by Kat Ross
And then I smelled it. The faintest waft of tobacco smoke.
A minute later I gripped the vase in my hand. It wasn’t much, but better than nothing. A blow to the head might slow him down at least.
Whoever he was.
I raised it high as the door began to slowly swing open. Two inches.
Three.
“Harry? Are you up there?”
Mrs. Rivers’ tremulous voice sounded miles away. The kitchen, maybe.
Oh no. Mrs. Rivers.
“Run!” I screamed, slamming into the door and pressing my back against it. “Get out of the house!”
I listened for the sound of pounding footsteps, for the creak of the landing signifying that the hunter now sought other, easier prey.
All was quiet outside for an endless minute.
“Oh drat,” I muttered. “Alright, Harry, here goes.”
I stepped to the side of the door and yanked it open, vase poised to crash down. The hall was empty.
“Mrs. Rivers?” I called, peering down the stairs.
I started to make my way toward the first floor, two long flights. The hair on the back of my neck twitched at every shift in the air, and I’m not sure I took a breath until my feet were planted firmly on the hall carpet.
“Mrs. Rivers?” I whispered.
The only reply was the monotonous tick of a grandfather clock.
I realized that I’d gone right past Myrtle’s study and kicked myself for a fool. But there wasn’t time to go back upstairs. I had to warn my housekeeper and get us both out of the house.
To my right was the formal parlor (less cozy than the one John and I used as our unofficial headquarters), to my left a corridor that led to the dining room and kitchen. None of the lamps were lit yet, and all was shrouded in the half-light of dusk. Connor was probably out looking for Billy. I tightened my sweaty grip on the vase. Full darkness would have been better, if only to hide in. As it was, every shadow, every hump of furniture, looked vaguely man-shaped.
I took a deep breath and turned the corner toward the kitchens, running smack into a faceless form. I shrieked and wielded the vase like a battle axe, but the blow landed wide of its mark, shattering against a bookcase instead of my assailant’s skull.
Which actually turned out for the best, since my shriek was answered by one of even higher pitch.
“Harrison Fearing Pell!” Mrs. Rivers bleated, clutching her chest, and I knew I was in big trouble.
“I thought you were a burglar,” I protested, helping her to an armchair.
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Rivers demanded as I dashed down the hall. “Have you lost your mind completely?”
“Just wait!” I called over my shoulder, as I swung wide the front door and leapt barefoot onto the stoop.
Tenth Street was deserted in both directions.
“Come back this instant!” Mrs. Rivers sounded scandalized. “You’re wearing a nightdress!”
It couldn’t be.
Maybe I was losing my mind.
I was just turning to go back in when a sharp pain flared in my right foot, like a bee sting. I hopped back and examined the sole, where a reddish blister was already rising. I bent down and scanned the doorstep. When I saw what lay there, my breath caught in my throat, filling me with a strange combination of relief and fear.
Half of a Turkish Elegante cigarette.
Smoke curled lazily from the glowing tip, which I had stepped on.
“Harry!” Mrs. Rivers called again, more insistently.
“Coming!”
I gave the street once last survey, locked the front door, and carried the cigarette into the kitchen, where I extinguished it in the sink. Then I went into the parlor to try to explain why I had just attacked my housekeeper with a vase.
It seems that Mrs. Rivers had been working in the garden all afternoon. When it started to grow dark, she came inside to call me for supper but suddenly remembered that she had left the water running outside. She went to shut it off and therefore didn’t hear any of the warnings I’d screamed from upstairs, which may have saved her life. Because I think that at the very moment she was returning to the garden, our man was descending the stairs.
Perhaps he hadn’t realized anyone else was home, and got spooked when she called my name. But if he’d met her face to face, he might have decided that he couldn’t leave her alive.
I didn’t tell Mrs. Rivers any of this, of course. I said I’d had a nightmare and blamed it on nerves, a catch-all disorder that everyone seemed to accept could strike women for no real reason. Mrs. Rivers could see I was genuinely shaken up, if not the true cause of it. She offered me a dose of Dr. Beeton’s Soothing Remedy, a dreadful concoction she used to pour into me and Myrtle when we were little that tasted like licorice and contained enough morphine to tranquilize a horse. I politely declined. So Mrs. Rivers settled for feeding me soup and ordering me back to bed. While she was in the kitchen, I locked all the downstairs windows and shut the blinds. Full dark had fallen. To my overheated imagination, the night seemed to press against the house like a shroud. I was glad that although our street was a quiet one, the neighborhood would remain lively for many hours yet.
My gut told me that the intruder wouldn’t return that same night, but I didn’t care to take foolish chances. So before returning to my room, I stopped in Myrtle’s study and took a Russian model Smith & Wesson revolver from her gun cabinet. I’d fired it before, though never at another human being. I thought I could manage to do so if it came down to it.
When Connor returned home at around seven, I told him in whispers all that had transpired. His young face hardened and he dashed out while Mrs. Rivers was in her bath, returning minutes later to say that the Bank Street Butchers were now watching the house and would sound the alarm if any suspicious men so much as glanced at the front door.
As disturbed as I felt, I also knew that the investigation must be getting close to something uncomfortable for our killer, something that had flushed him out and provoked him into taking such a risk. But was it the trip to Chamberlain’s? The revelations of Margaret Fox? Or something else entirely?
And then there was Mrs. Rivers. It was one thing to keep her in the dark that I was playing at being a detective, quite another to put her at risk. Twice that evening, I started towards my bedroom door, intent on telling her everything, and twice I changed my mind at the last moment.
As it turned out, the decision would shortly be taken out of my hands.
At the hour just before dawn, a loud pounding came on the front door. Mrs. Rivers and I reached it more or less simultaneously. A sleeping cap covered her hair, and her eyes grew wide when she saw the gun in my hand.
“Who is it?” I shouted.
“Nellie! Open up!”
I let out a long breath and unlocked the door. Nellie Bly stood alone on the doorstep, her short bangs plastered to her forehead in damp curls that looked like question marks. She eyed the gun in my hand and I quickly set it on a side table we used for mail.
“Is Myrtle back yet?” she asked, and I could tell from the urgency in her voice that something serious had happened.
I had a sinking feeling I knew what that thing was, and her next words confirmed it.
“There’s been another, just tonight. The face is covered, Harry, just like the Rickard and Forsizi murders.”
“My sister’s not here,” I said, pulse racing with both dread and excitement. “But please, come in.”
Pounding feet on the stairs signified the arrival of Connor, his copper curls and long white nightshirt giving him the look of one of Botticelli’s angels, except dirtier.
“Ah, it’s you Miss Bly,” he said. “I thought…”
“What’s going on?” Mrs. Rivers demanded, as Nellie strode into the parlor. “What murders?”
“I’m helping Myrtle with an investigation,” I said, aiming for a casual tone. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Nothing to worry about? You’re running about br
andishing a gun after nearly braining me with a vase, and now Miss Bly shows up in the middle of the night and says there’s been another one? I think you haven’t been exactly truthful with me, Harry!”
“But—”
“Is John mixed up in this too?” She looked at my guilty face and sniffed. “Of course he is. You two are always partners in crime. Well, if you think that just because your parents are away—”
“I hate to interrupt,” Nellie said with a tight smile. “But there’s no time. I know the detective who was called to the scene. He’s one of the smart ones. A friend of Myrtle’s, and of mine. He might give us limited access. But we have to leave right away. Before the body’s carted off to the morgue.”
I nodded to Nellie. “Give me one minute.”
I dashed up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Rivers continued diatribe, and changed out of my nightclothes into a plain dress of navy blue. Adrenaline made my fingers clumsy, and it took three tries to get my boots laced up. Then I was racing back down and apologizing to my housekeeper, even as I hurried Nellie out the door with Connor on our heels.
“The cat’s out of the bag,” I told him. “May as well bring the boys inside until we get back.”
Connor stood on the steps and gave a loud whistle. Six small, ragged forms emerged from the shadows across the street and rushed over, pouring into the parlor as Mrs. Rivers clutched her robe more tightly across her bosom. They were all armed to teeth with an assortment of crude weapons.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Rivers muttered faintly.
“I’ll explain everything when I get back!” I shouted over my shoulder.
Nellie had engaged a hackney for the trip and we climbed in. A light rain was falling. The city slumbered around us, its last revellers having stumbled off to bed and the early risers not yet stirring.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we pulled away, the plump form of Mrs. Rivers still silhouetted in the doorway.
“The waterfront. Sixty-Third Street. The victim is a young woman, no identification yet.”
“How was she killed?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Only that it was definitely murder. Who were those kids?”
“The Bank Street Butchers. They’re on Myrtle’s payroll.”
Nellie laughed. “I’ve heard of them. The police in the Ninth Ward call them the Bank Street Bedbugs, since they’re a pest that’s proven impossible to get rid of.”
We turned north on Fifth Avenue and I leaned forward. “Listen, Nellie, we need to make a quick stop for John Weston. He’s training to be a doctor. His observations could be invaluable.”
She hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “Your partner in crime?”
“I know how that sounded,” I said. “But please trust me. It’s on the way. He lives at Gramercy Park. Two minutes, that’s all I ask.”
“Alright then. But only if you tell me why you answered the door with a revolver in your hand.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
So I told her all that happened since last we met, concluding with the fact that someone had stalked me in my own house just hours before.
“Has it occurred to you,” Nellie said slowly, “that it should have been you tonight? That this person is driven to kill, and his needs were left unmet? That he was forced to find another victim?”
“Yes,” I said. “That has occurred to me.”
“Because it seems like a mighty coincidence. Did you go to the police?” She stared at me. “You didn’t, did you? For God’s sake, Harry, why not? This isn’t a game. There’s a violent lunatic out there. Does Myrtle know? I can’t believe she’d put you at such risk.” Nellie paused. “Well, actually I can. But that doesn’t mean you have to go along with it!”
“Half a block further,” I told the driver as we reached the west side of Gramercy Park. “Nellie, the client doesn’t want to go to the police. Not yet.”
“Mr. Brady?” She never forgot a single scrap of information.
“Yes. We assured him of discretion. Just for a week. His reputation is at stake, as is that of a dear friend of his.”
“Is it really worth it?”
“I hope so.” I swung down from the carriage before it came to a full stop. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
John’s house was a four-story brick building with a chest-high wrought-iron gate around the outside. His bedroom was on the top floor, but his brother Andrew’s faced the street on the second floor. I scooped a handful of gravel from their front walk and tossed it up towards his window, where the tiny stones rattled like hail on a tin roof. It took two more throws but finally the sash slid upward and a head with tousled brown hair thrust itself through the frame.
“Who’s down there?” Andy whispered through the bars. “Julie?”
“It’s Harry,” I whispered back. “I need John. It’s an emergency!”
“Hey there, Harry. Hang on a minute.” The head disappeared.
I stood in the thin drizzle, stamping my feet impatiently. I could see Nellie was getting anxious too. With every minute that passed, we jeopardized our access to the crime scene. But I did need John with me. Not just for his medical expertise, though it would certainly be useful. The truth is, I was scared. It’s one thing to theorize about death in an abstract way. I knew that Becky Rickard’s end was a brutal, terrifying one, and the poor Forsizi boy must have suffered as the life was choked out of him. But I hadn’t actually laid eyes on either one of them.
In the next few minutes, I’d be standing before the still-warm body of a young woman whose life had been cut short. I’d be seeing what might have been done to me, if fate hadn’t intervened. And to face that, I needed the steadying presence of my best friend.
Maybe we weren’t so different from Leland Brady and Robert Straker. I thought back to that morning, only three days ago but seeming somehow much longer, when my client and his wife first knocked on the door of 40 West Tenth Street. What was it Brady had said?
He was just the sort of fellow you would wish to have at your side when the seas got rough.
That was John. We both had tempers, and we’d had our share of heated arguments. But I also knew that if I was in trouble, John would take my side without hesitation. He would always speak his mind if he thought I was wrong. And he would always try to protect me from the judgment of others.
I stared into the thick foliage of Gramercy Park, listening to the steady drip of the rain. Had I inadvertently attracted danger that even John couldn’t shield me from? Was it already too late?
My nerves were drawn so taut that I jumped a little when the tumblers gave a loud click and the front door opened. The Westons’ bull pup Angus pushed past John’s legs and started energetically sniffing my boot. I gave him a scratch behind the ears. Then John emerged. His hair stood up in stiff bits and pieces, and he was still tucking his shirt into a pair of wool trousers. He usually greeted me with a lazy grin, but John was no fool. As I did when Nellie banged down my door, he’d guessed what had brought me here in the middle of the night.
“You’ve either found Straker or there’s another body,” he said without preamble. “And if it was Straker, I’d still think it could wait until morning. That means a body.”
I nodded once. “The face is covered, it’s got to be our man. We must hurry, John. Nellie’s waiting. She knows the detective but once word gets out, it’ll be a mob scene and we’ll lose our chance.”
“Don’t worry.” Andy stood behind him, stifling a yawn. “I’ll let you back in. Just make sure you’re here before five-thirty. Dad’s an early bird, and he’ll tar and feather both of us if he catches you out. Nice hair, Harry.”
I’d already stuck my tongue out before I realized that a consulting detective should probably display more dignity. If John was closer to me than a sibling, then Andy was like an irritating older brother, eternally trying to get a rise. He was twenty-two and about to graduate from Columbia with a degree in law, although given his appetite for mischief, I’d always expected him to b
e on the wrong side of the dock.
“I won’t keep him more than an hour,” I promised. “And don’t tell anyone where we’ve gone.”
Andy snorted. “Paul’s dead to the world ‘til nine at least, and Bill snuck out to go dancing two hours ago.” He laid a hand across his heart. “So your secret’s safe with me, Harry. See you in a bit.”
“Thanks, Andy.”
He smirked. “You can thank me with a ki—”
Andy’s last words were muffled as John firmly shut the front door in his brother’s face.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Before the other fools wake up. He forgot about Rupert, and we know he’s the worst of all!”
The streets were virtually empty except for a handful of idle cabs around Grand Central, so we made the four miles northeast to Sixty-Third Street in less than half an hour. As we sped through the dark, wet night, I filled John in on my afternoon. When I told him about the Turkish Elegante-smoking intruder, his eyes darkened. Like Nellie, he thought I should go to the police, Brady be damned. He also thought I should leave the house. When I refused to do either of these things, he went on a brief rant about “excessive confidence” and “overweening ambition,” then subsided into tense silence.
I could see that Nellie thought he was right, but she also wasn’t the type to tell another woman what to do. So the only sounds as we neared the waterfront were the hiss of mud under the wheels and blowing snorts of the horses. When we turned onto Avenue A at its southern terminus on Fifty-Fifth Street, the brackish smell of the East River filled our lungs. I spotted the glimmering beacon of the Blackwell Island Lighthouse a half mile to the north. The island itself was a catalogue of human misery, housing a lunatic asylum, prison, workhouse and charity hospital once devoted exclusively to smallpox patients but now ministering to inmates and New York’s poor.
“Almost there,” Nellie said. “According to Fred, it’s a malt-house called Neidlinger, Schmidt & Co., right on the water. They use a grain elevator to raise and store the malt once it’s unloaded from the ships. The body was found at the base of the elevator by a night watchman.”
