Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  17

  THE MORNING wind along the East River had an icy bite, but at least Carver was free of the asylum, free of Hawking. Calling his mentor eccentric didn’t do him justice. He was like a bear trap, ready to snap off your foot if you weren’t watching your step. Every conversation was a test. He’d even underlined the opening of Rue Morgue:

  As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his talents into play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension preternatural.

  Whatever that meant. Carver liked the story well enough. The twist ending, involving an orangutan, was fun. But for the whole of breakfast he’d worried he’d be quizzed about it. The detective, though, was interested only in typing. When Carver was about to leave, Hawking had ripped out the sheet, stuffed it in an envelope and warned him not to read the contents until he’d reached his “gilded” destination. Carver slipped it into the same pocket where he’d last held his father’s letter.

  A chest-shaking whistle snapped him into the moment. The ferry was docking. He was back, back in the city he knew so well, despite what his teacher had to say about it, and on his way to a grand adventure.

  On foot, with barely enough money for lunch and the return ride, Carver trotted happily along the streets, swerving close whenever a peanut or baked potato vendor appeared, enjoying both the smell and the tiny blast of warmth from their smoking carts. It was cold for September. But the day was clear and the view of Broadway went on forever.

  Eager as he was to return to the New Pinkertons, he found the corner at Warren Street was covered by a sea of bobbing hats. Thinking it’d be a stupid mistake to let anyone see him use the secret entrance, Carver crossed to City Hall Park, hoping the crowd would thin.

  After about twenty minutes, he couldn’t wait any longer. He crossed back and, trying to look as innocent as possible, twisted the brass pipe in sequence. To his relief, when the door popped open and he slipped inside, no one so much as slowed to look.

  He managed the elevator easily but forgot how Hawking had started the train car. After a moment’s panic, he remembered a lever being kicked. Finding the same seat, he pushed his heels to the base. When nothing seemed to happen, he kicked harder, again and again. He was still kicking when a glance at the window told him the car was already gliding along.

  The two young agents were at the platform. The pallid Emeril was in mid-yawn, reading a copy of Judge’s Quarterly, a humor magazine. The meatier Jackson, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, bent and rose in a calisthenic routine.

  “Young Sherlock at last,” Emeril said as Carver emerged. “Tudd saw you on the street.”

  Jackson grabbed his jacket from the railing. “We wondered what took you so long.”

  “I didn’t want anyone seeing me,” Carver explained.

  Jackson patted him. “Good thinking, but unnecessary. It’s just a door on the side of the building.”

  “And a useful habit of people not to notice things,” Emeril said. “No one knows we exist, so no one looks for us.”

  “I found you,” Carver said.

  “Hawking led you to us,” Jackson said.

  “Let’s get a move on,” Emeril said, pocketing his rolled-up magazine. “We’re to be your guides. Tudd wanted to be here, but he’s busy with his pet case. Hawking thought you should start with the athenaeum,” Emeril said.

  “A fancy word for library,” Jackson added with a wink.

  At the plaza they steered him right, over a small bridge, to a second structure. It was half a block long but very plain, its face a flat brick wall with double doors in the distant center.

  “How is it living with Hawking in that madhouse?” Jackson asked.

  “Um…” Carver liked them well enough but didn’t feel comfortable discussing his mentor.

  “Tudd worries he may have lost a bit of his mind along with his body,” Jackson said. “He seem sharp to you? All there?”

  Emeril interrupted him. “Here now, he barely knows Hawking three days, and the two of us less than an hour.”

  “Understood,” Jackson said. He jogged ahead to open the doors. “If you were impressed before, wait until you see this.”

  Carver was impressed all right, but mostly by the smell. The musty odor wrapped around him like a blanket of age and silence. There was no second floor, no rooms, no hallways. Reading lamps sat at dozens of occupied tables and small desks, but none challenged the dominant dark. It was like a huge cave, a cave with books.

  Shelves were everywhere, most running from the floor to the ceiling, all packed. Ladders ran along each, like columns buttressing a temple of paper and wood.

  Emeril spoke softly. “We’ve got immigration records, indexed archives of every major New York newspaper published for the last decade and, the pride of the Pinkertons, old or new, the largest rogues gallery in the country—thousands of criminal files and photographs and—”

  “Sh!!”

  Dead ahead, behind a massive desk, sat a bespectacled man with his finger to his lips and a harsh glare on his face.

  “Beckley,” Jackson whispered, even more softly. “Sign in with him and you can get started. We’ve got our own work, but we’ll keep an eye out for you.”

  Emeril gave Carver a little shove toward the short, thin, angular man.

  His arms and fingers perfect lines, a wordless Beckley reached for a fountain pen lying parallel to a sheet of paper. He scanned a list, came to the name Carver Young and put a quick line through it. Then he rose and marched along the desks. Being around Hawking made Carver feel positively stiff-backed, but Beckley’s precise gait made the boy worry he was slouching.

  As they walked, Carver gasped as a dark metallic hulk, hidden by the dim light, grew visible. A behemoth of gears, spindles and slats, it ran nearly the length of the wall. As they got closer, Carver could see scores of small cardboard cards, each with a series of tiny square holes, held in various parts of the machine by thin metal spears, looking like insects trapped in an iron web. Thick gears connected the thing to what looked like a steam engine.

  “What is…,” Carver blurted.

  “An analytical engine,” Beckley said. “Which we do not use except on rare occasions, because, like yourself, it is too loud.”

  “What does it…”

  “Sh!”

  Chastened, Carver remained silent. At the first empty desk, equipped with pen and paper, Beckley switched on the small electric lamp, pulled out the chair, then marched back. Carver sat, nervous as the chair creaked, then folded his hands on the desk.

  So, here he was, ready to begin his life as a detective, ready to search for his father. Somewhere among all these millions of books his father’s name, maybe even his address, could be listed.

  Only, he didn’t even know his father’s name. So… now what?

  Minutes ticked by. Panic, far worse than not knowing how to operate the subway, gripped his chest. He shifted in his seat, each creak a cannon’s boom in the church-like quiet. Carver hadn’t even done anything yet and he was already failing miserably.

  His gaze flitted from person to person, every one reading or writing intently. Across the room, he caught the bug-like shape of a typewriter. No one would dare use it; it was too noisy. But it did remind him of Hawking, and then of the note his teacher had given him.

  It must have instructions! It’d be ridiculous to just stick him in the library, right? He pulled it out and tore the envelope open. The ripping sound earned him several stares and a second loud shush from Beckley. Wincing, he pulled out the note and read:

  Put yourself in your father’s shoes.

  That was it? He checked both sides. That was it. That took him all morning to type. If Carver hadn’t been in a library, he might have
screamed.

  He read it again. It was yet another test. Put himself in his father’s shoes. But how could Carver put himself in the shoes of a man he didn’t know?

  The answer came: he could write down what he did know. That would be a start. He took the pen and made a list.

  1. Had a son, me, sometime around 1881.

  2. Sent letter from England to the orphanage in 1889.

  That letter was his biggest clue. What had that told him?

  3. He has bad handwriting.

  4. I have the birthmark mentioned in the letter.

  5. His wife is dead.

  6. He works with a knife—a meat packer? Butcher?

  7. Told his boss he was quitting because he found out I was alive.

  His mind lingered on that last one. Quitting his job. That meant his son was important to him, didn’t it?

  8. Knew to send the letter to Ellis Orphanage.

  As Delia suggested, that created another possibility, one Carver didn’t particularly want to face.

  9. He couldn’t, or didn’t want to, raise me.

  Maybe he was just poor, like Delia’s mother. But if he’d gone through the trouble of quitting his job and crossing the ocean, wouldn’t he at least want to meet? Wait a minute.

  10. He crossed the ocean from London.

  What had Jackson said about immigration records? Wouldn’t there be a record of his father’s arrival? He didn’t have a name, but he had a year. Maybe there was a list of immigrants from England. On to something, Carver walked to the front desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Young?” Beckley softly asked.

  “Can you tell me where the immigration records for 1889 are kept?”

  “The passenger manifests for arriving ships. Section I, shelf forty.” He pointed to a dark area behind him, then opened a well-oiled drawer and withdrew a corded lightbulb fixed with a head strap. “You’ll need this. There are outlets at the end of every other shelf. Do remember it’s plugged in before you attempt climbing up or down. These devices are expensive.”

  He nodded for Carver to lower his head, then quickly fixed the strap around his forehead. Feeling like a miner, Carver headed to the shelves.

  Shelf forty of section I was at least twenty feet up, so he pulled a ladder over and, cord in hand, climbed. As he rose, it grew darker. By the time he reached what he thought was shelf forty, he couldn’t see a thing. Feeling along the molding, he found a protruding, rounded outlet and pressed the plug in. The bulb buzzed and created a white cone that pointed wherever he turned his head. After allowing himself a moment’s pleasure at the gadget, Carver went to work.

  The records ran through many volumes per year, but there was only one for 1889. Hoping this meant there might be only a few names, he pulled it out and began climbing down. After a few feet, a tug at his head told him he’d forgotten the cord. The lamp was yanked off. The book nearly flew from his grasp. The bulb clattered against the shelf, its light dancing through the darkness. Everyone stared.

  At least the bulb hadn’t broken. Feeling sheepish, he caught his balance, climbed back up and unplugged the headlamp before descending again.

  Once on the ground, as he opened the book, he felt a rush of excitement. Only, the page he’d opened to was blank. Puzzled, he flipped to another. Also blank. He fanned the pages. Every page was empty. Was it some kind of trick?

  Annoyed, he walked back to the front desk and showed Beckley.

  For the first time, the librarian’s face registered a vague emotion: confusion. Tapping his chin, he whispered, “Ah, yes. This book is a placeholder. From 1855 to 1890 immigrants registered at Castle Clinton in Battery Park. When Ellis Island opened in 1892, they planned to transfer the records, but most were destroyed in a fire.”

  Carver’s heart sank. “A fire? Did any survive?”

  “Some, but those would be at Ellis Island. They’re attempting to recover what they can, but with the huge immigration flow, it’s not a priority.”

  Ellis Island. A long trip for what would likely be nothing. How would he even recognize his father’s name if he saw it? Wait. There was one way. The handwriting. His father’s scrawl was pretty unique.

  “The records, would they have signatures from the passengers?”

  “Usually, or, if the person was illiterate, their mark.”

  There was hope, then. Ellis Island it was. He’d use his lunch money for the ferry.

  Leaving the headlamp and book with Beckley, Carver retrieved his notes and walked toward the exit. Jackson and Emeril came bounding up, speaking only once they were outside.

  “Done already?” Jackson asked.

  “Do you have any idea how I’d go about seeing the records at Ellis Island?”

  “Ellis Island?” Emeril said with a grin.

  Jackson checked his watch. “Less than an hour. Tudd lost that bet. I’ll get him. He’ll want to hear what comes next.”

  “What’s going on?” Carver asked.

  “You’ll see,” Jackson said as he broke into a run. “And don’t start without me!”

  18

  AS EMERIL bolted for the offices, Jackson rushed a very confused Carver toward the open faced building across the plaza.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Carver asked. “Where are we going?”

  “No,” Jackson said as he stepped up to a door, “you did something right. And we’re going to our technical sector.”

  A prim redheaded woman with striking green eyes answered. She looked nearly as perplexed as Carver felt. “So soon?”

  Jackson straightened for the attractive woman. “I told you, Emma. Hawking guessed it wouldn’t be more than an hour.”

  The woman nodded and ushered them in to a large work space full of odd machines, wires, tubes and tools. Carver had no idea what most of it was, but he did think he recognized the thing sitting on the central table—a large horn rising from the center of a black cylinder, connected to a wooden crank box. He knew about the parlors where customers paid a nickel to hear music from such a device, but still had to ask. “Is that a phonograph?”

  The woman answered, “It is indeed, with some slight modifications made to improve the recording fidelity.”

  Before Carver could ask what she meant, an excited Mr. Tudd bounded in. He sat at the table and bid Carver do the same. “Sorry for the mystery, but we’ve all been very curious about this. When our eccentric Mr. Hawking visited some weeks back to discuss your letter, I persuaded him to try our new sound-recording device. Rather than sing a song or recite a poem, he insisted on recording a message… for you.”

  Carver frowned. “But we hadn’t met yet.”

  Tudd gave him a smile. “He seemed certain you would. Further, the message was to be played only after you inquired about Ellis Island. He insisted it would take you less than an hour. I thought it would take at least that long for you to familiarize yourself with the athenaeum.” He pointed a thick finger at the gramophone. “Now, the sound is recorded through the vibration of a tiny needle, or stylus, which makes marks on a clay cylinder. Edison considered using a disc, but the cylinder provides a more constant velocity. When the clay dries, the same needle runs along the grooves, re-creating the sound, which is amplified by the horn. All you have to do is turn the handle.”

  Looking boy-like in his eagerness, Tudd waved his hand at Carver, telling him to go ahead. Carver wasn’t sure if they were excited about the machine or about finally hearing what Hawking had recorded. Thrilled at the thought of both, he gripped the wooden handle and turned. The cylinder rotated, the small stylus rose and fell. A voice, tinny and distant, came through the horn.

  “You know the letter came from London, and, given the date, you’ll want to see if there’s anything left of the passenger manifest from Castle Clinton for that year. Once you’re at Ellis, ask for the Counter. That’s his name—Counter. He’s a friend. Well, a former asylum inmate, actually, but don’t worry, I don’t believe he’ll bite. Mention my name and he’ll help you try to get you what you
need.”

  The sound ended, but Carver kept turning, hoping there was more.

  After several seconds of wordless scratches, Tudd said, “I think you can stop now.”

  “The Counter, eh?” Emeril said.

  “Probably a raving maniac,” Tudd said with a chuckle. “Like Hawking.”

  “That’s it?” Carver asked.

  Tudd shrugged. “What else do you need? It’s on to the next puzzle. Go on, son. Get going. Report back if you learn anything.”

  All eyes on him, Carver rose and headed for the door. The idea of seeking out a former Octagon inmate wasn’t comforting, but given that Hawking had made the recording weeks ago, it occurred to him for the first time that Hawking might be both brilliant and insane.

  19

  CARVER entered the subway and kicked the lever. His mind was racing. How could Hawking have known they would meet? He felt oddly like a pawn in someone else’s game. On to the next puzzle, Tudd had said. They were testing him, just like Hawking.

  A shadow made him jump. His foot sent a dark metal cylinder rolling across the car. Curious, he picked it up. It looked like a baton. It was cool to the touch, heavy, but pocket-sized, a single button on the side. Without bothering to think what it might do, Carver pressed it.

  Schick!

  The cylinder expanded so quickly, he jumped again. Now the thing looked like a short black cane, only it tapered to a dull copper point. Carver swung it a few times. It moved easily through the air, as though balanced.

  But when his last swing scraped the metal wall, a horrific series of sparks crackled from the cane. Terrified, he dropped the thing and it hit the floor. Thin curls of smoke rose from the spot on the wall where it touched. A weapon, definitely a weapon.

  Gingerly, he poked it with his finger. When nothing happened, he pressed the button again. Schick! It collapsed back into its original form.