Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  Lightner remained quiet.

  “Every month, on the eighth, people come in and pay.” Richards volunteered.

  “For?”

  Richards shrugged. “I don’t know—various things.”

  Lightner sighed.

  Richards raised his hands. “Fine, fine. I got the feeling people owed him money.”

  “For?” Lightner said again.

  “I don’t know,” he insisted.

  Hy thought he was a lying turd, and not even a convincing one.

  “When was the l-last time you spoke to Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “You mean in person?”

  Lightner nodded.

  “Beakman!”

  Both Hy and Lightner startled at the sudden yell, which was followed by the scrape of a chair and rapidly moving footsteps. The spindly clerk who’d let them into the office poked his head around the doorframe.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “When did I last see Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “That would be December fourth, sir. He came here to sign the papers on the Elm Street building.”

  Richards snapped his fingers. “Ah, that’s right. It’s a small property he just bought—a hen roost.”

  Lightner had already shown Hy the deed for that building—the same building Frumkin’s daughter now lived in. Neither of them figured that was a coincidence.

  “You’re sure of the d-date?” Lightner asked the clerk.

  Before the clerk could speak, Richards gave a smug laugh that made Hy want to punch him. “Beakman remembers everything he’s ever seen—he’s like a walking ledger.”

  The clerk’s pale cheeks darkened at the other man’s proprietary boasting, as if Beakman was a dog who had performed a nifty trick.

  “He takes care of all Frumkin’s business.” Richards grinned self-importantly. “We offer full-service agency.”

  Lightner ignored the lawyer, instead swiveling around in his chair until he was facing the hovering clerk. “Is that the l-last communication you had with him?”

  “No, sir. I received another letter right before the end of the year.” His eyes flickered, as if he were searching for something inside his head. “It was a letter that mentioned he was going to New Orleans.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Er, to visit family.”

  “Do you know who, sp-specifically?”

  Beakman’s eyes slid from Lightner to Richards back to Lightner. “No, sir. He’d never mentioned family before.”

  “Did he leave a way to contact him?”

  “He said to send anything care of general delivery and that he’d let me know when he was sure of his plans.”

  “Did he m-mention when he might return?”

  “He indicated it was a stay of unspecified duration and said I should continue paying for the upkeep of both his household and all the other properties. He said to keep the bills for service and that he’d go over everything when he returned, which is what we normally did at quarter’s end. He didn’t know when he’d return but mentioned he’d be out of contact for a while. Said he’d booked passage on a boat to New Orleans and planned to lay about, do nothing, and enjoy a relaxing journey.”

  Hy saw Lightner’s lips twitch and knew he was thinking the same thing as Hy: that Frumkin had enjoyed one hell of a relaxing journey.

  “Oh, there is one other thing that might be important,” Beakman hesitated and glanced at his employer, as if seeking permission to speak without being spoken to first.

  Richards churned his hand in the air in a hurry up with it gesture.

  “Um, did you say that Mr. Beauchamp was, er, dead, Detective Inspector?”

  “Have you been eavesdropping, Beakman?” Richards demanded, puffing up like an angry hen.

  “Yes, Mr. Beakman. What w-was it you had to s-s-say?” Lightner asked quietly, before Richards could launch into a harangue.

  Beakman’s eyes slid to his boss and then to Lightner. “Well, sir, it’s about the letter that I received in December—from Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “Yes?”

  “The handwriting seems … well, I noticed at the time that it didn’t look like his.”

  Hy sat up in his chair and saw Lightner perk up as well.

  “Do you have the letter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you pl-please bring it to me—along with something else wr-wr-wr-written by Mr. Frumkin?”

  Beakman nodded and disappeared.

  “Are you thinking the letter might be forged?” Richards asked.

  Lightner merely smiled and jotted something in his notebook.

  Hy bit back a laugh at the flash of irritation on the lawyer’s face; watching Lightner snub the arrogant man was almost as good as watching him give Richards a proper drubbing.

  He put the lawyer out of his mind and tried to wrap his mind around the bizarre collection of details they seemed to be accumulating. So far, nothing about this case was normal.

  Hy looked at Richards, but the man avoided his eyes. He was sweating. A lot. It was true the day was hot, but his office was on the northeast side of the building, and it was probably cooler inside than out.

  Richards’s eyes flickered to Hy and then quickly away when he saw he was looking at him.

  “What the hell is taking you so damned long?” Richards bellowed.

  Lightner glanced up from his writing and frowned at the lawyer before raising one eyebrow at Hy.

  Hy shrugged. Who knew why the lawyer was getting so wound up.

  “Coming, sir.” The sound of fast-moving shoes came from the hallway, and Beakman hurried into the room, clutching a fistful of papers.

  “Here you are, my lord.” Beakman gave him the documents on the top of the file. “Here are two letters he wrote last year—the December seventeenth letter and one from the summer.”

  Hy leaned over and looked as Lightner held the two letters next to each other. “What do you think, Detective?”

  “They don’t look anything alike.”

  Lightner nodded.

  “Do you know if Frumkin had a secretary?” Hy asked. “Maybe that’s who wrote the earlier letter?”

  Beakman shook his head. “It’s common practice for a secretary to leave either their initials or mark at the bottom of the page. Look at the signatures on both letters—although they’re very close, the ‘B’ is slightly different.”

  Beakman came near enough to point at the two letters. .

  “The ‘B’ looks to be written in Spencerian script—which is what the entire December letter is written in.” Beakman bounced slightly on his heels, as if he were excited.

  “I b-beg your pardon?” Lightner asked, sparing Hy from having to do so. “But what do you mean by Spencerian?”

  Beakman handed Lightner the remaining item in his hand, a slim, soft-cover booklet titled Platt Rogers Spencer: Theory of Penmanship.

  The clerk opened the book and showed them a page full of fancy letters. “This is Mr. Spencer’s new method. Mr. Frumkin was an older gentleman—in his late fifties or early sixties, I should think. He wouldn’t have been taught his letters this way when he was young because it’s only been around about thirty years. I’ve learned the method by correspondence course,” he added proudly as Hy and Lightner looked from the book to the two documents. “I suppose it’s possible that Mr. Beauchamp—er, Frumkin—recently took Mr. Spencer’s course,” Beakman added. “Somebody new to the penmanship might not use it consistently and that would explain the difference between the two letters.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Lighter smiled, the expression genuine. “Thank you, Mr. Beakman. What an excellent ob-ob-observation.”

  Beakman’s ears turned pink, and he dropped his gaze under the probably unprecedented praise.

  “So what are you saying?” Richards demanded. “You think somebody forged a letter based on a few different looking letters and a slightly different signature? My handwriting changes if I’m tired, if the lighting is poor—for a dozen different r
easons.” He glared at his employee, clearly unhappy at the implications: that he might have been acting on instructions from a forged letter.

  Hy didn’t envy poor Beakman after they left.

  “I’d like to keep these,” Lightner said, as if Richards had never spoken.

  Richards pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Just a minute, sir. Those are original legal documents—and also private and confidential communications between me and a client. You can’t just—”

  “You may go to the Eighth Precinct and ask Sergeant Billings for a receipt for the papers. I will return them unharmed when I am finished.” Lightner smiled and stood, nodding once to Beakman and leaving Richards gaping.

  As Hy shut the lawyer’s door behind them, he marveled at Lightner’s high-handed behavior with Richards. That wasn’t like Lightner at all, in Hy’s limited experience.

  As if he’d spoken out loud, Lightner glanced up at him, a glint in his eyes. “I b-believe Mr. Richards is as cr-cr-crooked as a corkscrew.”

  Hy laughed. “My thought too, sir. You reckon he knew about the extortion racket?”

  “I find it difficult to believe he wouldn’t. And I’m certain that he w-w-would have pr-pr-profited from it if he were collecting the money at his pl-pl-place of business.”

  Hy thought so too. “What do you reckon about the handwriting? You think somebody else wrote that letter in December?”

  “Beakman made a g-g-good case for it.”

  “If Frumkin didn’t write it, then he probably didn’t book that ticket to New Orleans—the killer must have. So, you reckon he was murdered here, in the city?”

  “It seems likely.”

  “We could show this to Keen and see if he can remember what the letter he got looked like,” Hy said, doubtful the man would recall after so long.

  “It c-can’t hurt to show him.”

  “So, you think the killer wrote it?”

  “I think that is a f-f-fair guess.”

  “I don’t get it, sir,” Hy said. “What’s the point of the letter? I mean, if it was the killer who wrote it, why?”

  “It seems as though we are being st-steered.”

  “Steered? You mean toward New Orleans?”

  Lightner nodded.

  Hy shook his head. “That takes some brass balls, if you know what I mean.”

  Lightner chuckled. “Indeed, Detective. But then the entire m-m-murder takes brass b-balls.”

  Hy couldn’t argue with that. “Where to next, sir?”

  “I’m going to p-p-pay a visit to a telegraph office.”

  Hy frowned. “Sir?”

  Lightner smiled at Hy’s confusion. “I can’t help thinking about the body ending up in New Orleans. And now we have these t-t-two letters—one of which we suspect is f-f-forged—that mention the deceased having family in New Orleans. Why?”

  “The New Orleans wharf agent’s letter said the police didn’t have anything on an Albert Beauchamp—that’s why they sent the body back. You thinkin’ maybe they’d know him under Frumkin?”

  “Or m-maybe under Albert Dupuy.”

  “Ah,” Hy said, taking his meaning. “Or one of the other names he used.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, the only telegraph office I know of is way down on Wall.” Hy looked at the street, which was already jammed with holiday traffic. “It’s gonna be hell getting down there today, sir.”

  “I shall go,” Lightner said. “It doesn’t need both of us.”

  Hy brightened. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” the older man said, raising his walking stick to hail a hackney. Although the street was hectic and crowded, the Englishman’s well-dressed person was still enough to attract immediate attention.

  “I understand there w-w-will be festivities tonight,” Lightner said as a battered carriage slid to a stop beside them.

  Hy chuckled. “There are already festivities.”

  As if to punctuate his words, a series of loud pops came from somewhere nearby.

  Lightner jolted and Hy couldn’t help noticing he looked rather grim as he opened the door to the hackney.

  “Well, I shall see you the day after t-t-tomorrow, Det-Detective.”

  Hy had to work a bit harder to wave down another hackney. As he waited, he thought back on the odd glint in Lightner’s eyes when he’d asked about the holiday festivities: it had been dread.

  CHAPTER 16

  According to his hackney driver, there were eleven telegraph offices in the city of New York.

  Jasper had the man take him to the nearest: Magnetic Telegraph Company on Broadway.

  “Sorry, we’re closed,” the young man at a Dutch door said before Jasper could even open his mouth.

  “But the sign says—”

  “Yeah, I know what it says. But we’re closed.” And then he shut the door.

  There were harried-looking men milling around, and Jasper approached one. “Is there s-some sort of problem?”

  The younger man—poorly shaven and wearing only shirtsleeves, a vest, and a positively filthy stock—looked annoyed at Jasper’s question. “Yeah, you could say that. Some jackass cut a bunch of the lines going south and west.”

  “D-Does that mean there is n-n-no way to send a message to New Orleans?”

  The young man glanced at Jasper, as if seeing him for the first time. “Say, where are you from?”

  Jasper frowned. “England. Other lines?” he reminded him when the man just stared, as if trying to recall where he’d met Jasper. Jasper already knew they’d never met, but any New York City newsman worth his salt would have heard about him.

  “The New York, Albany, and Buffalo, and the Washington National are both on the same block of Wall,” he said. “Those’ll be up. It’ll take a hell of a lot longer to get the message out, but until they do the repairs—which won’t be until late afternoon tomorrow—that’s all there is. Those offices close at seven.”

  Which meant Jasper had to hurry. “Thank you.”

  “Hey, fellah,” a voice called out as he went to hail a hackney.

  Jasper turned to find three men leaning against the telegraph building, looking unhurried, unlike everyone else.

  The one who’d called out grinned at him. “Yeah, you. Come’ere.”

  Jasper’s curiosity got the better of him and he went closer.

  “I got something quicker and more reliable,” he said, his stub of a cigar so short that it was a wonder his mustache wasn’t on fire.

  “No problems with cut wires,” one of the other men added, making all three men snicker in a slightly sinister fashion.

  “I beg your pardon?” Jasper asked.

  “You’ll never make it down to Wall in time,” the smoker said.

  Jasper took out his watch; it wasn’t quite six. “I’ve g-got an hour.”

  “Not today you don’t—they’re closing early tonight. The streets’ll be jammed even worse when the bonfires start,” he added when Jasper hesitated. “And they’ll be burning a George over at Bowling Green Park tonight.”

  Jasper didn’t want to ask, but … “Er, a G-George?”

  All three laughed. “Yeah, it’s a tradition—burning an effigy of George III.”

  Jasper had never heard of that particular celebration, but it didn’t sound like somewhere an Englishman should go.

  “You can’t make it down to Wall, but I’m still open,” the first man said in a wheedling tone just as something beneath his coat emitted a soft cooing sound. He reached inside and brought out a bright-eyed pigeon. “I’ll make you a deal, pal. Lazarus here will deliver faster and safer than a wire. Where to?”

  “New Orleans.”

  The man’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I’ve got birds for Boston, Pittsburgh, Newport, and Philly.”

  “Elwood does Philly to Baltimore, doesn’t he?” the second man asked, his coat also cooing.

  “Nah, he ain’t got birds there no more. His Bessie got sick, all her squabs along with her.�
�

  “What about—”

  Jasper left the men to their pigeon discussion and turned back to the street.

  He’d heard of men like Paul Reuter using a combination of rail, telegraph, and carrier pigeon. The Prussian newsman had moved to England to put together some sort of consortium a few years back.

  He lifted his cane, and one of the small open carriages he was seeing more and more rolled to a stop in front of him.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

  For a moment, he was torn as to what address to give, wondering if perhaps the men had been mistaken—or perhaps they were outright lying to drum up business for their pigeons.

  He sighed, looked at his watch again, even though he knew the time. The pigeon men, as self-serving as they were, were likely right: the streets were clogged and he’d never make it. But another idea occurred to him.

  As much as he wanted to go home, Jasper decided he had two stops to make before he could, in clear conscience, spend an hour cooling in a lukewarm bath and smoking one of his special madak cigars.

  “The Eighth Precinct,” he told the waiting driver.

  Jasper took off his hat and set it on the seat beside him. The temperature today was causing his skull to ache. He’d noticed the metal plate was uncomfortable when the weather was either too hot or too cold. What he needed to do was go home, cool down, and relax for the evening.

  Although relaxation might be elusive this evening, depending on what mischief his newest employee, John, had been up to in his absence.

  Jasper sighed; best not to borrow trouble.

  He’d given the staff the following day off, although Mrs. Freedman had tried to insist on staying, but Jasper had put his foot down.

  As for Paisley actually taking a day off, Jasper couldn’t see it happening. He didn’t recall the older man ever taking a holiday of any sort. Even at Christmas he never went away. He’d valeted Jasper since he was sixteen. In a few days Jasper would be thirty-five, meaning Paisley would have worked for him eighteen years. More than half his life.

  It occurred to him, as the hackney paused to allow an omnibus to pass, that he knew about as much about Paisley now as he had all those years ago.

  He couldn’t even say that he knew the other man’s age—although he looked no more than ten years older than Jasper. He knew Paisley came from a family that were all in service and expected that was why he’d never seemed particularly bothered with taking holidays off.