The Bachelor's Bride (The Thompsons of Locust Street #1) - Holly Bush Page 0,38

know her, Schmitt? They’re going to be walking back in here any minute. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”

“I fucked her last night.”

Alexander felt the blood drain from his head, reeling on his feet, a number of thoughts running through his head at once, none of them good. “Jesus.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Well, I guess that’s some comfort.”

Schmitt looked up sharply. “I’ve got a couple of titties on the side. I’ve got to fuck somebody. Why would I kill them?”

The door opened, and Sergeant O’Sullivan and the other two officers entered. “Where were you last night around midnight, Mr. Schmitt?”

“I was home and in bed.”

“Miss Darling’s maid and her manservant said you visited her regularly. That she ‘entertained’ you a few times a week and that you were there last night.”

“Not at midnight,” Schmitt said quickly, regaining some color in his face and finding his typical bluster. “I was home by ten of the clock.”

“But you were there? At Miss Darling’s home?”

Schmitt nodded. “I was there. When I left, Lily was fine. Brushing her hair, I think, when I left her bedroom.”

“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