by Rhys Bowen
“I am delighted to tell you, Dr. Birnbaum, that you are looking at three ladies who have never swooned in their lives. What’s more, Miss Murphy has conducted undercover assignments in the most depraved quarters of the city. So please continue.”
“Very well.” The doctor took a sip of punch before continuing. “In my experience the murderer disfigures his victim for two reasons: first, when she is still alive, because he is essentially ashamed of what he is about to do and doesn’t want her to look at him. If he dehumanizes her, somehow it makes her easier to kill. Second, when she is already dead, so that the corpse cannot be identified.”
“Interesting,” I said, “and which do you think it is in this case?”
“I haven’t been privy to enough details yet,” he said. “I only learned of this case last week and immediately went to offer my services to the police. I am meeting with the officers in charge of the investigation on Monday. Then I hope to find out more.”
I made a mental note of that. If at all possible, I wanted to come along to that meeting. I’d have to think how to broach the subject.
“How will you be able to tell whether the victims were alive or dead in this case?” Sid was asking.
“A lot will depend on the amount of blood. If the victim was already dead then the heart would have stopped pumping. Even several cruel blows to the face would not produce much blood. If she were still alive, I am afraid to say that the face would be a bloody mess.”
“Oh dear,” Gus put her hand to her mouth, “perhaps I am not as strong as I thought I was. I find this most disturbing. I think I shall go and water the flowers in the garden.”
“We will talk of it no further, Gus dearest,” Ryan said. “Let us instead discuss my new play, which Fritz is helping me to write.”
“You’re writing another new play, Ryan?” I asked.
“Yes, and I’m telling nobody about it except my most trusted friends. I’m not risking another idea being stolen. This one will be a black comedy with lots of gothic elements—hands coming out of mirrors, trapdoors opening to swallow victims—all the stuff that the audience loves. And the central character is an evil doctor, thanks to dear Fritz here, who has told me of one of his case histories.”
“A real case history? Do tell us, Dr. Birnbaum,” Sid said.
“Yes. It was my first encounter with a real-live mass murderer,” he said, staring at us in that intense way of his. “A doctor. A pillar of the community. First, he poisoned his shrewish wife and got away with it. The next time he married for money and dispatched her as well. Then he enjoyed the power of being able to kill at will. He started using his medical knowledge to finish off his patients. He would appear at the bedside and act the concerned and loving doctor who had done all he could. Families would thank him for his trouble and give him lavish gifts.”
“And how was he finally caught?”
“Too cocky. And rather annoyed that nobody suspected him. He took greater and greater risks until finally he was caught red-handed administering a lethal dose of morphine.”
“Fascinating,” Gus said.
“Isn’t it, just.” Ryan beamed at us. “And I will duplicate the evil doctor on stage, with a few touches of my own added in. Maybe I will even play the character myself. I’ve always secretly fantasized about being truly evil.”
“You will never cease to surprise us, Ryan.” Sid glanced at Gus and me with a smile.
“I sincerely hope not. The moment I cease to surprise I shall become ordinary and boring like the rest of the world. When that happens there will be nothing for it but to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and end it all.”
“The dramatic dramatist,” Dr. Birnbaum said, with a wink at me.
“And our little conversation is giving me more ideas as we speak.” Ryan dismissed his observation. “I was thinking perhaps my evil doctor will lure young women to his boudoir with the intention of killing them. Prostitutes are more exciting than patients, don’t you agree? Far more mobile, in any case.”
“That’s not nice, Ryan,” I found myself blurting out. “How can you possibly want to write about this when it’s really happening in this city? Those girls might be on the lowest rung of the ladder, but they were somebody’s daughter and sister and once they had hopes and dreams beyond their present station.”
“There speaks the voice of passion,” Birnbaum said, applauding. “Well said, Miss Murphy.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a crusader, Molly,” Sid said.
“I suppose I feel strongly because I could have ended up as one of those girls. When I first arrived here I had nowhere to go and no chance for employment. If I had fallen in with the wrong people, rather than the bible-toting ladies from the hostel, who knows what might have happened to me?”
“Knowing you, you’d have given the pimp a black eye, and he would have found you more trouble than you were worth,” Ryan commented, making us all laugh and breaking the spell of gloom. “I’ve just come up with a marvelous idea, children. No, don’t look at me like that. No more suggestions of black comedy. Why don’t we take a picnic to Central Park this evening? The march king, Mr. Sousa, is giving a free concert tonight, and you know how I adore brass bands. It brings out the military in me.”
“The military in you?” Sid burst out laughing. “When did you ever have military inclinations, Ryan?”
“When I see all those splendid red uniforms and those awfully tall chaps wearing them.”
The banter continued. For once I wasn’t anxious to join them. I’d be worrying about whether I’d be taken ill and how I would feel trapped in a great crush of people on a hot night. “I don’t think I’ll join you, if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Of course you must come. It will be no fun without you,” Ryan said.
“Yes, Molly. We insist.” Sid wagged a finger at me. “You’re not allowed to even think of working on a Saturday evening.”
“I’m not feeling too well,” I ventured.
“Then good music and good company are just what you need to revive you,” Ryan said. “Think how heavenly it will be, stretched out under the stars, sipping champagne and eating oysters.”
“I thought you’d become a Buddhist, Ryan,” I said. “And oysters are certainly living creatures when you swallow them.”
“Oh dear, Molly, you are right. What was I thinking?” Ryan put his hand to his face in a mock expression of horror. “Let me amend. Sipping champagne and eating a nice ripe French cheese with crusty bread. One is allowed to eat cheese, is one not?”
“I believe cheese is allowed,” Sid answered, smiling.
“Then what are we waiting for? Let us make haste to the deli before they close. Now which wineshop keeps champagne on ice?”
“For someone who hasn’t worked for a couple of months, you seem remarkably flush,” I said.
Ryan had the grace to blush. “One’s friends are so generous,” he said. “And dear Fritz does so like his champagne.”
As usual Ryan had latched onto a new friend with the money to keep him in the style to which he’d become accustomed. As the others rushed around the house in a frenzy of excitement, I was caught up in it. How long since I had shared a picnic with friends or listened to a good band? It would be good for me and help me to forget my present worries for a while.
Miraculously I survived the evening well. I even enjoyed the ripe cheese and crusty bread that Ryan had promised, followed by such sinful items as grapes and figs. The champagne, sipped slowly, also seemed to have a calmative effect on my stomach, so that I lay back against my pillows, content for once, watching the stars come out over the city skyline. It wasn’t until we were walking back to the park entrance amid the crush of people that I remembered I had a mission. I fell into place beside Dr. Birnbaum.
“I wonder if there is any way that you could take me with you when you visit the police officers on Monday,” I said in a low voice.
“My dear Miss Murphy!” He looked startled. “I don’t think that would be at
all proper. The most unpleasant subjects will be discussed.”
“It’s for a case I’m working on,” I said. “Details of this East Side Ripper might turn out to be important to getting—my client—out of jail. I promise I won’t interfere. Could I not be your assistant, or one of your students from the university in Vienna?”
“I suppose…if it were that important to you,” he looked at me long and hard. “You are working on a case that involves the East Side Ripper? Surely that is no job for a woman to be tackling.”
“A dear friend is in jail, falsely accused,” I said. “I’m doing everything I can to get him released.”
“He is suspected of being the Ripper?” Birnbaum eyed me warily.
“No, he was the police officer in charge of that case. It has been suggested that perhaps somebody wanted to make sure the case was not solved quickly.”
“Fascinating.” He nodded. “But could you not speak with his fellow officers yourself, whenever you wished, rather than this pretence?”
I shook my head. “Someone has spread false rumors about him. His fellow officers have turned against him. And those who haven’t, don’t wish to risk their own careers by speaking out. This is a perfect chance for me, Dr. Birnbaum. If you take me with you, I promise I won’t do anything stupid or let you down in any way.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Miss Murphy. I was impressed by you when I met you at Senator Flynn’s. It is against my better judgment, but I’m prepared, on this occasion, to call you my assistant.”
“Thank you!” I beamed at him. “I’m tempted to give you a hug, but I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
“I hope you’ll feel just as grateful after what might be a harrowing experience.”
“I hope so, too,” I said.
We reached the entrance to the park and the crowd streamed away in all directions, making for omnibuses and trolleys. Ryan and Birnbaum were perfect hosts and insisted on taking us home in a cab and escorting us to our front doors. Thus the evening ended without sharing my secret with Sid and Gus. And the more I thought about it, the less keen I was on making this confession. First, I’d prove Daniel innocent and set him free, then I’d be able to make decisions about my future.
SIXTEEN
The next day was Sunday. I woke to the sound of church bells and lay listening to the evocative sound, which reminded me so sharply of home. It had been a long time since I’d attended church. Would it be wicked of me to go now and pray for a miracle? If anyone needed prayers at the moment it was myself, and Daniel, of course. I dressed and headed to Saint Joseph’s on Sixth Avenue, a stone’s throw away. I’d passed it many times but I regret to say that I’d never set foot inside. Now I entered into the cool, incense-laden darkness and found a mass in progress. The murmur of the priest’s voice seemed to blend with the smoke from the incense, giving the interior a hazy, unreal quality. Fractured light from stained-glass windows fell in colored stripes on the floor. I knelt in an empty back pew and tried to pray. It had been so long. The familiar childhood prayers came back to me. I muttered an Our Father and a Hail Mary, but they didn’t seem enough somehow. Did I really believe in any of this?—that was the question.
“If you’re up there, God, and you can really hear me, I need your help right now,” I muttered.
The priest had stepped to the lectern. “The wages of sin is death,” he proclaimed.
I stood up, as if he had struck me. Why hadn’t I realized this before? I had sinned. I was being punished. Simple as that. I fled from the church without looking back.
Coney Island was my destination for the day. I would concentrate on my assignment and keep more disturbing thoughts at bay. I boarded a crowded tram across the Brooklyn Bridge and it was only when I was standing on the platform of the Brooklyn, Flatbush, and Coney Island Railroad that I realized what I might be in for. I had been out to the seashore once or twice before, but never on a weekend. It seemed that most of the population of Manhattan had the same idea. The platform was a seething mass of humanity. When the train finally arrived, I was swept aboard with everyone else. I wasn’t lucky enough to get a seat and was packed like a sardine between a bony child sucking a lollypop and a large Italian lady who smelled strongly of un-washed body and garlic. I closed my eyes, tried to shut off my sense of smell, and pictured myself running along the cliffs at home with the fresh tang of seaweed in my nostrils.
It was only by grim determination that I made it as far as the terminal stop at Brighton Beach. I caught a glimpse of the ocean as I stood at the top of the ironwork steps. People poured from the station in a great tide. I stood to one side as they swept past me and I tried to get my bearings. They were obviously headed for the beach and the amusement parks. Now I heard shrieks competing with hurdy-gurdy music, confirming in which direction the beach and amusement parks lay. Within minutes the crowd had disappeared, leaving a young, sad-faced rail employee to sweep up their litter before the next invasion.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said—although he was younger than I and didn’t deserve the title—“in which direction is the racetrack?”
He gave me a quick once-over glance. “There’s no racing today, lady,” he said. “Too hot for the horses.”
“But where would the racetrack be if I wanted to take a look at it?”
He sniffed, went to wipe his nose on the back of his sleeve, and thought better of it. “There’s three of ’em,” he said. “Sheepshead’s over dat way, Gravesend’s in the other direction, and Brighton’s just across de Gut on de other side of the railway.”
Brighton—I thought that was the name Daniel had mentioned.
“So the Brighton track is close by?”
“Yeah, like I said. Under the railroad. Across the Gut.”
Daniel had warned me against the Gut, and it definitely sounded unsavory, but it was broad daylight, after all. I thanked the young man, who touched his cap to me and looked expectantly at my purse, as if he thought he might be paid for giving such vital information. Instead he got a smile as I hurried under the iron supports of the elevated track.
I found the Gut easily enough and saw why Daniel had warned me. Saloons were doing a lively trade, even at this hour on a Sunday morning. Obviously the police didn’t enforce Sunday temperance out here. Half-dressed girls, sprawled on porches and in doorways, gave me scornful glances while their pimps sat playing dice or spitting gobs of chewing tobacco. One or two eyed me appraisingly. I gave them my haughtiest stare in response and hurried past.
Tucked in between the brothels and the saloons were cheap boardinghouses and various types of cafes and food stalls. I picked up my skirts to avoid the filth that lay beneath my feet and hurried past. Soon I was in a more respectable neighborhood. I caught sight of a grand gothic structure, made my way to it, and found myself at the gateway to the Brighton racetrack. These imposing main gates were closed, but I walked around the side of the track, behind the pavilion, until I came to more modest wooden gates. One of these swung open to the touch and I found myself in a stable area behind the main pavilion. One or two horses’ heads appeared over stable doors, but the area had a deserted air about it.
I was about to give up and admit defeat when I heard the sound of boots on cobbles and a stable hand came around a corner, carrying a light little saddle. He almost dropped it when he saw me standing there.
“Whatta you doin’ in here?” he demanded. “This area ain’t open to the public. Go on. Beat it.”
“I just need a couple of minutes of your time,” I said. “It’s about the horse that dropped dead a few weeks ago at one of the tracks here. There was a big scandal.”
“What’s it to you?”
Hurriedly I weighed plausible excuses. “I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’m writing an article on horse doping.”
He stared at me blankly. “I don’t know nothing about it. Go on, beat it.”
“Where do you think I might find somebody who can answer my questions?” I asked. “My newspap
er editor will be angry if we can’t run the story in tomorrow’s edition.”
“You’re a bit late, ain’t ya?” He gave me a sneer. “Half the reporters in the world have already been here. And the police has been investigating.”
“But they haven’t found out the truth behind it, have they?” I asked, giving what I hoped was a smug and secretive smile. “We might just have a new angle on the case.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not at liberty to say any more. But I was sent to get the inside scoop from people who work here at the track.”
“It’d be more than my job’s worth to tell you what I think. We’ve been told to keep our mouths shut—especially to reporters.”
“Very well,” I said. “I’ll just have to look for someone else. But there might be money in it, if my editor thinks I’ve come back with a good story. Of course your name need never be mentioned.”
He looked up sharply. “How much money?”
Again I was amazed at how easily the whole world could apparently be bribed, except for Daniel, of course.
“I can’t promise anything, but my editor has been known to be generous. I tell you what—if he gives me a bonus, you’ll get your cut. And that’s a promise.”
“All right,” he said. “Name’s Jerry. Jerry Jameson. And yours is?”
He was holding out his hand. My brain resorted to the last alias I had used to Police Commissioner Partridge. “It’s Miss Delaney. Mary Delaney.” I shook his hand. His fingers felt as callused and rough as old tree bark. “So, Mr. Jameson, you really know nothing about the horse doping? Didn’t it take place at this very track, and you work with the horses here?”
He half met my gaze. “Didn’t say I didn’t know nothing,” he muttered. “We all knew about it.”
“And you do think it was doping, don’t you? The horse didn’t die of natural causes.”
He sniffed. “Of course it was doping. That horse was fit as a fiddle. I rubbed him down after his exercise that morning. Ballyhoo Bay—lovely colt he was. Three to two on favorite. And he was ridden by Ted Sloan. Best in the business, Ted is. Those other owners knew they didn’t stand a chance against him.”
