“Just a momentary lapse,” Mary responded. “I certainly will never forget it. In fact, I saw Lizzie King the other day.”
Sean was concerned. “Did they let her out? I’ll talk with my captain—”
“No, Sean, it was nothing like that. I saw her up at Matteawan when I was visiting Ameer. But you’re right. She still holds an awful grudge.”
“Then I’m even happier New York has her locked up for the rest of her life.”
Mary realized that whatever solitude she was seeking would not be possible at Lazlo’s. She said her good-byes. Sean wanted to walk her home, but they parted ways and Mary went directly to the Brooklyn Daily Eagle offices. Lazlo was right. Knowing the year made searching for the Whitechapel murders much easier, and the information she attained was quite revealing. All the prostitute murders since Carrie Brown had been committed on the exact dates of the Jack the Ripper killings. Each successive year hit the same dates: August 31, September 8, two on September 30, and another on November 9. She was confident in her assumption that Clubber Williams and probably Thomas Byrnes had sealed these cases to save face, not wanting the public to know that a Ripper-like killer or the Ripper himself was still at large. She wasn’t sure yet how she could use this information to help prove Ameer’s innocence. Since he had been locked up, he couldn’t have killed these other women, but as Sean had pointed out, that alone didn’t prove he didn’t kill Carrie Brown. After all, there could be two killers or four or any number. Jack the Ripper was famous, and the information pertaining to his killings was available for any sick mind to see. There was one more fact that was even more troubling.
If this killer followed his pattern, the next killing would be on September 8, which was only a few days away.
14
It was early the next morning when Superintendent Campbell returned from the offices of the two Brooklyn police commissioners. No conflict there. They were allies, men he had put in place to make his job easier. Waiting for him in his outer office was Mary Handley. She had a look about her he had seen many times. It seemed as if she was agitated, but he knew it was just excitement. She was standing, and Campbell immediately concluded she probably had been the whole time she had been there. She approached him, her piercing blue eyes at their widest and focused completely on him. His secretary, Miss Carroll, knew that Mary was a friend and had carte blanche to visit whenever she so desired.
“We need to talk, Chief.”
“Hello, Mary, how are you? I’m fine, thank you. My, you look lovely this morning. I do, too? Well, if you say so.”
“Okay, I understand. I’m missing my manners this morning. Now—”
“Miss Carroll, feel free to take a break and get some coffee,” he said to his secretary. “I believe I can handle this visitor all by myself.”
Miss Carroll grabbed her pocketbook, promptly rose, and left. As soon as the door closed, Mary said, “Chief, you won’t believe what I found out.”
“Somehow I think I will. Shall we?” He gestured toward his office, and they went inside, he sitting behind his desk and she still standing. She began pacing as she spoke.
“I need your help, Chief—”
“Mary, I have been superintendent for five years now, and every time you come to visit me, invariably, the first words out of your mouth are that you need my help.”
“That’s not true. Last time I commented on how impressed I was that you were keeping your weight off, which, by the way, it does look as if you have slipped in the last week and need to regather your willpower. Might I suggest—”
“Stop it, Mary. You win. You know I’d rather listen to anything than how to limit the few indulgences I have left in the world. Congratulations, well played.”
Mary smiled, not only because she had successfully navigated the conversation back to the subject she preferred, but also because it came with a compliment from Superintendent Campbell. She relished any nod he gave her even if it stemmed from her being annoying.
“Thank you. So here it is. I checked the sealed cases of female murders since Carrie Brown and it just so happens that all those sealed cases occurred on the same days in the same months Jack the Ripper committed his Whitechapel murders in 1888—”
“Yes, I know.”
“Suspicious, ominous, whatever you care to call it, it is…You know?”
“I relish rare moments like these when I appear to be a step ahead of you. That is, before you ruin it, and I realize I am a step behind.”
“What prompted you to look into those cases? I didn’t ask you to.”
“It may not look like it, but believe it or not, we do actual police work here.”
“I profusely apologize if I have offended you in any way whatsoever. Now would you please explain to me what happened?”
“You got me thinking about the Carrie Brown murder. She was on my mind when I heard there was a prostitute by the name of Meg Parker who was killed in Coney Island early in the morning on August thirty-first.”
“One of my women.”
“I decided to check into it, not because I thought it had any connection to the Carrie Brown murder, but because your visit dredged up ancient feelings about Old Shakespeare and how vulnerable these poor women are.”
“Glad to know I can have that effect on you, Chief.”
“You depressed me, Mary.”
“It spurred you into action, didn’t it? I bet you didn’t think once about food.”
“Wrong. It made me think more. You know, life is short, et cetera. But that’s beside the point. I found it odd that Meg Parker’s case was sealed in my jurisdiction. After all, as much as I detest this job, I am the head man here. I asked my police commissioners, and they hadn’t ordered it. Then they checked all the way down the line until they found out from the beat cop that Alexander Williams ordered it under the authority of Thomas Byrnes.”
“I knew Byrnes was behind it all. His mammoth ego couldn’t withstand the possibility of failing on his promise to catch Jack the Ripper in thirty-six hours.”
“That doesn’t mean your client is innocent.”
“I know that.”
“Do you also know what I am about to tell you?”
“That you already did what I came here to ask you to do: unseal Meg Parker’s case. You can’t unseal the others because they are out of your jurisdiction. Meg Parker is not. You unsealed her case and found out what I suspected. She was killed in a very similar style to Carrie Brown.”
“Do you also know the name of my third cousin once removed on my mother’s side?”
“No.”
“Thank God I have some secrets I can hide from you.”
“Actually, no. Her name is Hannah. I didn’t say it straightaway because I didn’t want to upset you.”
“And then you decided it was perfectly fine to upset me.”
“I remembered you had mentioned her before. Since I didn’t discover her name by means of deduction or investigation but rather through you, I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
“You’re right. I don’t, and I feel much better.”
“You’re welcome, Chief.”
He took a folder out of his drawer. “Here is the Meg Parker file. Feel free to read it, but only while you’re here. This file is not leaving my office.”
She started leafing through it immediately. “Thanks, Chief.”
“Now, where was I?”
“I think you’re finished.”
“No, I’m not. Is it possible I have discovered something that the great Mary Handley knows nothing about?”
She looked up from the file. “Of course, Chief. You’re my mentor and always will be.”
“Thank you, Mary. I hope you know I’ve been joking. Since taking this job, I have developed a sarcastic sense of humor. It helps me while away the hours.”
“Never a problem. I enjoy it when you’re joking.” She wanted to add which is so rare but decided not to antagonize her friend.
“Since Byrnes and his
Manhattan group meddled in my affairs, I decided to return the favor. The Carrie Brown case is not sealed, and I went over it with my commissioners. It seems that the man who went to Carrie Brown’s room with her that night—”
“Her customer, C. Nick?”
“That is him. He was spotted on a Central Railroad of New Jersey train to Cranford that night by a conductor, but no one ever followed it up because they already had their killer.”
“Do you by any chance have the name of that conductor?”
“Do you think I would have brought it up if I didn’t?”
“No, but I know how much you enjoy imparting new information, and I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”
“You just did.”
“Come on, Chief, I know you’re not that sensitive.”
He wasn’t. Superintendent Campbell gave her the name, Klaus Kastner. She thanked him, and she left, hoping Klaus Kastner was still employed by the Central Railroad of New Jersey and that he had a good memory.
Having been summoned, Byrnes found himself in Russell Sage’s Wall Street office at nine o’clock in the morning. He was getting tired of being at the beck and call of these rich, spoiled millionaires, but their pay made his salary from the New York City Police Department look anemic. So, he was there and even managed a friendly smile.
“What do you have for me?” asked Sage, a man who wasted no time getting to the point.
“Excuse me?”
“You mentioned that Laidlaw had some damaging evidence. What is it? Surely you’ve found out by now.”
It had only been a couple of days since their conversation on Labor Day, and Byrnes wanted to tell him to stop making ridiculous demands and to shut up. Detective work progressed at its own pace, and though money helped and entitled Sage to an accounting, it didn’t create fuckin’ miracles. Of course, he didn’t say that. He wasn’t stupid. Besides, he did have some news. In his euphoria, Laidlaw had let something slip to Nurse Emily.
“Good question, Russell. Although we’re not there yet, we do know the evidence will take the form of an eyewitness. Now, think. Do ya have any idea who that might be?”
“An eyewitness?” Sage mused as Byrnes could almost physically see him searching his mind. “The only ones there besides Laidlaw and Norcross were my employees. I have spoken with all of them, and none would dare testify against me.”
“Russell, I’m sayin’ this as a friend to be helpful. Ya need ta be careful how ya phrase sentences like that. It makes ya sound guilty.”
“I’m only speaking like that because I am talking to a friend. I’m not an idiot.”
“I’m sayin’ it fer yer own good. I’ve been a detective fer a long time and have interrogated more than I can possibly remember. If ya get in the habit of making statements like that, ya might slip when it counts and there’s no takin’ it back.”
“I appreciate your concern, Tom, but I honestly don’t know who it might be—unless good ol’ Bentley Norton ripped the typewriter off his face and has risen from the dead.”
“Benjamin, Benjamin Norton,” Byrnes corrected Sage. “And you just did it twice. I know yer not foolish enough ta make a joke about the deceased Mr. Norton on the stand, but please get his name right or it won’t matter if yer guilty or not. The jury will think yer an unfeelin’ boss and the suckin’ sound yer’ll hear will be yer money leavin’ yer bank account.”
That got Sage’s attention. There was nothing he held more precious than his money. Olivia was not going to get any of it for her infernal charities, and he’d be damned if Laidlaw got one penny. Any desire to be cavalier or flip about it had been wiped from his being.
“Let me think about it some more. Maybe I can come up with something.”
“Terrific. And ya know I’ll do my part.”
“Never had any doubt. Thank you, Tom.”
They shook hands and Byrnes left, glad it was a brief visit. He had more important things on his mind. Williams had told him that someone had had the Meg Parker file unsealed. He needed to find out who that was and why.
15
Because of its proximity to the Rahway River, Cranford had attained the nickname of “the Venice of New Jersey.” Mary had never seen Venice, Italy, but she doubted this little New Jersey farming community had much in common with it. At the moment, she was nowhere near the river and found herself in front of a farmhouse dismounting a horse and buggy she had rented at the train station. It was the sixth farm she had visited that day in search of the elusive C. Nick.
Finding Klaus Kastner had turned out to be the easier part of this journey. He was still working on the Central Railroad of New Jersey line from Manhattan to Cranford and back again. Mary caught up with him on the platform for the outbound train to Cranford. When she expressed relief that she was able to locate him, he responded in his German accent.
“Why would I ever leave this job? Good pay, good hours. I’m lucky man.”
“You also sound like a sensible man and from what I hear, observant, too. I know it was a long time ago, but could you please tell me everything you remember about the man you saw on your train the night of April twenty-fourth, 1891, after Carrie Brown was murdered?”
“I remember like it was last night.”
“You must have a great memory.”
“Sometimes good, sometimes not so good. But that night I will always remember.”
“Why?”
“It’s not often I get passengers with blood on their hands.”
“C. Nick had blood on his hands?”
Klaus nodded. “Lot of blood. I saw his ticket. He said the C stood for Curt. He told me he was German like me and spoke to me in German. He was no native. Maybe his parents were—”
“Can you describe him?”
“Around thirty-seven years old, blond hair, mustache, blue eyes, my height—one and three quarter meters. Seemed pleasant.”
“How long did you speak with him?”
“Not long. I have job to do. He said a glass broke in his hands. Had cloth wrapped around them, but it didn’t stop the blood. I offered to get help, but he didn’t want any.”
“Where did he get off the train?”
“Cranford. He said he worked on one of the farms, and he would get help there. When I saw newspapers next day, I went to police. They thanked me, but I never hear from them again.”
“You may hear from me again.”
“No problem. I want to help. I love this country,” Klaus said. “Now I have to collect tickets.” He started to enter the train, then stopped. “One other thing. He was bleeding, in pain, yet he had smile on face as if he like it. Strange man. That’s why I call police.”
As Mary stood in front of her sixth farmhouse, the Mitchell farm, she was beginning to wonder if C. Nick had lied to Klaus about his job. It was plausible that he would, especially if he was really the killer. The Mitchell farm was not large, probably small enough for one family to handle, and the only saving grace about it being late afternoon was that there was a good chance they would be done with the day’s field work and be home.
Horace Mitchell answered Mary’s knock on his door. He was a robust fifty and was eating an apple.
“What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked. Mary was now thirty years old, ancient according to her mother. She wasn’t used to being called a young lady anymore, but she found it refreshing and saw no reason to contest it. She explained to him who she was and why she was there, asking specifically about C. Nick. He verified that C. Nick had worked there, that the C stood for Curt, and his description matched Klaus Kastner’s.
Mitchell seemed very friendly and invited Mary inside. He was living there alone and worked the farm by himself. His wife had died five years earlier, and his two sons wanted nothing to do with farming. One was now living in New York and the other in Philadelphia.
“They’re working longer hours making money for somebody else. I don’t get it, but it’s what they want.” He shook his head, then took another bite out of h
is apple.
The house was simply furnished in a utilitarian way and only had a few remnants that suggested a female had once lived there, one being a doily on a club chair that looked oddly out of place. Mary followed Mitchell to one of the bedrooms. “This was Lincoln’s room, my oldest boy. It was where Curt stayed when he worked for me, which wasn’t long.”
“Did you fire him?”
“God, no. At that time I thought I needed help. I’ve since found I can do it all myself.” He looked at Mary as if still bewildered by C. Nick’s behavior. “He said he found out he wasn’t cut out for physical labor, got up, and just left. No notice, no nothing.”
“Was this the day after April twenty-fourth when he came home with cuts on his hands?”
Mitchell nodded. “He left some things behind. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he was in a hurry, but I’m sure he would like to have them back.” He went to the closet and took out a bloodstained shirt that was on a hanger.
“This was his?”
Mitchell nodded again, then he went to a chest of drawers, removed a small paper bag from the top drawer, and handed it to Mary. “This was also his.”
Mary opened the bag. Inside was a bloodstained key with the number 31 on it, Carrie Brown’s room number that fateful day at the East River Hotel. Mary couldn’t believe it.
“Did you show this to the police?”
“Of course. I may be a farmer but I do read the newspaper. It’s how I get through dinner.” He took a final bite of the apple, which was almost down to its core, and chewed away.
“What did they say?”
“They sent a man all the way out from New York. I could tell he wasn’t happy about the trip. His name was Billy…Will…I don’t know. Something like that.”
“Williams—Alexander Williams.”
“Yes, that’s it. He kept showing off a big nightstick he was carrying. He was very proud of it.” Mitchell shrugged, indicating that he didn’t understand why.
Last Stop in Brooklyn Page 11
