Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  Hy was doubtful that even Lightner could do much for Trimble or reduce his sentence. The stupid old git had a long list of prior arrests and had been caught red-handed burgling the deputy mayor’s house.

  Trimble was in his late sixties, and his safe-breaking skills were legendary. Unfortunately, so was his bizarre habit of chatting up his safes, which had led to his being captured this last time. He’d already opened the deputy mayor’s safe and filled up his burlap sack. But then he’d stayed for some postcoital chatter.

  Frumkin’s safe was manufactured by Thomas Herring & Company and was inscribed as The Champion model.

  “She’s a beauty,” Trimble murmured. “Set a person back $325, $350. You can see all the poor ladies in that shop window at 241 Broadway. All trapped in there together behind thick glass, just waitin’ for some lucky feller to come along with a pocket full of cash. But they’re lonely. They ain’t got nobody to—”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Hy heaved an irritated sigh. “About how long will this take?” he asked, before the old man could get emotional and teary-eyed about a bunch of safes. Again.

  Trimble puckered his lips and moved his mouth side to side, his eyes squinty as he calculated. “Twenty-six minutes. No more’n twenty-seven.”

  Hy took out his watch. “All right, your time starts now.”

  Trimble had asked for a chisel, mallet, some stiff wire, and a bit of lard, which Keen, the butler, had located and brought upstairs.

  Still murmuring softly to the safe, Trimble got to work.

  Lightner gestured for Hy to follow him, not stopping until they were near the door and out of hearing distance, not that he thought Trimble had eyes or ears for anything but the safe.

  “Miss Fowler was not at her p-place of employment,” he said.

  Hy frowned. “Is she ill?”

  “Mrs. Stampler mentioned s-s-seeing her leave l-last night with some luggage. I knocked on her d-d-door before coming here, but nobody answered.”

  “Think she’s done a runner, sir?”

  “It is certainly s-sounding that way. Do wo have a k-key for her rooms?”

  “Keen said he didn’t have keys for anything but the other house. Should I get Trimble to look at it?”

  “That’s a good idea. If we c-can’t find her by this evening, I’ll get Billings to p-put the word out.” He hesitated and then reached into his breast pocket and took out a small rectangle of glass. “I st-st-stopped by the photographer’s shop you m-m-mentioned earlier.”

  “Aye, Van Horne’s.”

  “I had a brief chat with Mr. Van Horne himself.” Lightner’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “It took a bit of convincing to remind him that he knew Beauchamp.” He handed Hy the glass. “Here is a copy of a daguerreotype Mr. Van Horne had in the window.”

  Hy’s eyes widened as he studied the picture and then looked up, meeting Lightner’s amused look. “Miss Fowler?” Hy guessed.

  Lightner nodded.

  “She’s a beauty.”

  “I s-s-saw several pictures of Mrs. Vogel f-for sale in the window as well. Something occurred to me as I looked at all the pictures of beautiful women. Why would they pose for Van Horne and allow him to sell copies of their images?”

  Hy shrugged. “He paid ’em?”

  “Perhaps M-Miss Fowler might have made s-such an arrangement. But a woman l-like Mrs. Vogel?”

  “Aye, you have a point. Not likely to need the cash, is she?”

  “N-N-Nor the attention. Mr. Vogel is a v-very jealous husband. In any event, I think I know what Frumkin was using to b-b-blackmail Miss Fowler.” He reached into his pocket and handed Hy a second image, this one on a thick card.

  Hy had to swallow—several times. It was Miss Fowler, wearing nothing but her birthday suit, stretched out on one of those sofas that had only one end, a fainting couch, he thought they were called. His face got hotter the longer he stared; it was difficult to tear his eyes away and meet Lightner’s dark gaze.

  “Er, I didn’t see this picture in Van Horne’s window, sir.”

  The woman in the picture was something more than beautiful. She was … heavenly was the word that fit.

  “Miss Fowler p-p-posed for that set almost three years ago,” Lightner said. “I had to use c-c-considerable p-p-persuasion to get all the copies out of Mr. Van Horne.” His gaze dropped absently to his hand; he’d removed his gloves, and Hy saw that his knuckles were reddened. “He f-finally admitted he’d given Beauchamp the original plate in payment for some infraction that he’d committed. Van Horne also had to p-p-promise him not to s-sell any other copies.” Lightner gestured to the picture Hy still held. “But that was one of over a dozen in his safe, so he lied. This is the l-l-last one, I destroyed the others.”

  Hy cleared his throat, looked down at the picture one last time, and handed it back to Lightner, who tossed it into a large marble ashtray that sat on a nearby writing desk. He took out a metal cylinder with phosphorus matches and struck one to life before touching the flaming tip to the paper. The flame leapt and blazed brightly for a moment, whatever ink or chemicals that had been used in the process flaring. They watched the picture burn in silence.

  When there was nothing left but smoke and ash, Lightner turned to him. “How was your v-visit with Hett?”

  Hy told him about his conversation with the actor.

  “I stopped by the shop on Bleecker where Hett said he tried to sell the book; he wasn’t lying about it being closed—all the windows covered. Hett made it sound like a tony pawnbroker—the sort where rich people go to sell things when they need quick money. It sounds like the shop owner told Frumkin stuff.”

  “Quite a handy connection f-f-for an extortionist,” Lightner observed.

  In Hy’s opinion, there was hardly any crime more obnoxious than extortion—except maybe arson. He was beginning to think that Frumkin had gotten exactly what he deserved. He kept that opinion to himself.

  “G-Gideon Richards is n-not the name of the lawyer who wrote up Frumkin’s will,” Lightner said. “So we shall get to visit two l-lawyers.”

  “It’s almost like Christmas morning,” Hy muttered.

  Lightner chuckled. “D-Did you tell Hett about Frumkin’s death?”

  “Nah, I thought it might be good to hold that information back. I got the feeling Hett might have known some of the others who showed up to pay, even though he said he didn’t. Anyhow, I didn’t tell him because I didn’t want him spreadin’ the word.”

  “Perhaps w-w-we should c-call on Mr. Richards today. I’m afraid we shall have to tell him about Frumkin’s—”

  “There’s a good girl,” Trimble praised loudly, his words followed by a low metallic thunk.

  The old man looked up from the heavy door and grinned up at Hy and Lightner. “Eighteen minutes!”

  * * *

  What they found in the safe was both more and less than Jasper expected.

  “He’s worth a packet,” Law said, echoing Jasper’s thoughts as he leafed through one of two ledgers, which went back over three years. Neat, small handwriting told the tale of a man who’d invested widely. His list of accounts and investments went on for pages: his daughter would be a very wealthy woman.

  Also in the safe were a frilly pink pair of ladies’ drawers, a child’s multicolored spinning top, a sapphire and diamond pendant that appeared to be genuine, a rather explicit love letter from H. to M., dated February 12, 1855, a silver key with the number 467 stamped on one side, four daguerreotypes of various beautiful, naked women—one Fowler—and a thin stack of trade and calling cards.

  The cards were for: Lemke’s Butchers in Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Milton Stationers in Chicago, Illinois; Albert Frumkin, 112 Boylston Street, Boston, Massachusetts, Publisher; a calling card for Martha Chenier, New Orleans; a very dog-eared and torn card for Albert Dupuy, New Orleans; and two crisp, stiff cards for Gerta Whatley, Chicago.

  Jasper put all the items into his rapidly filling leather satchel. The necklace would go to
the bank and so would the ledger after Jasper had time to go over it more closely.

  “Does it seem odd there’s not any money, sir?”

  “It does—unless he took it with him for his trip.”

  Law frowned.

  “What are you th-thinking, Detective?”

  “I dunno. I just don’t feel like he stepped foot on that ship. I think he was murdered here—in the city—not onboard.”

  “Well, hopefully we can get m-more information about that once the ship returns—today, isn’t it?”

  Law nodded. “Shall we get him over to the carriage house?” he asked, gesturing to the safecracker, who was happily drinking tea and wolfing down biscuits that Keen had provided while Jasper assessed the contents of the safe.

  “I bought two padlocks and hasps for the doors after he opens them,” Law said as they followed the old burglar down the driveway that led to the carriage house.

  Wilfred had a spring in his step and walked faster as they neared the locked door. The man really did seem to take joy in the act of gaining entry—appearing to consider it a puzzle—even when there was nothing for him to steal.

  The old safecracker gave a snort of laughter when he looked at the heavy bronze lock. “This gent had good taste in his locks, too,” Trimble said, taking a piece of wire from his pocket.

  “Hey, where’d you get that wire?”

  Trimble’s innocent expression said butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “You gived it to me, Detective.”

  “No, you took it from somewhere,” Law corrected. He held up a piece of wire. “This is the wire I gave and then took back. What else do you have in your pockets?”

  “Nothin’. I swear.” Trimble patted himself down, as if conducting a search on his own person.

  “I’m checkin’ you before we go back to the Tombs,” Law warned.

  Trimble shrugged and turned to the lock, clearly more interested in that than Law.

  “How long will this—”

  Trimble fiddled with the wire, turned the handle, and pushed the door open, grinning from Law to Jasper.

  “Well done, M-Mister Trimble,” Jasper praised, more than a bit impressed with the old man’s skills.

  Wilfred grinned.

  Jasper stepped through the doorway and stopped. “Holy hell.”

  Behind him, Law whistled. “Jaysus. There’s dozens of ’em.”

  By ’em, Law meant crates. And there were dozens. Some were open but more were sealed, many with official-looking stamps. The boxes that were open held bottles that could only contain one thing: expensive liquor.

  Jasper lifted the unfastened lid off another crate and found neatly stacked, paper-wrapped bolts of what he assumed would be lace or silk or some such luxury item.

  “I reckon these didn’t come out of the front door of the custom house,” Law said.

  “No indeed. It s-seems we can add smuggling to Mr. Frumkin’s long list of skills.” Jasper turned to the detective and gestured to the old man, whose eyes were threatening to roll out of his head at the sight of such riches. “I’ll l-l-look around in here. Why don’t you see what’s on the top floor of the house and get him to open M-Miss Fowler’s room?”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll put the new lock on the door after Trimble opens it, and then I’ll come back and do this one before takin’ him back.”

  The old man wrenched his gaze from a crate of liquor and made a piteous noise, flashing a gummy smile at Jasper. “Sure you don’t need anythin’ else opened up here, my lordship?” he wheedled.

  Law rolled his eyes and grabbed Trimble by the upper arm.

  Once they’d gone, Jasper wandered through the three rooms that made up the bottom floor of the building. He had to walk sideways to get from room to room. Even the stairs had items stacked along the sides: cigar boxes, hundreds of them.

  The upstairs had only a few crates, and those appeared to contain more silk and lace and other sorts of fabrics he did not know the names for. The one characteristic they all shared, he was sure, was their value.

  For decades the United States had levied some of the highest duties in the world. But over the past two or three years—after the passage of a new tariff act—taxes on imports had been slashed by more than half. All that remained on the high end of the tax spectrum were luxury goods like liquor, tobacco products, and textiles, which had been included to give the nascent domestic industries a chance to compete against the far more established foreign markets in Europe and India.

  The tariff had cut down on smuggling because the only thing worth the risk were high-cost luxury items.

  A quick look at Jasper’s watch told him that he didn’t have time to start digging through all the crates just now—he was due to talk to Mrs. Vogel today and had less than an hour to get home.

  Jasper glanced around him at the vast quantity of goods that would likely belong to customs if no sign of proper documentation could be found, which he suspected was highly likely.

  He also suspected that at least one of the names in Frumkin’s little black book would be that of a customs official.

  CHAPTER 13

  An hour later, Jasper was making his way through one of the ledgers he’d taken from Frumkin’s safe when there was a soft scratching on the door and Paisley entered.

  “Your visitor is here, my lord.” He stepped back to allow Mrs. Vogel—as heavily veiled as a woman would be in the first flush of mourning—to enter the room.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said before Jasper could even greet her. “I’m afraid I had difficulty getting away.”

  “I understand,” Jasper said, because he did. “Would you care for tea?”

  “Oh, no thank you.”

  Jasper nodded at Paisley, who shut the door soundlessly behind him.

  “Please, Mrs. Vogel, have a seat.”

  She lifted her veil.

  “Bloody hell!” The words slipped out of him before he could stop himself, and he closed the distance between them with three long strides, instinctively reaching for her. When she flinched back, he dropped his hand. “I’m s-s-sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you. I was trained as a m-m-medical doctor. Would you l-let me have a look? Unless you’ve already had it s-s-seen to?”

  She shook her head, her chin trembling as tears oozed out of her eyes, both the beautiful blue one and the one that was now black and swollen shut. “I didn’t go to a doctor,” she said in a hoarse voice. “But I went to my old nanny and she—well, she’s helping me.”

  “Your f-f-family, can they—”

  “They already know what he is like but they can’t do anything to help me. My family are poor, my lord, it’s the reason I married Adolphus.”

  “You have n-nobody who would t-t-take you in?”

  Her poor battered face twisted into a bitter smile. “I have friends—one in particular—who wants to help. But Adolphus has already said he will destroy my family if I ever try to leave.”

  In addition to her blackened eye, her jaw was swollen and discolored on one side, for all that she’d obviously used cosmetics to cover it. Her lower lip, which he’d been admiring only last night, was split and twice its normal size.

  He suddenly recalled what Vogel had said. “Good Lord—your baby—did he?”

  “No,” she shook her head hard enough to probably make her head spin. “There wasn’t one—it was a lie. I lied to him so that he would stop touching me. But then—somehow—he found out and last night—” A sob broke out of her and she crumpled.

  He caught her by the shoulders and held her while she cried, her slender hands like crushing claws on his back as her body shook.

  Jasper patted her shoulder and made the cooing noises he’d seen people make with their children, feeling useless and helpless. He wished, unfairly, that Paisley was still in the room to consult for guidance, although the old bachelor was likely as useless as Jasper.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Vogel’s violent flood of tears was of short duration. She slowly came back to herself, he
r posture stiffening as she recalled that Jasper was a stranger.

  Jasper hooked the chair behind her with his foot and pulled it close. “Here, sit down,” he murmured, not releasing her until she’d slumped against the high back of the chair.

  He took a deep breath and slowly expelled it before dropping to his haunches in front of her, taking her hand. She was that rare person who looked twice as attractive after weeping, even with the horrid damage she’d endured.

  “T-Tell me what happened.”

  She dabbed her eyes with the lacy, ineffectual handkerchief women always seemed to possess, wincing when she touched her bruised eye. “He was angry and demanded I tell him what we’d been talking about.”

  Jasper grimaced; so it had been his fault she’d taken a beating.

  No, Jasper, it was her husband’s fault.

  He knew that, and still—

  Her fingers lightly squeezed his own. “It isn’t your fault, my lord—this is not the first time it has happened. Sometimes he doesn’t even need a reason. I think he is always angry because he knows—”

  She didn’t need to finish the thought; Jasper knew what she meant. Vogel would know that she loathed him and it must infuriate him. In his obsession to possess her, he would, ultimately, break or kill her.

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “Please, I’m sorry I came undone. I am fine now, I promise.”

  She looked far from fine, but Jasper suspected that his own anxiety was only serving to make her more anxious, so he released her hand and stood, pulling a second chair closer.

  “T-T-Tell me what happened with Beauchamp—from the beginning.”

  “I had a lover.” Her chest rose and fell jerkily. “And somehow he learned about it.”

  Jasper thought of the sexually explicit letter he’d found in the dead man’s safe. It had been from H. to M. and the date on the letter had fit the date next to Helen Vogel’s name in Frumkin’s little black book.