by Kat Ross
“Is Myrtle back yet?” she asked, and I could tell from the urgency in her voice that something serious had happened.
I had a sinking feeling I knew what that thing was, and her next words confirmed it.
“There’s been another, just tonight. The face is covered, Harry, just like the Rickard and Forsizi murders.”
“My sister’s not here,” I said, pulse racing with both dread and excitement. “But please, come in.”
Pounding feet on the stairs signified the arrival of Connor, his copper curls and long white nightshirt giving him the look of one of Botticelli’s angels, except dirtier.
“Ah, it’s you Miss Bly,” he said. “I thought…”
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Rivers demanded, as Nellie strode into the parlor. “What murders?”
“I’m helping Myrtle with an investigation,” I said, aiming for a casual tone. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about? You’re running about brandishing a gun after nearly braining me with a vase, and now Miss Bly shows up in the middle of the night and says there’s been another one? I think you haven’t been exactly truthful with me, Harry!”
“But—”
“Is John mixed up in this too?” She looked at my guilty face and sniffed. “Of course he is. You two are always partners in crime. Well, if you think that just because your parents are away—”
“I hate to interrupt,” Nellie said with a tight smile. “But there’s no time. I know the detective who was called to the scene. He’s one of the smart ones. A friend of Myrtle’s, and of mine. He might give us limited access. But we have to leave right away. Before the body’s carted off to the morgue.”
I nodded to Nellie. “Give me one minute.”
I dashed up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Rivers continued diatribe, and changed out of my nightclothes into a plain dress of navy blue. Adrenaline made my fingers clumsy, and it took three tries to get my boots laced up. Then I was racing back down and apologizing to my housekeeper, even as I hurried Nellie out the door with Connor on our heels.
“The cat’s out of the bag,” I told him. “May as well bring the boys inside until we get back.”
Connor stood on the steps and gave a loud whistle. Six small, ragged forms emerged from the shadows across the street and rushed over, pouring into the parlor as Mrs. Rivers clutched her robe more tightly across her bosom. They were all armed to teeth with an assortment of crude weapons.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Rivers muttered faintly.
“I’ll explain everything when I get back!” I shouted over my shoulder.
Nellie had engaged a hackney for the trip and we climbed in. A light rain was falling. The city slumbered around us, its last revellers having stumbled off to bed and the early risers not yet stirring.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we pulled away, the plump form of Mrs. Rivers still silhouetted in the doorway.
“The waterfront. Sixty-Third Street. The victim is a young woman, no identification yet.”
“How was she killed?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Only that it was definitely murder. Who were those kids?”
“The Bank Street Butchers. They’re on Myrtle’s payroll.”
Nellie laughed. “I’ve heard of them. The police in the Ninth Ward call them the Bank Street Bedbugs, since they’re a pest that’s proven impossible to get rid of.”
We turned north on Fifth Avenue and I leaned forward. “Listen, Nellie, we need to make a quick stop for John Weston. He’s training to be a doctor. His observations could be invaluable.”
She hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “Your partner in crime?”
“I know how that sounded,” I said. “But please trust me. It’s on the way. He lives at Gramercy Park. Two minutes, that’s all I ask.”
“Alright then. But only if you tell me why you answered the door with a revolver in your hand.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
So I told her all that happened since last we met, concluding with the fact that someone had stalked me in my own house just hours before.
“Has it occurred to you,” Nellie said slowly, “that it should have been you tonight? That this person is driven to kill, and his needs were left unmet? That he was forced to find another victim?”
“Yes,” I said. “That has occurred to me.”
“Because it seems like a mighty coincidence. Did you go to the police?” She stared at me. “You didn’t, did you? For God’s sake, Harry, why not? This isn’t a game. There’s a violent lunatic out there. Does Myrtle know? I can’t believe she’d put you at such risk.” Nellie paused. “Well, actually I can. But that doesn’t mean you have to go along with it!”
“Half a block further,” I told the driver as we reached the west side of Gramercy Park. “Nellie, the client doesn’t want to go to the police. Not yet.”
“Mr. Brady?” She never forgot a single scrap of information.
“Yes. We assured him of discretion. Just for a week. His reputation is at stake, as is that of a dear friend of his.”
“Is it really worth it?”
“I hope so.” I swung down from the carriage before it came to a full stop. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
John’s house was a four-story brick building with a chest-high wrought-iron gate around the outside. His bedroom was on the top floor, but his brother Andrew’s faced the street on the second floor. I scooped a handful of gravel from their front walk and tossed it up towards his window, where the tiny stones rattled like hail on a tin roof. It took two more throws but finally the sash slid upward and a head with tousled brown hair thrust itself through the frame.
“Who’s down there?” Andy whispered through the bars. “Julie?”
“It’s Harry,” I whispered back. “I need John. It’s an emergency!”
“Hey there, Harry. Hang on a minute.” The head disappeared.
I stood in the thin drizzle, stamping my feet impatiently. I could see Nellie was getting anxious too. With every minute that passed, we jeopardized our access to the crime scene. But I did need John with me. Not just for his medical expertise, though it would certainly be useful. The truth is, I was scared. It’s one thing to theorize about death in an abstract way. I knew that Becky Rickard’s end was a brutal, terrifying one, and the poor Forsizi boy must have suffered as the life was choked out of him. But I hadn’t actually laid eyes on either one of them.
In the next few minutes, I’d be standing before the still-warm body of a young woman whose life had been cut short. I’d be seeing what might have been done to me, if fate hadn’t intervened. And to face that, I needed the steadying presence of my best friend.
Maybe we weren’t so different from Leland Brady and Robert Straker. I thought back to that morning, only three days ago but seeming somehow much longer, when my client and his wife first knocked on the door of 40 West Tenth Street. What was it Brady had said?
He was just the sort of fellow you would wish to have at your side when the seas got rough.
That was John. We both had tempers, and we’d had our share of heated arguments. But I also knew that if I was in trouble, John would take my side without hesitation. He would always speak his mind if he thought I was wrong. And he would always try to protect me from the judgment of others.
I stared into the thick foliage of Gramercy Park, listening to the steady drip of the rain. Had I inadvertently attracted danger that even John couldn’t shield me from? Was it already too late?
My nerves were drawn so taut that I jumped a little when the tumblers gave a loud click and the front door opened. The Westons’ bull pup Angus pushed past John’s legs and started energetically sniffing my boot. I gave him a scratch behind the ears. Then John emerged. His hair stood up in stiff bits and pieces, and he was still tucking his shirt into a pair of wool trousers. He usually greeted me with a lazy grin, but John was no fool. As I did when Nellie banged down my door, he’d guessed what had brought me here in the middle of the nigh
t.
“You’ve either found Straker or there’s another body,” he said without preamble. “And if it was Straker, I’d still think it could wait until morning. That means a body.”
I nodded once. “The face is covered, it’s got to be our man. We must hurry, John. Nellie’s waiting. She knows the detective but once word gets out, it’ll be a mob scene and we’ll lose our chance.”
“Don’t worry.” Andy stood behind him, stifling a yawn. “I’ll let you back in. Just make sure you’re here before five-thirty. Dad’s an early bird, and he’ll tar and feather both of us if he catches you out. Nice hair, Harry.”
I’d already stuck my tongue out before I realized that a consulting detective should probably display more dignity. If John was closer to me than a sibling, then Andy was like an irritating older brother, eternally trying to get a rise. He was twenty-two and about to graduate from Columbia with a degree in law, although given his appetite for mischief, I’d always expected him to be on the wrong side of the dock.
“I won’t keep him more than an hour,” I promised. “And don’t tell anyone where we’ve gone.”
Andy snorted. “Paul’s dead to the world ‘til nine at least, and Bill snuck out to go dancing two hours ago.” He laid a hand across his heart. “So your secret’s safe with me, Harry. See you in a bit.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
He smirked. “You can thank me with a ki—”
Andy’s last words were muffled as John firmly shut the front door in his brother’s face.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Before the other fools wake up. He forgot about Rupert, and we know he’s the worst of all!”
The streets were virtually empty except for a handful of idle cabs around Grand Central, so we made the four miles northeast to Sixty-Third Street in less than half an hour. As we sped through the dark, wet night, I filled John in on my afternoon. When I told him about the Turkish Elegante-smoking intruder, his eyes darkened. Like Nellie, he thought I should go to the police, Brady be damned. He also thought I should leave the house. When I refused to do either of these things, he went on a brief rant about “excessive confidence” and “overweening ambition,” then subsided into tense silence.
I could see that Nellie thought he was right, but she also wasn’t the type to tell another woman what to do. So the only sounds as we neared the waterfront were the hiss of mud under the wheels and blowing snorts of the horses. When we turned onto Avenue A at its southern terminus on Fifty-Fifth Street, the brackish smell of the East River filled our lungs. I spotted the glimmering beacon of the Blackwell Island Lighthouse a half mile to the north. The island itself was a catalogue of human misery, housing a lunatic asylum, prison, workhouse and charity hospital once devoted exclusively to smallpox patients but now ministering to inmates and New York’s poor.
“Almost there,” Nellie said. “According to Fred, it’s a malt-house called Neidlinger, Schmidt & Co., right on the water. They use a grain elevator to raise and store the malt once it’s unloaded from the ships. The body was found at the base of the elevator by a night watchman.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“Just over an hour ago, sometime after three.”
I could see why the killer would find this an attractive location to carry out his grisly work. The brief stretch of Avenue A dubbed Sutton Place had recently been developed as a residential area of brownstones, but once we passed Fifty-Ninth Street, the waterfront reverted to its shabby, industrial origins. My stomach tightened as we rounded the corner of Sixty-Third Street and saw the harsh glare of electric arc-lights set up in front of a block-long building with a tower girded by a spiral iron staircase. Connected to the tower by a passageway overlooking the river was a huge grain elevator built of corrugated iron and wood.
The elevator stood some fifty feet from the main building, right on the edge of the wharf. It looked to be about ninety feet tall and forty square at the base, though it tapered toward the top like a medieval battlement. The lights were aimed at something at the bottom.
Our driver stopped the carriage as a patrolman materialized out of the darkness, wearing the blue frock coat and domed felt helmet that I always thought made New York’s municipal force look like English bobbies.
“Hold up,” he said gruffly, seizing the bridle. “You can’t go any further. This area’s closed off. Police investigation.”
Nellie showed him her credentials from The World and his face changed from suspicion to grudging respect, as so often happened with our famous friend. It was probably the only reason we weren’t thrown straight out on our ears.
“Wait here,” he told us. “Maybe you’re known to Sergeant Mallory, and maybe you’re not. But no one gets through without his personal say-so.”
The patrolman returned a minute later and signalled that we should get out of the carriage. “You can walk from here,” he said. “Stay to the middle of the street, and go straight to the sergeant. He says he’ll talk to you.” He looked hard first at Nellie, then at me, ignoring John completely. “Though it’s not a sight for a lady.”
Nellie was clearly used to these kinds of idiotic remarks. “Thank you,” is all she said, as we started off towards the river, and what our quarry had left there.
“Not a sight for anyone,” the officer muttered under his breath, “save perhaps the Devil himself.”
Chapter 7
The rain eased up some as we made our way toward the arc-lights arrayed around the base of the grain elevator. The ground here was rough and uneven, with chunks of loose paving stone alternating with soggy patches of earth. Twice I tripped, and twice John’s strong hand kept me from falling. It broke the ice between us a bit, although I knew he hadn’t forgotten our argument.
Tattered clouds raced past overhead. A sliver of moon appeared, then vanished just as quickly. The smell of the river grew stronger, and I could see white and yellow lanterns bobbing on the masts of anchored ships to the south. Long Island City lay across the expanse of black water, on the far side of Blackwell’s Island. It was still night, but I could see from the faint bluish line on the horizon that dawn was not far off.
None of us spoke as we approached the small group of uniformed officers. We had no urge to speculate as to the state of the body. We’d know for certain soon enough.
As we came into the periphery of the light, one of the figures detached from the others and greeted us. Sergeant Mallory was a short, broad-shouldered man with an air of world-weary competence. He was young to have earned the rank of detective, early thirties, which meant he was either very smart or very well-connected. As his leather shoes showed signs of wear, I deduced the former, since a well-connected man would almost certainly be a wealthy man. It also implied honesty, which was a rare enough trait in any civil servant, but especially in law enforcement.
“Miss Bly,” he said, looking John and me over with shrewd brown eyes. “I thought you were alone. Sometimes I doubt Officer Beane would remember his own mother’s name if it weren’t tattooed on his backside. Pardon, ladies. But he neglected to mention two additional civilians walking around my crime scene.”
“They’re here for Myrtle,” Nellie said quickly. “This is Harrison Fearing Pell and her associate, John Weston. Myrtle’s on the case.” She crossed her arms and stuck her chin out, as if daring him to cross the great detective.
Mallory frowned. “What case? And how did you get here so quickly? I only got the call an hour or so ago.”
“My sister noticed a certain pattern emerging,” I said carefully. “Killings where the victim’s face has been covered. All in the last week.”
“All?”
“Two others. Becky Rickard and Raffaele Forsizi.”
“I know the cases,” Mallory said warily.
“We wondered if they were connected so we’ve been waiting to see if it happened again,” I said, trying not to fidget under his intense gaze. “Myrtle would have come herself but she’s been hired by the Pinkertons. I’m here on h
er behalf.”
“I know the whole department is leaky as a sieve, but this is ridiculous,” Mallory muttered through his mustache. “You’ve beaten the morgue boys!” He thought hard for a moment and seemed to reach a decision. “Alright, listen. I may regret this, but Myrtle did me a good turn once, when I was fresh to the force, and I owe her one. However,” and he held up a wagging finger, “that doesn’t mean you get something for nothing. I’ll let you have a look, tell me what you think, but I want to know what Myrtle knows and why she thinks these cases are tied together.” He blew out a long breath. “Which I pray they aren’t, because the good people of New York have been through enough this year.”
I decided right then that I liked Sergeant Mallory. He wasn’t arrogant and inflexible, like some of the detectives Myrtle complained about. And he seemed like he wanted to catch the killer badly enough that he’d take advice from a woman—and risk the ridicule of his colleagues.
I also knew I was navigating some tricky waters. I didn’t want to out-and-out lie to a police officer, which was obstruction of justice and who knew what else, but I wasn’t ready to break a promise to my client yet either. So I danced around the truth, keeping Brady’s and Straker’s names more or less out of it, and sticking to the similarities in the crimes. I mentioned the impression of remorse or ambiguity, and the possibility that more than one person could be involved. When I described the Rickard scene, and the writing that was found there, Mallory nodded in grim resignation.
“Miss Bly, I’ll determine which details can be published and which will be held back, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Nellie said.
“We managed to identify her fairly quickly,” Mallory said. “She had a note from her dentist in her pocket recommending cocaine toothache drops. As it happens, one of my men recognized the name—Anne Marlowe. She was an actress, performing down at Niblo’s. He saw the show with his wife last week. We checked and the description seems to match, although to be honest, it’s hard to know for sure. What’s left of her is…well, you’ll see in a minute. Come on.”
