Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  He doubled back to Varick Street and snuck through the yard of the property abutting the Ribes’ Victorian. There, a thick, majestic oak rose along the brickwork. Beyond the roof, white clouds glowed in a darkening sky, nearly as orange as the bricks. It seemed like such a… home. It brought an ache he couldn’t place.

  Shaking it off, he slipped to the base of the tree and peered through a first-floor window. Mostly, he saw an empty hallway, but a little of the front parlor was visible, as well as some people in it. The Ribes were seated, listening to a stocky man who paced around, gesticulating with familiar energy. Roosevelt. That wasn’t good.

  Seeing a light on at the third-floor window, Carver shinnied up the tree trunk. As he climbed, loose threads kept catching on the rough bark, forcing him to yank the coat free and undo his patching. Once among the branches, he almost slipped on the lingering snow.

  Hadn’t Delia said this was an easy climb? By the time he made it to the window, he was out of breath. The lamp glowed beyond a thin curtain that made everything inside blurry. Some shapes looked like furniture, but he was guessing. Only Delia was instantly recognizable, sitting near what looked like white drapes.

  Carver rapped on the glass. Oddly, Delia gave the drapes a quick glance before coming over. When she parted the thin curtain and saw him, the relief that swept her face brought a smile to his lips.

  She pulled open the window. “Carver!” she said in a strained hush. She took a step back, as if afraid of him, but then pulled herself together. “I was worried. Are you all right?”

  “I’m… still here,” he said. “And… Delia, when you saw me… I…”

  He thought he was whispering, but she put a finger to her lips. “Shh! Roosevelt’s here and…”

  He nodded. “I know. Is he here for you?”

  “Me? Of course not.”

  Carver breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened after I left?”

  “Well, I tried to help that poor man up, but he pushed me away and raced into the street, trying to find you, I imagine.”

  “So then why—”

  He was about to ask why Roosevelt was here when what Carver thought was a window drape appeared behind Delia, revealing itself to be a girl.

  She was wearing a white coat and a feathered hat wider than her shoulders. Despite the formal attire appropriate to a woman, she seemed younger than Delia.

  “Do you often talk to windows?” the girl said with calm, practiced confidence. Seeing Carver, her smooth face filled with obvious pleasure. “Oh, a boy! Shouldn’t we invite him in?”

  41

  “I JUST adore secret meetings,” the girl said. “Though I’m far too young to have had any myself.” Somewhere between child and young woman, she spoke and carried herself as if she were royalty. Carver couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her bright manner was so different from his personal gloom.

  Still tentative, Delia held his arm as he struggled to put a leg over the sill. “Where’ve you been all this time?”

  “Home,” he said.

  “You mean the…,” she said, catching herself in mid-sentence.

  “The? Where’s the? Is the a pleasant place to live?” the girl asked cheerfully. “Is it near a or an?”

  Who was she? A neighbor? The daughter of a wealthy family member? To answer Delia, he quickly said, “No, not there.”

  “Where, then?” Delia asked.

  He nodded toward the girl in white.

  She cleared her throat and announced, “It doesn’t take much to see that you two have a lot to talk about, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll listen in from back here.”

  She floated over to Delia’s bed, pulling the length of her elegant white coat aside as she sat. “Do continue.”

  Delia pulled a little harder on him, as if trying to get his attention back.

  “Blackwell Asylum,” he said, in a low whisper.

  “Asylum?” Delia repeated.

  “It’s where Mr. Hawking lives.” He was about to explain how his mentor studied the criminally insane when he stumbled through the open window, his feet landing loudly on the floor.

  “Quiet!” Delia hissed. “They’ll hear you downstairs.”

  The girl spoke up again, smiling widely at Carver. “Pardon me, but I’m sure such a stealthy climber would have no concerns about evading mere policemen.”

  He wasn’t sure how to react to her. Wanting to say something witty in response but having only Hawking to emulate, Carver grinned and said, “Roosevelt? That silk-stockinged cowboy?”

  “Carver…,” Delia warned in a whisper.

  “He’s probably so busy listening to himself…”

  “Carver,” Delia hissed.

  “…he wouldn’t hear an elephant stampeding behind him.”

  Delia sighed and swept her hand toward the girl. “Carver Young, meet Alice Roosevelt. The commissioner’s eldest daughter.”

  “Oh. Uh…,” Carver said. “I…”

  Her precocious smile remained. “Oh, it’s all right. If you don’t have anything nice to say about anyone, come sit next to me.” She patted the bedcover beside her.

  Carver was speechless. As far as he could tell, she was not at all offended and, if anything, delighted by his embarrassment.

  “I know Daddy’s a blowhard,” Alice said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But if you’re going to do anything, why not do it as hard as you’re able? You’re mistaken about that elephant, though. Any creature attempting to sneak up on him would be felled with a single shot, even if he were listening to himself at the time. I do promise I won’t repeat a word of anything I’ve heard, or might hear, provided it remains entertaining.”

  “Oh,” was all Carver could think to say.

  Delia cleared her throat pointedly. “They’re talking about the murders. When the Times agreed not to publish the letter, Jerrik was given a limited exclusive and—”

  Alice interrupted. “I was brought along to make it look like a social visit. Wouldn’t talk about such grisly things in front of a child, after all,” she said, accenting the word with obvious derision. “I have, as you can see, been relegated to the upper floors.”

  Now Delia was the one staring at Alice, but with an expression more akin to dislike. She turned back to Carver and tried again. “The coroner report confirmed that the wounds on the new body were similar to those inflicted in the library killings, and…”

  “London?” Carver added.

  Delia shrugged somberly. “I’m sorry, that’s all I heard before I was sent up here to keep an eye on…”

  “Call me Alice!”

  “Can we get closer?” Carver asked. “Listen in?”

  Alice answered for Delia. “No need. When Father gets going, we’ll hear him clearly enough.”

  A muffled bellow came from the hallway. “I shall raise an army!”

  “See? There he is now,” Alice said, pleased with her timing. “Shall we find better seats?”

  Delia sighed and moved into the hall. “There’s a floor vent we can use.”

  As Carver followed, Delia tried to get ahead of Alice, but the girl seemed unwilling to give up the lead. Finally, Delia pulled her back, saying, “It is my house.”

  Delia took them down into a large bedroom with a huge four-poster bed and wide, pleasant windows. Alice spun in the center, letting her white coat swirl. “Small for a guest room, isn’t it?”

  Pulling a cushioned chair away from the heating vent, Delia answered flatly, “It’s the master bedroom.”

  “Oh, Delia,” Alice responded. “I’m only teasing. Don’t hate me for that!”

  “I won’t,” Delia said, smiling back. “Not for that.”

  The vent exposed, the three gathered near. Alice, about to kneel, put her hand out toward Carver to hold for support. Without thinking, he took it, leaving Delia to let out an exasperated grunt as she picked up the end of her cotton dress and knelt on her own.

  The first voice they heard was Jerrik Ribe’s. “Were you in London during th
e murders, Commissioner?”

  “No,” Roosevelt responded. “Two years earlier, 1886, for my wedding. But I’ve certainly read all I can about that fiend since. I tell you, quite plainly, if he is here, there’ll be no place for him to hide. I’ll set out a net and draw it in so tightly, even the shadows will spit him out. Every officer is on alert; our patrols have been doubled. All we lack is a witness.”

  From the way he was talking, the killer sounded famous. Carver wondered if he’d ever heard of him.

  “Don’t you think,” a female voice put in, “that the public would be more helpful if they knew exactly what was going on? That printing the letter would more likely prompt someone to come forward?”

  “That’s Anne,” Delia said proudly.

  “I like her,” Alice said.

  But her father apparently did not. “We’ve been through this! To even suggest he’s in Manhattan would unleash a circus. Every crank will line up to give false witness or even confess to the crimes! And the panic! Backed into a corner, the poor can riot, but the rich can start a war.” Roosevelt lowered his voice. “I detest subterfuge. The fact someone broke into that office while I was present shows how fragile this situation is.”

  “Overton’s convinced it was the Tribune or the Herald,” Jerrik said.

  “If it was, wouldn’t they have printed the contents of the letter by now?” Anne said.

  “Let’s stick to the issue at hand. The longer we operate without public attention, the better. Until the situation collapses of its own accord, any who come forward will be more reliable.”

  “If anyone comes forward, Commissioner,” Anne said.

  Delia eyed Carver meaningfully. “You have to tell him.”

  “I don’t know,” Carver said. “I’m not sure who to trust.”

  Alice scrutinized their faces. When she spoke, her whip-like wit was replaced by an equally well-spoken sincerity. “I don’t know what Father’s done to earn such a low opinion from you, but he is a man of incredible principle. I find it tedious. He’s never, for instance, spoken to me about my own mother, his first wife, whom I never knew, and I’m certain it’s because of some principle. But that’s my problem as his daughter. As a confidant, or a friend, there is no one more reliable. If there is anything you can do to help him catch this murderer, of course you should do it.”

  Carver glanced from Alice’s calm assurance to Delia’s concerned face.

  Hawking’s words echoed in his head: It’s your life, not mine. You’ll have to figure out what to do with yourself next. Was that his way of giving permission? Maybe this was his only chance to prove to Delia, to himself, that he wasn’t his father’s son.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll do it right now.”

  42

  DELIA led Carver to the door. “It’d be better if someone they knew explained who you were.”

  “I’ll stay here, then,” Alice said. “But I am looking forward to hearing whatever it is you’re going to say.”

  At the stairs, Delia slipped her arm into his. “Speak simply and plainly. Keep in mind you don’t sound completely sane when you start talking about a secret detective base.”

  “How will I sound when I say I’m the killer’s son?”

  She frowned. “Take it from the beginning. Start with finding the letter.”

  When they arrived in the foyer, Jerrik came into view first. Fair hair neatly combed, a legal pad on his narrow lap, he was in mid-sentence when he saw them.

  “…Delia?”

  Roosevelt turned his square head, his eyes zeroing in on Carver. “Tudd! Your nephew has the most disquieting habit of showing up in odd places.”

  Tudd? Carver jerked his head around. Alone in a deep cushioned love seat sat Mr. Tudd, a dark bruise on his face. Carver froze.

  The fifty-something leader of the New Pinkertons rolled to his feet. “I’m glad he’s here.”

  “Why is he here, Delia?” Jerrik said. “And who is he?”

  “Carver Young,” Anne said. “An old friend of Delia’s from the orphanage.”

  “I made it clear this was to be a private interview!” Roosevelt said, rustling in his seat.

  By now Tudd was at the entrance, facing Carver. “I have something of grave importance to tell you. It’s about Mr. Hawking,” he whispered.

  “What?” Carver said. “Is he all right?”

  “No.”

  The word hit Carver like a ton of bricks. The depth of his concern for the bristly man surprised him. “Not here,” Tudd whispered. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Tudd turned to the adults. “My deepest apologies again, Commissioner, Mr. and Mrs. Ribe. Would you excuse us a moment?”

  “If you mean may you leave with your nephew, the answer is yes,” Roosevelt said. “If you’re asking me to forgive a second scene, I’ll withhold judgment until given a full explanation.”

  Tudd nodded. “Of course,” he said, then made for the door with Carver.

  As Tudd opened the door, Roosevelt looked around. “How did he get in? We’ve been sitting here the whole time, the front door in view. Is there another entrance?” As he scanned the room, he glanced up at a vent directly above his head. His eyes narrowed and he shouted, “Alice! Move away from the vent at once!”

  Whatever he said next to his daughter was muffled by the closing door.

  On the stoop, Carver immediately asked, “What’s happened?”

  Tudd nodded toward the carriage driver, who was watching them curiously. “Just to the corner. Thanks to you, I no longer enjoy the Commissioner’s complete confidence and I’d rather not have the situation deteriorate further.”

  They moved up along Franklin, toward Varick Street.

  “What happened to Mr. Hawking?” Carver asked again.

  “No apology for pummeling me and leaving me to bleed in a hallway? Do you realize I had to crawl into the street and pretend I’d been hit by a cab? Thank heavens your friend said nothing, though I suspect she’s more interested in protecting you.”

  Part of Carver felt he should apologize, but something held him back, an unease in the air. Tudd looked back over his shoulder. The driver had stepped off the carriage and was now in the middle of the sidewalk, watching them. They were far enough away, though, for Tudd to speak. “Regardless of whether you share Hawking’s attitude toward me and my gadgets, I am not a fool. The only reason for you to step into that parlor would be if you planned to tell Roosevelt everything.”

  Carver’s hackles rose. He moved to put some distance between himself and Tudd. “The letter from my father is an important piece of evidence. They have to know.”

  “Would you have told him about the New Pinkertons as well?” Tudd said.

  “I…,” Carver began. He shook his head, only now realizing it wasn’t necessary. “No, they just have to know about the letter. Tell me about Mr. Hawking!”

  They rounded the corner. “I am fully prepared to share everything we know with the police,” he said.

  The hairs on the back of Carver’s neck tingled the way they always did when he felt he was being watched. “What about Mr. Hawking?” Carver demanded. “You still haven’t told me…”

  But Tudd was no longer looking at him. He was looking over Carver’s shoulder, giving someone a curt nod.

  Carver spun, but before he could see who was there, he was yanked forcefully backward. His arms were swiftly pinned. Something coarse and woolen was shoved in his mouth. It balled his tongue toward the back of his throat, making him gag.

  He twisted and pulled, trying to fight, until a sudden kick took him off his feet. The world spun. He was on his back, Tudd towering over him. His facial bruise, made black by a streetlight, did not conceal his look of triumph. “I will tell them about you and that letter as soon as I’ve caught your father!”

  43

  HIS HANDS and feet bound, the gag fixed in place with a thick cord, Carver was thrown into an open two-seat carriage. An athletic figure with a thick mustache climbed in
beside him. He propped Carver up to make room for himself, then pulled a hinged metal cover over their legs. The snug fit forced the figure to lean forward to click it into place, exposing him to the streetlight.

  It was Jackson. Outraged, Carver struggled harder against the ropes. He writhed so violently, the little carriage shook.

  “Don’t,” Jackson said. “Emeril used two interlocked handcuff knots. The more you pull, the tighter they get. Keep at it and you’ll cut off the blood supply. You could lose a hand or foot.”

  He wasn’t lying. The pressure around his wrists was vise-like.

  Jackson called to an unseen driver up and behind them. “Let’s get there tonight!”

  Carver looked forward. There were no horses. How did they plan to get anywhere?

  A steady electric hum erupted from behind him. The carriage lurched, then rolled along the cobblestones, maneuvering into the center of the street. Carver’s eyes went wide.

  “That’s right, finally got the electric carriages in from Philly,” Jackson said.

  They rode north. As they moved along, pedestrians stopped and gaped to see them roll uphill, as if by magic.

  Hudson Street held a crowded streetcar. The passengers nearly pushed each other out, pressing against the doors and windows to stare. One woman screamed, reminding Carver of the woman in Hawking’s tale who saw the fire truck onstage.

  Carver writhed and puffed at the gag, trying to draw attention to the fact he was being kidnapped. Jackson tossed a blanket over him.

  “Some kidnappers we are,” Jackson muttered. “Why not strap a portable light on the lad’s head for the entire world to see?” He called back to the driver, “Emeril, can’t it go any faster?”

  “It can,” the higher pitched voice responded. “Over thirty miles per hour since Tudd tweaked it. When we tried that yesterday, though, every horse we passed reared in panic!”

  Jackson sighed. “It’s a wonder the agency’s been secret this long.”

  Emeril called again, “Did you tell Carver it’s not us? It’s Tudd’s idea we catch the killer ourselves?”