These Shallow Graves

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Eddie didn’t answer her. “Wait here for a minute,” he said.

  He loped off down the street to a saloon called Sullivan’s. A small boy was standing outside it. A thin girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, was with him. Eddie exchanged a few words with them, then returned to Jo, accompanied by the boy.

  “This is Tumbler,” he said.

  Before Jo could ask why Eddie had fetched him, Tumbler said, “Two dollars.”

  “Nice try,” Eddie said.

  “A dollar, then.”

  “How about fifty cents?”

  “How about you kiss my ass, you cheap son of a bitch.”

  Jo blinked, appalled. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

  “All right. A dollar,” Eddie said grudgingly. “For getting us in and back out again.”

  Tumbler held out his hand.

  “You get paid when the job’s done,” Eddie told him.

  Tumbler spat, then crossed the street to the door of Van Houten’s offices.

  “Come on. He works fast,” Eddie said to Jo.

  Tumbler glanced around, then took from his pocket a buttonhook and a slim piece of metal bent at an angle at one end, like an L. He inserted them both into the door’s lock.

  Jo grabbed Eddie’s arm. “He’s breaking in!” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Eddie said with a grim smile, “he is.”

  “Eddie, this is wrong,” Jo objected, upset.

  “Sometimes you have to do wrong to do right,” Eddie said. “Nellie Bly lied to get inside an insane asylum so she could expose abuse. We’re not breaking in to steal things, we’re breaking in to solve a crime. If Kinch is a person, and your father met with him here on September fifteenth—like the entry in his agenda suggests—then there could be notes from that meeting. Something that might tell us who he is.”

  Jo hesitated, unnerved by the thought of committing a crime, regardless of the reason.

  “Look, I told you, I do whatever it takes to get the story,” Eddie said. “You don’t have to be a part of this. I can do it myself.”

  But I am a part of it, Jo thought. I became a part of it the moment I opened my father’s agenda.

  She heard scraping as Tumbler worked, then a few clicks, and then the lock’s tumblers turned. When the door swung open, she was the first inside.

  “Lock it behind us in case a patrolman’s around. He might try the knob. Then stay close,” Eddie told Tumbler. “We’ll knock on the glass when we want to come out.”

  Tumbler nodded, and Jo heard the door lock behind her.

  Light from the streetlamps, shining in through the windows, illuminated the foyer. Framed, hand-colored maps of all the faraway places where Van Houten did business hung on the walls. Whenever Jo’s father had brought her here as a child, a clerk had served her tea and cookies. She’d memorized the maps as she’d sat nibbling shortbread.

  There were photographs on the walls, too, including one of her father and uncle taken many years ago. They were standing on a bustling dock, handsome in their linen suits. Their faces were bronzed and smiling. A sign behind them read zanzibar. Jo knew it was an island off the coast of East Africa and an important base for Van Houten’s spice trade. Her heart ached as she looked at the image of her father, so young and full of life.

  Eddie glanced at the photo. “We shouldn’t linger,” he said softly.

  Jo turned to him. “What can I do?”

  “We need to look for minutes of meetings,” Eddie replied. “Where would they be?”

  “I don’t know,” Jo said.

  “Guess.”

  Jo thought for a moment. The building had two floors. The clerks’ workspace was on the ground floor. It contained tall shelves stuffed with ledgers; long, broad wooden tables; and an iron stove. The upper floor was where her father and the other partners worked. Meetings, she reasoned, had likely taken place there.

  “Upstairs, I think,” she said.

  “Let’s go,” Eddie said.

  It was dark on the second floor. The windows—three of them, facing the street—were higher than the streetlights, and only a little of the lamps’ glow shone through them. The floor’s front half was open, with a rectangular table and chairs in its center. The back half contained the partners’ offices, accessed via a short, narrow hallway.

  “Let’s try the offices first,” Jo said.

  Eddie smacked into a coat stand and Jo tripped over a stool as they made their way through the room. They didn’t dare turn on the gas lamps, in case someone saw the light through the windows and became suspicious, but they needed something to illuminate their way.

  “There has to be a kerosene lamp somewhere,” Jo said. “Look over by the—”

  A sound downstairs silenced her. She froze. It was the door. Someone had just closed it. A key turned, locking it. Next they heard voices. Men’s voices. Two of them. Jo recognized one. “Richard Scully,” she whispered to Eddie. “One of the partners.”

  Eddie swore under his breath. “I bet the guy with him is a cop. Somebody must’ve seen us and figured us for robbers.”

  “They can’t find me here!” she hissed, frantic.

  “Maybe they’ll just check around downstairs and leave,” Eddie whispered.

  But that didn’t happen. Instead, they heard footsteps, heavy and solemn, on the stairs. Scully and whoever was with him were coming up.

  Jo and Eddie were trapped.

  Jo had only seconds to find a hiding place—seconds before Richard Scully discovered her in a dark room, late at night, with a strange man.

  Panic set in. Eddie was trying the doors to the offices, but every one was locked. The footsteps were coming closer. Scully and his companion had to be halfway up the stairs. Jo looked wildly around the room, and then she spotted it: a broom closet, just to the left of the stairwell.

  She grabbed Eddie’s hand and they sped across the room. Jo prayed that the men were too intent upon their conversation to notice the creaks and pops of the floorboards. There was no knob on the closet door, just a latch. Eddie grabbed it and yanked the door open. The closet was about as deep as a coffin. A cleaner’s smock hung on a hook at the back. A mop stood in a pail, taking up almost all the floor space.

  “Get in!” he hissed. “I’ll find another place.”

  The two men were on the landing now. They’d be in the room at any second.

  “There’s no time!” Jo whispered. She stepped into the bucket and pulled Eddie in after her. They got the door closed just as the lights came on in the room. Jo couldn’t get her footing; she lost her balance and fell against Eddie. By some miracle, she managed not to rattle the bucket.

  “I can’t stand up in this thing!” she whispered, her hands clutching at him.

  “Lean on me!” he whispered back.

  He took hold of her arms to steady her. One of his shoulders was jammed up against the back wall of the closet. The other was only inches from the door. Jo was so close to him, she could feel his heart beating. The smell of him—soap, beer, and cigarettes—was so new, so strange and overwhelming, that for a few seconds she forgot to be scared.

  Then Richard Scully started talking and she remembered. She could hear him perfectly. The latch hadn’t caught, leaving a narrow crack between the door and its frame. Jo could see part of the table through the crack and the wall behind it, but not the men.

  “Whiskey?” That was Scully.

  Jo heard no reply, but Scully’s companion must have nodded, because the next thing she heard was the sound of a glass stopper being removed from its bottle, and then liquid pouring into a glass.

  “Sit down,” Scully said.

  As the second man walked into Jo’s view, then sat at the table, she stifled a gasp.

  “What is it?” Eddie whispered, his lips against her ear.

  �
��It’s him,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “The man who was outside my house, staring up at my father’s windows!”

  The long hair, gathered back; the facial marks—they were all exactly the same. Jo had thought the marks were dirt or ash, but now she saw that they were tattoos, sinuous and spiky. She leaned as close to the crack as she dared to get a better view of him.

  “Kinch, is it? A new face, a new name,” Scully said.

  Jo inhaled sharply. She squeezed Eddie’s arm. Eddie squeezed back.

  “I could hardly go by my old one,” Kinch replied.

  “What happened to you? The markings—”

  “Pirates. The captain was a Lascar. The crew were Africans and Arabs. They use tattoos to tell their stories. They told mine.”

  “Your aspect is greatly altered. I would not know you but for your eyes.”

  “Seventeen years without the company of another Christian soul. Without kin. Without comfort. Seventeen years of hunger, scurvy, and fever. My aspect”—he spat the word—“is as you have made it. Look upon me and see the monster you have wrought.”

  “You … you don’t believe I knew, do you? I didn’t! Not until five minutes ago, when you yourself told me. I swear it!” Scully said. He sounded scared.

  Knew what? Jo wondered, desperately hoping that Scully would say more, but Kinch didn’t let him.

  “I didn’t come here for conversation,” he said. “I came for the money Charles Montfort promised me when I met with him. He said he would give me a thousand dollars. He promised to help me find her.”

  “Yes,” Scully said as he hurriedly moved across the room. “Poor, poor Charles. Most unfortunate. What a terrible accident.”

  “Montforts don’t have accidents,” Kinch said darkly. As he downed his whiskey, his eyes traveled over the portraits of Van Houten’s partners hanging on a wall—five living, two dead.

  “Charles Montfort, Phillip Montfort, Richard Scully, Alvah Beekman, Asa Tuller, John Brevoort, and Stephen Smith,” Kinch said, raising his glass. “Cheers, gentlemen.” He turned back to Scully. “You look pale, Richard. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone our secret.” He placed his hand on his chest. “It’s written on my heart, and that’s where it will stay. As long as you cooperate.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Scully said. “But you must be reasonable. There are limits.”

  Kinch brought his fist crashing down on the table. “You speak to me of limits, Richard? To me? Was there any limit to what Van Houten took from me?” he shouted.

  Scully quickly apologized. “I didn’t know,” he said again, weakly.

  “You knew about the Bonaventure, though,” Kinch said.

  “Those were hard times. For the firm. For all of us. We—”

  Kinch cut him off. “Enough talk,” he said. “I want my money. Now.” He grabbed the whiskey bottle, poured himself another glass, and downed it.

  Jo heard chair legs scraping over the floorboards, then footsteps. Scully flashed into her view, then out again.

  Kinch laughed bitterly. “The partners’ safe. Empty once, but no longer, eh? They say money talks, but I don’t believe it. If it were true, those notes would wail. They would scream.”

  There was the sound of a metal door closing, then footsteps again. Scully walked back into view. He placed a stack of banknotes on the table in front of Kinch.

  “One thousand,” he said.

  “It’ll do. For now,” Kinch said, pocketing the money.

  “How much more do you want? There must be recompense, of course. But what you’re asking is impossible. Charles made promises he shouldn’t have,” Scully said. “Surely we can come to terms.”

  “I want everything, Richard. Those are my terms. I want to destroy Van Houten as it destroyed me,” Kinch said.

  “This … this is outrageous!” Scully sputtered. “I’ll do nothing more for you. Not until I consult with the others.”

  “Consult all you like. There’s proof. There are manifests, signed and stamped,” Kinch said menacingly. “Do as I ask and I’ll leave New York the moment I’ve found her. You’ll never hear from me again. Refuse me and I’ll make every one of those manifests public. Not only will Van Houten be ruined, its partners will be, too.”

  “So you say. But it was so long ago, and nothing has ever come to light,” Scully countered, desperation in his voice. “What if you’re bluffing?”

  Kinch chuckled. It was a low, sinister sound. “Pray that I’m bluffing, Richard. If you still know how.” He stood.

  “Where can I find you?” Scully asked.

  “I’ll find you,” Kinch replied. “Goodbye, Richard.”

  “You’ll need this to get out,” Scully said, handing Kinch a key. “Leave it in the lock.”

  Kinch took the key and Jo heard his footsteps echoing down the stairs. After the door opened and closed again, Richard Scully got up and moved into Jo’s line of sight. She saw him put the whiskey bottle away. He put on his hat and started walking toward the stairwell; then suddenly he stopped and stared straight ahead.

  At her.

  Jo shrank against Eddie. Scully had seen them, but how? The crack was narrow. The closet was dark inside. He strode toward them, a furious expression on his face.

  “We’re done for,” Eddie whispered, his hands tightening on Jo’s arms.

  What would she say to Mr. Scully? To her mother when he marched her up the steps to her house and rang the bell? Life as she knew it was about to end. She’d never be able to show her face in New York again.

  Scully reached the closet and stopped. “Damn that lazy woman!” he growled. “I’ve told her a thousand times to keep doors closed.”

  He kicked the door hard. It slammed shut. The sound startled Jo, but she didn’t move. She and Eddie stayed perfectly still until they’d heard the downstairs door open and close once more.

  “He’s gone,” Jo breathed, her body sagging with relief. “Thank God.”

  Eddie pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Eddie, are we—” Jo started to say.

  “Yeah. Looks like we are,” Eddie replied.

  Jo and Eddie were locked in the closet.

  “We can’t be locked in!” Jo said frantically. “Try the door again.”

  Eddie pushed on the door, but nothing happened. The latch was on the outside of the door, and it had clicked into place.

  “I want to tail Kinch,” Eddie said anxiously. “I’m going to lose him if we don’t get out of here, and he might be tough to find again.”

  “I’m going to lose my reputation if we don’t get out of here, and that will be impossible to find again,” Jo said.

  “I have a penknife in my pocket. Maybe I can jimmy the latch,” said Eddie. “I have to let go of you. Can you steady yourself against the wall?”

  “I think so,” Jo said, reaching out for the wall. Eddie got the knife out of his pocket and carefully opened the blade. He inserted it into the crack between the door and the frame and jerked it upward. It snagged in the soft wood of the doorframe and promptly snapped off.

  “Maybe I can break the door down. Stand back,” Eddie said.

  “Stand back?” Jo asked. “How? I’m in a bucket!”

  Eddie threw his shoulder into the door as hard as he could, which wasn’t very hard at all, since he had little room to maneuver, but it was hard enough to knock him off balance and into Jo. His head smacked against hers. The bucket tipped. She fell backward into the wall.

  “Ow!” she cried. “That really hurt!”

  “Sorry! Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her.

  “I’m fine. But I won’t be if we don’t get out of here,” she said when she was upright again. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I can push against the door with my feet.”

>   He braced his back against the wall behind him and tried to lift his feet, but the space was so tight, he couldn’t raise them high enough to get any leverage. He swore under his breath and stood straight again.

  “I have to get out of this bucket. My feet are cramping,” Jo said.

  “Step out and twist yourself sideways,” Eddie said. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but you can wedge your feet between mine.”

  Jo did so. Before, they’d been standing face to face. Their shoulders had nearly touched the door and back wall of the closet, but there had been a bit of room at their backs. Now Eddie turned to face the door, his back against the back wall, and Jo wedged herself in front of him, with her back against the door, and there was no room between them at all. Her eyes were blind in the darkness, but her sense of touch was heightened. She could feel every point of contact with his body. One of her legs was between his, and one of his was between hers. Her hips were pressed against his and her breasts were jammed into his chest. Her cheek touched his jaw.

  Jo found that she was suddenly warm and light-headed. She tried to tell herself it was because she couldn’t draw a proper breath in the small space, but it wasn’t. It was because of Eddie.

  Only days ago, she’d asked Trudy what it was like to want a man, and Trudy had told her but she hadn’t understood. Now she did. Eddie flooded her senses. He made her giddy. He made her ache. He filled her with a hunger that was new and deep and dangerous.

  “Well, this is cozy,” he said. “How are your feet?”

  “My what?” she said, dazed.

  “Your feet?”

  “Oh, my feet. Much better, thank you,” Jo replied.

  She suddenly felt something graze her lips. His lips. She was sure of it. Was it an accident or had he done it on purpose? There was only one way to find out. She stood stock-still, her face upturned in the dark. Waiting. Hoping. Fearing that he would, and that he wouldn’t.