The Edge of Dreams(21)

He shook his head. “I’d say no. Poisoners are usually secretive, quiet, reserved types. If you poison, you don’t have to be present when the murder takes place.”

“So the only thing these murders have in common is that they were terribly risky,” I said. “Pushing someone under a trolley on a crowded street and putting cyanide in a coffee cup in a crowded café both come with a strong chance of being observed.”

“That’s true. He does like to take risks.”

“Maybe he gets a thrill out of taking risks,” I said. “Were the other murders equally risky and public?”

“Risky, yes. Public, no,” Daniel said. “Read on.”

I turned to the next page: “‘June 21: Maud Daughtery, age sixty-three. Widow. Lived with her only son, 485 10th Avenue. Chelsea.

“‘The note said: “Mother didn’t always know best.”’

“What did that mean?” I asked, looking up from the paper.

Daniel shrugged. “We took that to mean that she did not lock her bathroom door when taking a bath. There was a table lamp on the dresser beside the bath, and someone dropped it into the water, thus electrocuting her.”

“She lived with her presumably grown-up son,” I said.

“She did. Terrence, aged forty-two. A studious and reserved young man who is employed as a tutor to an Upper East Side family.”

“And might have had reason to hurl a lamp into his mother’s bathtub?” I asked.

Daniel smiled. “We looked into that, believe me. From what we learned of the mother, she was an overbearing and unpleasant woman who bossed everyone around and probably made her son’s life miserable. However, he was in a schoolroom with three children at the time his mother was killed, and he seemed genuinely distraught at her death.”

“And I also take it that this woman was in no way related to either simple Dolly or the university student?”

“That’s right. In no way related. Never lived in the same part of the city or moved in the same circles. And the same is true for the other victims.”

“This murder did take a good deal of nerve, as you say,” I commented. “To break into a house, wait until someone took a bath, and then electrocute her. That would take observation of the family’s habits and a good deal of planning. That is not the same kind of crime as pushing someone in front of a trolley.”

“And they become progressively more daring. Read on.”

I turned to the next sheet of paper. “‘July 12. Marie Ellingham. Age seventy. Address 352 East Fifty-second Street. Died of arsenic poisoning. Police not able to determine when and how it was administered.

“‘The note we received said, “Judge not that ye be not judged.”’

“What could that mean? Was she judgmental by nature?” I asked.

“Her husband was a retired judge.”

“And presumably you’ve checked into whether he might have had a motive for poisoning her?”

“We went through the whole household thoroughly. He was visibly upset by her death. Devastated, actually. It seems they were a devoted couple. There was no trace of arsenic to be found in the kitchen, on the utensils, anywhere. The cook and maid had been with them for years. The only thing of interest was that the bedroom window was at the rear of the house, facing a small garden, and it was open.”

“So someone could have climbed in, administered the poison, and departed again.”

“Exactly, except it was quite a climb to the window, and he would have risked being seen from the windows of the houses behind.”

“And no ties to the other three victims, I assume?”

“None.” He leaned closer. “And the interesting thing, Molly, is that this death would have been ruled as natural causes if we hadn’t received the note. Marie Ellingham was prone to gastric troubles, she had a delicate stomach, and her own physician was quite willing to say that the bout of vomiting had been too much for her heart at her age.”

“Fascinating,” I said. I looked at the papers. There was only one more.

“‘August 22. Herman Hoffman. Age forty-five. Lower West Side. Twenty-nine West Street. Owned a small meat-processing business. He was found in his meat safe on Monday morning, dead.

“‘The note said: “Frozen, packed, and ready for delivery.”’”

I shuddered. “How horrible. Poor man. What an awful way to die. And that note—it shows a character completely devoid of human feeling, wouldn’t you say? Pleased with his own cleverness.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. A warped and twisted person who delights in killing. All I can hope is that he meant what he said when he talked about saving the best for last—that he really intends to stop this killing spree.”