by Kat Ross
“So that’s where you go at night. To spy on Moran.”
“To observe his activities, yes. In my spare time.” She scowled. “Without hard evidence, I can’t interest the police in investigating him. It doesn’t help that half the force is in his pocket.”
“So he’s your new . . . hobby?” I’d nearly said obsession, but I didn’t think Myrtle would take kindly to it.
“You could say that.”
“And what have you discovered?”
She blew a series of perfect smoke rings. “He’s careful, Harrison. Very careful. As you know, the Morans are an outwardly respectable family. He can hardly conduct his illicit affairs in the open. A club in the Tenderloin is the ideal hub for his operations. It’s frequented by politicians, bankers, criminals, police and everyone else he associates with. For now, I’m just keeping an eye on them all, compiling lists of names.”
She stubbed the cigarette out on the grimy windowsill, where I noticed countless other tiny burn marks. “Moran’s empire is vast. It could be years before I’m in a position to move against him. But I’ll never stop, Harrison. Never.”
The words were spoken quietly but with intense feeling. I wished Myrtle luck with her vendetta, but it didn’t explain why she had brought me here tonight. My sister stalked her prey alone, always. She had been coming to this seedy hotel for six months to chain smoke in the darkness and watch people go in and out of the Avalon. What made her come to my room tonight?
At this point, the thought crossed my mind that Myrtle might have learned about Moran’s involvement in the Hyde case the previous summer. I hadn’t a clue how, since John was the only other soul who knew and he’d take it to his grave. I’d make the same choice again, but it would be most unpleasant if my sister discovered the truth.
Myrtle’s next words were reassuring. “If anything ever happens to me, I want you to know what I’ve got, or at least most of it. So pay attention, Harrison. What I’m about to tell you is important.” She toyed with the silver lighter, flicking the flame on and off. “Most criminals are quite dull, but James Moran is in another class entirely. I’m sure you know his history.”
“He killed his father,” I said.
She nodded. “He was already a freshman at Columbia, a mathematics prodigy who gained early admittance. He claimed self-defense and the Moran money kept the sordid details out of the papers. He served two years in prison for manslaughter and was released early for good behavior.” Myrtle gave a mirthless laugh. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say? Upon his release, Moran returned to school and completed his bachelor’s degree. Now he’s a graduate student in economics, which dovetails nicely with his criminal activities.”
“I knew most of that,” I said.
“Good. Here’s what you might not know.” She braced her palms on the windowsill, her profile a dark silhouette. “Moran is ruthless and selfish, but of the highest intelligence. He’s a criminal for the pure fun of it. Clearly, he doesn’t need the money. I believe he’s driven by contempt for society and the law as a whole. He enjoys creating chaos, but not being at the center of it. Moran thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room and he usually is.”
She paused for breath, her grey eyes fixed on the Avalon. “Music is his single passion. He could have been a concert pianist, but he only plays privately. He’s turned his prodigious aptitude for numbers to the service of crime, though as I said, it’s a cold, calculating talent, not a consuming passion. He keeps everything in his head. When things are written down, they’re in a numeric code I’ve failed to break.”
I raised an eyebrow. I could only imagine how it pained my sister to admit that.
“He rules by intimidation and coopting his rivals, absorbing them into his organization, which is more efficiently run and thus more profitable for everyone.” Myrtle glanced at me with amusement. “As I mentioned, Moran pays well and takes care of his people. But if you betray him, he’ll make a lesson of you, viciously. The carrot and the stick combined.”
“What exactly does he do?” I asked. “I mean, illegally?”
“It would be simpler to ask what he doesn’t do. Moran appears to draw the line at child prostitution, but that’s the only line I’ve managed to find. He’s neck-deep into everything else our fair city has to offer.” Myrtle began ticking the list off on her fingers. “Murder for hire, extortion, robbery, illegal gambling, pickpocketing, arson, bribery of public officials, conspiracy, incitement to riot, solicitation, forgery, larceny, kidnapping, dognapping, insurance fraud . . . .”
I found myself nodding off and woke with a start when a fight broke out across the street. The two enormous bouncers put a quick end to it, tossing the bloody, unconscious combatants into the gutter, and Myrtle resumed her soliloquy.
“He has no siblings, just a mother and aunt who both live at the Moran mansion. I don’t think either of them has a clue as to what their darling boy is up to.”
I blinked the grit from my eyes. “When you said the usual time to your driver, what exactly did that mean?”
“Four o’clock.”
I sighed. I had no doubt Myrtle could ramble on for the next two hours without pause. As long as I didn’t snore, perhaps she wouldn’t notice.
“If he’s so careful, how do you know he’s a criminal?” I asked.
“Because he allowed it, of course.” Myrtle scowled. “Moran is a perverse creature. I think he enjoys pitting his wits against mine.”
As if you don’t relish the same thing, I nearly replied, but thought better of it.
Myrtle leapt to her feet and flicked the butt of her cigarette out the window.
“Where are you going?” I demanded.
“I’ve cultivated an informant from the Avalon. He’s meeting me downstairs.” She tossed a pair of field glasses at me, which I just managed to catch. “Keep a close watch, Harrison.”
“A close watch for what? I don’t know any of these people.”
But Myrtle was already gone.
I sighed and propped my chin on one hand, eyes sliding to half-mast. I’d never seen my sister so fixated. She was a dog with a bone when she got her teeth into a case, but her attention span generally lasted a few weeks at most.
I almost pitied Moran. He had no idea what was after him.
The minutes slipped by and I was half-drowsing again when a dapper figure emerged from the Avalon. The bouncers grew alert, their bulldog heads swiveling up and down the street. I leaned forward and automatically noted the time on the small clock Myrtle had set on the sill.
Two thirty-seven.
I raised the field glasses and the darkly handsome face of James Moran snapped into focus. He stepped to the curb and looked around. A gleaming brougham waited but he didn’t get in. Instead, he looked straight up at the window, smiled and tipped his hat. Then he hopped into the carriage and rattled off into the night.
I lowered the field glasses and sat there for a minute, thinking.
Moran couldn’t possibly have made out my features in the darkened room. He must have thought I was Myrtle.
“He knows about you,” I reported breathlessly when she returned.
“Of course he does,” she replied with an irritated frown. “What did you expect?”
“But won’t he hide what he’s doing?”
“I told you. He enjoys it.”
I shook my head. Truly, they deserved each other.
At four o’clock on the dot, the cabman returned and ferried us back downtown.
“Do you really think I could take over for you?” I asked, jaws creaking with the effort to contain a yawn.
“No. But there’s no one else, Harrison.” With these words, my sister closed her eyes and nodded off. She was fast asleep within thirty seconds, leaving me to pay the fare when we arrived at Tenth Street. As I staggered off to bed, I could hear her banging around in her laboratory.
There’s no one else, Harrison.
Not precisely a warm endorsement. But it was something, and with My
rtle you had to take what you could get.
Chapter 4
Rain lashed the windows of the upstairs parlor at Tenth Street, the somber grey skies mirroring my mood. It was my twentieth birthday and I’d made plans for a dinner celebration at the Hotel Hungaria with Myrtle and John, but so far only one of them had shown up.
Connor sprawled on the carpet reading some penny dreadful called The Dance of Death. John sat in his favorite armchair, idly flipping through a surgical textbook. I stood staring out at the rain and hoping to glimpse Myrtle’s tall, lanky frame striding down the street. We’d never been particularly close – my sister wasn’t close to anyone – but I had hoped she might be softening since our adventure at the Avalon.
“How could she have forgotten?” I muttered. “I reminded her just this morning.”
“Give it another few minutes,” John said consolingly. “You know Myrtle. She operates on her own time. I’m sure she’ll make an appearance.”
“She’s an hour late already.”
Myrtle had taken a new assignment from the Pinkerton Detective Agency and was rarely home. If she spent her nights spying on Moran, she hadn’t invited me to join her again.
I picked up a newspaper and scanned the headlines, looking for a distraction. The New York World had dubbed the deaths of Cherney and Bates The Mystery of the Dead Ringers, a cheeky reference to the scam of trotting out racehorses under false pedigrees. But there had been no new developments since Bates accidentally strangled himself at the Union Square Theater and the story was already fading into the the back pages.
“Are they still talking about the deaths on campus?” I asked John.
“No one talks about anything else,” he said wryly. “Suddenly everyone has a story to tell, though it’s mostly second- and third-hand gossip.”
“Like what?” Connor looked up from the carpet, morbid interest in his eyes.
“Most of it isn’t worth repeating, but I did trace some of the rumors to people who actually knew them.”
I grinned. “John Weston, you’ve been sticking your nose in, haven’t you?”
“A bit,” he conceded. “But I gave it all to Kate and Wayne. They were grateful for the information.”
“That was nice of you. Go on.”
“Well, both boys were bullied a bit as undergraduates, Daniel for being Jewish and Bates for a large birthmark on his neck. Once he became an actor, he learned to cover it with paste and powder.”
“Bullied how?” Connor asked, resting his copper curls on one hand as he flipped the page.
“Nothing too serious, at least not that anyone witnessed. It’s more that they were treated as outcasts. Columbia can be an elitist place.” John’s expression darkened. “If you don’t fit the mold, no one talks to you.”
“Any other connections?” I wondered.
“Not really. They were quite different. Daniel Cherney was a serious student, good grades, a bright future ahead of him. Francis Bates was more the creative type, majored in the arts program. In his third year, he dropped out entirely. His family isn’t wealthy so tuition might have been an issue.”
“And he pursued a career in the theater,” I said.
“Yes. He never landed any big parts, but from what Kate told me, his cast-mates said he seemed happy just being part of the production.”
Connor scratched his head. “I wonder if that’s really true. Dreams are dreams. If you want the limelight, how can you be happy in the wings?”
“He has a point,” I said. “Though I’m not sure it’s relevant to his death.” I frowned. “Did you notice that Cashel O’Sullivan had a stutter? It’s the sort of thing he might have been bullied over. Seems a mighty coincidence, as Kate says. Yet another one.”
“But what would that have to do with death specters?” John asked.
I watched the rain trickle down the glass panes, blurring my reflection. It was full dark out now. “Maybe they aren’t death specters at all. Maybe they’re some sort of horrible practical joke.”
“Bullying even after they’re dead?” John asked skeptically.
“If the person is cruel enough, they might find it amusing to torment the families,” I said, thinking of James Moran.
“By what? Hiring a perfect double to imitate the deceased? But they were random accidents, Harry! How could anyone possibly anticipate them ahead of time?”
“I don’t know.” I looked at the clock and my stomach gave a miserable grumble. “Let’s just go. It’s already eight-thirty and our reservation was for—”
We all turned at a rap on the door. Mrs. Rivers threw it open, revealing a uniformed patrolman in the hall. He surveyed our evening attire with a trace of pity. “Sorry, Miss Pell, but you’re both wanted uptown right away.”
“Is it the golem?”
The officer looked askance at my housekeeper.
“She already knows about it,” I said impatiently. “Has there been another attack?”
“Yes, miss.”
I looked down at the emerald green silk dress I had bought only yesterday at A.T. Stewart’s department store, then out at the dark rainswept night. “Give me a moment, officer.”
I went upstairs and changed into my sewer garb, grabbing the rubber boots from the coat closet in the hall. John waited at the front door with the patrolman. I eyed his starched shirt, elegant frock coat and perfectly shined shoes.
“What about you?” I asked.
John shrugged. “I’ll have to go as is.” A smile touched his lips. “At least I borrowed the shoes from Rupert.” That was John’s youngest – and most incorrigible – brother. “I think I’ll put them straight back in his closet when I’m done and see how long it takes him to notice.”
The rain drummed on the carriage roof as we headed uptown. At the corner of Twenty-Eighth Street, just down the block from John Chamberlain’s luxurious casino, we found Julius Brach waiting under an umbrella with a group of sodden patrolmen. He nodded a greeting and resumed staring into the manhole at his feet. He looked as eager to go down there as I was.
“Who did it attack this time?” John asked.
“Some tourists from Poughkeepsie,” Brach said glumly. “Respectable types and, unfortunately, sober as judges. They’d been at a show and wandered into the wrong part of town. I tried to convince them it was a prank, but I don’t think they believed me.” He registered John’s black tie. “Sorry, it looks like we caught you at an inconvenient time.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” John said. “Apologize to her. It’s Miss Pell’s birthday.”
Detective Brach looked stricken and I murmured something reassuring.
“Is this all we’ve got?” I asked, looking around. There was no sign of Mallory.
“I’m afraid so.” He lowered his voice. “We had a report of a ghoul down by the Battery and the boys went to check it out.” The Night Squad numbered only five detectives, including Sergeant Mallory, and I knew they were all overworked. “But don’t worry, these fine patrolmen have agreed to help.”
“Do they know about the shem?” John asked.
“Aye,” one of the cops replied. “Bit of paper in the mouth.”
“Exactly. Once it’s removed, the creature should dissolve.” He cleared his throat. “In theory.”
The patrolman’s blue eyes creased. “Not sure I like the sound o’ that, laddie.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s the best I can do.” John folded his umbrella and tossed it aside. The rain instantly plastered his hair to his head. “I’ll go down first.” He sat at the edge of the hole and found his footing on the ladder. “Slippery,” he muttered. A moment later he was gone.
“I’ll go next,” I said. “Then you can lower the lanterns. I don’t fancy waiting in the dark.”
The heavy rain made the descent down the ladder worse than usual. I could hardly imagine how John managed it in dress shoes. When I reached the bottom, I waited in rushing water up to my ankles as they lowered the lantern. A few minutes later, we all st
ood shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel. Besides Julius Brach, there were five patrolmen, each carrying a revolver and billy club.
“Right,” Brach said. “We’ll search in pairs.” He unrolled the map we had used in our last foray with Mr. Albanesi, the engineer from the Croton Aqueduct Department. “You two must be familiar with the area by now.” He held up the map and gave us a pointed look. “So you won’t need this.”
I opened my mouth to complain and John stepped softly on my toe. “That’s correct, detective,” he said with a broad smile. “Miss Pell knows these sewers better than her own mother’s face. Isn’t that right?” He turned to me expectantly and I shot him a look that promised retribution once we were alone.
“At least you won’t be squeaking this time,” I muttered, kicking his shoe away.
Brach stared at us for a moment, then proceeded to divide his men into pairs and assign us different routes that would intersect at regular junctions. If we found nothing, we would all meet in an hour back at the manhole. Help could be summoned by banging the nightsticks on the tunnel walls. He was brisk and organized, but watching him I realized that he was actually quite young for his rank, no more than thirty.
The men looked tired already. Most of them worked thirty-six hour stretches with one full day off for every eight on shift. A patrolman’s salary was so low – barely $800 a year – it should surprise no one that the force was notoriously corrupt.
I wondered how many of them had wives and children.
“Godspeed,” Brach said, checking the safety on his own revolver. “Let’s finish this business tonight.”
John gave him a two-fingered salute. “B’hatzlacha,” he said quietly and the Night Squad detective smiled.
Brach and the patrolmen headed south whilst John and I set off into a northward tunnel. It was the first time I’d been in the sewers during a heavy downpour and it was every bit as bad as I’d feared. The storm drains emptied waterfalls into the tunnel, all carrying the rubbish that people dropped on the streets and hurled from their windows. The flow in the center cut was a raging creek and I wondered uneasily just how high the level might get.
