by Caleb Carr
During their interview with Murray on Tuesday, the Isaacsons did indeed discover (as they told Sara and me when they returned to Number 808 in the evening) that Beecham had been fired for paying excessive and disturbing attention to a child: a young girl named Ellie Leshka, who lived in a tenement on Orchard Street just above Canal. The address was within the Thirteenth Ward, and not far from where the Zweig children had lived; none of which changed the fact that stalking a young girl who wasn’t a prostitute (if such was indeed what Beecham had been doing with Ellie Leshka) was an activity he hadn’t engaged in since killing Sofia Zweig, to the best of our knowledge. Marcus and Lucius had hoped to shed further light on this subject by way of a visit to young Ellie and her parents, but as luck would have it the family had recently left New York—for, of all places, Chicago.
According to Murray, the Leshkas had never mentioned anything about violence when they made their complaint about Beecham. Apparently he’d never menaced Ellie—in fact, he’d been kind to her. But the girl had recently turned twelve, and her father and mother had developed perfectly understandable concerns about their daughter spending a lot of time with an unknown, solitary man at such an age. Charles Murray told the Isaacsons that he wouldn’t necessarily have fired Beecham, except that the latter had gained access to the Leshkas’ home by saying he was on official Census Bureau business, when the family had not, in fact, been scheduled for an interview. Murray’s experiences had been such that he was determined to avoid anything that even smelled like scandal.
Sara noted that, in addition to Ellie Leshka’s being a girl of good reputation, there was another unusual aspect to her case: she’d survived her association with Beecham. Given these circumstances, Sara thought it possible that Beecham never intended to kill her. Perhaps this was an example of a genuine attempt on his part to form an attachment to another human being; if so, it was the first in his adult life that we’d heard anything about, save for his shadowy behavior in the Chicago orphanages. Perhaps, too, the Leshkas’ insistence that he not approach their daughter, coupled with the family’s departure from the city, had contributed to Beecham’s rage; again, we had to remember that the recent boy-whore killings had begun soon after the events of December.
Such, however, was about all the information and speculation we could wring out of the Census Bureau connection. We completed that process at close to five-thirty on Tuesday, and then Sara and I presented the Isaacsons with the results of our own day’s work: a short list of occupations that we thought Beecham might have moved on to after his dismissal. Taking all the factors that we considered reliable into account—Beecham’s resentment of immigrants, his apparent inability to get close to people (or at least to adults), his need to be on the rooftops, and his hostility toward religious organizations of any kind—Sara and I had narrowed down our initial collection of possibilities to two basic areas of employment: bill collecting and process serving. Both were secular pursuits that not only would have kept Beecham on the rooftops (front doors often being barred to such unwanted characters), but would also have provided him with a certain sense of power—and control. At the same time, such jobs would have given him continued access to personal information concerning a broad range of people, as well as a rationale for approaching them in their homes. Finally, Sara had remembered something late in the afternoon that we felt further confirmed our speculation: when Beecham had been admitted to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, he had spoken of society’s need for laws, and for men to enforce them. Debtors and those involved in illegal activities (even if only tangentially) would certainly have aroused his scorn, and the prospect of harassing them would probably have been attractive.
Marcus and Lucius agreed with our reasoning, even though they knew, as Sara and I did, that it meant a new round of footwork. However, we had reason to be hopeful: the list of government bureaus and collection agencies that employed agents of the type we’d described was far more manageable than the long roster of charity organizations that we’d already tackled. Knowing that police secretaries such as Sara and reporters such as me would never get any information out of the city marshal’s office or any other government entity, the Isaacsons took on the task of assaulting those bureaucracies. Sara and I, meanwhile, split a list of independent collection agencies, again focusing on those that operated in the Lower East Side and Greenwich Village generally, and in the Thirteenth Ward in particular. By early Wednesday morning we were all on the streets again.
If canvassing the city’s charities had been a morally infuriating task, going up against the heads of collection agencies proved a physically intimidating one. Generally run out of small, dirty, upper-story offices, those agencies were most often headed by men who’d had unhappy experiences in some vaguely related field—police and legal work, confidence games, even, in one case, bounty hunting. They were not a breed that relinquished information easily, and only the promise of reward would even start their jaws moving. Too often, of course, such “rewards” were demanded in advance, and were repaid by information that was either blatantly false or of a usefulness to our work that only the author himself could possibly have divined.
Once again, tedious drudgery ate up hours (and by Thursday morning looked as though it would consume whole days) without producing results. The city did indeed keep careful records of those men it employed as process servers, the Isaacsons learned, but no John Beecham appeared in any of the files that they examined in the first twenty-four hours. Sara’s initial day and a half of work in the collection agencies resulted in nothing but vulgar propositions; and as for myself, Thursday afternoon found me back at our headquarters, finished with the list of agencies I’d been assigned to cover and at a loss as to what I should do next. Alone and staring out the windows of Number 808 toward the Hudson River, I was again consumed by that familiar sense of dread which said that we weren’t going to be ready. Sunday night would come, and Beecham, now aware that we would probably be watching those disorderly houses that dealt in boy-whores, would pick a victim from a new locale, make off with him to some unknown place, and again perform his loathsome ritual. All we needed, I kept thinking over and over, was an address, an occupation, anything that would let us get the drop on him, so that at the crucial moment we could step in to end his barbarity and his misery, the relentless torment that was driving him on. It was odd, after all I’d seen and been through, to think of his torment; odder still to realize that I had some sort of vague sympathy for the man. Yet the sentiment was in me, and it was understanding the context of his life that had put it there: of the many goals that Kreizler had outlined at the beginning of the investigation, we had at least achieved that one…
I was jolted back to the business at hand by the sound of the telephone. Picking it up, I heard Sara’s voice.
“John? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I’ve finished my list and gotten nowhere.”
“Then come up to Number 967 Broadway. Second floor. Quickly.”
“Nine-sixty-seven—that’s above Twentieth Street.”
“Very good. Between Twenty-second and Twenty-third actually.”
“But that’s outside your assigned area.”
“Yes. I sometimes don’t say my prayers at night, either.” She sighed once. “We’ve been stupid about this—it should’ve been obvious. Now get moving!”
Before I could reply she had rung off. I found my jacket and threw it on, then wrote a note for the Isaacsons, in case they returned before we did. I was just about to go out the door when the telephone rang again. I snatched it up, and heard Joseph’s voice:
“Mr. Moore? Is that you?”
“Joseph?” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, well, nothing, except that—” His tone was rather perplexed. “Are you sure about the things you told me? About the man you’re looking for, I mean.”
“As sure as I can be about anything in this business. Why?”
“Well, it’s just that I saw a friend of mine la
st night—he’s a street cruiser, doesn’t work any house—and he said something that reminded me of what you said.”
Rushed as I was, I took the time to sit down and grab a pencil and paper. “Go on, Joseph.”
“He said a man had promised to—well, what you said, take him away, and all that. Said he was going to live in a big—I don’t know—castle or something, where he’d be able to see the whole city, and laugh at everybody who ever did him a wrong turn. So it reminded me of what you said, and I asked him if the man had anything wrong with his face. But he said no. You sure about that thing with the face?”
“Yes,” I answered. “At this point I’m—”
“Uh-oh,” Joseph interrupted. “Scotch Ann’s yelling, it looks like I’ve got a customer. Gotta go.”
“Wait, Joseph. Just tell me—”
“Sorry—can’t talk. Could we meet? Later tonight, maybe?”
I wanted to press him for more information, but knowing his situation I let it go. “All right. The same place. Ten o’clock?”
“Okay.” He sounded happy. “See you then.”
I replaced the earpiece of the ’phone and shot out of our headquarters.
Grabbing onto the back of a Broadway streetcar after leaving Number 808, I made the trip to Twenty-second Street in a matter of minutes. After jumping back down to the cobblestone pavement that bordered the tracks along that stretch of the avenue, I looked across the way at a triangular group of buildings that were covered with enormous signs advertising everything from painless dentistry to eyeglasses to steamship tickets. Tucked in among these notices, painted on the windows of the second story of Number 967, were a tasteful (and therefore distinct) group of golden letters: MITCHELL HARPER, ACCOUNTS SETTLED. After waiting for a break in the traffic, I crossed over and headed into the building.
I found Sara locked in private conversation with Mr. Harper in his small office. Neither the man nor the room matched the pleasant gold-leaf lettering on the windows. If Mr. Harper employed a cleaning service, you couldn’t tell it from the soot that coated the few pieces of furniture in his office, while the roughness of his clothing and large cigar were exceeded only by that of his unshaven face and jaggedly cut hair. Sara introduced us, but Harper didn’t offer his hand.
“I’ve read a great deal about medicine, Mr. Moore,” he explained in a coarse voice, locking his thumbs into his stained vest. “Microbes, sir! Microbes are responsible for disease, and they pass through the touch!”
For an instant I thought of telling the man that bathing might give those microbes something to worry about; but then I just nodded and turned to Sara, my face asking why in the world she’d forced me to come to this place.
“We should have thought of it right away,” she whispered, before saying out loud: “Mr. Harper was engaged by Mr. Lanford Stern of Washington Street in February, to attend to some outstanding debts.” Recognizing that this didn’t jog my memory one bit, Sara added confidentially, “Mr. Stern, you will recall, owns a number of buildings in the Washington Market area. One of his tenants is a Mr. Ghazi.”
“Oh,” I said simply. “Oh, of course. Why didn’t you just say that—”
Sara stopped me with a touch, obviously not wanting Mr. Harper to learn the real nature of our business. “I saw Mr. Stern this morning,” she said pointedly, and finally I realized why we should have thought of going back to Mr. Stern at the beginning of this phase of our search: the elder Ghazi had been months behind in his rent at the time of his son’s death. “I told him,” Sara continued, “about the man we’re anxious to find—the man who we believed worked as a collector, and whose brother has died, leaving him a great deal of money?”
I nodded and smiled, recognizing that Sara was developing her own talent for impromptu falsehoods. “Oh, yes,” I said quickly.
“Mr. Stern said that he referred all his back rent accounts to Mr. Harper,” Sara continued. “And—”
“And as I told Miss Howard, here,” Harper cut in, “if there’s estate money to be had, I want to know what my cut’ll be before I reveal anything.”
I nodded and faced the man fully—this was going to be child’s play. “Mr. Harper,” I said, with a broad flourish, “I feel confident in saying that if you can provide us with the whereabouts of Mr. Beecham, you can expect a very generous percentage. A finder’s fee, as it were. Say, five percent?”
Harper’s saliva-soaked cigar almost fell out of his mouth. “Five per—why, that is generous, sir. Generous, indeed! Five percent!”
“Five percent of all there is,” I repeated. “You have my word. But tell me—do you know Mr. Beecham’s whereabouts?”
The man looked momentarily unsure of himself. “Well—that is, I know them approximately, Mr. Moore. I know of where he’s likely to be, anyway—at least when he gets thirsty.” I gave the man a hard stare. “I can take you there, myself, honest to God! It’s a little stale-beer dive down in the Mulberry Bend, that’s where I first met him. I would tell you to wait for him here, but—the fact is that about two weeks ago I had to let him go.”
“Let him go?” I queried. “Why?”
“I’m a respectable man,” Harper answered. “And this is a respectable business. But—well, sir, the fact is you occasionally have to use a little muscle. Do some convincing. Who’s going to pay their bills without a little convincing? I originally hired Beecham because he was a big man, and strong. Said he could handle himself in a fight. So what does he do? Talks to them. Chats it up, that’s what he does. Well, shit, sir—oh. My apologies, Miss. But you’re not going to get any money out of anybody by talking to them. Especially not the immigrants. Hell, you give them the chance, they’ll talk you into the grave! That Ghazi character was a good example—I sent Beecham to his place three times and he never got one nickel out of the man.”
Harper had more he wanted to tell us, but we didn’t need to hear it. After asking him to write down the address of the stale-beer dive he’d mentioned, Sara and I told him that we were going to check his lead out that very night, and that if it led to Beecham he could expect his money very soon. Ironically, this avaricious little man had given us the first piece of free information we’d had in two days—and the only one that was destined to amount to anything.
CHAPTER 41
* * *
As we came out of Harper’s building we ran headlong into the Isaacsons, who had found my note. Immediately repairing to Brübacher’s Wine Garden, the four of us went over what the account settler had said. Then we devised a plan for the evening. Our options were fairly straightforward: if we should locate Beecham we wouldn’t confront him, but rather telephone Theodore and have him send down several detectives—men whose faces would be unknown to Beecham—whom we’d set to work shadowing the man. Alternately, if we were able to find out where Beecham lived, but if for some reason he wasn’t in, we’d quickly search his place for evidence that might permit an immediate arrest. That much settled, we all drained our glasses and, at about eight-thirty, boarded a streetcar and began our expedition into Five Points.
The effect of that storied neighborhood has always been difficult to describe to the uninitiated. Even on a pleasant spring night like the one we moved through that Thursday, the place exuded a deep sense of mortal threat; yet that threat was not always or even usually exhibited in loud or aggressive ways, such as was the case in some other shady parts of the city. In the Tenderloin, for example, a general air of defiant carousing reigned, making encounters with drunken toughs out to demonstrate their prowess a routine matter. Yet such were little more than noisy displays, generally, and a murder in the Tenderloin was still a noteworthy event. Five Points was an entirely different breed of neighborhood. Oh, there were shouts and screams to be heard, all right; but they tended to drift out of buildings, or, if they did originate outside, to be quickly stifled. Indeed, I think the most disconcerting thing about the area around Mulberry Bend (the few blocks of the Bend itself were at that time being demolished, thanks to Ja
ke Riis’s tireless campaigning) was the surprisingly low level of outward activity. The residents of the neighborhood spent most of their time crammed into the miserable shanties and tenements that lined the streets, or, more often, packed into the dives that occupied the ground and first floors of a remarkably large number of those squalid buildings. Death and despair did their work without fanfare in the Bend, and they did a lot of it: just walking down those lonely, decrepit streets was enough to make the sunniest of souls wonder about the ultimate value of human life.
I could see that Lucius was doing just that as we reached the address Harper had given us, Number 119 Baxter Street. A few dirt- and urine-covered stone stairs next to the building’s entrance led down to a doorway that, to judge by the laughs and groans floating out of it, was the entrance to the dive we’d been told Beecham frequented. I turned to Lucius, and found him anxiously scanning the dark streets around us.
“Lucius—you and Sara stay here,” I said. “We’ll need you to keep watch.”
He nodded once, producing a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. “Good,” he said. “Fine, I mean.”
“And if there’s any trouble do not show your badge,” I added. “It’s just an invitation to murder, down here.” As Marcus and I made for the steps, I eyed Lucius once more and then murmured into Sara’s ear, “Look after him, will you?” She smiled once at that, and though I could tell that she, too, was apprehensive, I knew that her aim would remain steady through whatever followed. Marcus and I went inside.
I don’t know precisely what the caves looked like that prehistoric men are said to have inhabited, but the average Five Points dive cannot have represented any great advancement—and the one we entered that night was nothing if not average. The ceiling was only eight feet or so from the dirt floor, since the space had originally been designed as a cellar for the storefront above. There were no windows: light was provided by four filthy kerosene lamps that hung above a like number of long, low tables arranged in two rows. At these tables sat and slept the customers, their differences of age, sex, and dress more than outweighed by their common air of drunken dementia. There were about twenty people in the place that night, though only three—a pair of men and a woman, the last groaning and cackling at the incomprehensible statements of the other two—showed any real signs of life. They examined us with looks of glassy hatred when we came in, and Marcus inclined his head toward me.
