Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 13

by Marvin Kaye

  “The mob,” he gasped. “Were you one? Did you see?”

  The gentleman tucked the cane beneath his arm, held out a hand. “I only saw you slip and fall.”

  “The woman! She must be hurt, maybe dead.”

  The stranger shook his head. “No woman of sense would walk alone in such weather, in isolation.”

  Paddy sat up, ignoring the outstretched hand. He looked east and west. He was midway between the bridge’s towers. The walkway was empty, save for the stranger.

  “I, ah, must have been thinking of something that happened earlier.” A dozen years earlier, he realized with a shock. A panic on the bridge shortly after its opening had created just the scene he had imagined.

  And the workman? One of the crew who died during construction?

  Paddy pulled himself to his feet.

  “You seem shaken,” the other said. “Shall I accompany you? Alone, unsteady on your feet, you may be vulnerable to criminals.”

  The irony of the man’s solicitude was not lost on Paddy. “I’m fine. Just had the wind knocked out by the fall.” He bounced on his heels to prove his haleness, and instantly regretted doing so; the motion made his gut roil.

  If the gentleman noticed Paddy’s discomfort, he gave no sign. “Then, if I can be of no further service, I bid you good night. Perhaps our paths will cross again.”

  The stranger turned and strode towards the city of Brooklyn.

  Paddy gazed over the harbor, giving the gentleman a respectable lead. Despite the lashing rain, he could just make out the silhouette of Fort Columbus on Governors Island, and the illuminated torch of the new colossus, Liberty Enlightening the World, now dominating Bedloes Island. North of the statue sat the newly opened wooden immigration station on Ellis Island. Paddy himself had entered America two decades earlier with his parents, through the former Fort Clinton, now being converted to an aquarium.

  His parents and baby sister had succumbed to influenza when he was ten. He’d been on his own ever since.

  Paddy reached into his pocket again. His prize was secure. The indentations along the four sides of the otherwise smooth gold bar meant nothing to him. They did not need to.

  If he glanced right or left, Paddy imagined shapes hurtling past the cables to the East River below. He looked down after the first one, but saw no sign of impact. Thereafter he focused his eyes straight ahead. The weather must be playing tricks on his mind, that was all.

  If not for the storm, ferries would be crisscrossing those waters into the small hours of the morning. One of them would have borne the Lascar and his burden long before. Instead, the sailor had been waiting for the storm to ease, whiling his time in a tavern in the bridge’s shadow, shedding his inhibitions enough to provide Paddy with motive and opportunity to better his own fortunes.

  The thief continued past the Brooklyn tower, descending until he came to ground on Sands Street. At least the maze of factories, warehouses, and tenements provided some respite from the wind. He paused beneath the anchorage. Despite glass casements, many street gas lamps had been extinguished by the wind and rain. Paddy needed no light to tell that his brogans were soaked through. He wrung out his cap and shook himself. This set his body shivering, as if it realized for the first time how thoroughly sodden it was.

  Paddy took deep breaths, willing his frame to steady itself. The rain was letting up, and safe haven was only a few blocks away. He fitted his cap back in place. Huge commercial buildings, some over ten stories high, sat silent alongside the bridge like the sarcophagi of giants, but to the north lay a more residential prospect.

  Paddy started across Sands Street.

  The rumble of an elevated train coming off the Great Bridge almost drowned out the screech of the trolley on its rails. Paddy hurled himself back, heels skittering against slick paving stones.

  No passengers were visible in the open-sided vehicle. Most likely it was heading to the yards, and so the driver was more heedless of pedestrians than usual.

  Electric street cars had begun running in Brooklyn a few years earlier, and quickly grew prolific. Many Brooklynites chose to dodge around or in front of the vehicles, which moved swifter than the horse-cars preceding them. Not every Trolley Dodger succeeded. Only during the great trolley strike this past January had the streets of Brooklyn felt safe. The number of maimings and fatalities mounted daily.

  As if to underline the fact, a boy of perhaps twelve suddenly shot from the shadows directly into the path of the trolley that had just missed Paddy.

  The trolley’s carriage caught the boy on his side. He spun around once before falling onto the tracks. Paddy winced, grabbing his own arm.

  The trolley continued on.

  Paddy rushed to where the boy had fallen.

  The tracks were empty.

  Suppressing a shiver that had nothing to do with rain or cold, Paddy traced the tracks up Sands Street. He found no blood, no body parts, not even a shred of clothing.

  He definitely needed of get out of this weather.

  Paddy turned west on Duffield Street, which was lined with modest private homes dating back decades. Gaslight flickered in several of the houses; the rest were dark, their inhabitants either abed or too frugal to waste money on the utility.

  At one time this area, Vinegar Hill—named for a century-old battle in Ireland—had been well to do, but the construction of the bridge cast a pall over it. Nor was the area likely to recover. There was talk of adding a second and even a third bridge across the waters. The Great Bridge was too popular to handle the traffic load.

  The house near the corner of Duffield and York had been built around 1830, shortly after New York State banned slavery. Prior to the Civil War, it, like many of its neighbors, had been a stop on the underground railroad. Brooklyn had been a hot-bed of abolitionist activity. Several tunnels still led from surrounding basements to the docks. Paddy had used one just last year, to avoid a gang that had gotten too interested in some booty he’d been carrying.

  Paint peeled off the clapboard façade in long strips; one of the shaded windows boasted a diagonal crack. An iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head clung to the front door. Paddy climbed onto the narrow porch, avoiding the less solid-looking boards, and rapped loudly three times.

  The wind had died down. The rain was but a drizzle. He heard shuffling from within.

  “Open up, Gee! It’s Paddy! I’ve something to show you!”

  A faint muttering came from beyond the door, as if the inhabitant was debating with himself. Then the door creaked open.

  Neighbors speculated that the elderly Negro known only as Gee might have been among the earliest escapees along the underground railroad, and had decided to settle here rather than move on to Canada. He was certainly old enough.

  Gee could neither read nor write, but he could look at a pilfered piece of jewelry and tell its worth within a few dollars. Gee did not buy stolen goods—he rarely had more money about than required for his simple needs—but was not adverse to taking a cut in payment for his appraisal.

  Although the house had gas lighting, Gee preferred candlelight. He disliked the smell of gas, he said. A few candles and a clever arrangement of mirrors provided all the light he needed. The smoke also helped to cover the often unpleasant odors from the river.

  “Wet,” Gee observed. His eyes moved up to look past Paddy. Paddy looked around, saw nothing, shrugged and pushed his way in. Gee sighed, adding his own shrug.

  “I wasn’t followed,” Paddy said. “I lost them an hour ago.”

  Gee followed his guest to the parlor. He was not talkative at the best of times, and the weather underscored that. Paddy didn’t care.

  “Wait until you see this.” Paddy dumped his dripping ulster in a corner of the sparsely furnished room, pulling his prize from its pocket. He held it concealed in his hand a moment, enjoying yet loathing the dichotomy of c
old and heat the object generated. Then he set it gingerly in the middle of the table and stepped back.

  The gold ingot was no longer than his palm, and about two fingers thick. Each of its four sides was etched with symbols that were not quite familiar.

  The Negro stared at it. He licked his lips. Usually Gee would handle whatever Paddy brought him to evaluate, raise it to his eyes, almost taste it. This time he seemed reluctant even to approach the table.

  “You haven’t a drop of whiskey about, have you?”

  “Rum.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Gee made no move to serve Paddy. His eyes stayed fixed on the ingot shimmering in the candlelight.

  “Ever seen anything like that?” Paddy asked, to break the spell.

  “Once.”

  “What do you think those markings mean?”

  “That, of course, is what I hope to discover,” came another voice. “Good evening, Mr. McGuire. Again.”

  Paddy swung about, reaching for his cudgel. He found himself facing the gentleman from the bridge, still in his frock coat and top hat, both considerably drier than Paddy’s own outerwear. Behind him stood a swarthy man in a red sailor’s shirt, holding a Colt pistol aimed at Paddy’s heart.

  This focused his attention admirably.

  “If this is like the other artifacts I’ve received, and it should be, the hieroglyphs are some strange amalgam of Hebraic, ancient Egyptian, perhaps Sanskrit,” the man continued, “but do not translate in any of those tongues. Any translation, moreover, would only scratch the surface of the secrets they contain, secrets of life and death, as I suspect you have discovered for yourself. Of course, I’ve barely begun my studies. It may take decades to solve their mysteries, and that’s with the help of my associates.” He nodded toward the sailor with the pistol.

  Paddy glowered at Gee. “You might have warned me.”

  Gee looked at, then past, Paddy.

  “Oh,” Paddy said, chastened.

  “Now, Mr. McGuire, would you remove that stick from your waist and drop it in the far corner? My cane has a longer reach, I assure you. More to the point, this fellow would welcome an excuse to try out his new shooting skills.”

  Paddy relinquished his weapon. “You have the advantage of me,” he admitted.

  “Robert Suydam is my name. My family came to these shores some two hundred and fifty years before yours. I say this by way of asserting my rights to that object, since you chose to interfere with my courier.”

  “How did you know? Who I am, where I’d be going, even that I had your property? And so quickly?”

  Suydam smiled. He obviously did not do so often. “When you are wealthy and well-connected, Mr. McGuire, there are no secrets. The telegraph is a marvelous invention. And there are other ways of communication which I believe should remain beyond your ken.”

  Paddy let that lie. If Suydam wanted to keep secrets, perhaps his situation was not so dire. “So. I’ve delivered something you wanted. Surely compensation is in order.”

  Suydam eyed him narrowly. “I believe you are in earnest.”

  Paddy smiled.

  “I’m almost inclined to offer you something, at that. If only to insure your silence. Unfortunately, the associates of the man you murdered wish a few words with you. After that, the question of your silence will be moot.”

  “Need they know?” Paddy’s eyes flickered to the sailor.

  “They already do. And I must stay on good terms with them, to continue my studies.”

  Paddy shifted his right arm. “Gee? I’ll have that rum now. If Mr. Suydam does not object?”

  “A last request? Why not?”

  Gee, who’d stood silent this whole time, moved cautiously to a side table. He poured rum from a dark brown bottle into a discolored tin cup and handed it to Paddy. He did not pour one for himself, nor did he offer any to Suydam or the sailor. He did, however, move to a corner, making himself as inconspicuous as possible.

  Paddy breathed in the sugary aroma. Pity to waste it. “To great mysteries,” he proposed, raising the cup in his left hand.

  Suydam nodded slightly.

  One moment the rum was at Paddy’s lips. The next, it was dashed into the gunman’s eyes. The Colt fired at a spot where Paddy no longer stood. A bowie knife slid from under Paddy’s right sleeve and lodged in the man’s throat.

  Suydam raised his cane, then froze. Paddy held the Colt in his right hand and the ingot in his left.

  “I’ve other plans,” Paddy said.

  “You are resourceful,” Suydam mused. “Very well, you’ve earned your courier pay.”

  “That was then,” Paddy replied. “Now I’ve gone to some extra trouble. Price is going up.”

  “Name it.”

  “No. I want you to think it over. Let Gee know when you’re ready to negotiate.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Mr. McGuire. You’ve had a taste of the power of that icon on the bridge. Elsewhere, too. I see it in your eyes. It’s dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Paddy smiled. He looked at the dead gunman. Above the corpse stood the sailor’s doppleganger, gagging at the knife in his throat. For a moment Paddy, too, could not breathe.

  “Your point is taken, Mr. Suydam. Don’t wait too long. I might decide it’s too risky, and drop it off a bridge.”

  Suydam paled.

  Paddy slipped into the hall, opened the front door, then slammed it shut without exiting. He entered the hall closet, felt for the latch in the back, and pulled open a hidden door to the basement. Suydam might have more confederates outside; they would not know about this passage to the river.

  Dangerous? This hunk of gold covered with chicken scratches? Suydam had dropped a clue to its nature, and the Lascar’s revenant had clinched it. The ingot allowed him to see ghosts, and share their final moments. How many died building the Bridge? Twenty? Thirty? How many died in streetcar accidents every year? Scores?

  The sights had been unnerving, but now he knew what they were. The dead can’t hurt the living. There was some discomfort as he felt their last moments, but that was tolerable.

  Paddy felt his way along the tunnel, following the scent of salt water. Maybe he should hang onto the damned thing. Spiritualists made a fortune with their tricks. How much could a man capable of raising real spirits make?

  After several long minutes Paddy saw a glimmer of, not light, but less dark, up ahead. He stopped abruptly. A figure stirred at the edge of the tunnel.

  Had he underestimated Suydam? Had Gee betrayed him?

  Paddy felt a tightness at his throat, then relaxed. He was looking at an escaping slave, who in his eagerness had slipped in the slime-coated tunnel and broken his neck fifty years or more ago. That was all.

  Ahead, a sliver of the starry night was revealed by dispersing clouds. Paddy shivered in the cold air. He should have grabbed his coat. On the other hand, it was so drenched it would have sucked what little heat remained out of his body. No, he’d find something dry nearby.

  He came out under an overhang at the edge of the Navy Yard. Surely he could scrounge up a coat or blanket from one of the workers, or a resident across the street. That man slumped against the fence might be persuaded to offer up his coat. Especially with a Colt pistol in his face.

  As Paddy drew nearer, he saw the figure’s coat was threadbare and of an unfamiliar style. Still, it was better than nothing. The man himself looked unhealthily gaunt.

  And hollow-eyed.

  And dead.

  Paddy felt a gnawing in his stomach.

  He turned away, only to face another specter whose skin had been baked red by sun and wind.

  Another half turn, and a woman, half-naked, her nose eaten away by disease, closed in on him.

  Paddy’s own flesh began to burn. Sharp pains shot through his muscles like bullets
from a Gatling gun.

  These were not ghosts whose passings had been swift, who’d been trampled by a panicking mob or struck by a trolley. These three had suffered lingering deaths, from disease, starvation, exposure. In earlier encounters, Paddy had felt brief pangs, over so quickly they almost did not register. Now long, drawn-out agonies rent his soul.

  His knees buckled.

  Stand fast, he told himself. There were only three. He could stand the torture long enough to move away.

  Then a fourth figure rose out of the East River.

  And a fifth.

  And row after row beyond them.

  He realized who they were now. He’d heard shipyard workers tell stories while he’d hung out in local bars, downing ale and oysters.

  The Navy Yard had been built around Wallabout Bay, an inlet where, more than a century earlier, British occupying forces maintained leaking hulls of vessels as prisons for American revolutionaries.

  Over eleven thousand men and women died on those ships.

  Eleven thousand dead, inflicting their myriad final agonies on Paddy McGuire.

  He tried to run. His knees caved. He sank into a heap in the cold mud just outside the Navy Yard, whimpering, shivering, mewling, hand wrapped so tightly about the ingot that the hieroglyphs left a reverse impression on his palm.

  Drowned. Starved. Beaten to death. Guts turned inside out by disease. Skin blackened by the sun.

  Paddy stuffed his ears with mud, covered his eyes, tried to crawl away. His limbs were too wracked with pain to obey.

  The onslaught continued until Paddy McGuire’s very thoughts were eaten away to nothing but cowering animal instinct. He mindlessly huddled in filth, rocking back and forth, fingernails torn and bleeding, extremities numb, stinking of his own voided bowels.

  Which was how Robert Suydam and three scowling Lascars found him, a few minutes before dawn.

  Suydam pried the ingot from Paddy’s hand, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and placed it gingerly in his own coat pocket. He turned to the sailors.

  “Satisfied?” he asked them.

  The three fingered their curved blades, but did not draw them. Killing Paddy McGuire now would be a mercy. They were disinclined to be merciful.