Page 30 of Alex Cross Must Die

Maybe, Marple realized, the same room where she was sitting right now.

Then, in 1954, sometime between 8 p.m. on June 10 and 3 a.m. on June 11, Mary McShane’s throat was neatly slit, and she was left to bleed out on the floor in front of the massive ovens. That’s where she was found by the first baker to arrive for work in the morning. Both he and the owner had been cleared, and no other suspects had ever surfaced.

Marple knew that if the girl had been working as a nanny or housemaid in an Upper East Side mansion, the investigation mighthave been more thorough. But down here, in the steaming stew of postwar immigrants, Mary had been just another statistic. Nobody had even claimed her body.

The Mary McShane case couldn’t possibly be any colder. And that was what drew Marple in. She was going to solve it. All by herself.

Marple adjusted her bedside lamp and sifted through the yellowed papers, looking for anything she might have missed. Mary had become real to her. As real as a daughter. And she wanted to bring her justice.

As she pulled another news clipping from the pile, she froze.

A noise. A soft thumping sound.

It was coming from the darkest corner of the room.

CHAPTER 29

IN HIS APARTMENTon the other side of a five-inch-thick wall, Holmes pushed aside a row of freshly pressed suits to expose a small safe set into his closet wall. He tapped in the combination. The spring-loaded door popped open. As Holmes reached in, he heard a high-pitched scream through the wall.

Marple!

Heart pounding, Holmes slammed the safe shut and ran out through his living room, then into the hallway. He saw Poe emerging from his apartment down the hall with his .45. They reached Marple’s door at the same time. Holmes took a position to the right, Poe to the left.

“Margaret?”Holmes shouted.

Silence from inside. Then another scream. Louder.

Poe nodded at Holmes. “Do it!”

Holmes rammed the door open with his shoulder. Poe spun past him into Marple’s apartment and crouched in shooting position. He swept the living room with the barrel as Holmes headed for the bedroom. The door was open. He stepped in and felt Poe at his back. They both froze at the entrance.

Margaret was crouched on the windowsill, clutching a knitting needle like a dagger. A pot of flowers had been knocked over, and a large black storage box was upside down on the floor, its contents spilled onto the carpet.

“Margaret!” shouted Holmes. “What is it? What happened?”

Margaret pointed to the dark space behind the door.

“It was there!” she said, her voice trembling. “It was right there!”

“Whatwas?” asked Poe, swinging the .45 toward the corner.

Marple’s face reddened. She looked terrified and embarrassed at the same time.

“A mouse.”

Poe holstered his weapon and looked behind the door. “Gone now,” he said. “Back to his hole.”

As Marple sat shaking on the windowsill, Holmes slid up next to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Rodents simply undo me.”

Holmes wrapped his long arm around Marple’s shoulder. “Not to worry, Margaret,” he said. “We all have our weaknesses.”

CHAPTER 30

THE NEXT MORNING,Margaret was still shaking it off.

Walking down Thompson Street near the Charles family’s apartment, she felt chagrined by her scare. She hated showing fragility of any kind in front of her partners. Fear, Marple believed firmly, was incomplete knowledge. But she didn’t care to know anything more about mice. Unless it was how to exterminate them.

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