Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  “I’ll explain later,” he said, sliding inside, trying not to touch her.

  She pulled him into a stairwell. “It’s always later with you. Tell me now!”

  “Fine,” he said. “I was kidnapped and had to crawl out through a sewer.”

  “Man alive, Carver, I feel sorry for you, but I’m not an idiot!” she answered, storming up the steps. It’d sounded better when he’d told the newsboys.

  On each level, the stairs ended at a wide landing with an archway that faced the offices, leaving them exposed as they moved to the next set of stairs. The first few floors were mostly empty. The janitors mopping the floors didn’t even look up as they passed.

  When they came to the fourth floor, the sound of music and conversation reached them. Delia motioned for Carver to stop and went up the last few steps alone. Hiding behind a column of the archway, she peered out before waving for Carver to join her.

  Unlike the other floors, this was a wide-open space, full of mustached men in three-piece suits and women in fancy dresses and flamboyant hats. They ate dainty sandwiches served on trays and drank from a tended bar. Alexander and Samantha Echols were among them. Finn, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.

  “You wouldn’t know from the way they act,” Delia whispered, “but half the city’s in a panic over the Tombs murder. The wealthy half, since it’s one of their own twice now.”

  Roosevelt was there, too, not directly at the center of things for a change. Delia’s new family, Jerrik and Anne Ribe, were part of a small group deeply fascinated by the hushed conversation he was having with a gentle older fellow, whose white shirt and suspenders stood out sharply from the formally dressed crowd. For his part, Roosevelt looked ready to leap out of his three-piece suit and strangle the man.

  As the partygoers shifted, Carver unhappily spotted Mr. Tudd standing quietly, but nervously, at Roosevelt’s side. The leader of the New Pinkertons must know about his escape by now. Was that why he kept checking his watch? Was he eager to leave the party and hunt Carver down?

  “I don’t know how you got the impression this was open for debate, Gerald,” Roosevelt said, unable to speak softly. “You must turn it over!”

  Realizing he was nearly shouting, he put his hand on the man’s shoulder and led him on a search for a less public spot. To his annoyance, the crowd followed.

  “Roosevelt’s trying to talk your editor out of printing the letter?” Carver asked.

  “Oh, he succeeded. I don’t know what they’re discussing now. Mr. Overton is so staid some of his reporters think he passed away years ago. Jerrik doesn’t want a panic either, but Anne says they’re obligated to keep the public informed. Shh! They’re coming!”

  Carver and Delia leaned back as Roosevelt and Overton stepped by the arch.

  “You know I respect the press, always have, but this is insupportable!” Roosevelt said.

  Overton’s voice was respectful and low. “As I’ve explained, Commissioner, I simply do not believe our police department is a safe place to keep something of such value.”

  Roosevelt was increasingly flustered. “I know better than any about the corruption, but even an officer who’ll turn his back on a thief for a bribe wouldn’t cover for this killer!”

  “No, but that same officer might be tempted to sell it, say, to Mr. Hearst’s Journal, or our other competition, for a hefty sum. They wouldn’t hesitate to publish the contents. As I’ve said, any trusted experts you choose may examine the letter, but it will remain here.”

  “Balderdash, sir!” an exasperated Roosevelt said. “You have until morning to turn that letter over, or I shut this paper down!”

  Overton’s face was expressionless. “Sir, you may do as you wish. But if you shut us down, may I point out that the very information you wish to keep from the masses will then quickly become a matter of public record?”

  Roosevelt opened his mouth as if to scream. Instead, he laughed.

  “Well played, Overton. I suppose this is as good a place as any to examine the thing. I’ll need twenty-four-hour access.”

  “I’ll give you the building keys myself,” Overton said. Arm in arm, they walked to the bar.

  “You have to admire a man who loses graciously,” Delia said.

  “He does have style,” Carver mumbled. “But that means we have to get to the letter soon, in case Roosevelt wants to see it tonight.”

  She nodded and took him to the opposite stairs. As they headed farther up the tall building, the landings were no longer open. Each floor was sealed by a windowed door.

  After another three flights Delia stopped and tried the knob. “Locked,” she said.

  Carver removed a bent nail and opened it. It probably would have taken him longer with that gadget.

  “What’s so funny?” Delia asked.

  “Oh. Uh… the locks at Ellis were tougher,” he said, holding the door for her.

  “Only because Miss Petty was on to you,” Delia said.

  They entered a wide, darkened space, full of cluttered rolltop desks, typewriters and pigeonhole files. Papers were hung on all manner of metal device, vertically, horizontally, wrapped on rollers. Even bereft of reporters, it seemed lively. Carver could practically see them rushing about, filing news stories, typing madly to make deadlines.

  “Grand, don’t you think?” Delia said proudly.

  He swallowed hard and asked, “Where’s the letter?”

  She nodded at a windowed office. “Overton’s office. In a wall safe.”

  Carver blanched. “A wall safe? How can I… ?”

  “Oh, don’t worry; it doesn’t have a door. It’s been out for repair for months. Mr. Overton is confident his solid mahogany office door is enough to keep it secure. Of course, he hasn’t met Carver Young, master thief, yet.”

  Carver winced at the title but had no time to worry about it now. Dodging the clutter, they reached the door. Thief or not, picking locks was at least something he was good at. He confidently knelt, withdrew his nail and…

  . . . stared in shock.

  He’d never seen a keyhole like it. It was tiny, almost as if a rod more than a key would fit into it. He didn’t even think the Pinkerton gadget would work. Heart sinking, he knew it was hopeless before he even tried. Just to be sure, he put his thinnest nail up to the hole. Too thick.

  “What’s the matter?” Delia said.

  Carver sighed. “Any idea where he’d keep the key?”

  Delia shook her head. “No. I thought this would be the easy part.”

  Too close now to give up, Carver pushed at the hardwood door. It barely budged. He shoved again, harder.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” Delia said, her voice rising.

  Instead of answering, Carver slammed himself into the door again.

  “Stop it!” Delia said. “Stop it immediately! I can’t let you smash down the editor’s door!”

  He looked at her. “You smashed a window at Ellis.”

  “That was different… it needed to be replaced and… and… oh, fine!”

  He forced his shoulder into it again and again, until finally, he heard something crack. The sound hadn’t come from the door or its frame, though. It had come from his shoulder.

  He grabbed it in pain. “Ow! The thing must be reinforced with steel!”

  “Forget it, Carver. We have to go. I can still sneak you down…”

  “No, give me a minute. Let me think!” he pleaded. Think. But think of what?

  And then he heard it, a steady sound that had been muffled by his insistent banging—footsteps climbing the stairs. Carver’s eyes shot to the stairwell door. He’d stupidly left it wide open.

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Delia said.

  “Hide!” Carver hissed, but it was too late. A male-shaped silhouette stepped in. A streetlight shining through the window lit his red curls and made the edges of his expensive suit shine.

  “Not you,” Carver said.

  Delia’s expression changed from fear to befuddlemen
t. For the life of her she couldn’t recognize the newcomer, not until he spoke.

  “Not very good at hiding, are you, Carver.”

  “Hello again, Finn.”

  37

  “I’VE GOT you this time!”

  Finn moved forward like a bull, not caring how many rolltop desks he bumped.

  Carver, heart still pumping from trying to break down the door, mind seething from all that had happened, headed to meet him. “Come on, then, let’s get it over with!”

  Finn was briefly startled but then lowered his head and picked up speed. “Oh, it’ll be over.”

  Racing through the darkened newsroom, dodging wastebaskets and desk corners, Carver growled, not just at Finn, but at everything. Finn, pulling off his jacket as he came, did likewise.

  They stormed toward each other, floorboards shaking beneath their feet. Finn pulled back his fist, ready to strike. Carver reached into his pocket, ready to use the baton.

  They were less than a yard apart when a flurry of cloth appeared between them. Delia had leapt into their midst from a desktop, her dress billowing as she landed.

  “Stop it, both of you! Are you mad?” she hissed.

  Carver halted dead in his tracks. Finn did the same, recognizing her for the first time. “Delia?”

  “Whatever problems you children have,” she said through gritted teeth, “the commissioner of the police is a few stories below us. Do you want to wind up in jail?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Finn answered.

  “I would, Phineas!” Delia said. “So, lower your fist and step back… please.”

  Finn’s eyes locked on the metal cylinder in Carver’s hand.

  “Carver, whatever that is, put it away,” Delia said.

  When he put it back in his pocket, Finn lowered his fist.

  The bully looked at them both and furrowed his brow. “Are you two… together?”

  “Yes,” Carver said.

  Delia shot him a glance. “No.” She turned to Finn. “It is nice to see you again. I’ve been seeing your face in the papers a lot. You look absolutely dashing. Are you here with your parents?”

  “The upper-crust Echolses,” Carver said snidely.

  Finn winced. “They’re not my parents.”

  “Your adoptive parents, then,” Delia said. “You’re set for life. How lucky!”

  “That’s what they keep telling me,” Finn said. “I saw you both in the stairwell. What are you doing up here, Delia, with this thief?”

  “Me?” Carver said.

  Finn glared. Delia put her hand up. “Stop! Phineas is an old friend. I don’t mind at all telling him why I asked you up here.”

  “Huh?” Carver said stupidly. A sharp glance from Delia silenced him.

  She stepped closer to Finn, close enough to make Carver inexplicably grit his teeth. “There’s something in that office,” she said, pointing back toward the heavy door, “that I desperately want to see.”

  “You? Stealing?” Finn said dubiously.

  “I don’t want to take it, just look at it,” she said. “I snuck old Carver in here to help me break in, but, well, he can’t do it. It’s too much for him.”

  The grin on Finn’s face widened. “That scrawny sap? Why’d you even bother asking?”

  Carver scowled, but, realizing what Delia was up to, he held his tongue.

  “Because I didn’t know you were here, Phineas. Maybe if you worked together… ?” she said.

  Finn looked over her shoulder, past Carver. “That door? I could do it myself.”

  Delia nodded. “Possibly, but we’re in a hurry…”

  “Not possibly,” Finn said. “I can do it.”

  He headed for it. Carver gave Delia a smile, but she ignored him.

  “Be as quiet as you can, Phineas,” Delia said, trotting up behind him.

  The burly youth put his shoulder to the door, testing it.

  “Okay,” he began. “But there’s something you have to do for me, too.”

  Delia shrugged. “What?”

  He’d better not ask her for a kiss, Carver thought.

  But the bully looked embarrassed. “Just… stop calling me Phineas. It’s Finn.”

  She smiled warmly. “All right, Finn.”

  Finn nodded, braced his feet and pushed. For the longest time, the only sound was Finn’s heavy breathing and the occasional shifting of his shoes as he adjusted his feet for better traction. In time, his face turned red. The veins along his temples bulged. Moist patches appeared under the arms of his silk shirt.

  Delia glanced at the clock. “Finn, maybe if Carver…”

  “I… don’t… need… help!” Finn insisted.

  Carver decided he could help just by reminding Finn he was there. “That orangutan can’t do it. All he’s good for is stealing necklaces from little kids.”

  “I didn’t steal that necklace!” Finn growled. He clenched his jaw and shoved so hard that Carver and Delia thought for sure that either the door or his shoulder bone would have to give.

  The expensive wood shuddered and gave off a single, distinct crack.

  Finn, sweat dripping from his face, pulled back, panting. His face fell. “No good.”

  “Wait,” Carver said. “That sound meant something.”

  Finn was so exhausted, he actually let Carver pull him back. Carver ran his fingers along the door, then around the plate surrounding the knob. Excited, he pulled a nail from his pocket, wedged it under the plate and wriggled it. Both plate and doorknob came away. Putting his fingers into the crack, he tugged. With a splintering sound, a jagged piece of mahogany came loose, revealing a metal bar beneath. The broken piece was large enough for Carver to ease the entire doorknob out from the frame.

  Carver turned to Finn and smiled broadly. “You did it!”

  Not knowing what to do with that reaction, Finn answered, “I knew you couldn’t.”

  “There, now,” Delia said, pushing the door open with one finger. “See what happens when you play together nicely?”

  Carver stepped in. The only sound was a ticking wall clock. The office looked like a miniature version of the newsroom with all its papers and files. One enormous desk faced the door, a plush leather chair behind it. To the right was a covered birdcage. An electric fan, unplugged, sat on the center of the desk, used in the winter as a paperweight.

  “What’s so important?” Finn said, looking around curiously.

  “A letter,” Delia answered. She stepped over to an architect’s drawing of the original New York Times Building on the wall near the birdcage. When she pulled, it swung open on hinges. A series of small shelves was set in the wall behind it.

  Carver’s heart pounded so hard, he could barely hear what Delia was saying.

  “Overton’s safe isn’t much of a secret,” she explained. “The lock was sent out for repair ages ago and hasn’t come back. I can see why he trusts that door, though.”

  Carver hurried up beside her. As they pulled out files and scanned them, Finn, refusing to be forgotten, stood between them.

  Delia stopped and looked at Carver. In her hand was a file labeled Tombs Murder. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” she asked.

  Carver nodded. “I have to know.”

  “Wait a minute. Why does he have to be sure about anything?” Finn huffed.

  Delia handed Carver the file, then put her hand on Finn’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, Finn. I’ll tell you sometime over a soda, if you’d like to buy me one.”

  Too concerned with what he had in his hands to be jealous, Carver put the file on the desk and opened it. There was a sheet of notes and a letter addressed to the New York Times. Carver snatched at the letter.

  The moment he saw the heavy scrawled address, he knew, but he opened the envelope just to make sure. Four words, as Delia described, Dear Boss, Me again, were written on a single white sheet of paper. The handwriting was identical to his father’s brutish scrawl.

  Carver shook. He put his hands on
the desk for support. No, no. No.

  “Oh, Carver,” Delia said. She tried to put her arm around him, but he pulled away and sank into Overton’s chair.

  “It’s true,” he muttered.

  Delia knelt by his side, wrapped her hands around his and rubbed them. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Hey! What’s going on?” Finn said.

  Delia explained. “The Times received a letter from the Tombs Killer this morning. The handwriting matches a letter Carver believes is from his father.”

  The bully’s face swam with a variety of expressions. “His… Carver’s dad… that’s…”

  Delia turned back to Carver. “You have to tell Commissioner Roosevelt. It doesn’t matter what sort of promises you made. Your letter is evidence. You should tell him right now.”

  Carver looked into her clear blue eyes, surprised how sad she seemed for his sake. He was about to agree, about to tell her all about the New Pinkertons, when his eyes fell on the sheet of notes accompanying the letter. A name popped out at him: Septimus Tudd.

  Roosevelt had apparently shared some details of the investigation, mentioning Tudd had written to Scotland Yard in London back in August, regarding similar killings, but hadn’t heard back yet. In any case, Roosevelt considered any connection to the London killings a long shot at best.

  London? August? That was a week after Carver had written to the police. Tudd knew about the connection to his father. He knew all along!

  38

  “HEY, WHERE’RE you going?” Finn asked.

  “Carver?” Delia called.

  Swept away by feelings of shame and massive betrayal, he ignored them. Hawking was right, the world was a madhouse. He’d been nothing but a fool dazzled by gadgets. How could he think Tudd would pick an orphan to help Hawking just because he’d written a good letter? Now he knew exactly what Tudd saw in him—a clue, a lead in a case, a way to find a killer and save their failing agency.

  By the time he reached the door, Finn blocked his way.

  “Carver, wait!” Delia called.

  Finn held up a single strong hand and warned, “Don’t.”

  Wordless, Carver grabbed the sleek material of Finn’s shirt and shoved him aside. Finn, either exhausted from his effort at the door or, worse, feeling sorry for Carver, didn’t put up any resistance.