investigation, you are to notify me immediately."

Frank wanted to refuse. He wanted to have a good reason to refuse, but investigating crimes was his job, and pleasing men like Felix Decker was the job of everyone in the city, if they knew what was good for them.

Besides, what would he say to Sarah Brandt if he refused to help her father?

Frank managed not to sigh in defeat. "Is the body still here?"Is the body still here?