Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “That is a rattlesnake, my lord,” Powell said, momentarily animated, as if he’d forgotten the reason for their visit. “You see the tail has a rattle.” He gave the snake’s odd-shaped tail a gentle flick and Hy heard a dusty, soft rattle. “They are quite venomous.” Powell gestured to the two chairs across from the settee. “Please, have a seat.”

  Hy sat and took out his book, flipping to the pages that contained his last conversation with Powell. He glanced at Lightner, who nodded to indicate Hy should take control of the questioning.

  “Why didn’t you mention your relationship with Miss Fowler the last time we spoke, sir?” Hy asked.

  Powell huffed. “What bearing does it have on your case?”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  Powell looked like he wanted to argue, but then deflated. “It would be the conversation that Harold overheard, when she was packing her belongings.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  Powell’s eyes flickered around the room. “Is this a conversation I should have with my attorney present?”

  Hy shrugged. “If you like.”

  Powell looked surprised by Hy’s answer. He straightened his shoulders. “No, I’ve done nothing wrong—nothing illegal. Yes, I saw her the day she left—when she came back in a rush, packed her bags, and was dragging them down the stairs. I told her I’d help carry them, but I took her bags in here rather than down to the street. I just wanted a few words with her.” He sighed. “I didn’t think anyone else was home, but obviously I was wrong. She told me she was going to Baltimore. That was where she’d grown up—in a girls’ home. She had no family there but had a fondness for the place. I begged her to reconsider. Without Beauchamp, er, Frumkin, draining both of us dry, we could finally marry.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She didn’t want to get married and she didn’t want to stay in New York. I told her if she was just patient for a bit I might be able to move with her.” Powell grimaced. “She said she’d send me a card when she was settled. That maybe I could come visit.” He gave Hy and Lightner a mulish look. “She was pregnant—I know the child was mine, but she didn’t want to marry. She was going to have the baby and give it to the sisters. She asked me for money and I gave her all I had on me—not much—and promised that I’d send her more.”

  “What happened next?”

  Powell looked confused. “What do you mean? That was it. I put her in a hackney and she left.”

  “Did you hear what address she gave the driver?”

  He hesitated and then sighed. “She went to the Adelphia.”

  “Seems like a nice place for a, er, mannecan.”

  “It’s mannequin,” Powell corrected absently. He gave a gusty sigh and shrugged. “And that was that.”

  “You didn’t see her again?”

  “No.”

  Hy stared at him.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that? I didn’t see her again.”

  Powell was lying.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I was here, why?”

  “You said you knew the child was yours; was it possible that somebody else could have been the father?”

  Powell scowled at Hy. “Why do you need to get into this—why muck up what’s left of her reputation. Can’t you just let it lie?”

  “This is a murder investigation, Doctor Powell.”

  The other man’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious,” Powell said, his voice going up several octaves.

  “Did you think she killed herself?” Hy asked.

  “No, of course not! I thought it was an accident. The paper said she’d been found in the water, I guess I assumed—” He shook his head, as if to dislodge something unpleasant. “Good God,” he muttered, his expression anguished as he looked up at Hy. “Who would want to kill Anita?”

  Hy didn’t think that the good doctor had realized yet that he was looking like a pretty good suspect.

  * * *

  They knocked on the Stamplers’ door after leaving Doctor Powell’s, but nobody answered.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Lightner said, musingly.

  “You wanted to ask the old lady if she saw Powell go somewhere after Fowler left?” Hy guessed.

  “She seems r-r-remarkably knowledgeable about everyone’s movements.”

  “I think it’s the old tabby’s main source of entertainment,” Hy said. “You think I should wait around until they come back?”

  “No, we c-can’t know when that will be. We can check back later.”

  “So, do you think that Powell followed Fowler down to the Adelphia, grabbed her, shoved a piece of metal into her head, and then threw her off a pier?”

  “It s-s-seems that someone did.”

  “What’s his motive? Jealousy?”

  “As f-far as reasons for murder go, it’s as old as time,” Lightner said. “I want you to g-go down to the Adelphia and see if you can f-f-find anything. And since it’s not f-far from Sanger’s ship, pop by and ask if anybody saw the good captain making any nighttime jaunts off his boat. Talk to any crew st-st-still onboard, although I suspect you w-won’t find many. Check with the ship’s p-purser about deliveries before their December voyage.” Lightner raised his arm to hail a hackney.

  Hy nodded. “Where are you goin’?”

  “I’m going to pay a visit to a b-b-bowling saloon.”

  Hy tried to picture Lightner in a bowling saloon. He couldn’t do it. “I didn’t know you bowled, sir.”

  Lightner smiled up at him. “I’m always l-looking for n-n-new bad habits.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Jasper had heard of bowling, of course, but had never done it.

  Apparently the pastime originated in New York City, the very first bowling saloon a fashionable place called Knickerbocker Lanes.

  The establishment that Captain Sanger had told him about—Diamond Alley—was far less august.

  “They get busted for gambling all the time,” Sanger said, after finally admitting to Frumkin’s hold over him. “If you go after six o’clock, on any day, you’ll find Desmond Buckles at Diamond Alley.” He’d snorted, his expression one of self-loathing. “Hell, you’ll probably see me there tonight, too.”

  Jasper disembarked from his hackney and paid, taking a moment to examine the exterior of the bowling saloon before entering.

  It was past six, but the day was still boiling hot. Even so, the door to Diamond Alley was closed and there were no windows open. If not for the faint lights beyond the frosted glass, he would have believed the establishment was closed.

  The saloon was on the border of the Fourteenth and Sixth Wards, the street a mix of cigar makers, vegetable stands, and small service businesses like cobblers and reweavers.

  When Jasper pushed open the black-painted door, he was momentarily stunned by the fug of smoke, sweat, and sour beer that engulfed him.

  And then there was the noise.

  To the left was a bar and to the right were the bowling lanes. Sanger had told him a little about the sport, describing clay lanes and wooden pins and balls made from the hardwood guayacan. But the captain had failed to mention just how loud a bowling alley was.

  Jasper went to the left.

  The long wooden bar ran the entire length of the wall and had perhaps a dozen barstools, a good three-quarters of which were occupied, even this early in the evening.

  Jasper took an empty stool while he waited for the bartender, surveying the customers bellied up to the bar.

  It was a mixed crowd. There were men in well-made suits and men wearing neckerchiefs and rough canvas shirts and trousers. There were men quietly chatting in groups of two or three and men all alone, staring blankly at nothing. Sanger had told him the place had the biggest collection of gamblers of any bowling saloon in the city.

  “You can get away with any sort of wager there,” he’d said, his eyes bleak. “They get closed down from time to time, but they always come back. It�
�s a hole, a black hole into which I’ve poured almost every penny I’ve made.” He’d snorted. “Well, what I haven’t paid to Beauchamp.”

  The bartender stopped in front of him, wiping his hands on a none-too-clean rag. “What’ll you have?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Top shelf?”

  Jasper looked at the single shelf behind the bar.

  “The best?” the bartender explained with an irritable sigh.

  Jasper smiled. “Please.”

  “He’s a miserable bastard.”

  He turned to his left and found a short man in a loud plaid sack coat smirking at him.

  In London a man could sit in a bar for hours and not speak to anyone. It was understood that when one came in alone, one wanted to drink, not talk.

  “This your first time here?’ his new friend asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Joe Battaglia.” He extended a hand.

  “J-J-Jasper Lightner.”

  Joe’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment. “Where’dya usually bowl?”

  “I’m actually here l-l-looking for somebody.”

  The bartender plunked a cloudy-looking glass down on the bar. “Twenty-five cents.”

  “Who’re you lookin’ for?” Joe asked.

  “Desmond Buckles.”

  Both men snorted as Jasper slid the correct coinage across the bar.

  “If it’s Desmond you’re lookin’ for, he should be in—”

  The bar door opened, casting dirty light over the interior of the saloon.

  “Well, speak of the devil,” Joe said, glancing over his shoulder.

  Sanger had described Buckles as resembling a stork wearing a coonskin cap.

  When Jasper confessed his ignorance of such headgear, Sanger had given his first genuine smile. “It’s a hat made from a racoon—it’s supposedly Iroquois—or maybe some other tribe, I don’t know. Buckles claims he’s part Mohawk.”

  Jasper had no opinion on the matter of the man’s heritage, but Buckles did indeed resemble a stork. His legs were long and skinny, his nose a veritable beak on his small, round head. He looked to be near Jasper’s age but moved with the jerky awkwardness of a far younger man.

  Buckles loped toward the bar, a thirsty expression on his face. “Hey Danny, hey Joe. Give me a double Kilbeggan, Danny.”

  The bartender’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a bit rich. You celebratin’ somethin’, Des?”

  Buckles gave a braying laugh. “You’re bloody right I am.”

  “This gent’s here to see you,” Joe said, helpfully, as Buckles lowered himself onto the barstool on Joe’s left.

  “Oh? Who’re you?” Buckles shot Jasper a suspicious look.

  “We have a m-m-mutual acquaintance—Captain Sanger.”

  Buckles’s stork-like features tightened, his lids lowering over his already sleepy-looking eyes. “Oh, you know Jeffrey?”

  The bartender put a glass down in front of Buckles.

  “I’ll g-g-get that,” Jasper said.

  Buckles grinned at him. “I appreciate it.”

  “Thirty-five cents,” the bartender said.

  Joe smacked the bar with the flat of his hand, the loud crack causing customers to startle up and down the bar. “Hey! I know who you are—you’re that English copper, the duke’s son.” Joe laughed delightedly. “I read about you in the paper.”

  “That is correct,” Jasper admitted.

  Buckles didn’t look nearly so thrilled, and his high forehead furrowed.

  “C-Could I have a moment of your time, Mr. Buckles?” Jasper stood and gestured to the cluster of tables that was unfortunately closer to the din of the bowling lanes, but away from the curious bartender and the loquacious Mr. Battaglia.

  “Er, um, what’s this about?”

  Jasper just stared.

  Buckles sighed, snatched up his glass, and stomped toward the closest chair, flinging himself into it. He then had to lick his knuckles to lap up the whiskey he’d spilled.

  “What are you celebrating?” Jasper asked, taking the chair beside rather than across from Buckles so he wouldn’t have to shout.

  “Why do you wanna talk to me?”

  “I want to t-t-talk about Mr. Albert Beauchamp.”

  Buckles shuddered, and his eyelids fluttered for a moment before he shook his head. “Look, I know what you’re thinkin’, but …” He grimaced and took another slurp of whiskey.

  “What am I thinking, Mr. Buckles?’

  “That I killed him.”

  “Did you k-kill him?”

  “No! Jesus. Of course I didn’t. But if Sanger sent you, then you know what’s been goin’ on.”

  “Why don’t you tell m-m-me your version of what has been going on?”

  Buckles made a remarkably stork-like noise of frustration. “The man is dead. If Sanger sent you to me, then you know I don’t think him bein’ dead is any tragedy.”

  Jasper waited.

  “Ah, Christ,” Buckles groaned. “This is gonna cost me my job, isn’t it?’

  Jasper hoped so, but now wasn’t a good time to admit that. “What you t-tell me will influence what I say to your superiors.”

  Buckles heaved several heavy sighs, plucked off his hat, and fiddled with the animal tail still attached. “It started with Sanger and a boatload from the West Indies. There were three that had yellow fever. Sanger swore they’d put them all up in a room somewhere out of the way and not let them mix with others. But the rest of them—one hundred and nineteen workers—would be punished if the ship had to go into quarantine. You know how long that can take?”

  Sanger had said much the same, but Jasper shook his head.

  “Six months. Sometimes they just put the ship out at anchor and wait. Everyone suffers—the people on the ship, the owners, the crew. Everyone. Sanger swore they’d take care of it—that they’d just put the sick people up somewhere and make sure they didn’t spread anything, and I believed him. And you know what? He did take care of it,” Buckles said before Jasper could answer. “There was no big outbreak, nobody died because of what we did.”

  As far as they knew.

  “I mean, people have to eat, right? These quarantine restrictions are just nuts when it comes to the average person. I mean, really—is what we did such a crime?”

  Jasper ignored his question. “When was that?”

  He flung up his hands. “God, I dunno—maybe a year an’ a half ago, maybe two.” He made a low keening sound that could be heard even over the racket. “What can I say? I took money from people so they didn’t have to go into quarantine. When my boss finds out I won’t just lose my job, I’ll go to jail.”

  Jasper thought he was probably correct.

  “What did Beauchamp w-want with you?”

  “What do you think? He wanted to know who else was paying me to look the other way with shipments—or he’d go to Haggerty. He’s the head of the Health Department,” he said at Jasper’s questioning look.

  Buckles shook his head, his expression one of grudging amazement. “God, Beauchamp just latched on and wouldn’t let go, you know? I had to make sure I was always the inspector for whatever he wanted—or else, you know? He musta been makin’ a killing off bringin’ people in. Did he even offer me a dime? No, ’course not. But he made sure to get his cut offa our cargo. The man was a bloodsucking leech.”

  “How did he f-f-f-find out about what you and Sanger were doing to begin with?”

  “Geez, I dunno. The guy was a snake. No, he was a lower than a snake because they don’t fuck over their own kind, do they?”

  For the first time, Jasper had to agree with the other man.

  * * *

  There wasn’t a soul on Sanger’s ship except a guard. Everyone else had either gone home or was spending their pay packet in one of the many bars that littered the waterfront.

  The ship’s watchman—a rheumy-eyed old man reeking of whiskey—said he saw the captain accompany a couple of the shipping line’s lawyers back
and forth to shore over the past few days, but he didn’t know dates and specific times.

  Hy had hoped to rule out at least one suspect, but it wasn’t to be.

  As things stood, Sanger had ample opportunity to meet up with Fowler, shank her, and throw her in the river. Although it didn’t seem like he had any reason to kill her.

  The Adelphia—less than a five-minute walk from Sanger’s ship—was a nice hotel, but it had a worn feeling to it, the guests mostly merchants and off-duty sailors.

  Hy saw only one unattended woman in the lobby, which meant Anita Fowler would have stood out.

  Hy waited until the desk clerk finished with his customer before approaching. “I’m Detective Law from the Eighth Precinct.”

  The concierge—who looked to be around Hy’s age—perked up at the sight of Hy’s badge. “This must be about the dead woman.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Anthony Zachman,” he said as they shook. “But you can call me Tony.”

  Hy took the picture of Fowler from his pocket. “Have you seen this woman, Tony?”

  Zachman nodded. “Yeah, I remember her. She was a looker.”

  Hy ignored his leer. “You checked her in—when was that?”

  “Maybe seven or so.” Tony flipped a few pages of the big register on the desk and then turned the book to face Hy. “That’s her.” He pointed to the name Mrs. Anita Fowler. “She said her husband was going to be joining her.” Tony smirked as he turned the book back around. “She was acting so nervous that I didn’t really believe her, but then I saw her with some guy later, so I guess I was wrong.”

  Hy’s pulse sped up. “Did you get a look at him?”

  “Oh yeah. He was an older guy—maybe forties. Not very big—just an inch or so taller than me.”

  Tony was about five-seven or eight by Hy’s reckoning.

  “He had brown hair, a beard but no mustache, and spectacles.”

  He’d just described Doctor Powell to a T.

  “Did they go up to Fowler’s room?”

  “Er, not that I saw. In fact, they were arguing so loudly that I had to send over the doorman to ask them to keep it down.”