“What was the nature of your relationship with Miss Darling?”
He shrugged. “I fucked her a couple of times a week.”
Alexander took a slow breath. Schmitt was always crude and unfeeling, but this tested all limits. The policemen were staring at him with disgust.
“She was a person, you know,” the young red-headed officer said. “And she’s dead now. Strangled so tight her head’s nearly off and cuts all over her breasts, poor woman. She was raped too, with a brass-headed walking stick. Maybe show some respect.”
“Did you owe Miss Darling any money?” the older officer asked.
Alexander looked down at Schmitt, hoping he at least looked shamed after his crude comment and the officer’s horrific description of the woman. But he was not embarrassed or contrite. He was white as a ghost again and trembling.
“Owe her money?” he whispered.
“Yes, Councilman. Was she demanding more money, or maybe you were unable to pay her what you already owed her?”
Schmitt shook his head, speaking in a monotone. “I pay her before I leave. I always do. With all of them.”
“All of them?” the young officer asked. “How many are there?”
“How many what?” Schmitt asked.
“Prostitutes, Councilman. How many prostitutes or ladies of the evening do you regularly see?”
“What?” Schmitt asked as if he was just coming out of a trance.
“Women you pay for sexual favors. How many? Answer here or at the station.”
“What do they have to do with anything?” he asked.
O’Sullivan leaned over the desk. “I’m losing patience, Councilman. How many prostitutes, and what are their names and places of business?”
“Three, counting Lily.”
“Names?”
“Thelma. Lives on Market at one hundred and ninth. Perty shares a house on Richmond Street and Third.”
“Last names?”
Schmitt shrugged. “I don’t know. Never asked.”
Alexander caught himself shaking his head as he listened to Schmitt. What a fool! It would be a miracle if the man was not syphilitic by the time he was fifty.
“We’re going to be talking to these women and to your wife, Councilman. So you may as well tell us now. Have you ever hit or threatened violence on these women?”
“No more than a playful smack,” he said and looked away. “I’d like to get home and warn my wife before you boys tell her about my side pieces. She’s a delicate woman.”
“Don’t leave town, Councilman,” O’Sullivan said.
The three officers left the office quickly, and Alexander closed Schmitt’s office door. Schmitt was pouring himself a large whiskey when Alexander turned around.
Alexander had met Schmitt’s wife. He would have never described her as delicate, nor did he think she would be overly distraught about her husband’s bed partners. “Are you concerned Mrs. Schmitt will be . . . upset when she’s questioned and hears about these women?”
“Berta? Berta knows about the women. She’s glad of it.” He shrugged. “I don’t visit her bed very often. Hardly at all anymore.”
“What is it, then? You went white as a ghost.”
Schmitt poured another drink and turned from the hutch to look at Alexander. “When I got home last night, I thought I might have left my walking stick in my carriage, but it was not there this morning when John brought me to the office. I must have left it at Lily’s.”
Alexander stared at him. “You think your walking stick was what was used on that woman?”
He nodded and sat down slowly.
“That will bring the police back here quickly once her servants tell them that walking stick is yours.” Alexander looked at him squarely. “It’s a message, I’m guessing. It’s a message from the people wanting to know about Elspeth Thompson’s family. This murder was personal, not random, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “It was a message.”
“You selfish horse’s ass,” Alexander said in a low, tense rumble. “You will get someone killed—no, wait, you have gotten someone killed because you’re a greedy bastard.”
“Just a whore,” Schmitt said.
Alexander slammed his hand down on the desk. “Just a whore? Do you think this will stop here? Do you think they won’t come after you or your wife or Samuel?”
Schmitt looked up sharply. “Samuel?” he whispered.
“The next sign will be more personal yet, Schmitt. I think you should tell the police and the council president about these threats. You’re going to have to come clean.”
“I can’t do that! I’ll never be trusted again!”
“You’re concerned about the trust of criminals, murderers willing to strangle an innocent woman?”
“You don’t know what the politics are like at the top, Pendergast. You and your silver spoon don’t know about climbing out of the wharf, not knowing where your next meal was coming from, not knowing if your mother was going to be alive when you came back from scavenging.” Schmitt rose, his face mottled a brilliant red. “I taught myself to read and how to use my fives and whose palm I needed to lay some coin in. You don’t know anything!”
Alexander turned the knob on the office door. He did not think he could look at Schmitt one more moment. “If one hair on Elspeth Thompson’s head is harmed, I’ll make you pay, Schmitt. I will make you pay.”
“What is wrong, Elspeth? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Kirsty said, smiling and attempting to take the basket from her hand. She looked up sharply. “Elspeth. What is wrong? Let go of the basket.”
“Look out the window, Kirsty. But be sly about it. Don’t let anyone see that you’re looking out.”
“Who would care that I’m—”
“Just do it!”
Kirsty stared at her for a long moment and then inched slowly over to the window nearest the door. She crouched down and glanced outside from the lowest part of the glass. She turned quickly and flattened herself against the door near Elspeth’s feet.
“There’s a man lounging against the tree in front of Mr. Ervin’s house. He’s staring at our house. I think it is one of the men who followed us after James’s match.”
“He followed me at the market. I went into the bookstore when a trolley came by and went out through the bakery. I didn’t think they saw me.”
“They know where we live, Elspeth. They want us to know that they know, I think.” She crawled back under the window to look out. “He’s walking away now.”
“He’s gone?”
Kirsty nodded as she peeked out the window again.
Elspeth concentrated on slowing her breathing and letting her heart cease its pounding. She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift away from fear into the quiet place that she’d depended on from the day her parents were buried at sea. But rather than a blank slate or a rambling wall or a field of daffodils that she often saw in her mind’s eye when she sought peace, she saw a face. A man’s face. Alexander. She saw Alexander looking into her eyes as he had that night in the alley, holding her face in his hands, his lip cut and his eye going black but sincere and worried and so handsome, if she was truthful with herself.