by Kat Ross
“I don’t suppose he mentioned what brand of cigarettes it was,” I said.
“No, he didn’t. And before you ask, he didn’t tell me his full name. But he did refer to him as Gerald. Does that help?”
“Very much,” I said, although I wasn’t so sure. “I suppose half a name is better than none. We’ll certainly pursue it. Did he tell you anything else?”
“Not really. The whole thing lasted less than five minutes. I told him I had to get back to the table before my friends wondered where I had gone, and that’s when he asked that I not tell Leland I had seen him. He was clearly ashamed. I replied that it’s not my habit to lie to my husband, but he begged so piteously…I finally relented. I couldn’t really see the harm in keeping it to myself.” Her hazel eyes grew sad. “Until a week ago. I knew I had to tell you, but I couldn’t, not with Leland there. Tell me, Miss Pell. Do you think Robert is still alive?”
“I don’t know. But we haven’t found his body, so there’s a good chance. I wish I could be more encouraging but I think you’re the sort of woman who prefers the truth.”
“I am, and I appreciate your honesty,” she said stiffly.
I then proceeded to ask Elizabeth the same questions I had put to her husband: whether Straker had suffered from lost time, if he ever seemed confused or volatile, and who else he might have known in the city. I even showed her the symbol from the Forsizi killing. But she had nothing more to offer on any of it.
“You should know that there’s been another killing,” I told her, glancing at the clock. It was 11:45. I needed to leave to meet Nellie, but I had to warn Elizabeth first. Hastings-on-Hudson was just a short train ride from the city. Clearly, she wouldn’t even consider the idea that Straker was our man, but I could. And it was hardly outside the realm of possibility that he would return at some point to his childhood home.
“Oh God.” Elizabeth shuddered as I summarized the details. “I’ll tell Leland. But he’s already asked that I stay at my mother’s house. He worries that this maniac might go after him and find me at home instead. He’s been so busy at work lately, even sleeping in his office when he has to show a property late. He frets endlessly over my safety. We both decided that it’s easiest if I go to Connecticut for a few days. I won’t tell my parents what’s happened. Just that I thought I’d visit for a bit.”
“That would be for the best,” I agreed. “And just as a matter of form, do you know where your husband was last night?”
Elizabeth seemed puzzled at this question. “Why?”
“I have to ask.”
“I see.” Elizabeth inclined her head coolly. “Well, yes, of course I know where he was last night. I’m not in the habit of losing my spouse, Miss Pell.”
“I apologize if I’ve offended you.”
“It’s just that I really can’t imagine why you’d suspect Leland, of all people. But I don’t mind telling you. He was home, with me. And he couldn’t possibly have gone out, so you can just cross him off your list.”
“How can you be sure he couldn’t possibly have gone out?” I asked. “Just for the sake of argument. Did you stay up all night?”
“No.” She seemed annoyed. “But our dog has taken to sleeping directly in front of the bedroom door, which is on the third floor of the house. She’s quite protective. If she’s disturbed in any way, she barks. Leland’s always shushing her.”
“And I take it she didn’t stir last night?”
“Not a whit. And our window looks down on a sheer drop. But this is all ridiculous, Miss Pell. You don’t seriously suspect either of us, I hope?”
“No,” I said with a sigh. “I don’t. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Osa. It means she-bear in Spanish. Leland picked up a few words during his time out west. She’s a husky, quite a lovely dog. I feel much safer having her around when Leland is at work.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “Well, if you remember anything else, even if it seems unimportant, anything Robert told you or some impression you had, please send a cable. I’ll do the same, if I can think of any more questions.”
Elizabeth gave me her parents’ address in Danbury and I walked her to the door.
“Find him, Miss Pell,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she meant Robert or the mysterious smoker. “If anyone can, it’s you. I fear Robert has gotten involved in something very dark. Oh, how I wish they had never gone that night! But it’s too late now.” Her reserve seemed to melt and she seized my hands in hers. “Thank God we have you on our side. If it were anyone else, I would despair of ever knowing the truth. But Myrtle Fearing Pell has never failed to cut to the heart of the matter.”
I gave a sickly smile. “That’s not exactly—”
“Oh, don’t be modest.” She released me but her eyes searched my face for a long moment that, to me at least, felt horribly awkward. “And I apologize for what my husband said, but he can hardly be blamed. You do look quite young. I imagine it’s hard to get people—men—to take you seriously, despite your reputation.”
“Er, yes,” I said. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”
“Yes. I suppose so. Well, good day, Miss Pell.” She turned for the stairs. “Be safe.”
“Good day, Mrs. Brady.”
Four days.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Before she was brutally murdered, Anne Marlowe was beautiful. The photograph in my hand showed a woman who looked strikingly like Lord Leighton’s muse Dorothy Dene, with faint shadows beneath her dark brown eyes that lent her an aura of tragic glamour. Her face was a perfect oval, capped by a mop of chestnut curls. She had flawless skin and a small but expressive mouth. It was hard to reconcile this person with the horror that had been left at Neidlinger, Schmidt & Co.
I handed the photograph to Nellie and turned back to the young lady who had given it to us. Her name was Mary Fletcher. She was twenty years old and one of the ballet girls. Mary lived on East Forty-Eighth Street, while Anne lived on East Fifty-Ninth, so they would usually go home together after the performance on the Third Avenue Elevated.
We were in the dancers’ dressing room of Niblo’s Theater. I’d remembered rightly; the current show was Mathias Sandorf by Jules Verne, whose plot resembled The Count of Monte Cristo. Sandorf is a Hungarian patriot who is betrayed and condemned to death by the Austrian government. He escapes, and spends the next fifteen years plotting his revenge. Anne played his daughter. Her big scene was at the very end, when the two are reunited.
This particular performance had soldiers and Indians and cowboys and acrobats, and an actual waterfall on stage. It was produced by Bolossy Kirafly, that impresario of musical extravaganzas. Like most of the cast, he had an iron-clad alibi for the previous night: a party to celebrate the play’s glowing reviews. Mary was tired and Anne had a toothache, so they had left early.
“She might still be alive if we’d stayed,” Mary said, wiping her nose with a damp handkerchief. She was a slender, waif-like girl, with pale eyes and pale hair that seemed the exact same color.
“Did Anne have any boyfriends?” Nellie asked.
“No. Not that she talked about.”
“Special fans? Men who sent her flowers, or came back night after night?”
Mary frowned. “I don’t think so. Lilla Vane gets most of that kind of thing.”
“Can you tell us everything you remember when you went home last night?” I asked, wondering if this was going to be another waste of time.
“I already told the police,” Mary said wearily.
“Just once more? Sometimes we recall details that we’d forgotten when we retell a story.”
“I suppose, if you think it might help. We left the party at about half past ten. It was drizzling. Anne and I discussed taking a hansom cab as there were several waiting at the curb, but that would’ve been expensive. In the end, we decided to take the El, like always.”
“Did you see anyone outside the theatre?”
“Not really
. I mean, there’s always people on Broadway. I recall a couple, walking arm in arm. They were laughing loud. I figured they’d been drinking.”
Nellie gave her an encouraging smile. “You have an excellent memory, Miss Fletcher. Do go on.”
“We caught the uptown train at Houston Street. It was fairly deserted at that hour, which was usual. It’s one of the reasons I was so glad to ride home with Anne.”
“How long did the trip normally take?”
“About twenty-five minutes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. Nothing special. Other cast members, mostly. Anne was a bit of a gossip. Not malicious or anything. She just liked to talk. She was really happy to finally have a speaking part.”
“Did she seem worried or anxious about anything? Excited?”
“Not at all. She was a little quieter than usual, but I think it’s just because her tooth hurt.”
“Who else was on the train with you?” Nellie ventured.
Mary closed her eyes. “Give me a moment. There was a mother and child. The child was pretty, no more than five years old, and I remember thinking she should be in bed. Two or three men. Not together, separate. I’m afraid I can’t remember much about them, except that one was a soldier.”
“A soldier?” I leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
Mary nodded. “I’m sure. I don’t remember when he got on. He might have been there already, I just don’t remember. But the uniform stood out.”
“Where was he?”
“The other end of the car, I think. Across from us. Now that you ask, I do have a vague sensation that he might have been watching us. But I wasn’t really paying attention.” She smiled and tears welled in her eyes again. “Anne was so lovely, you know? Men always stared at her. You just got used to it.”
I exchanged a look with Nellie.
“Can you remember anything about what he looked like? Anything at all? Height, hair color, whether he had whiskers, that sort of thing.”
Mary thought hard for a minute, then shook her head. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “He was sitting down, of course, so I can’t tell you how tall he was. And I barely looked at him. I’m fairly sure he was clean-shaven. And young, although that’s just an impression. The uniform is the only thing I’m really certain about.”
“When did you get off?”
“Forty-Seventh Street. That’s where we said goodbye. Anne stayed on for two more stops.” She swallowed. “Do you think it was someone from the train? The soldier?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
But I did know. It was him.
I couldn’t say if he was a real soldier, or if he just dressed up like one. But there was no doubt in my mind that Mary Fletcher had seen Anne Marlowe’s killer. And we now had independent confirmation that Raffaele’s murder was connected. The button found near his hand had indeed been ripped from his assailant’s uniform. I couldn’t wait to tell John.
“Do you think I’m in danger?” Mary asked.
“You could be,” I said. “You’re a witness. And he doesn’t know how much you remember. The best thing would be to leave the city for a little while. Can you do that?”
“Leave the city? But I can’t quit the show! It just opened!”
“Do you live alone?”
“No, I share a flat with three other girls.”
“Well, that sounds relatively safe,” Nellie said. “Can you take another route home? Stay away from the Third Avenue El?”
“Certainly. I wouldn’t take it alone anyhow. Not after what’s happened.”
“Why don’t I speak with Mr. Kirafly and see if he can’t pay for a cab for the next week or so, just until the case is resolved? It’s the least he can do.”
When Nellie decided she wanted something from somebody, she was relentless. It’s how she landed her job at the World. Still in her early twenties, she was already an accomplished reporter. She’d written a series of investigative stories on the plight of women factory workers, and later travelled to Mexico, where she was nearly arrested after denouncing the dictatorship of General Porfirio Díaz.
But when Nellie had first arrived in New York from Pittsburgh last year, no one would give her the time of day. She scraped by for a bit sending features to her old editor at the Dispatch, until she had the clever idea of getting a foot in the door by interviewing the editors of the top newspapers in town on their opinions about women journalists. Then she finagled an appointment with John Cockerill, Pulitzer’s managing editor, and talked her way into the undercover assignment at Blackwell’s notorious asylum. It was a risky gambit, but it worked. Nellie Bly became an instant sensation.
I had no doubt that Mr. Bolossy Kirafly would be wet clay in her hands.
“You think he’d do that?” Mary asked, her pale eyes wandering restlessly across the pots of face paint and glittery costumes for the Automaton Dance and Fête of the Storks.
“I’m certain of it.” Nellie smiled. “And if he won’t, my readers will hear about it.”
Mary didn’t smile back, but she cast Nellie a grateful look. “Thank you, Miss Bly.”
Nellie gave her a card in case she remembered anything else and we exited through the main auditorium, where the French daredevil Charles Blondin was dangling from a tightrope strung across the stage. He shouted at us in annoyance but I barely heard. My pulse was racing. We were closing in on our quarry.
All the talk about the Devil and dark forces had me half believing we were facing a monster, a wraith who materialized and vanished like a wisp of smoke. But he was real. Mary Fletcher had seen him. He was young, and clean-shaven. He dressed as a soldier when he stalked his victims. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was more than we had a few days ago.
What we needed to figure out is why them. Why those particular people? What did they have in common? A medium, a street musician and an actress. Nearly everything about them was different.
Becky Rickard is stabbed early in the morning of Monday, August 6th, a message of apparent remorse written on the wall. Raffaele Forsizi is strangled the following evening, August 7th. No message, just a symbol that so far we had been unable to identify. Five days go by. Then Anne Marlowe is killed on Sunday night. There’s a message, but it’s more boastful than guilty.
There seemed to be no common thread.
And yet there had to be. I just wasn’t seeing it.
“Isn’t he the chap who walked across Niagara Falls?” Nellie asked, as we made our way down the center aisle, the three tiers of box seats looming on either side like a great honeycomb.
“Yes,” I said, still distracted. “Blindfolded, on stilts, pushing a wheelbarrow. I think he even sat down halfway once and cooked an omelette.”
Nellie arched her eyebrows. “A lunatic, then?”
I grinned at her. “A kindred spirit.”
“I’ll have to do a feature on him,” she said. “Now, about Miss Fletcher. What’s all this about a soldier? You know something, Harry.”
I reminded her about Raffaele Forsizi’s button.
“There’s more,” Nellie said, looking at me in that thoughtful, penetrating way she had. “You’re holding back. Out with it.”
I waged a brief debate with myself. But in the end, expediency won out. Nellie couldn’t help if she didn’t know about Brady and Straker and all of it. And there was no time to waste. So as we stood on the corner of Broadway and Prince Street next to the busy main entrance of the fashionable Metropolitan Hotel, I laid it out as coherently as I could. Everything except the fact that Myrtle had no idea what I was up to. And that (God help me) she could be on a train home as we spoke.
“So this Straker fellow used to serve in the army?” she asked. “And he’s vanished?”
“Yes. One of the Bank Street Butchers, a kid named Billy Finn, thought he found him, and now he’s disappeared too. But we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
Nellie gave me her skeptical look. “He sounds pretty guilty
to me.”
“This morning, Elizabeth Brady came to the house. She said she ran into Straker a few months ago. Her story jibed with what Chamberlain told me and Edward, that Straker seemed to be holding a grudge against the man who lost his money. A stockbroker, first name Gerald.”
“That’s all you know?”
“He’s a heavy smoker. Like whoever broke in yesterday evening.”
“And I suppose you want me to find this man?”
“If you can. It might be a wild goose chase, or not, so be careful. John and I leave for Cassadaga Lake this afternoon. I don’t expect to spend more than a night there, but if you can follow up…”
“Yes, yes, I’ll have your undying gratitude.” Nellie waved a hand. “How about you buy me dinner at the Hotel Windsor? I’m quite partial to their strip steak.”
“It’s a deal,” I said, thinking I’d try to wheedle some money from Mrs. Rivers when we returned. I had a small allowance that she doled out each week, but it wasn’t even enough to cover the tip at the Windsor’s elegant restaurant.
“Good luck upstate,” she said. “I’m off to strong-arm Mr. Kirafly. And then I have to write my story on Anne’s murder. The others may not realize yet that we have a repeat killer on our hands, but it won’t take them long. This is going to be big, Harry.”
“I know. Maybe it’s better. At least people will be on their guard.”
Nellie snorted. “And panicking. There’ll be heavy pressure on the police to catch the killer. Croker and Hewitt are allergic to bad publicity. They might need a scapegoat.” She smiled grimly. “So let’s both be careful.”
We parted ways with a quick hug, and two hours later, I boarded a train at Grand Central Depot with John and Mrs. Rivers. Cassadaga Lake was situated in Chautauqua County, in the far southwestern corner of New York State. We planned to take the Hudson River line north to Albany, where we would switch to the New York Central, which passed by the west side of the lake.
Late afternoon sun poured through the cavernous glass-and-iron space of the train shed, whose ceiling, unbroken by pillar, column or wall, arched more than a hundred feet over our heads. The dozen tracks were serviced by modern raised platforms, which were bustling with tourists, commuters and porters. Grand Central was the pet project of Cornelius Vanderbilt, who had snatched up thirty-three acres of land—some of which he outright seized from reluctant owners who’d refused to sell—between Forty-Second and Forty-Eighth Streets, and Lexington and Madison Avenue. One of the buildings in the way was a new Hospital for the Ruptured and Crippled, which barely escaped demolition.
