“Do you think it’s possible that someone from Tammany Hall might want the alderman out of the way?”
I could see he hadn’t considered this possibility. Then he shook his head. “I think that Charlie Murphy would be elected with or without the alderman. And poisoning wouldn’t be their style either.”
“Any other threats?”
“No. The alderman was well liked. Who would want to…” He broke off suddenly and I saw his expression change. “There was a young man came in here a couple of weeks ago. Very angry he was, because his brother had been killed in the subway cave-in. Apparently the brother had left four small children and a widow. Alderman Hannan offered him money as compensation and the young man flung it back in his face. Then the alderman had him escorted out. The man yelled that he’d get even some way and people like Hannan Construction could not think they were above the law.”
“What did this young man look like?”
He thought for a moment. “Ordinary looking. Skinny. Dark hair. Little mustache.”
“Did he wear a derby and a rather ill-fitting coat?”
“He did.” Mr. Brady nodded.
“Then I’d wager he was the same one who showed up outside the estate in Newport right about the time the alderman arrived,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know his name, would you?”
“I think I would.” Mr. Brady went over to a filing cabinet and extracted a file. “We have the names of all those killed in the subway accident. Let me see…” He ran his finger down the page. “Hermann. That was it. He said his name was Joshua Hermann.”
“And his address?”
“I couldn’t tell you his address but the man who was killed in the cave-in was Frederick Hermann and he lived at Thirty-eight Hester Street.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I shall pass along this information to the authorities.”
He looked alarmed. “Are you suggesting that Hermann followed the alderman out to Newport and then killed him?”
“I’m just examining all possibilities, rounding up as much evidence as possible for my husband,” I said. “Tell me, did you have much to do with Mr. Terrence Hannan, and with the alderman’s great-nephew Sam?”
“Very little,” Brady said. “Mr. Terrence stopped by at the office occasionally, but the other young man—I believe he was employed down at company headquarters. Since Mr. Hannan has been involved in politics he has left most of the day-to-day running of the company to Mr. Joseph Hannan.”
“And Terrence?”
“I understood he was being groomed to take over some day,” Mr. Brady said. “Although I don’t think the alderman felt he was altogether satisfactory. He was too much of a dilettante.”
While he had been speaking my attention was drawn to the door behind his desk, the door that must lead to an inner sanctum.
“Would you mind if I took a look at Alderman Hannan’s office?” I said. “I presume that is his office behind you?”
“It is, but I can’t see any reason…” He moved so that he was guarding the doorway.
“Can you think of any reason why not?” I demanded, my patience now wearing thin. “It’s not as if the alderman is going to come back, is it? I only want to help and if he scribbled a note to himself, something that’s now residing in the wastebasket…”
“Mrs. Sullivan, I have the baskets emptied twice a day,” he said primly. “His desk is always kept immaculate. So is his filing system. Alderman Hannan likes everything just so—” he corrected himself, “I mean he liked everything…” And his voice faltered. “I still can’t believe that he’s gone,” he ended quietly.
“All the more reason to find his killer,” I said. “Would you rest quietly knowing that you could have helped but instead let his killer walk away a free man?”
“But I don’t see how…” He was clearly upset now. “I mean his office is quite pristine. No paper in wastebaskets…”
“Then you’d have no objection to my looking,” I said. I pushed past him to the door and opened it. It was, unfortunately exactly as he had described and I had no idea what I had hoped to find there. Men do not rise through Tammany Hall to the rank of alderman and leave around incriminating slips of paper that might name their killer. I stood looking at the polished mahogany desk with its matching Italian red-leather blotter, inkwell, and penholder; the file cabinets; the portrait of the alderman at his investiture; another portrait of him shaking hands with President Roosevelt. I wandered around the room, feeling Donald Brady’s breath down the back of my neck. Would there be anything to be gained by searching through all those drawers of files? Surely Donald Brady did the filing and he’d know what was in them.
I noticed that a thin film of dust had already accumulated on the polished surface of the desk. Then my eye was drawn to the leather-bound blotter.
“How often do you change the blotter?” I asked, trying to make out the words that had been blotted onto it.