Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  Carver smirked. Maybe his mentor hadn’t deserted him completely. “Auguste Dupin. What’s the message?”

  “You’re on your own.”

  Carver’s face dropped. “That’s it?”

  The man he’d begun to think of as a father really meant to do it, then, really meant to leave the city at stake so his pupil could solve the case. He’d been abandoned all over again. Carver hung up, gnashed his teeth and thought of asking Finn to teach him some new swearwords. He opened the wardrobe and found a tailored shirt and pants, both so oversized he had to roll the cuffs just to keep from tripping over them.

  It took fifteen minutes to find the den. There, Finn, in a three-piece suit that made him look like some sort of businessman in training, paced. Delia, in a too-large dress doubtless borrowed from Mrs. Echols, sat at a desk, poring over the morning newspapers.

  “You look as ridiculous as I feel,” Finn said, not unpleasantly.

  Delia picked her head up. “Not much new.”

  “Do the Ribes know you’re here?”

  “Yes,” she said with some satisfaction. “They still believe you and Echols are not to be trusted, but they think it’s safer here than anywhere and they want me to keep an eye out for anything newsworthy. Delia Stephens Ribe, crime reporter. I like the…”

  Her face darkened.

  “What is it?” Carver asked.

  “Ribe. I know they’re not rich, but it does begin with an R. And if he went after Finn’s mother because she was connected to you, why not mine?”

  She jumped up.

  “Easy, Delia,” Carver said. “Call, but I don’t think they’re in danger. Like you already said, they’re not rich, and everyone else has been. We’re not talking well-off, either, we’re talking wealthy.” He swept his hands at the huge room. “Like this. I was thinking about his last letter, where he says he’s closer to you and the end. The end is the end of his name, right? It also sounds like he’s planning to reach the Boss. Whoever that is, I don’t think it’s a reporter.”

  After briefly relaxing, Delia said, “There is another obvious R that fits the description.”

  “Who?” Finn asked.

  But Carver knew instantly who Delia was thinking of. “And he is a boss,” Carver said grimly. “The biggest boss in all this. He’s wealthy, influential and a hunter himself. The man who he’s been taunting, insulting by making the bodies so easy to find.”

  “Who?” Finn asked again.

  “How can we warn him?” Delia said. “He’s the last person on earth who’d believe any of us!”

  “Warn who?” Finn shouted.

  “Roosevelt,” Carver said.

  “But he only kills women,” Finn said. “You mean he’ll go after his wife?”

  “His second wife, Edith,” Delia said. “There must be some connection between her and the Whitechapel victims.”

  It hit Carver so hard, he flew to his feet, nearly tripping on the too-large clothing. “No! Finn had the right idea. He’s past the five most famous Whitechapel victims, but there were others after Mary Kelly, remember? One of them was Alice McKenzie. Alice is the name of Roosevelt’s first wife.”

  Carver’s every intuition was screaming that he’d unwrapped the final clue. “She’s dead. But Roosevelt’s daughter Alice Lee is very much alive. For now, at least.”

  72

  KNOWING the police would laugh and hang up before hearing the complicated clues, Delia tried Jerrik Ribe. It was only after she screamed and nearly burst into tears that the harried New York Times operator put her through to her adoptive father.

  “Of course I’m certain; I’d never waste anyone’s time without… But you see it, don’t you? I already explained about the list of victims’ names. Forget about Carver and look! It’s so obvious! If you could make someone listen… But… I’m fine here. I want to stay.”

  At last she hung up. “He believes me, but since the Times printed that letter, they’ve been persona non grata with the commissioner. He’ll try to get past the commissioner but expects his pleas to be ignored. There’s a party tonight at City Hall. Mr. Overton and Roosevelt will both be there; so will Alice. Jerrik will ask to approach the commissioner personally.”

  “How can they have a party with everything going on?” Carver asked.

  Delia shrugged. “Safety in numbers? Life goes on?”

  “The Echolses are going to that shindig,” Finn said.

  Carver looked at him. “Then… maybe… Mr. Echols could warn Roosevelt?”

  “Echols won’t even let Roosevelt in his home,” Delia said. “Add to that the fact that the police think the attack here was a publicity hoax.”

  “Exactly,” Carver said. “Roosevelt thinks Echols is publicity hungry. But if he warned him privately and promised not to tell the press…”

  “Why would he promise that?” Finn said.

  “Because it’s the right thing?” Delia offered.

  Finn snorted.

  “Isn’t it worth a shot?” Carver prodded. “I don’t think it would take much. If there were the slightest chance his family could be harmed, I have to think Roosevelt would protect them. Can you just try it, Finn?”

  Finn nodded. “I’ve banged my head against walls before.”

  Knowing Finn wasn’t exactly well spoken, they rehearsed what he’d say until he knew it by heart. In the meantime, their clothes had been returned, so they took a break to change back.

  The butler looked suspicious when asked, but informed them Mr. Echols was in the study. At the door, Finn grew pale. Carver was shocked by how timid he’d grown. Delia rubbed his wide back while Carver gritted his teeth at the sight and struggled to say encouraging things.

  Finn knocked, but there was no answer. Carver nodded for him to try the door. When Finn refused, Carver turned the knob himself and pushed. It swung open.

  Behind an enormous desk covered with phones, Echols, always frail, looked like a sickly child. His face ashen, he slowly turned his eyes up toward them. He looked as if he were dreaming or ill.

  “Phineas,” he said.

  “There’s something important I have to ask you,” Finn began, but Echols barely seemed to register their presence.

  “I was convinced you were lying,” Echols said slowly. “I thought Hawking put his boy up to it, to frighten me into paying him more money. I thought you were in on it, too, same orphanage, after all. But I went along with it, for the press. Then Millie… was killed… cut up, just a few blocks away. Edwin, the same last initial, just like you told the police. Samantha, your mother, she could have died.”

  Shaky, Echols rose to his feet and stiffly embraced an utterly bewildered Finn. “You saved her.”

  Forgetting his prepared speech, all Finn could manage was, “Uh… thanks?” as he pulled back and, with extreme awkwardness, patted his adoptive father on the shoulders.

  Carver was about to bring up the party when Echols waved weakly at the phones. “I tried calling Roosevelt, to make sure he believed the Ripper was here, but they wouldn’t take my call. The police think I’m a liar, and it turned out I was telling the truth.”

  Echols wouldn’t be able to help them convince anyone. Hawking was right. They were on their own.

  73

  BY SIX o’clock it was impossible to reach the City Hall entrance. Mobs in the park and on the sidewalk spilled into the street. Cabs and private carriages lined up, blocking Broadway. The upper-crust gathering had become a lightning rod for the city’s fear, bringing people from every walk who believed they could somehow be part of the gathering by watching through the windows. About the only advantage to being stuck among so many people was that they blocked the wind and near-freezing drizzle.

  Finn had taken the lead, pushing forward, head down, like the bull Carver always imagined him to be. Delia held Finn’s overcoat with one hand and clutched Carver’s arm with the other. A swell in the crowd, caused by the mayor’s arriving carriage, pushed the trio into the wooden barricades surrounding the ha
ll. Carver felt his back crushed into the wood, the sprain in his shoulder throbbing.

  “Down!” Delia called. She vanished among a press of faceless coats.

  Carver went to his knees. People rushed into the seeming gap, forcing him sideways under the barricade. Delia and Finn were waiting. Severed from the crowd, they got down on all fours and crawled toward the back of the building, where the fine marble gave way to rougher sandstone.

  A lone tree grew along the first-story windows. There, they stood and caught their breath.

  “It’s impossible,” Delia said. “The police are back here, too. There’s no way we’ll reach a door.”

  “But if we can’t get in, neither can the Ripper, right?” Finn said.

  Carver shook his head. “If he’s planning to attack tonight, he’s already inside.”

  Finn looked up at the nearest window. Parted drapes revealed a wide office full of file cabinets. “That room’s empty. Why don’t we climb in there?”

  Delia shook her head. “Nice idea, but I’m sure it’s locked.”

  “So?” Finn said.

  “You’re a lock picker now, too?” Carver asked.

  “Don’t have to be.” He lumbered up, braced himself against the stone and pushed the frame. After a quick, loud metallic snap, the window slid open.

  “Easier than that newspaper door,” Finn said, climbing in. “That’s two for me and none for you, Carver.”

  “But… never mind.”

  With a boost from Carver, Delia went next. Struggling to hold on to the sill, he climbed in himself, annoyed to find Delia tenderly adjusting Finn’s tie and straightening his suit.

  Seeing how Carver stared, Delia said, “It’s a party. We have to look presentable. Your turn.”

  But when she came over to him, she frowned. “It’s easier with tailored clothes,” she said, tugging at his jacket. “Weren’t these just cleaned?”

  “I’ve just been crawling!” he objected. She yanked the deerstalker cap from his head and shoved it into his pocket, brushed his shoulders and ran her fingers through his hair. The last part was the most pleasant.

  She stood and stepped back. “Now me, how do I look?”

  He leaned in and removed a single black hair that’d been clinging to her cheek. “Perfect.”

  She seemed embarrassed. “You’d better be right. And we’d better get going.”

  They made their way into the hall and headed for the party. The central pavilion’s rotunda was a soaring space with a grand marble stairway that rose to the second floor. There, ten columns held up a coffered dome. It reminded Carver of the Octagon, only twenty times larger.

  The crowd was equally grand. The women wore odd, flamboyant hats, fine jewelry and flowing gowns. The men, dressed in far less colorful variations of black and white, looked as if it were their job to keep things in order. Carver had to wonder if the wealthy owned any simpler clothing.

  Even Roosevelt was dressed to the nines, sporting a gold-headed walking stick, recently trimmed side-whiskers, a tall silk hat and fashionably tight trousers that flared over his shoes. Standing near the hall’s center, surrounded by a crowd, his booming voice, as usual, was easily heard.

  “A sheriff I once worked for in the Dakota Territory had once been a member of the Bismarck police force. When I asked why he left, he explained it was because he’d hit the mayor on the head with a gun. The mayor forgave him, but the chief of police insisted he resign. That, in short, is politics.”

  There was also no shortage of Roosevelt’s detectives, their cheaper suits and bowlers easy to spot. Carver even recognized a few faces from the New Pinkertons.

  “Let’s split up,” Carver said. “If they catch one of us, the others can keep trying.”

  “What should I say to Roosevelt?” a worried Finn asked.

  “Forget Roosevelt,” Carver said. “Try to find Alice.”

  “Easy enough,” Delia said. “Look at her dress!”

  Carver turned his eyes to where Delia was pointing. There, indeed, standing next to a grand piano, was the girl he’d met at the Ribes’. Her dark hair was freshly curled and had a bow that matched her flowing white and yellow gown.

  “Wow,” Carver said. “She looks so… adult.”

  Delia’s eyes hardened. “Well, she’s not,” she said.

  Carver Young, junior detective, completely missed her accusing tone.

  74

  ALICE Roosevelt wore a wicked look on her face as she whispered excitedly to the pianist. He protested, but apparently Alice won, because a new song soon filled the hall. It was a popular tune among the middle and lower class, highly inappropriate for the wealthy crowd. Looking a little nervous, the man sang.

  Sweet Lorraine gets right inside your mind.

  Sweet Lorraine puts you down and leaves you far behind.

  Alice scanned the crowd, amused by the shocked reactions. Her eyes found Carver’s. She smiled and waved him over.

  “I’ll go alone,” Carver said to the others.

  “And what are we supposed to do?” Delia said. “Stand back in admiration?”

  As he neared, Alice swayed to the music.

  Carver would have to talk fast. While he was trying to remain hidden, she was intent on attracting attention. Her father in particular kept glancing over.

  “Girls are supposed to love thieves and liars, you know,” she said pleasantly.

  The comment brought Carver up short. “But I’m not a thief or a liar.”

  “Pity,” she said. Carver briefly speechless, she patted him on the arm. “Don’t look so serious! I’m just practicing my flirting. Have to start sometime, you know, and you seem like a nice safe person, despite all I’ve heard.”

  “Of course… I… knew that… but, Alice… I have to tell you…” He leaned closer to whisper. “I think you’re in danger.”

  Her smile had yet to vanish. “From what? Boredom? A consequence of wealth, I’m afraid…”

  “No. The killer… it’s a long story… I…”

  She stiffened. Her lively eyes revealed a sharp spark that reminded Carver of her father. “Does this have to do with your fantasy about a secret detective agency?”

  Before he could explain, a small woman with a brittle smile motioned for the pianist to stop. Forgetting Carver, Alice wheeled on her. “Excuse me, I requested that song!”

  “And your father requested I stop it,” the woman responded. “And that I bring you to the food table for something to eat.”

  The commissioner was right near the food table. Carver wouldn’t have a chance to start, let alone finish his story.

  Alice motioned toward Carver. “But this young gentleman was about to tell me something fascinating.”

  The woman pulled her away. “Young girls always think young gentlemen have something fascinating to say.”

  Alice put on a wide smile, speaking loudly as the woman dragged her away. “Perhaps we should meet again? Say, in about four years?”

  Carver winced. People were looking at him. He backed away, trying to hide himself. He’d just about reached one of the columns when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  “Say nothing,” a familiar voice intoned.

  Carver turned. “Emeril!”

  “Sh! Keep your back to me and I shall do likewise.”

  Carver did as asked, positioning himself behind the column.

  “Let’s make this quick,” Emeril whispered. “Hawking left a typewritten note under the mat at my apartment this morning that said you’d be here, but it didn’t mention why.”

  “Then he’s talking to you more often than he is to me,” Carver whispered back. “Honestly, I think he’s gone crazy.” In hushed tones, Carver explained what had happened and why he’d come.

  At first Emeril made a show of nonchalantly scanning the crowd. Halfway through Carver’s story, he was shocked enough to give up on concealing their conversation.

  He faced Carver with a grave expression. “The senior detectives explored the initia
ls, of course, but I don’t believe they figured out clues in the victims’ names! A game inside a game. Goes to show why the New Pinkertons were needed. Follow me, quickly.”

  Feeling as if he might finally get somewhere, Carver followed Emeril up the winding stairs. On the way, he scanned the crowd for Delia and Finn but couldn’t see them. On the second floor, the junior detective opened the door to the first room and waved Carver inside. He said only, “Wait here,” before hurrying off.

  Suddenly alone, Carver paced, too nervous to pay much attention to his surroundings. Impatient, he opened the door to see what was keeping Emeril. His jaw dropped. Two city detectives stood outside. Had Emeril turned him in?

  No. Far from it. Moments later, Commissioner Roosevelt marched in. He closed the door, removed his top hat and gloves and laid them on a side table. This was it. Emeril had given Carver the chance he’d needed to make his case.

  “Young men,” Roosevelt said, “are often very good at unexpectedly sneaking into places where they are not welcome. But you appear to have made a profession of it.”

  Carver froze, not sure where to begin. Roosevelt closed the distance between them. “You believe the killer will target my Alice.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should I put any stock in a fellow who believes in underground detective headquarters?”

  “The last names of the victims…”

  “Emeril told me about all that. If any man adds two and two and gets four, I don’t doubt his arithmetic. We figured out the same word game this morning. We did not, however, make the key connection with the unfortunate Alice McKenzie, since she is generally not considered a Ripper victim. For that I am deeply in your debt. As we speak, my men are attempting to discreetly remove my daughter from the party. As you’ve met her, you can imagine how difficult that task may be.”

  Hearing Alice was being protected, Carver exhaled. Roosevelt pulled a high-back chair from a desk and put it in front of Carver. “Sit.”