by Sara Donati
“Could be Cameron.” He shrugged. “The obituary mentioned other books he wrote. Let’s just wait and see.”
“Superstitious Dago,” Oscar muttered.
“Says the half Dago who jumped out of his skin at the cawing of some crows not an hour ago.”
Oscar’s mouth jerked. “Crows are ancient harbingers of bloody doings.”
Jack made a rude noise. “Crows are birds. Smarter than almost any half Irishman, I’ll give you that. Now, if I’m cautious when it comes to talking about what’s next, that’s just Italian common sense.”
And he used a thumb to pull down his lower eyelid. It was such a dyed-in-the-wool, old Dago move that Oscar’s whole face split in a grin.
Lippincott’s office was easy enough to find, situated above a bookstore. At the door a clerk greeted them and nodded politely at Jack’s request to see the manager. He showed them into a small office made smaller by piles of books and great messy stacks of paper on the floor and every flat surface. Manuscripts, Jack supposed, tied with string, each put down at an angle to the one before and after so as to keep them separate. The ones nearest the floor were gray at the corners. Spiders had made good use of the gaps between stacks, and dust hung suspended in the air.
Oscar sneezed.
The room smelled of ink and dust and wet paper with undercurrents of tobacco and sarsaparilla. A prickling sensation high in Jack’s nose reminded him of a dank cellar.
Oscar sneezed again.
The clerk was talking into a canyon formed by the stacks of books on the desk. Jack ducked down to see a small white face dominated by spectacles topped with wild white eyebrows like caterpillars.
“Mr. Morgan,” said the clerk. “Two detective sergeants to see you.”
The little man climbed out from behind the desk, lifting one leg and then the other to clear a tower of journals, and came to a standstill in front of them, his hand extended.
“Maurice Morgan, manager of the New York office.” He was a very small person, but his handshake was solid and certain. “I can’t offer you seats, as you can see. At least not here. We could retire to the coffeehouse on the corner, if you’d like.”
“That’s tempting,” Jack said, wishing he could step back a little so as to look the man in the eye, rather than straight down at the perfectly round, very pink, bald spot at the crown of his head. “But we have what we hope is a simple question. About this book.”
He held it out, and Mr. Morgan took it in both hands, raised it to the point that it almost touched his nose, and examined the spine and cover.
“Faith in the Great Physician,” he read aloud. “I believe we published this just before I came to take over this office. What did you want to know?”
“Augustus dePaul might be a pen name,” Oscar said. “We need the author’s real name.”
Maurice Morgan’s head tipped back and his whole lower face transformed into a broad smile bracketed by neat folds of skin. “Is it a murder mystery, may I ask? Because—if I may explain—I believe that the publishing world is on the brink of a new fashion in murder mysteries. Are you familiar with Mr. Collins’s The Moonstone? Or The Notting Hill Mystery by a Mr. Charles Felix? That one was a serial in a minor journal so very few people know of it, sadly. And of course Mr. Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue—” He stopped himself, but his smile remained. “Pardon me, I do go on. So. What was it you wanted to know again? Is this a criminal investigation?”
“We’d like to know who wrote this book.” Oscar was grinning, his mood improved by this very charming little man.
“Right,” Mr. Morgan said. “Just hold on, I need the general ledger for—what year?”
“Eighteen eighty-two,” Jack supplied.
“Mr. Manning!” he bellowed through the closed door. “I need the eighteen eighty-two ledger, if you please, and right away!”
Jack glanced at Oscar, who was tugging at his mustache in a way that gave away his excitement. They were on the verge of something, they both could feel it.
* * *
• • •
THE CLERK BROUGHT in the ledger, but it took ten minutes of maneuvering piles of paper before it could be opened on the manager’s desk. Then he bent over it and used a finger to trace down one page, a second page, and a third. Jack stopped counting at page ten, just when Mr. Morgan looked up in triumph.
“In April of eighteen eighty a representative of the author brought us the manuscript for this book of yours. It is a pen name, as you guessed, but the author wished to remain anonymous.”
“You don’t insist on knowing your authors’ names?” Oscar’s tone was openly suspicious.
“We do not,” said Mr. Morgan, unmoved by Oscar’s change in tone. “Anonymity is a long-standing tradition in publishing.”
“Then how does the author get paid?” Jack asked.
“Through his representative, of course.” He glanced down at the ledger. “Lippincott began as a house dedicated to publishing religious works. Our offerings are more diverse now, but we remain loyal to the wishes of our founder in most things. This volume didn’t sell well, I’m sorry to say. We paid thirty-five dollars in advance, and only twenty copies ever sold. Twenty-one,” he corrected, looking at the book still on his desk. “A loss for us.”
“But you paid the author thirty-five dollars to secure the right to publish, so who got that money?” Oscar asked, his impatience surfacing now. “Who was this representative?”
Mr. Morgan blinked at them and then returned his gaze to the ledger. His finger traced across a row rather than down the column, and then stopped.
“The author’s representative was a Neill C. Graham. Is that of any help?”
A great rush of adrenaline ran down Jack’s arms and made his hands jerk.
“Yes,” he said. “That is considerable help. I’m afraid we’ll have to take your ledger as evidence. It will be returned to you, once this case is resolved.”
As they were leaving, Mr. Morgan came out of his office. He said, “If I may make a suggestion? Should either of you ever think to write down your cases or to write anything, really, about crime solving, I hope you’ll come see me. It’s such a promising field, you know. I sense a great awakening of interest. Please keep it in mind.”
* * *
• • •
“NOW IF WE only knew where to find Graham,” Oscar said. “And look, the sun has come out. A good omen.”
“I don’t know,” Jack said. “It’s still a weak connection. Graham had himself listed as dePaul’s representative, but what does that mean? Is it his own pen name? And does that mean he placed the advertisements? It’s all conjecture, still.”
Oscar pulled up short, took the ledger out from under his arm, and opened it to the page he had marked with a scrap of paper. He scowled down at the neatly written columns of notes.
“Graham gave a mailing address: 130 West Tenth Street. That would be—”
“Cameron’s medical practice,” Jack said. “So, not such a weak connection. I suppose his middle initial must be for Cameron. Neill Cameron Graham.”
Oscar made a disgusted sound. “Why did we never ask about Graham’s middle name?”
“I think the first time we saw any initial was the letter he wrote to his superiors at the hospital.”
“One of us should have thought of it.”
There was no arguing the point. Jack said, “So if Neill Graham is Cameron’s grandson, that would make him Nora Smithson’s brother or cousin. Probably brother, because the Camerons only had the one daughter, according to Amelie. We don’t know much, do we?”
“That’s about to change,” Oscar said. “Let’s go call on the Smithsons to ask about Nora’s brother. He’s been missing for weeks now, after all. You’d think she would be concerned.”
They had interviewed Nora Smithson three times after her grand
father’s death, and three times she had failed to reveal that she had a brother who happened to be a surgeon and physician, one who was known to their grandfather.
Oscar’s mind turned in the same direction. “Amelie would have told us, so she didn’t know about the connection either.”
Jack said, “Did we ever mention Cameron to Neill Graham?”
“Just once, in the first interview. He denied knowing him. Never mentioned his sister, either.”
Nora Smithson was a young woman who had suffered terribly at her grandfather’s hands, but she had stayed on with him because, as was so often the case, she had nowhere else to go. Apparently her brother had never offered her any assistance. How could she be anything less than consumed by anger? But she had kept her silence. Was she protecting her grandfather, her brother, or herself?
It was a question with an obvious answer: all three of them were guilty. But of what exactly, that was still a mystery.
Jack said, “You remember Graham’s landlady?”
Oscar glanced at him. “Mrs. Jennings. You’re thinking of the visitor she told us about, fair-haired and elegant, she said. As far as I can see, Mrs. Jennings is the only person who can establish a connection between Graham and Nora Smithson, but you know the old lady has a memory like a rusty sieve. She’d make a terrible witness.”
“You know that, and I know that,” Jack began.
Oscar grunted softly. “But Nora Smithson does not.”
“Or maybe she does,” Jack said. As they turned onto Sixth Avenue he said, “Let me take the lead. I think there may be a way to crack that shell.”
* * *
• • •
THE APOTHECARY CLERK was short with them: Mrs. Smithson was not to be disturbed. She was in a delicate condition and must have her rest of an afternoon.
Oscar put his shield on the counter and promised to arrest the clerk for obstruction of justice and throw his pimply ass in the deepest darkest rat-infested cell in the Tombs if he did not immediately step out of the way and let them pass. The clerk’s chin twitched and trembled. He looked at Jack, who tried to make it clear by his expression that Oscar was to be taken at his word.
He stepped aside, and they went through the door at the back of the shop.
They found an elderly clerk laboring over accounts in an office, another sorting through stock in a storage room, and in the compounding laboratory they saw two apothecaries working, heads bent over their pill trays. Young men. Neither of them was Geoffrey Smithson, which they knew because Oscar rapped on the glass panel in the door and demanded their names. Mr. Wise and Mr. Tinapple, as it turned out.
They were debating how to proceed when they heard the swish of skirts on the stairs, and Nora Smithson appeared with a marketing basket over her arm. She wore a light cape, but the curve of her belly was clear to see.
She stopped at the sight of them, closed her eyes briefly, and set her jaw.
“Detective Sergeants,” she said, her voice even and very cool. “I do not have time to answer the same questions yet again.”
“That suits us just fine,” Oscar said. “Because we have new questions. We can ask them here, or we can go to headquarters to talk. Which would you prefer?”
They followed her into the small parlor that was as far as they had gotten into the family’s living quarters on past visits. A neat room, if a little crowded with old-fashioned and uncomfortable furniture.
She sat but didn’t invite them to do the same.
“Where is Mr. Smithson?” Oscar asked.
Apparently he had forgotten Jack’s request to start the questioning, but then generally Oscar’s instincts were good and should be given priority.
“Why do you ask?”
“To hear the answer.” The harder she stared at him, the more he seemed to relax. In the end she gave in, as was almost always the case.
“My husband,” she said in a tone that would have made most men retreat, “is away, visiting his brother.”
“And where would this brother of his be?”
She pressed her mouth together and huffed her displeasure. “Chicago. What is this visit about?”
“It’s about Neill Graham,” Jack said. “Your brother. Who has been missing for weeks, and is feared dead.”
People reacted in all kinds of ways to unexpected bad news. Some became confused and seemed unable to comprehend the facts. Some were defiant, and challenged the message and messenger both. Jack had seen strong men collapse at news of a death in the family, while women often grew distant and excessively formal.
Nora Smithson smiled. It was a disturbing smile, almost lighthearted.
“My brother?” She shook her head. “You come to me about my brother? How odd. I haven’t seen Neill in a very long time. He could be dead, for all I know. Or care, for that matter. I can’t help you, Detective Sergeants, and now if you’ll permit me—”
She stood, and picked up her basket.
“Sit down,” Jack said.
Her expression shifted, ever so slightly. It was the first trace of doubt she had ever given them, and Jack was encouraged. Now he took his time formulating what he wanted to say, watching her while she gathered her calm back around herself.
“When we talked to you about your grandfather you never mentioned your brother,” he began. “Dr. Graham is by all accounts a talented doctor and surgeon, but you had not one word to say about him. Why was that?”
“He is my younger brother,” she said. “He was barely out of clouts when our mother died. He stayed with my father when I went to live with our grandparents.”
“And you have no relationship with him?”
She blinked. “We are strangers to each other.”
“Interesting,” Jack said. “Then please explain how it is that your brother’s landlady remembers you coming to visit him in his lodgings while he was in medical school. Last summer we talked to Mrs. Jennings more than once, and she described you very clearly.”
“Mrs. Jennings—do I have that right?” She smiled. “The lady was mistaken.”
Jack glanced at Oscar.
“I don’t think so,” Oscar said. “Mrs. Jennings struck me as a very observant lady. She described your carriage. I would say she has an excellent memory.”
Nora Smithson pulled back, her expression half amusement, half derision. “Mrs. Jennings?”
If Oscar had claimed to be the king of England this tone would have been unremarkable, because she knew—they all knew—that such a claim was a lie. Just as Nora Smithson knew that Mrs. Jennings was not an observant woman with an excellent memory, because she knew Mrs. Jennings.
She recognized her mistake before the words were out of her mouth, but there was no calling them back.
“Why deny your brother?” Jack asked her. “It’s odd that you would pretend not to know him, because your grandfather clearly did. Your brother took your grandfather’s manuscript to a publisher. That is, your grandfather’s work written under the name Dr. dePaul.”
The muscles in her jaw tensed.
“Nothing to say?” Oscar prompted. “Come now, tell us where we can find him.”
Her head jerked in Oscar’s direction. “Why would I do that?”
“Because he’s missing,” Jack said. “And he’s wanted for murder. Unless you can provide him with an alibi?”
“Or a confession,” Oscar said. “If you wanted to confess, our worries about your brother would take a backseat to a confession, wouldn’t you agree, Detective Sergeant?”
She averted her face, as if they had suddenly disappeared. Jack counted to thirty but she remained just as she was.
“Mrs. Smithson?”
She said, “I am unwell. I want to lie down.”
“Of course,” Oscar said, all exaggerated courtesy. “Given the shock, that’s entirely understandable. Who is you
r doctor? We’ll send for him right away.”
As she turned toward them the color leached from her face.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
“I think it is necessary,” Oscar said, coldly. “Your doctor’s name?”
After a long moment Jack said, “We will send for a doctor, Mrs. Smithson. We would prefer to send for yours, but if you won’t give us a name, we’ll send for someone else we know and trust.”
“Detective Sergeant Mezzanotte happens to be married to a physician,” Oscar added. His smile was unsettling, even to Jack. “We can have her here in a half hour. I’ll just go fetch her now. What do you say, Jack?”
“Good idea. And while you’re at it, stop at the station and send a telegram to Mr. Smithson. I’m sure he’ll want to come home to support his wife in such difficult circumstances. A missing brother is no small matter.”
“Of course.” Oscar, at his most expansive.
“We’ll just need his address in Chicago, and then you can retire until the doctor arrives,” Jack said. “I’ll be right here, watching over you.”
47
THE FORENSICS STUDY group had not yet been called to order when Elise came through the door, out of breath and flushed from running. The other students went on talking among themselves and spared her neither glance nor greeting, as it had been from the beginning. Serious young men studying medicine made sure to remind her she was invisible to them.
Elise went to join them where they stood studying the cadaver on the autopsy table.
“Candidate Mercier.” Dr. Lambert looked up from his spot at the end of the table. “An interesting case today. Loveless, Kaplan, O’Connor, make room for Mercier, please.”
They all moved closer together, grumbling just loud enough to be heard: nun and bloody nuisance and crowded already. Even a month ago Elise might have worried about this, but she was learning to ignore the noises men made when they were feeling put out by a female in their midst. It was that, or give up and go home.
