Brooklyn on Fire

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “I understand, and it will be.” Mary was particularly pleased with this offer. In her eagerness to acquire a new client, she had failed to discuss possible expenses with Emily Worsham in addition to the two weeks’ pay she had received. It was her oversight, and in this instance, Archer had saved her from appearing unprofessional by having to return to her client with an “oh, by the way” speech.

  Mary liked Archer Huntington, but she had purposely held back one important detail. If anything untoward had happened to his father, it was most likely his mother who had done it.

  8

  SHORTY DIDN’T JUST like fire. He loved it. He hadn’t been born yet when fire destroyed most of Wall Street in 1835, and the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 was much too far away for him to witness. He yearned to see blazes of that magnitude. And about the only thing Shorty enjoyed more than watching fires was starting them. So as a personal bonus to himself, he’d finish each assignment by setting everything aflame. It added to his enjoyment of the job, and it also had the extra benefit of getting rid of any evidence that he might have accidentally left behind. But in this last job, he had been told to kill her and get out. The note that he was given with his instructions specifically read, “There will be no fire.” It was disappointing, but he was being paid infinitely more than his usual fee and he saw no benefit in questioning the client.

  This left him with a dilemma: the unknown. Did he leave something at the scene that could be traced back to him? Shorty didn’t think he had, but he didn’t know for sure. As a result, he continually found excuses to walk past the old lady’s house, and even though it had been more than two weeks since he’d completed his assignment, he observed that police were still busily running in and out.

  On this particular Saturday he had been watching from behind a tree across the street when he saw two policemen, one considerably older than the other, emerge from the house and engage in what looked like a serious, animated conversation. He needed to get closer. He crossed the street and hid behind a carriage on the other side.

  The older officer talked with a thick Irish accent. “I know this is your first murder case, Sean, and ya want to make a big splash, but take my word for it, lad,” he said as he gestured toward the house, “ya won’t be findin’ a thing in that pile of garbage.”

  “You’re wrong, Billy,” Sean replied as he held up a coat button. “This button is something.”

  “She has so many collections of whatnots, how can ya say that’s from the killer?”

  “She had no collections of buttons.”

  “But the ol’ nutcase had every piece of clothing of her poor deceased husband and son.”

  “I checked all their clothing, and there’s not one match.”

  “For all we know, one of her filthy cats brought it in from the street.”

  “If you want to visit the lady who is taking care of the cats and use your cat talk to interrogate them, go ahead. I’m going to see what I can do with this.”

  Billy rubbed his bald head and smiled. Billy O’Brian had known Sean and his family since Sean was a little boy. In fact, he had recommended Sean to Second Street Station when he first told Billy he wanted to be a policeman.

  “Yer almost as stubborn as yer sister, Sean Handley.” Billy laughed and went back inside as Sean took off down the street.

  Shorty waited until it was safe, then crossed back to the other side. I better keep an eye on this Handley kid, he thought. He’s not stupid like most cops. As he started to put distance between himself and the house, he felt his coat. He had wondered where he had lost that button. Now he knew.

  ABIGAIL CORDAY WAS simply effervescent. Nothing could contain her joy. She was preparing for the role of a lifetime, the role she was destined to play, Nora in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. She had read that her idol Eleonora Duse was going to play the same part in Europe, and the thought made her giddy. Together they would show the world what the art of acting really was.

  One minor detail remained. She needed to be cast in the play. According to Abigail, it was indeed minor, a fait accompli. Once the director saw her he’d realize she was the walking embodiment of Nora. No one could have been more perfect, not even Duse. For days, Abigail had been living as Nora, only answering to that name. She spoke as Nora would, ate as she would, and dressed like her, too. And today her journey would begin. Today was her audition.

  There was a knock at her door. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “It’s Robert.”

  She opened the door and standing there was thirty-four-year-old Robert Davies, a fellow struggling actor who was Abigail’s friend and had spent many hours with her rehearsing different parts and sharing their theories on acting.

  “Come in here, Torvald, and see what I have bought,” Abigail said, reciting a line from the first scene of A Doll’s House.

  Playing along, Robert entered the room and looked around. “Bought, did you say? All these things? Has my little spendthrift been wasting my money?”

  Closing the door, Abigail didn’t miss a beat. “Yes but, Torvald, this year we really can let ourselves go a little. This is the first Christmas that we have not needed to economize.”

  Robert dropped the pretense. “Very convincing, Abby. I’m sure you’ll get the part.”

  But Abigail would not break character. “What part, Torvald? We are who we are.”

  Robert decided not to push it further. He didn’t want to chance an argument, thus upsetting both of them right before they auditioned for the lead roles in a play. He was a dedicated actor and loved everything about the craft of acting. What he didn’t like, what he couldn’t tolerate, was the lack of paying work. He looked around the room again. Abigail lived in a tiny, one-room hovel where insects and occasional rodents scampered about freely. He couldn’t imagine “suffering for his art” like she did. That was exactly why he had another job that allowed him to live decently, and that was also why he was jealous of Abigail. She was living the life he didn’t dare try to live. And her talent was growing while his felt stagnant.

  He returned to the text of the play. “Still, you know we can’t spend money recklessly.”

  “Yes, Torvald, we may be a bit more reckless now, mayn’t we? Just a tiny wee bit!”

  Abigail beamed, thrilled to be back in her fantasy world, a world Robert feared would come crashing down on her one day. He hoped that wouldn’t happen until he got what he needed from her.

  MARY, ARCHER, AND Police Superintendent Patrick Campbell stood by John Worsham’s grave in Trinity Churchyard near Wall Street and Broadway as the cemetery workers dug away. Archer fidgeted nervously. In his twenty years, he had never before experienced this amount of anxiety. Mary was sympathetic, but considering the entitled life into which Archer had been born, she couldn’t help thinking that before this there had likely never been anything for him to be anxious about.

  Superintendent Campbell had been Chief Detective Campbell when he brought Mary on for the Goodrich case. He was her mentor, and he and his wife were now also her friends. The police commissioners at the time were afraid his sterling reputation would usurp theirs and he would take their jobs. In a preemptive move, they had decided to fire him with no real cause. A year later, he had been made police superintendent, their boss, which enabled him to return the favor. Besides the perk of being able to dismiss the police commissioners, Superintendent Campbell had found little joy in his job. He loved being out in the field solving cases, and police superintendents didn’t do that. The pay was much better but his job mostly entailed mounds of paperwork and politics. He couldn’t decide which of the two he loathed more.

  Mary decided it would be prudent to have someone of authority at her side when they dug up John Worsham, and Superintendent Campbell more than filled that bill. Though it was perfectly legal to request the exhumation of a body with just the permission of the son, the Huntingtons were powerful people, and she didn’t know what they might do to stop her if they found out in time or what sort of
retribution they might seek afterward. She had reasoned that if either case should arise, Superintendent Campbell’s presence could only serve to alleviate the situation.

  When she had arrived at his office earlier that day, his secretary, a Miss Quincy, informed Mary that he was in a meeting. Mary knew Superintendent Campbell well, and she especially knew that “I’m in a meeting” often was code for “I need some time to be alone and not be disturbed by any more idiots.” Mary went right to his door and listened. When she didn’t hear any voices, she marched right in, ignoring Miss Quincy’s pleas.

  She found Superintendent Campbell sitting at his desk with a stack of playing cards in his left hand. With his right hand, he was in the midst of tossing one across the room toward a wastebasket, around which several cards lay on the floor. When he saw Mary, he smiled.

  “Mary, what brings you here?”

  “I was hoping you’d join me in a card-tossing contest, but I can see you need more practice.”

  At that moment, Miss Quincy rushed in. “I’m sorry, Superintendent. I had told Miss Handley you were in a meeting—” She stopped midexcuse, having seen the cards in his hand and the ones on the floor. She would never have said it, but she was obviously thinking, I wish I had your job. Instead, she said, “I’ll close the door and let you two be alone.”

  “It’s nice to see you inspire such admiration and respect in your employees.”

  “I don’t blame them. How do you admire someone whose main function is to be a figurehead?” Superintendent Campbell had always been heavyset but solid. Mary couldn’t help observing that in the six months or so since he had been promoted to superintendent, he had put on a decent amount of weight and looked puffy. The sedentary life didn’t agree with him, and the banquet circuit made it worse.

  “I need your help, Chief.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mary, I’m no longer chief.”

  “You’ll always be Chief to me.”

  Mary meant what she said, but she also knew those were the exact words he wanted to hear. Superintendent Campbell immediately perked up.

  “Well, let’s get going then.” And he started ushering her toward the door.

  “Don’t you at least want to know what it’s about?”

  “You can tell me in the carriage. If I spend another second in this office, I may do something undeniably sane, like quit.”

  ABIGAIL’S AND ROBERT’S auditions were at the Thalia Theatre in lower Manhattan. At one point it had been called the Bowery Theatre, but the name was changed in 1879 when new ownership took over. They were German and had produced mostly German plays. A change in strategy had prompted them to hire a new artistic director who wanted to return the Thalia to its heyday when it was established in 1826 by the Astor family. The artistic director—a distant relative of Andrew Carnegie’s wife, Louise—thought he could revive the theater with one successful play and boost his career in the process. For that reason, he had chosen A Doll’s House. It was a critical favorite, and a great production would attract New York’s elite, helping the theater regain its popularity among “those who mattered.”

  Abigail and Robert requested to be audition partners, and the casting director saw no problem with that. They were both unknown and likely to stay that way after the audition. When they were called onstage, the artistic director, who was also directing the play, took notice. The actress looked exactly the way he had envisioned Nora. She dressed like her and even walked like her. Now, if she could only act, he thought.

  When their scene started, the director became entranced. This girl is good, he thought, very good. He got up from his seat in the audience and moved a few rows closer to the stage. He needed to be sure. When the scene was over, he asked them to do another scene, and then another. It didn’t change his opinion one iota. In fact, she got better with each scene. He finally returned to his original seat and, holding up a piece of paper, asked the actress to step forward.

  “What’s your name, dear? It’s not on your résumé.”

  “My name is Nora Helmer,” Abigail responded as if it were obvious.

  The director chuckled. He had heard of this new brand of actor who “lived the character.” He had been to Rome, where he had witnessed the great Italian actor Tommaso Salvini mesmerize audiences with his brilliant and very real performance in Othello.

  This is what this theater needs to make a real splash, he thought, a fresh approach. Little did he know that Abigail was more than fresh. She was at best deluded and quite possibly insane.

  “FIRST THOMAS EDISON and J. P. Morgan,” Superintendent Campbell had said in his carriage, referring to suspects in the Goodrich case. “And now Collis Huntington. Mary, can’t you go after someone less powerful, like possibly the president of the United States?”

  “I’m not going after Collis Huntington. I’m just digging up the body of his wife’s first husband. He likely has nothing to fear.”

  “Collis Huntington never fears anything or anyone. But you’re leaving something out. Is it Arabella?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “Longfellow! You’re using a Longfellow quote to avoid my question?”

  “Truthfully, that’s not an exact quote…but it is close.”

  His subsequent look had told her it was time for her to stop dancing around the subject.

  “If John Worsham met an untimely death, the most obvious suspect would be—”

  “Arabella.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you don’t think Collis Huntington will do everything within his power to protect her, which might involve destroying you?”

  “Chief, by now you must know that I refuse to be bullied, no matter how much money or bite an individual has. And Collis Huntington is no exception.”

  “Did you ever consider what he might do to me?”

  “I’ve never seen you back down from a fight, but there’s always a first time.”

  “Nice attempt, Mary, but do you really think that kind of psychological claptrap will work on me?”

  “No, but I know you too well to think you’re actually concerned. Besides, we don’t yet know if there’s a problem with Worsham’s death. Odds are, there won’t be, or at least not anything we can prove.”

  “Maybe not, but I want to be there if there is. You may need protection, and besides, the fireworks will be spectacular.”

  Mary had seen the little glint in his eye before, and she now knew for sure he was enjoying this break from the monotony of his job.

  It was time. The cemetery workers were now hauling the casket out of its hole. Mary and Superintendent Campbell could both see Archer tensing.

  “No point in fretting, son,” Superintendent Campbell said, trying to calm him. “As the Spanish saying goes, Que será será—what will be, will be.”

  “Actually, Chief,” Mary chimed in, “that phrase was made up by the English.”

  “And,” added Archer, “the Spanish version is grammatically incorrect.”

  Superintendent Campbell grimaced. “Then fret away. Are you two satisfied now?”

  His comment cut the tension in the air. Mary and Archer laughed, and even Superintendent Campbell, who rarely allowed himself that type of release, smiled. But the humor was short-lived, cut by the arrival of a very distressed Arabella Huntington.

  “What is the meaning of this, Archer?”

  “Mother, what are you doing here?”

  “I received a phone call from the coroner’s office, apparently for you, saying they’d be a little late to the cemetery to collect the body.”

  “Please understand. I just want to know what happened to Father. Is that so awful?”

  “I’ve told you a million times what happened to him. He had a heart attack. And this won’t bring him back!” She then turned to Mary. “This is your doing, Miss Handley. Archer’s a very impressionable young man, and you took advantage. Shame on you!”

  Archer started to defend Mary and take responsib
ility, but his mother quickly put up her hand to shush him and turned to Superintendent Campbell. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Patrick. I shall mention your lack of discretion to Mayor Chapin the next time we have dinner.” Both Superintendent Campbell and Arabella knew her threat was a hollow one. Mayor Chapin was McLaughlin’s man, and she had absolutely no sway there. Arabella then turned her attention to the cemetery workers.

  “I demand that you put that casket back in the ground this moment. Do as I say, and do it now!” She stepped closer to them, hoping her proximity would intimidate them enough to make them do her bidding.

  But the men were Italian immigrants who only spoke a few words of English and didn’t know this woman. They did know what their boss had told them to do, and so they followed his orders: they opened the coffin. Mary rushed over to have a look. If Arabella Huntington succeeded in returning John Worsham and his coffin to the ground without his being examined, she wanted to at least see the condition of the body. But that would not be.

  “It’s empty!” Mary exclaimed.

  “What?!” screamed Archer as he ran over to look. “There’s nothing but rocks in here. Someone stole my father’s body!”

  It was fortunate that Superintendent Campbell also came to look. It enabled him to catch Arabella Huntington as she fainted into his arms.

  9

  DESPITE THE BIZARRE turn of events in the cemetery, Mary had been looking forward to her dinner that night with George Vanderbilt. He was attractive and charming and even seemed to share the same sensibilities as her. She wanted to get to know him better. So, after they had revived Arabella Huntington and once Archer had calmed down, Mary had a brief discussion with Superintendent Campbell, then went home to change in order to meet George at the prestigious Hoffman House in Madison Square. As they sat down at a well-positioned table next to a picture window, the conversation immediately veered from the beautiful eleventh-floor view.

  “So, I understand you had an interesting day,” George intimated with a sly smile.