Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “See, Harry,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot. “The grass is always greener. I know you’ve been salivating after the Cherney case, but it sounds like they’re at an even worse dead end than we are.”

  “I wasn’t salivating. Merely curious.” My tone softened. “And we’ve only made progress thanks to you. I suppose I ought to concede that your monster research hasn’t been entirely useless.”

  John looked amused. “You ought to. But I’m still not sure if I’ve been complimented or insulted.”

  I laughed and took his arm as we passed the Stock Exchange. “The first, Weston. I never would have guessed it was a golem in a million years and we would have grown old and grey doddering through those sewers.” My smile died. “I imagine you want the case closed quickly, too. Midterm exams will be coming up.”

  “What?” he replied absently. “Oh, yes. Second year is much more grueling. I’ll be hard-pressed for time.”

  We dodged across the madness of Broadway towards the Sixth Avenue Elevated stop at Rector Street. The tracks ran so close to the tenements you could see what people were cooking for dinner in their kitchens. John watched me buy my ticket.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I asked.

  “I’m meeting some friends from school at Delmonico’s.” He rubbed his forehead and I saw how tired he was beneath his cheerful demeanor. “We’re all taking chemistry together. The professor’s a dragon, but I’ve got to pass. It’s a study date, Harry.” He paused. “You’re welcome to meet them, if you like.”

  “No, you go,” I said, swallowing my disappointment. “Stop by the house later, if you can.”

  “I’ll try.” He gave me a weary smile. “Keep your rubber boots ready by the door.”

  I heard a rumbling vibration on the tracks. “Oh, train’s coming!” I gave John a quick wave and hurried up the stairs to the crowded platform. The engine barreled into the station, belching steam and cinders.

  I stepped through the doors, my smile fading. John had always wanted to be a doctor and I had no doubt he’d make an excellent one. But who would I hunt monsters with when he was gone?

  Kaylock would give me a new partner, of course, but I didn’t want a new partner.

  I wanted Weston.

  For the first time, I found myself hoping the golem case would drag out a good long while — even if it meant a hundred more descents into New York’s abominable underworld.

  3

  A week passed with no sightings of the golem.

  I imagined it stomping through the sewers trailed by its entourage of flies, occasionally shaking a fist at the blissfully ignorant herds moving through the streets above. The creature reminded me of Mary Shelley’s monster, lonely and bitter, perhaps scorned by the mad father who’d brought it into the world.

  John was mired in schoolwork so I occupied myself by reading all I could find about golems, though there wasn’t much beyond what Rabbi Mezritch had already told us. The time dragged. I both longed for a visit from the Night Squad and dreaded it.

  When I woke to a sound in the middle of the night, I thought at first it was one of Mallory’s messengers, come to fetch us into the tunnels.

  Then I realized it was coming from inside my room.

  I sat up with a racing heart to find Myrtle perched on the edge of my bed. She held a candle, its light illuminating the unforgiving planes of her face.

  “Hello, Harrison,” she said, as if we’d just bumped into each other over toast at the breakfast table.

  We looked nothing alike. I was a short, roundish strawberry blonde whilst my sister stood just shy of six feet, with grey eyes and raven hair that spilled down her thin, board-straight back. Her gaze was acute as always.

  “Get dressed,” that familiar dry voice commanded. “We’re going out.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  I frowned at the pitch-black window. “What time is it?”

  Myrtle pretended not to hear. She placed the candle on the bedside table, rose without another word and went downstairs. I sighed and threw off the bedcovers. There was little point in inquiring where or why. My sister would tell me when she felt like it.

  I pulled on a light dress and hastily pinned up my hair. Then I took the candle and made my way downstairs just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed one o’clock. Myrtle waited outside with a cab. I recognized the young, burly driver as a man she used often in her investigations. He tipped his cap at me and spurred the horses north up Sixth Avenue.

  It was relatively quiet until we reached the twenties, where the revelry began. Twenty-Ninth Street dedicated itself to brothels, whilst Twenty-Eighth had high-end gambling parlors like Chamberlain’s and Twenty-Seventh claimed the cheap clip joints.

  Fifth Avenue and Broadway teemed with brightly lit theaters, posh hotels and lobster palaces, but venture into the side streets a little farther west and you’d find saloons with names like The Morgue and Cripples’ Den. It wasn’t quite as bad as the Bowery, but came in a close second.

  My sister kept her own counsel the entire way, staring out the window of the carriage with a fixed expression, though I caught a gleam in her eye that said she was on a trail. Was it a coincidence that we’d come to the Tenderloin? I supposed I’d learn soon enough.

  The cab halted at the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street and Myrtle hopped out. “Come back at the usual time,” she instructed the driver. He gave her a quick nod and drove off.

  I glanced at her inquiringly but Myrtle was already striding down the block. I trailed her into one of the shabby “hot sheet” hotels frequented by streetwalkers and up a narrow flight of stairs. Myrtle unlocked number thirty-six on the top floor and we entered a musty room. The bed had been shoved against one wall and two chairs were arranged in front of the window, which provided the only illumination.

  Myrtle took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. I stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, and then sat down.

  “Why are we here?” I asked, slightly exasperated.

  She gazed out the window. “Do you know who owns that club?” she asked, tipping her pointy chin at the place across the street.

  Two bruisers stood at the front doors. Tinny dance music blared through the walls and a crowd of people milled on the sidewalk. The club seemed to enjoy a higher grade of clientele than its neighbors, though it definitely mixed high and low in equal measure.

  “The Avalon? Yes, it’s that bare-knuckles boxer. John Morrissey, isn’t it?”

  Myrtle smiled. “Old Smoke.”

  “What?”

  “Morrissey’s nickname. They call him that because he was backed into a coal stove and set alight during one of his bouts.”

  “Dear God. Are you after him for something?”

  Myrtle gave a low laugh. “No, though he’s as dirty as they come. You’re correct in asserting that Morrissey is the legal owner of the Avalon, but he’s merely a smokescreen to conceal the true owner. James Moran.”

  It was the perfect opening. “I ran into Moran the other night,” I said casually.

  Myrtle’s gaze tore itself from the window. “Where?”

  “Around here, as a matter of fact. I was on a case for the S.P.R.—”

  “The mud man.”

  “Er, yes, that one. I’d just emerged from the sewers and he happened by. At least, I think he happened by. It seemed like odd timing. But if his club is only a few blocks away, it makes more sense.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  I never lied to my sister unless it was absolutely necessary, not because of any moral qualms but because she invariably caught me. So I opted for the unvarnished truth. “He offered me a job.”

  Myrtle laughed. “You should have taken it.”

  “Maybe I should have,” I muttered. “He probably pays better.”

  “Than the S.P.R.? Undoubtedly. Moran might be evil incarnate, but he does take care of his employees. And he’s a man of his word.” She lit the cigarette and cracked th
e window open. “I’ve been watching him for six months.”

  “From this room?”

  She gave a brief nod.

  I hadn’t spoken to my sister in days – weeks really, unless you counted brief, random sightings – and now I was starting to understand why.

  “So that’s where you go at night. To spy on Moran.”

  “To observe his activities, yes. In my spare time.” She scowled. “Without hard evidence, I can’t interest the police in investigating him. It doesn’t help that half the force is in his pocket.”

  “So he’s your new . . . hobby?” I’d nearly said obsession, but I didn’t think Myrtle would take kindly to it.

  “You could say that.”

  “And what have you discovered?”

  She blew a series of perfect smoke rings. “He’s careful, Harrison. Very careful. As you know, the Morans are an outwardly respectable family. He can hardly conduct his illicit affairs in the open. A club in the Tenderloin is the ideal hub for his operations. It’s frequented by politicians, bankers, criminals, police and everyone else he associates with. For now, I’m just keeping an eye on them all, compiling lists of names.”

  She stubbed the cigarette out on the grimy windowsill, where I noticed countless other tiny burn marks. “Moran’s empire is vast. It could be years before I’m in a position to move against him. But I’ll never stop, Harrison. Never.”

  The words were spoken quietly but with intense feeling. I wished Myrtle luck with her vendetta, but it didn’t explain why she had brought me here tonight. My sister stalked her prey alone, always. She had been coming to this seedy hotel for six months to chain smoke in the darkness and watch people go in and out of the Avalon. What made her come to my room tonight?

  At this point, the thought crossed my mind that Myrtle might have learned about Moran’s involvement in the Hyde case the previous summer. I hadn’t a clue how, since John was the only other soul who knew and he’d take it to his grave. I’d make the same choice again, but it would be most unpleasant if my sister discovered the truth.

  Myrtle’s next words were reassuring. “If anything ever happens to me, I want you to know what I’ve got, or at least most of it. So pay attention, Harrison. What I’m about to tell you is important.” She toyed with the silver lighter, flicking the flame on and off. “Most criminals are quite dull, but James Moran is in another class entirely. I’m sure you know his history.”

  “He killed his father,” I said.

  She nodded. “He was already a freshman at Columbia, a mathematics prodigy who gained early admittance. He claimed self-defense and the Moran money kept the sordid details out of the papers. He served two years in prison for manslaughter and was released early for good behavior.” Myrtle gave a mirthless laugh. “Ironic, wouldn’t you say? Upon his release, Moran returned to school and completed his bachelor’s degree. Now he’s a graduate student in economics, which dovetails nicely with his criminal activities.”

  “I knew most of that,” I said.

  “Good. Here’s what you might not know.” She braced her palms on the windowsill, her profile a dark silhouette. “Moran is ruthless and selfish, but of the highest intelligence. He’s a criminal for the pure fun of it. Clearly, he doesn’t need the money. I believe he’s driven by contempt for society and the law as a whole. He enjoys creating chaos, but not being at the center of it. Moran thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room and he usually is.”

  She paused for breath, her grey eyes fixed on the Avalon. “Music is his single passion. He could have been a concert pianist, but he only plays privately. He’s turned his prodigious aptitude for numbers to the service of crime, though as I said, it’s a cold, calculating talent, not a consuming passion. He keeps everything in his head. When things are written down, they’re in a numeric code I’ve failed to break.”

  I raised an eyebrow. I could only imagine how it pained my sister to admit that.

  “He rules by intimidation and coopting his rivals, absorbing them into his organization, which is more efficiently run and thus more profitable for everyone.” Myrtle glanced at me with amusement. “As I mentioned, Moran pays well and takes care of his people. But if you betray him, he’ll make a lesson of you, viciously. The carrot and the stick combined.”

  “What exactly does he do?” I asked. “I mean, illegally?”

  “It would be simpler to ask what he doesn’t do. Moran appears to draw the line at child prostitution, but that’s the only line I’ve managed to find. He’s neck-deep into everything else our fair city has to offer.” Myrtle began ticking the list off on her fingers. “Murder for hire, extortion, robbery, illegal gambling, pickpocketing, arson, bribery of public officials, conspiracy, incitement to riot, solicitation, forgery, larceny, kidnapping, dognapping, insurance fraud . . . .”

  I found myself nodding off and woke with a start when a fight broke out across the street. The two enormous bouncers put a quick end to it, tossing the bloody, unconscious combatants into the gutter, and Myrtle resumed her soliloquy.

  “He has no siblings, just a mother and aunt who both live at the Moran mansion. I don’t think either of them has a clue as to what their darling boy is up to.”

  I blinked the grit from my eyes. “When you said the usual time to your driver, what exactly did that mean?”

  “Four o’clock.”

  I sighed. I had no doubt Myrtle could ramble on for the next two hours without pause. As long as I didn’t snore, perhaps she wouldn’t notice.

  “If he’s so careful, how do you know he’s a criminal?” I asked.

  “Because he allowed it, of course.” Myrtle scowled. “Moran is a perverse creature. I think he enjoys pitting his wits against mine.”

  As if you don’t relish the same thing, I nearly replied, but thought better of it.

  Myrtle leapt to her feet and flicked the butt of her cigarette out the window.

  “Where are you going?” I demanded.

  “I’ve cultivated an informant from the Avalon. He’s meeting me downstairs.” She tossed a pair of field glasses at me, which I just managed to catch. “Keep a close watch, Harrison.”

  “A close watch for what? I don’t know any of these people.”

  But Myrtle was already gone.

  I sighed and propped my chin on one hand, eyes sliding to half-mast. I’d never seen my sister so fixated. She was a dog with a bone when she got her teeth into a case, but her attention span generally lasted a few weeks at most.

  I almost pitied Moran. He had no idea what was after him.

  The minutes slipped by and I was half-drowsing again when a dapper figure emerged from the Avalon. The bouncers grew alert, their bulldog heads swiveling up and down the street. I leaned forward and automatically noted the time on the small clock Myrtle had set on the sill.

  Two thirty-seven.

  I raised the field glasses and the darkly handsome face of James Moran snapped into focus. He stepped to the curb and looked around. A gleaming brougham waited but he didn’t get in. Instead, he looked straight up at the window, smiled and tipped his hat. Then he hopped into the carriage and rattled off into the night.

  I lowered the field glasses and sat there for a minute, thinking.

  Moran couldn’t possibly have made out my features in the darkened room. He must have thought I was Myrtle.

  “He knows about you,” I reported breathlessly when she returned.

  “Of course he does,” she replied with an irritated frown. “What did you expect?”

  “But won’t he hide what he’s doing?”

  “I told you. He enjoys it.”

  I shook my head. Truly, they deserved each other.

  At four o’clock on the dot, the cabman returned and ferried us back downtown.

  “Do you really think I could take over for you?” I asked, jaws creaking with the effort to contain a yawn.

  “No. But there’s no one else, Harrison.” With these words, my sister closed her eyes and nodded off. She was fas
t asleep within thirty seconds, leaving me to pay the fare when we arrived at Tenth Street. As I staggered off to bed, I could hear her banging around in her laboratory.

  There’s no one else, Harrison.

  Not precisely a warm endorsement. But it was something, and with Myrtle you had to take what you could get.

  4

  Rain lashed the windows of the upstairs parlor at Tenth Street, the somber grey skies mirroring my mood. It was my twentieth birthday and I’d made plans for a dinner celebration at the Hotel Hungaria with Myrtle and John, but so far only one of them had shown up.

  Connor sprawled on the carpet reading some penny dreadful called The Dance of Death. John sat in his favorite armchair, idly flipping through a surgical textbook. I stood staring out at the rain and hoping to glimpse Myrtle’s tall, lanky frame striding down the street. We’d never been particularly close – my sister wasn’t close to anyone – but I had hoped she might be softening since our adventure at the Avalon.

  “How could she have forgotten?” I muttered. “I reminded her just this morning.”

  “Give it another few minutes,” John said consolingly. “You know Myrtle. She operates on her own time. I’m sure she’ll make an appearance.”

  “She’s an hour late already.”

  Myrtle had taken a new assignment from the Pinkerton Detective Agency and was rarely home. If she spent her nights spying on Moran, she hadn’t invited me to join her again.

  I picked up a newspaper and scanned the headlines, looking for a distraction. The New York World had dubbed the deaths of Cherney and Bates The Mystery of the Dead Ringers, a cheeky reference to the scam of trotting out racehorses under false pedigrees. But there had been no new developments since Bates accidentally strangled himself at the Union Square Theater and the story was already fading into the the back pages.

  “Are they still talking about the deaths on campus?” I asked John.

  “No one talks about anything else,” he said wryly. “Suddenly everyone has a story to tell, though it’s mostly second- and third-hand gossip.”