by Kat Ross
His recalcitrance made no sense. “Don’t you want their aid? They’re quite competent, I can assure you.”
“I want your help,” he insisted, his gaze taking in both of us.
“But why do you think we can help you?”
“Because you solved the Hyde case and saved Billy Finn,” he said stubbornly. “Believe it or not, Miss Pell, I have faith in your abilities. I’ve calculated the odds and you’re my best chance.” His lips curled. “If I could hire your sister, I would, but I somehow don’t think she’d be willing.”
“This is about Myrtle, isn’t it?” I exclaimed. “Poking her in the eye.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he growled. “My life is at stake, in case you’ve forgotten! And second-best is still better than nothing.”
I could tell he didn’t even intend it as an insult, which made me more annoyed.
“Assuming what you say is true, why shouldn’t we just let you die? It would save the good citizens of New York a lot of trouble.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “We’ve helped each other before. Have you told your sister about that?”
I said nothing.
“I thought so.” He folded the charter up and gave me a nasty smile. “I’m sure you’d prefer she remain in the dark. I saved you and Mr. Weston from very unpleasant ends. Have you no gratitude?”
“What is it you want us to do exactly?” John demanded.
“Someone must be behind this,” Moran said. “I want to know who.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Nor do I,” I admitted. “The Pythagoras Society. Why did you call it that?”
“Ancient Greek mathematician, wasn’t he?” John mused. “Invented pi.”
“Actually, that was Archimedes,” Moran replied, “though Pythagoras did make important contributions to geometry. He was also a mystic, believed the movement of the planets creates a celestial symphony we humans simply aren’t equipped to hear.”
Moran paused, his eyes distant, as if hearing strains of ethereal music. “I chose the name because Pythagoras presided over a secret brotherhood. Its members took vows never to share his arcane teachings with outsiders. Those who did were expelled and treated as dead men.”
He laughed at the looks on our faces. “Honestly, it was all meant as a joke. We weren’t—”
He cut off as the door opened and a young woman entered, two large dogs at her heels, one black, one brindle. She was attractive and looked very much like Moran, with the same dark eyes and hair, but too young to be his mother. I would have pegged her for a sister if I didn’t know he was an only child.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, drawing to a halt as she saw us. “I didn’t realize you had company.” The dogs crowded against her skirts and she rested a hand on the brindle’s broad head. “Emma Bayard,” she said with a friendly smile. “James’s spinster aunt.” Her tone was light and jesting, but I thought I detected an undercurrent of . . . something.
John bowed and I gave her a polite nod.
“This is Miss Pell and Mr. Weston,” Moran said. “They’re looking into the deaths of Danny and Cash.”
Emma’s face clouded over. “Of course. But weren’t they terrible accidents?”
“It certainly appears that way,” I said with a bland smile. “You knew them?”
She glanced at Moran. “Yes, though not well. We spoke on a few occasions. James would have his friends over for cards, but it’s been an age, hasn’t it?” She studied us with open curiosity. “Are you with the police?”
“Private investigators,” Moran interjected before I could reply.
“I see. Well, I won’t interrupt.” She glanced at her reflection in the gilded mirror hanging over the fireplace and tucked a stray lock of sable hair behind her ear. “We just returned from a walk in the park. I thought I’d look in on Tamsin.”
Moran gave a curt nod.
“It was a pleasure meeting you both,” Emma said. “Best of luck with your inquiry.” She walked over to Moran and rested a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly in his ear though I caught most of the words.
She said, “You’re wasting away, James. I’ll have the cook make your favorite supper tonight. Do join us, won’t you?”
Seeing the two of them next to each other, their heads almost touching, I couldn’t help but notice the stark difference despite their similar looks. Emma glowed with good health, her skin burnished gold by the sun, while Moran was sallow and weary-looking. After she had gone, I turned to him.
“Was your aunt traveling recently?”
He nodded. “Newport Beach. She takes my mother there in the summers. They both love the ocean.” He walked to the window and stared out at the trees. “Emma knows nothing, nor does my mother, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“You must have your own ideas about what’s going on,” I ventured.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, I do. It’s clear to me that it’s one of us.”
“The Pythagoras Society?”
“Who else? None but the members even knew the club existed.”
“What about the bullies you threatened?”
Moran shook his head. “I’ve cudgeled my brain for days and I can’t think of a single one who would go to these lengths. It all happened years ago.” His voice lowered. “I know it isn’t me, so it has to be one of the other three.”
“Motive?” John asked crisply. He’d taken out his notebook, pencil poised above the paper.
“Haven’t a clue.”
I watched his face closely but he seemed to be telling the truth.
“I’ll need to see that charter again,” I said. “John can copy down the names. We’ll find a way to question them—”
Moran knit his hands together. “I can do better than that. I’ve called them together for a meeting at the Avalon tomorrow. Quincy, Thaddeus and Joe. They agreed to come. They’re frightened, too — or at least pretending to be. I can arrange for you to listen in.”
“You’re assuming we’ve accepted your offer,” I said. “But we haven’t yet discussed terms. I need to speak privately with Mr. Weston for a moment.”
We retired into the hall. “What are you up to?” John asked, crossing his arms.
I told him my idea and he was silent for a moment.
“You said we’d bring everything to Kaylock. It’s not just him who will skewer us for this, Harry. It’s Kate and Wayne. And I like and respect them both.”
“So do I,” I replied with a twinge of guilt. “If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be furious. But it’s a chance that will never come again.”
John looked troubled, but he finally nodded. “You think he’ll agree?”
I shrugged. “Let’s find out.”
We returned to the music room and Moran rose from the grand piano, where he’d been playing a soft interlude.
“Let’s hear it,” he said levelly. “Anything. Within reason, of course.”
I looked at John, who nodded. “I want an iron-clad promise you’ll do everything in your power to keep my sister from physical harm.”
He laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, I’m deadly serious, Mr. Moran.”
He ran a hand through his black hair. “This is ludicrous.”
“It’s not negotiable,” I said firmly.
He hesitated.
“Well,” I said. “Good luck to you then.”
We moved toward the door.
“Wait,” he ground out.
John and I paused on the threshold.
The words were barely audible. “We have a deal.”
“I’ve heard you’re a man of your word.” I gave Moran my steeliest stare. “If you break this promise—”
“I won’t,” he said curtly. “I’ll put the word out that anyone who touches her will answer to me. Personally.”
“And she can’t know,” I added. “She can never, ever know.”
&nb
sp; “Jesus Christ. You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?” He gazed at me with a hint of admiration. “I’ll do my best. Will you make me sign a contract in my own blood?”
“That won’t be necessary. What time is this meeting tomorrow?”
“Eleven. Be there an hour early so I can get you into position.” He gave a humorless smile. “You know where the Avalon is, don’t you, Miss Pell?”
8
It was strange to see the club in daylight, with no one in the main room except a boy sweeping up sawdust from the night before. The Avalon looked smaller somehow, and seedier. I could see the peeling paint of the murals and dark rings staining the mahogany bar, like the metal puzzles Moran was so fond of.
He greeted us at the front door, leading us up the lefthand staircase and down a corridor to a cramped room barely large enough for the three of us. It was empty save for a window that looked into an office plastered with posters for old boxing matches. The glass was tinted a smoky hue unlike anything I had seen before.
“The room was originally built for use as a hidey-hole during police raids,” Moran said in an amused tone. “John Morrissey stashed contraband here — or favored customers, if their pictures had hit the Rogues’ Gallery.”
“Rogues’ Gallery?” John echoed.
“Commissioner Byrnes published it a few years ago,” I said. “A photographic record of the four hundred worst offenders in the country, with biographical sketches and details of their crimes. It’s been a valuable tool for law enforcement.”
Moran smiled. “I own a copy myself. Fascinating reading. In any event, when I bought a stake in the Avalon, I ordered some modifications.” He tapped a finger on the glass. “I commissioned it specially from a Venetian glazier. The other side appears to be a mirror. You can see them, but they can’t see you.”
My sister would give her eyeteeth to know about this. “Can we hear what’s being said?” I asked.
Moran nodded. “There are pinholes that permit sound to pass through the wall.”
“Anything else before the meeting begins?” John asked.
“I’ve had boys tailing the three of them for the last few days. Nothing out of the ordinary so far.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten-thirty. I’ll leave you now.”
We settled in to wait.
“What do think he uses this room for?” John whispered.
“God only knows.”
“It could all be an elaborate set-up.”
“It could.”
“But we’re in the muck now. No going back.”
“No,” I agreed.
Quincy Hughes was the first to arrive.
I mentally reviewed what Moran had told us before we left his mansion the evening before. Quincy was a third-year law student at Columbia. I actually knew him myself in passing; his family was wealthy and moved in society circles. Mine wasn’t at the same level, but our friend Edward Dovington sometimes invited John and me to parties at the mansions of the city’s plutocrats. I recalled a handsome boy with bright blue eyes and acne scars pitting his cheeks. Moran said Quincy was ambitious and planned to go into politics.
He looked the same, if older and warier. Moran left him alone in the office and we watched him pace up and down. At one point, he strode over to the mirror and examined his teeth. It was an odd experience to be looking directly at him, inches away, and know he couldn’t see us.
Then the door opened and Moran entered with Joseph Allen White and Thaddeus Shaw. It was easy to tell who was who.
Joseph was built like a greyhound, with the excitable energy of a little kid. He had dropped out of school and lived with his parents in Corona, Queens, near the racetrack. Moran said he’d always been a loose cannon, but he’d never been in serious trouble. Joseph was more of a mischief-maker, which elevated him on my list of suspects nonetheless.
Thaddeus Shaw . . . . Well, John claimed he was known on campus as an oddball and I had to admit he looked the part. He had buggy eyes and peculiar, tiny teeth. I felt a stab of sympathy. He might have been the nicest person in the world, but it didn’t take much imagination to see other boys picking on him simply for his looks. There were six hundred students enrolled in Columbia’s medical college so John hardly knew him. In contrast to Joseph, his demeanor was quiet and watchful.
Moran poured them each an inch of whiskey and passed the glasses around.
Joseph downed his in one go. Quincy cradled the glass in his hands, swirling the amber contents. Thaddeus stared at Moran and set his own drink on the table.
“You know I don’t take spirits, James,” he said.
Moran picked up the glass and tossed it back. The others watched him warily. Joseph’s foot jittered against his chair leg.
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Moran said. “You all know what’s happened. Something or someone is coming after us. I need to know everything. Rumors, suspicions, it doesn’t matter how outlandish. Don’t even think about holding back on me.” His voice was soft but menacing. “Let’s start with Danny. Who saw him last?”
There was a long silence. Then Joseph spoke. “I guess it was me,” he said. “We went out for a night on the town.”
“When was that?” Moran asked.
“Couple of days before he died.” Joseph grabbed the bottle and poured himself another dram of whiskey. “Danny wanted to gamble so we went to the Bronze Door on Thirty-Third. His luck was on fire. Never seen anything like it.” He downed the whiskey and shuddered as it burned a path down his throat. “Didn’t matter the game. We hit the faro tables, then stuss and blackjack. He won every single hand. Every fucking one. They finally threw us out for cheating though Danny insisted he didn’t.”
Moran and Quincy exchanged a look. Thaddeus was expressionless, his bulging eyes locked on Joseph.
“What happened next?” Moran asked.
“Danny was furious because they wouldn’t let him keep his winnings. Honestly, he’d been acting strange all night. Neither of us felt like going home so we bought a bottle and took it to Central Park. We sat by the lake.” Joseph’s leg was going a mile a minute. He gave a shaky laugh. “You’re not going to believe the next part.”
“Try me.” Moran had gone very still, his knuckles white around the glass.
“Well, he started talking about his mother and a story she used to tell. Some Jew thing about a monster called a golem.”
My eyebrows climbed to my hairline and I shared an astonished look with John.
“We were lying on the grass, passing the bottle back and forth. Danny was more than half in the bag. Never could hold his liquor.” Joseph barked another nervous laugh. “He said these golems would do their master’s bidding, like slaves.”
Moran’s gaze fixed on him with unwavering intensity. “What else?”
“He told me someone was following him. Kept looking into the trees. It was a strange night. I mean, Danny! He hardly ever drank. I’d never seen him like that before.” Joseph fell silent for a moment, staring into space. “Then he said golems could also be used for protection. That some rabbi called one to guard the Jew ghetto.”
“Where the hell are you going with this?” Quincy interjected, an impatient edge to his voice. “Did someone come after you?”
Joseph stood and wandered over to the mirror, staring right at us. His voice was low and I strained to hear him.
“It had rained the night before and the ground was soft. Danny said we should make a mud man.”
Shaw spoke for the first time since he had refused the drink. “Like a snowman?”
“Sort of, but lying down. It was easier. So we did. I was drunk, too. It was just a joke.” Joseph wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Danny wrote something on a paper and put it in the thing’s mouth.”
He stopped talking. He was still looking right at us, so close I could see the sweat beading at his hairline.
“Well?” Quincy demanded. “What happened?”
Joseph spun around to face the others. “The fucking
thing sat up.”
Quincy burst out laughing and was silenced by a sharp gesture from Moran.
“What did you do?” Thaddeus asked.
“What do you think?” Joseph snarled. “We ran like hell.”
Quincy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking, Q?”
The acne scars on Quincy’s face flushed red against his skin. “So this is all your fault.”
“Not mine,” Joseph said defensively. “Danny did it all!”
“You could have stopped him,” Moran pointed out. He sounded surprisingly calm.
“How the hell was I supposed to know it would actually work?” Joseph’s voice rose to a high pitch. “Some kind of Jew black magic. And he’s not even around to fix it!”
“Enough. What happened next?”
“Nothing. When we got out of the park, we parted ways and staggered home. I thought the whole thing was a crazy dream until two days later when I heard about Danny. I thought maybe, somehow, I dunno, it had killed him.” His voice took on a whiny edge. “I didn’t know what to do. I obviously couldn’t go to the police.”
“You should have told us,” Moran said icily.
Joseph picked at his cuff. “I just did.”
Quincy and Thaddeus shook their heads.
“So this golem is still out there?”
“I guess so.” He’d lapsed into a sullen monotone. “I don’t know.”
“Any of you see Danny after that?” Moran demanded.
Joseph and Quincy shook their heads. Thaddeus Shaw cleared his throat. “I didn’t, but Francis did. He’d gone to meet Danny at school the day of the accident. He told me later, just before he . . . .” Thaddeus trailed off.
“Died,” Quincy finished quietly. “In another freak accident.”
“What the hell is going on?” Joseph burst out. “Francis fell off a plank. I read about it in the papers. Nobody saw any golem around.”
“Maybe this golem can change itself to look like us,” Thaddeus suggested.
“But what does it want?” Quincy muttered. “Goddamn Danny.”
