“I have heard that a bit, sir,” Falconer admitted flatly.
“Well, it’s simply a fantasy, a ridiculous leap of imagination,” Byrnes said. “If anything, this is a copycat killer, and not a very good one, and he’s bent on getting similar headlines and such. The fool even broke the cardinal rule of the Whitechapel killer—never leave the murder weapon at the scene. We recovered the knife by the bedside.”
“Yes, I heard that, sir,” Falconer said. “A good start.”
“Well,” the chief said, looking around at the other men in the room, “just don’t think we’re headed down the road of chasing Jack the Ripper on this one. We’ve already got a few suspects—malingerers and deadbeats down by the dockside and such—and we will be rounding them up soon. We will get our man, Falconer, and we’ll end this Ripper frenzy very soon.”
“Yes, sir,” Falconer replied, as Crowley knocked to announce the next witness, Mary Miniter. Falconer turned to the door and saw her enter the room feebly with Crowley by her side, and as she was helped into the chair in the center of the room, she wiped her face with a handkerchief. Although she was young, Falconer thought that she had the careworn look of a woman much older. She was pallid and had dark circles beneath her eyes. Sick with the opium, he thought. Another fallen lady from the streets.
“Please, miss,” O’Connor reassured her. “This won’t take long, and you can just take a breath and know that you’re certainly not in any trouble. Do you understand?”
The assistant housekeeper looked up at the captain, and then at the other men in the room. “Yes, sir, thank you,” she said. “I…I just feel overwhelmed by all of it, you know. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Well,” O’Connor said, “we are here to see to it that this vicious killer is brought to justice very soon, and you can help us do that.” He then grabbed a chair and gently sat down in front of the woman, and he smiled as he began his inquiry.
“Miss Miniter, you were the very last person to see Miss Brown alive, it appears. And you saw her with a man who took her upstairs to that room. Can you please recount for us how that all happened?”
Falconer shifted his position and walked a few steps around the outskirts of the room so that he could get a better view of the woman’s face as she spoke.
“It was around eleven,” she began. “Yes, I’d say eleven o’clock or so, and this woman, Miss Brown, walked in with a gentleman. She was laughing and in very good spirits, but the man was much more stern and quiet-like. I walked out of the barroom to greet them, and they requested a room for the night, so I set them up for the room, number thirty-one, up on the fifth floor at the end of the hallway. I told them it would be a half dollar, and the man gave me the money without a word. Then they asked for some ale before going up, and I got that for them while they waited, and then they were off, up the stairs. That’s the last I saw of them, sir.”
“Tell us about the man, Miss Miniter,” O’Connor said. “What did he look like? What was he wearing? That sort of thing.”
“I-I’m trying to remember,” she said, looking around at the men in the room. “He was of medium height, I’d say. Perhaps five feet eight inches tall, and he looked to me to be around thirty to thirty-five years old. He had light hair and was wearing a dark brown cutaway coat with black trousers, I think.”
“What about his eyes?” O’Connor asked. “Did you ever get a good look at them?”
“Well, no, sir,” she said. “He was being very inconspicuous, standing behind the lady, as if he were anxious to avoid observation.”
O’Connor sat back in his chair and studied the woman in front of him for a moment. “And how about his voice?” he asked. “Did ever he say anything to you?”
“He let the lady do most of the talking,” she replied, “but I remember that he sounded foreign of some sort—maybe German.”
“And you registered them, Miss Miniter?”
“Yes, sir, yes, I did,” she said. “The man gave his name as ‘C. Kniclo’—K-N-I-C-L-O—so I asked Mister Fitzgerald to put them in the book under that name. I, of course, figured that they were husband and wife.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Miss Miniter,” O’Connor said, smiling at her. “We understand.”
Byrne suddenly moved over towards the housekeeper and spoke while standing above her. “Miss,” he said, “did you ever see that man again throughout the night or the next morning?”
She looked up at the chief inspector and hesitated. “No, sir, I did not,” she finally said. “I never saw him again.”
“Did he ever say anything about where he was going?” Byrnes asked. “Where he lived? What he did for a living?”
“I don’t believe so,” the woman answered. “He just stood there looking rather grim and letting the poor woman do all the talking, although as I said, he did pay for the room and the ale.”
“And what about if you ever saw him again?” Byrnes inquired. “Would you be able to recognize him then, do you think?”
Falconer watched intently as the woman sat for a moment pondering this question, and then looked up at Byrnes. “Yes, sir, I could,” she said. “I know I could. He was very distinctive and memorable.”
“Fine, then,” Byrnes replied. “We appreciate your time today, Miss Miniter, and we are sorry that you were dragged into this terrible situation. I want to assure you that we will catch this fiend very soon, and it will be because of the efforts of you and other people like you. But unfortunately, I must tell you that because you are so crucial to this investigation, we cannot let the press and inquisitive public get near to you at this time. It would be a very unpleasant experience for you and we cannot afford to have the investigation tainted in any way. You are a material witness, and so this department will be taking care of you for the near future and your loved ones will be informed of this. You will have access to them, at the least, but you must understand, we need to keep you safe from other interested parties for now, do you understand?”
“Yes,” the woman replied meekly. “I understand, sir. Thank you.”
Byrne then motioned to the assembled men to huddle in a group and Falconer walked over to join them. The chief inspector spoke to them in a hushed voice: “I want this woman hidden from the world, hidden from all the reporters, from everyone. She is the key. I want every possible suspect shown to her and please keep me posted as to what she says. She will lead us to the killer. Is that understood?”
The men nodded and moved over to where Miss Miniter sat in silence. Detective Sergeant Crowley extended his hand towards her and gently helped her to her feet. They then exited the room, leaving Byrnes with O’Connor, Williams, McNaught, McCloskey, and Falconer.
“Gentlemen,” Byrnes said to the five men, “she saw the killer, that’s certain. We must throw an overwhelming net over this city and show her everyone we catch, and I mean, everyone. She’ll pick him out, I’m sure of it. I’ll expect you, McNaught, and Falconer here to lead the search around the hotel and the surrounding docks and dives, all right?”
“Got it, chief,” McNaught replied. “We’ll get some men and get on it this morning.”
“Good,” Byrnes answered. “Please keep me informed—and be careful of the press.”
With a subtle jerk of his head, McNaught then led Falconer out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the city streets, where they joined the immense search for the mysterious killer of Miss Carrie Brown, the sixty-year-old sometime prostitute known as “Old Shakespeare.”
8
Falconer and McNaught sat before Mamie Harrington, the proprietress of a neglected boarding house and dive at 49 Olive Street, just a scant two blocks from the site of Carrie Brown’s murder at the East River Hotel. It was getting late in the day just hours after Eddie Fitzgerald had discovered the body, and a little digging had led the detectives to Mrs. Harrington’s place because Carrie Brown was known to stay there on occasion.
“So, is it true, Mrs. Harrington?” Falconer asked th
e rotund, red-faced woman sitting before him in the front room of the place. “Did Miss Brown stay here recently?”
“Yes, she did, detective,” Mrs. Harrington replied. “She had fallen on hard times again, I’m afraid…because of the drink and the opium, you know.”
“I see,” Falconer said, sensing a bit of regret in the woman’s voice. “When did she first start staying here?”
“She started a few months ago, I’d say,” Mrs. Harrington said. “But then she’d get picked up by the police and sent out to Blackwell’s Island. I wouldn’t see her for a while, and then she’d show up again, sobered up and looking better.”
“Do you know anything about her past, ma’am?” Falconer asked.
“Well,” she said, “I know that her name really isn’t Carrie Brown, in fact—it’s Caroline Montgomery.”
“Montgomery?” Falconer repeated, scribbling the name on a notepad.
“Yes,” Mrs. Harrington said. “She was from Salem, Massachusetts, and married a sea captain there, a Captain Brown, and had a couple of daughters. But then he died, and she came here to New York with a good amount of money—or so she said.”
“So how did she end up down here on the streets, Mrs. Harrington?” Falconer asked.
“I don’t rightly know, sir,” she replied, “but I do know that she got caught up in the drink and the opium, and that probably had something to do with it.”
“When did you last see her, ma’am?” McNaught interjected.
“Well,” she said, “I saw her just yesterday before she died, poor lady. She was here, and the men came by looking for Miss Lopez, but she wasn’t here, so they drank with Miss Brown.”
“Is that Mary Ann Lopez, who has been detained over at the Oak Street station house?” McNaught asked.
“Yes, that’s the one,” Mrs. Harrington answered.
“So what men are you talking about?” Falconer inquired.
“Well, the one they call Frenchy,” she answered, looking at both men. “He came by with another man I don’t know at around two o’clock in the afternoon and they drank with her, and then they all headed down to Speekmann’s Saloon on the corner here. I never saw her again, I’m afraid.”
Falconer looked at McNaught, who nodded slightly, and then Falconer turned back to Mrs. Harrington. “Do you know this Frenchy’s real name, ma’am?” he asked.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t, detective,” she said. “I just know that he’s called Frenchy.”
“And could you tell me a little bit about him, ma’am?” Falconer said. “Maybe what he looks like?”
“Well, he’s tall and has darker skin,” she said, “and he’s a foreigner. He’s French, I think, and he doesn’t speak English very well.”
“What’s he like, Mrs. Harrington?” McNaught asked. “How does he act?”
“He’s rather nasty, I’d say,” she replied. “He drinks all the time and gets into fights in the neighborhood and mistreats the girls. I don’t like him coming around here, to be honest.”
“Do you know where he stays, ma’am?” Falconer asked.
“Well,” she said, “I heard he often stays at the hotel where she died last night, in fact. He’s a sailor, I think, and the ladies have said that he stays over there sometimes.”
“Do you know, ma’am, if he’s ever been known to carry a knife?” McNaught asked.
“I…well, I believe he has, sir,” she said, “or so I have been told, at least.”
“Mrs. Harrington,” Falconer said, “can you tell us anything about the other man who came by yesterday with Frenchy looking for Miss Lopez?”
“No, I’m sorry, detective,” she said, “but I have no idea who that man was—never seen him before.”
“What did he look like, ma’am?” McNaught asked.
“He was shorter,” she said, “with dark hair and a dark mustache, and he looked rather sturdy and strong, like an ape.”
“And these men drank with Miss Brown and then left with her, you say?” Falconer asked.
“Yes, they drank down in our cellar here for a while, then the three of them left and said they were going down to Speekmann’s to find Miss Lopez.”
“I see,” Falconer said, putting away his notepad. “Well, we appreciate your time today, ma’am, and we’ll let you get back to your duties now. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, gentlemen,” she said, standing up and wiping her hands on her greasy apron. “Such a terrible thing—to be murdered like that. She was a kind woman, and proper—when she wasn’t drinking.”
“Yes, we understand,” Falconer said, looking down at the woman. “We will do our best to find her killer, ma’am. Thank you.”
The two detectives then headed outside to the street, where McNaught stopped and turned to Falconer. “Well, that’s something,” he said. “This Frenchy character—we could possibly have our man.”
“Maybe,” Falconer said. “I think we need to go have a talk with Miss Lopez. Shall we?”
The two men then walked up the block and turned left onto Oak Street, making their way back to the police station.
9
“Indeed, I know Frenchy well,” Mary Ann Lopez said to Falconer and McNaught inside Captain O’Connor’s office, shortly after they had concluded their interview with Mamie Harrington.
It was around eight-thirty in the evening, and the detectives had summoned the known prostitute and friend of Carrie Brown from her cell to question her about the man known as Frenchy. She now sat before them as O’Connor and Detective Sergeant McCloskey lingered over near a window. “He is a vicious, cruel one,” she continued, “and he was with Miss Brown last night, I can tell you that. I was drinking with them earlier at John Speekmann’s, and Frenchy was giving her a go at it. He’s a brutal bastard to us all, and I for one hope he gets the chair. That’s what I think.”
“Miss Lopez,” Falconer said, “do you know the man’s full name?”
“Well,” she said, “he goes by several names, actually. Sometimes he’s George Francis, and sometimes he’s George Francois. And then other times, he’s called himself Frank Sherlick, or something like that, but I don’t really know which one name is the real one.”
“And how long have you known this man, may I ask?” Falconer inquired.
“About six months, I’d say,” she replied. “I lived with him for a time, but he got too violent with me, and I had to leave.”
“How would he get violent with you, if you don’t mind, miss?” Falconer asked.
“He’d get liquored-up and throw me around a little, or give me a smack,” she said. “And then once about a month ago, he bit me hard in the arm, and so I got him arrested, and that was it. But I’d still see him around the neighborhood, like last night.”
“So, you four were all at Speekmann’s last night?” McNaught asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” she answered. “Me, Carrie, Frenchy, and the other one, his cousin.”
“Frenchy’s cousin?” Falconer asked. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know, actually,” she said. “I just know that they’re supposed to be cousins and the other man goes by the name of Frenchy, too.”
“They both go by the name of Frenchy?” Falconer asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I now it’s a bit queer, but it’s the truth.”
“And how long were you all at Speekmann’s yesterday?” Falconer said.
“A few hours,” she said. “Then Frenchy’s cousin left, and Frenchy walked out with Carrie, and I stayed, and that was that.”
“Miss Lopez,” McNaught said, “could you identify Frenchy if we brought you around the neighborhood and looked for him?”
“I suppose so,” she answered. “I know what he looks like.”
“Very good,” McNaught said to her, smiling. “Gentlemen, I think we should take a walk around Cherry Hill with Miss Lopez here and see if we might be able to find this man, Frenchy. Shall we?”
“Yes, I agree,” O’Connor said, walking clo
ser to them. “Why don’t you, Falconer, and McCloskey here step outside with her, and just keep your distance so this man doesn’t get suspicious if she runs into him.”
“Right,” McNaught said. “Miss Lopez?” he said, holding out his hand to assist her out of her chair. “Shall we take a look around the neighborhood now?”
“Yes, detective, thank you,” she said. The three detectives then led her out of the office and down to the city streets in search of the man now known to them as Frenchy.
10
On the way out of the precinct house, McNaught grabbed another detective, Jack O’Brien, so that they would have four armed, able-bodied men in plain clothes ready to act in case Frenchy got rough with Mary Ann Lopez out on the street or tried to flee. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, Falconer stood nearby as McNaught directed the woman to walk down Roosevelt for a bit and then turn left onto Water Street to head directly into the heart of the busy saloon and brothel district.
The plan was to have the young woman engage the suspect briefly if she saw him, and then the detectives would quickly collapse on him and take him into custody. Falconer watched as the group began to walk down Roosevelt Street and Miss Lopez played her part well, blithely ambling down the street as if it were just another night of drunkenness and dollar-an-hour visits with eager men looking for a good time. He stayed back some distance in the rear, quietly smoking a cigarillo, as McNaught moved a little farther ahead and McCloskey and O’Brien spread out across the other side of the street.
The four detectives walked down the street in this fashion, shadowing the young woman as she entered the raucous neighborhood and immediately began to encounter various rough-hewn men out on the town and looking for a girl for the night. The bars were noisy, and the streets were alive with scores of uninhibited revelers and oily hucksters, all trying to suck something out of the city and have their way in this dark little corner of the world while they could. Miss Lopez wandered down the streets for a half hour but had no luck finding Frenchy, and Falconer wondered if the suspect had somehow learned that police were looking for him and had left town in a rush.
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