Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

To keep some distance from Finn, Carver wedged himself between Delia and a wall.

  After shutting the door, Miss Petty rounded on them. Instead of a royal ear-lashing, though, she cleared her throat and spoke in a quivering voice. “The building’s been sold. We’ll be purchasing a larger facility further north, with a field and gymnasium. The money left over will fund us for many years.”

  Finn blurted out exactly what Carver was feeling. “I don’t want to leave the city!”

  “Hush,” Delia said. “Can’t you see she’s not finished? There’s something else.”

  A tremble ran through the headmistress’s upper lip, but she wiped it away like an error on the chalkboard. “The board has also decided we can no longer house residents past age thirteen. I made a final appeal that our oldest residents, you three, be allowed to remain, but was summarily rejected. I’m afraid you’ll all have to make other arrangements.”

  Looking at their openmouthed expressions, Miss Petty rose and stepped closer to them and, in a rare gesture of affection, cupped Delia’s chin in her hand. “I’d gladly offer you a position in our new kitchen, but in your case, I’m confident it will not come to that.”

  A more severe expression had been reserved for the boys. “As for you two, I continue to regret I could not be both mother and father. You each need the latter badly. However, if my word means anything, I strongly suggest that if you don’t intend to wind up on the street, you put all mischief out of your minds and focus on making the best-possible impression on next week’s Prospective Parents Day.”

  “But—” Carver and Finn said simultaneously.

  She cut them off. “I promise nothing, but do as I ask and there may yet be a surprise for both of you. Since his father had been such a friend to Ellis, I’ve managed to persuade our new police commissioner to attend, bringing a great deal of attention to the event. If there is a chance for you to avoid the life of a street rat, it will be there.”

  Finn looked puzzled, but Carver grew excited. “Roosevelt? He’s working on the library murder! They say her body was…”

  Miss Petty closed her eyes. “Mr. Young, please. I’m delighted that you’re reading, but if you broadened your focus a bit, you might have something less unsavory to discuss.”

  “Sorry.”

  She grimaced. “I’m sure. Now, leave me please. I still have arrangements to make and you all have some serious thinking to do.”

  But as they filed out, the only thing on Carver’s mind was that he might meet a real-live detective who could help him find his father.

  4

  THEY HEADED down the hall, Delia and Finn somber, but Carver’s mind ablaze.

  “The rumor is she was butchered,” he said cheerfully.

  Delia rolled her eyes. “I read the papers.”

  “Everyone dancing and talking. She was screaming right below their feet and they couldn’t hear her.”

  Suddenly, Finn shoved Carver into the wall. He pressed his beefy right forearm into the smaller boy’s chest and brought his face close. “Shut up!”

  Sick of the years of bullying, Carver refused to flinch. “Or else what? You’re going to beat me up right outside Miss Petty’s office? Even you aren’t that stupid.”

  But Finn didn’t release him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did to me.”

  “I’m stunned, Finn, really. I mean, I’m still surprised you can talk.”

  Finn pushed harder, squeezing the air from Carver’s lungs. “I did not steal that locket!”

  Delia eyed them both with distaste. “Let go of him, Phineas. Haven’t we trouble enough?”

  The bully grunted, then lowered his arm. Carver’s ribs ached. He wanted to wince from the pain but forced himself to remain expressionless. He was, after all, in the right.

  A week ago, ten-year-old Madeline’s locket, all she had of her dead mother, was stolen. Miss Petty announced that if it were on her desk by morning, there’d be no questions asked. But that wasn’t good enough for Carver. He hid in the storage closet next door waiting, until Finn, without so much as a guilty look, appeared and put Madeline’s locket on the desk.

  Bad enough Finn and his gang had the run of the place, bad enough his good looks helped him get away with it. But steal a poor kid’s locket for a smidgen of gold? Carver had had enough. He snuck the locket back to the boys’ dorm, then waited for the deep snoring that told him Finn was asleep. Then he crept up and laid the locket on his barrel chest.

  In the morning, they all woke to Tommy, one of the younger boys, shouting, “Finn has the locket!”

  As the others sleepily surrounded him, a wide-eyed Finn stared at the chain dangling from his index finger. It was perfect, until Carver ruined it by grinning too widely. When Finn spotted him, even if he couldn’t figure out what had happened, he knew Carver had something to do with it.

  Like a steam locomotive, he came for him, shoving the bed back two feet as he rose. But before the lumbering hulk could reach him, Miss Petty arrived. Finn was dragged out by his ear, face as bright red as his hair. Detective Young had solved his first crime. A just punishment would be meted out.

  Only it wasn’t. Whatever went on behind the closed office door, Finn seemed none the worse for wear. Carver could only wonder what happened, or why Finn had yet to take vengeance. The whole thing had been very confusing. Even now, as Finn stormed off, instead of thanking him, Delia glared at Carver with disapproval.

  Carver felt flustered. “He stole Madeline’s locket. I saw him try to put it back!”

  “Phineas has never been a thief,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  “He’s been everything else, hasn’t he? For years!”

  “But not a thief,” she calmly repeated. “It’s not in his character. Unlike someone else I know, who never seems to run out of apples.”

  Carver stiffened. “Oh, I get it. You’re sweet on him, just like the rest of the girls.”

  Her face shivered. “Just because I don’t think he’s a criminal doesn’t mean I want to marry him. And even if he is guilty, Mister Ace Detective, was that the smartest play you could have made? He could’ve beaten you to a pulp.” She sighed. “I suppose you think you were doing the right thing, and Miss Petty says that when a jackass flies, we shouldn’t question how high it flies but that it flies at all.”

  Carver felt suddenly small. “You think I’m a jackass?”

  She shook her head. “You are different, though. The fact you stood up to Finn at all shows that.” She examined him, as if trying to suss the change, then pointed at his bulging pockets. “Not a great hiding place for apples. Can I have one?”

  Grunting, he pulled one out for each of them. She took a bite. “You’ll probably want to stop swiping things from the kitchen until Prospective Parents Day.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a waste for me. I’m fourteen, too big to be anyone’s baby, too… scrawny to be a good apprentice.”

  She didn’t disagree. “Miss Petty says I’ve never been adopted because I’m too smart. Men don’t want anyone putting ideas in their wives’ heads. It’s also why she never suggested me for an Orphan Train. I think I’d go insane working on a farm.”

  “I was too scrawny for the Midwest.” He used the word again, still hoping she’d disagree. “Just as well. I like it here. Tallest building, longest bridge… What else do you need?”

  She nodded. “That’s why I took matters into my own hands. I’ve been corresponding with Jerrik and Anne Ribe. They both work for the New York Times. He’s a reporter; she works in the leisure department. They’ll be there to meet me on Prospective Parents Day.”

  Carver let loose a loud whistle. “The New York Times? That’s almost as good as the Herald, isn’t it? Good for you, Delia, really.”

  She smiled wryly. “There have been a few women reporters, but they say the best I should hope for is to work for something boring like Ladies’ Home Journal.”

  “They’d be crazy not to give you some kind of chance. That’d be grand, wouldn
’t it? Covering murders, exposing crime.”

  “Something like that,” she said. She gave him a mischievous look. “Matter of fact, I’ve been practicing on you. Did you find anything in the attic today?”

  She took another bite of her apple.

  5

  “WHAT?” Carver said. “How… ?”

  “It’s not complicated. I was delivering fresh linen and heard all that creaking. I thought you were a rat until I stepped in and saw you working at that lock. You were so intent, I could’ve been an elephant and you wouldn’t have noticed. You have to admit you have a funny sense of law and order, turning in Finn, bending the rules for yourself.”

  Carver stiffened. “At least you know where your mother is; you even see her once a month. She just can’t afford to take care of you. I was dropped at the doorstep in a basket like in a fairy tale. I love mystery stories, but I’m the biggest mystery I know. What’s wrong with trying to find out about my parents?”

  Her expression softened. “Nothing, but I really don’t think Miss Petty would hide anything.”

  Without thinking, he answered, “Well, she did.”

  “Oh? So what did you find?” she said. Seeing his hesitation, she punched his shoulder. “I won’t tell, Carver. We’ve known each other our whole lives.” She paused, then added, “Well… not if you show me whatever it is.”

  Carver was dying to share it with someone. Why not Delia? “Fine, but not here.”

  Taking her elbow, he walked her up to an empty second-floor classroom. It was evening now, the only light from an electric streetlamp. As usual, the darkness comforted him. It was cooler here, too. Carver briefly worried Delia would be cold in her thin dress, but when a cool breeze from a cracked windowpane hit her sweaty face, she smiled with pleasure.

  He had started thinking how pretty she’d grown when she looked at him sharply. “Well?”

  With an exaggerated sigh, he withdrew the letter. She stared at it, aghast. “From your parents? Are they alive? Why would Miss Petty keep it from you?”

  He waved her closer. “Read it and you’ll know everything I do.”

  Together the pair solemnly studied the paper. Having memorized the words, Carver tried to see past them, to feel his father’s presence, the man who’d held the pen, thought the thoughts. The effort made him nervous, and he couldn’t say why.

  He pointed out a word. “He misspells color.”

  “That’s how they spell it in London,” Delia said. Her brow furrowed deeper and deeper as she read, until it looked like river waves. “It… seems like it was written by a crazy person.”

  Carver felt strangely defensive. “Or maybe it doesn’t make exact sense on purpose, like a clue. It talks about a mark, right? It means my birthmark.”

  She scanned his face and arms. “Where?”

  Eager to prove his point, he pulled his shirt half-off and turned his bare back to her.

  “Not quite so scrawny anymore, are you? You’re getting some muscle.”

  He tried not to blush. “See it? On my right shoulder?”

  She leaned closer. “When was the last time you took a bath? I can’t see anything except dirt.”

  He felt her fingers against his skin. The sensation was pleasant until she rubbed hard.

  “It doesn’t come off! It’s a birthmark!”

  “Sorry. It does look like an ear. Carver… that really is a letter from your father, isn’t it?”

  He pulled his shirt back on. “So what do I do about it? I can’t tell Miss Petty.”

  Delia shrugged. “I’d try to find some kind of official help. Someone working for the city who has access to records, like…”

  Carver brightened. “Roosevelt! If you can write to the Times, why can’t I write to him?”

  Delia looked worried. “I was thinking of a clerk or librarian. The police commissioner? You might as well write to Sherlock Holmes.”

  But Carver barely heard her. “He’s been a hunter, a cowboy and a sheriff. I know he’d want to help. And if we met… if I impressed him, maybe I could even get a job, like you and the Times. Don’t you think?”

  Delia gaped at him awhile before speaking. “I’m sure he’s very busy, you know, trying to eliminate all the corruption in the city, working on solving that murder…”

  Carver gave her a grin. “I mean, why not? What do you think?”

  “Well,” Delia said slowly. “I certainly think you can try.”

  6

  THAT NIGHT, Carver didn’t sleep at all. Instead, in the light of an old hurricane lantern, he toiled over his letter to Roosevelt, revising it dozens of times before the sun rose. In the morning, he mailed it, and that very afternoon started checking for a response.

  Days went by without an answer. After a week, he worried Delia was right—he might just as well have written to Sherlock Holmes. By the time Prospective Parents Day came around, he’d decided Roosevelt was a phony, a stuffed shirt who talked big but who couldn’t be bothered with anything that really mattered.

  Rather than even try to meet him, Carver stood in a corner tugging at his too-small shirt and feeling miserable. Aside from the suffocating collar, the pants itched horribly, as if the lining were coated with sand. Worse, the jacket wouldn’t close enough to cover the shirt’s ancient food stains.

  Noticing his dour face, Miss Petty said, “Take heart, Mr. Young. Who knows? There could be a surprise in store. Everything changes, after all.”

  She was right about that. It had finally dawned on him that his childhood, unhappy as it was, was vanishing. For as long as he could remember, plywood boards covered with Mother Goose characters separated the dining common from the main entrance hall. Now they were gone, creating a vast, open space that took up nearly a quarter of the first floor.

  The chipped wooden children’s tables had been replaced with folding adult-size versions, neatly covered in linen. The usually bare windows were covered with borrowed burgundy curtains. There was light all around, too much, leaving no place for Carver to hide from all the strangers.

  When Delia joined him in his lonely corner, he worried she was going to criticize him again. Instead, she seemed oddly lighthearted for the occasion.

  “You look unhappy,” she said in a playful tone.

  Didn’t she get it? He nodded toward the orphans, all milling with a crowd so well dressed that he’d only seen its like strolling down Fifth Avenue on Sundays after church. “It’s like we’re having a… a… what do they call it when the store burns and all the goods have to be sold cheaply?”

  “A fire sale?” Delia offered.

  “Everyone must go!” Carver said, trailing his hand in the air to indicate the invisible ad.

  Ignoring him, Delia tugged at his tight collar. “I offered to let it out for you. Miss Petty thinks I did nicely enough for the others, even if you think I only readied them for some sort of slave trade.”

  It was true. She’d done wonderfully matching the children with suitable clothes, then patching and mending them all.

  “And me,” she said, modeling her dress. “Do I look fake?”

  She didn’t. He’d almost taken her for one of the visitors when he first saw her. The dress was a shade lighter than peacock blue, matched her eyes and looked new.

  “I suppose not,” Carver mumbled.

  She tugged at his arm. “Come on, you’re not going to meet anyone standing in a corner by yourself.”

  Carver shook his head. “No one’s here for the orphans. They’re here to gawk at Roosevelt.”

  At the drinks table a crowd had gathered around a barrel-chested man with a bushy mustache and pince-nez glasses. His teeth were big and white, his eyes small and piercing, and his rasping voice carried to every corner.

  “I have the most important and the most corrupt department on my hands,” Theodore Roosevelt said. “I know well how hard the task ahead of me is…”

  “Nothing but a windbag,” Carver said.

  Delia tsked. “How long are you going to
stay angry because he didn’t drop every murder investigation to read your letter? You love detectives? Detectives work for him. You might say hello.”

  Carver slumped back into the wall. “Don’t let me hold you back,” he said.

  She cleared her throat. “I have some news. It’s official. I’m to be adopted by Jerrik and Anne Ribe. Not even adopted, really. Mrs. Ribe, she wants me to call her Anne. Anyways, I’ll be more her live-in companion and assistant. The New York Times! Can you imagine? Look, they’re right over there.”

  She pointed to a young couple among the crowd surrounding Roosevelt. They were nicely dressed but not quite as stylish as the others. The man, thin, bespectacled, with close-cropped fair hair, had a pad in his hand. He was working hard to try to get Roosevelt’s attention, bobbing up and down like a ferret. The woman, her curly blond hair tied neatly in a bun, kept putting her fingers to her lips as if trying to stifle a laugh at her husband’s antics. Carver liked them at once.

  “That’s fantastic, Delia.” He forced a smile to his face.

  “So, good things can happen sometimes. Yes?”

  “For you! I’ll be selling the papers you write,” Carver said. “I’ll be a street rat.”

  “Stop pouting!” She again pointed at Roosevelt. “Mr. Ribe says all the crime reporters keep offices right across from the police headquarters on Mulberry Street. Whenever something exciting happens, Commissioner Roosevelt leans out the window and gives them a loud cowboy yell, ‘Yi-yi-yi!’”

  Carver shrugged. “So?”

  She swatted him. “Honestly, how can you be angry with a man who leans out the window and shouts, ‘Yi-yi-yi’? Go talk to him.”

  “And say what?”

  She sighed. “Has it even occurred to you that he might be the surprise Miss Petty hinted at?”

  Carver furrowed his brow. “Really?”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more encouraging about your writing to him. I was right, but wrong in the way I told you. I mean to say… even if he isn’t your surprise, sometimes you have to make your own.”

  She whirled and walked away.