by Rhys Bowen
“So you reckon it was one of the other owners who doped the horse?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Who can say? It’s quiet in here now, but on race days it’s crazy. Owners and trainers and jockeys and the press all milling around. It wouldn’t have been too hard to slip into Ballyhoo’s stall and doctor his mash. And even if anyone knows who’s behind it, nobody’s going to talk, are they? We all want to keep our jobs.”
I tried another tack. “Someone suggested that it might have been a disgruntled jockey, getting his own back.”
The stable hand sucked through his teeth. “Billy Hughes, you mean. Well, he was scheduled to ride Ballyhoo until the owner changed his mind and had Ted Sloan brought in. I heard the owner had a lot of money on his horse and wanted to make sure that it didn’t lose.”
“So do you think it’s possible that Billy Hughes was the one who doctored the horse’s food? He could have moved around without drawing attention to himself.”
“And he did a bunk right afterward, too,” the man agreed. “They say he’s gone out to race at Santa Anita in California.”
Another person who had supposedly fled to California, I noted. Did he count as a penniless young man? I’d have to check whether Letitia had ever visited a racetrack.
“So is this the kind of thing you might have expected of Billy Hughes?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “He carried a grudge, all right,” he said, “but he sure loved his horses. I can’t see him wanting to kill one of the loveliest animals that ever lived. And if word ever got out that he did it, he’d never work in racing again. Too big a risk to take, if you ask me. And for what? One less good horse to ride.”
“And what about the jockey who rode Ballyhoo—Ted Sloan you said? Where’s he to be found?”
“He may be out of the hospital by now,” the man said. “He broke his leg when the horse fell on him. He’s recuperating out in the Hamptons at the owner’s estate, so I hear.”
“If it wasn’t Billy Hughes, but a rival owner, wanting to make sure that his own horse won, who would come to mind then?” I asked.
He gave me a sideways look. “It was a syndicate that won. A bunch of city gents who had a horse brought over from Ireland. Pride of Killarney, the horse is called. Not a bad little runner, but I don’t think he’s got what it takes to be a champion. Now old Ballyhoo, he’d won the Brighton Derby once before, and the Futurity Stakes. Made Mr. Whitney a tidy sum over the last couple of years. You should talk to him about this. He’s hopping mad, I can tell you. He’s hired his own investigators to look into it.”
“You say the police are also looking into it.”
“The police.” He sniffed. “If it’s anything to do with the Morningstar Syndicate, then they’ve got the police in their pocket. Those guys have all got connections.”
“So do you happen to know who is part of this syndicate?”
He shook his head. “Don’t ask me. I know most of the owners because they come down to the track and follow their horses like they were their children. I’ve no time for syndicates who just use their horses to make money and couldn’t care a damn what happens to them—pardon the language, lady.”
I nodded my forgiveness. “Was it obvious that this Pride of Killarney would win if the favorite was eliminated?”
“Nah. Lucky winner, if you ask me. Old Sultan’s Dream was taken out too fast, and he didn’t have the stamina to keep going in that heat. Otherwise I’d have backed him to win.”
“Do you have any suspicions yourself?”
“Me? Not really. To tell you the truth, I can’t think who would want to harm old Ballyhoo. Everyone loved him. He had a real sweet nature and it was pure poetry to watch him run. I used to think it was a privilege just to rub him down. He’d never turn and give you a nip, not like some of them.”
It didn’t seem as if we were getting anywhere, and I wasn’t sure what to ask next.
“They didn’t find any kind of incriminating evidence, then?”
He shook his head. “The police went through the whole place and found nothing. If you ask me, Billy Hughes was angry with the owner for bringing in another jockey to replace him. He probably never meant to hurt Ballyhoo, just slow him down so that he’d lose. When the horse keeled over and died, Billy hoofed it to California.”
This seemed quite logical to me as well.
“Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Jameson. I’ll make sure you get a copy of the article if my editor runs it, and if there’s any money forthcoming, I’ll make sure you get your cut.” A wave of guilt swept over me as I said this. I’d had my mouth washed out with soap enough times for lesser fibs as a child. But then I reminded myself that Daniel’s life was at stake. My life, too, in a way. Besides, as the church had reminded me, I was already damned to hell, so one more lie wouldn’t matter.
SEVENTEEN
I left the stable yard with no clear idea what I should be doing next. If a disgruntled jockey had already fled to California, he wouldn’t be interested in trying to stop an investigation. Those influential businessmen in the syndicate might have more interest, but as Jerry Jameson pointed out, their horse only won by luck. There was no clear second favorite. So what now? Back to New York, I supposed.
As I passed along the fence beside the racetrack, I glanced inside and saw movement. It wasn’t a horse trotting around the track, but a person—a big, gangling man, dressed in a singlet and what looked like white long johns, lurching along with large, ungainly strides. Then the surprise turned to astonishment as he came closer, and I realized that I recognized him. It was Gentleman Jack Brady. I ran up to the fence and yelled his name as he trotted past me. He started, looked up, and his battered face broke into a smile as he recognized me. He came up to the fence.
“I know you. It’s Daniel’s friend, isn’t it? I met you at his place.”
“Yes, you did, right before I sent you on a mission and you disappeared,” I said severely, anger now replacing the worry I had felt for him. “I’ve been worried sick about you. Why didn’t you contact me again? Why didn’t you come back?”
“Monk said I wasn’t to tell no one where I was.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “I went to see him, and I thought the police were following me. Monk said I should get out of town, for my own safety, so he had me brought out here. He’s set me up in a nice hotel room, and he’s got a trainer for me to work with and everything.”
“So the fight is going ahead?”
“All arranged,” he said, looking around, although we were the only two within hearing. “Some Casino, next week. Tell Daniel. He’ll be pleased.”
“Daniel isn’t pleased about very much at the moment,” I said. “He’s still in jail and things don’t look good for him.”
“Oh, jeez. That’s right. I forgot he was in trouble, poor guy. Is there anything I can do?”
Since he had clearly forgotten that he had been sent to question Monk the last time, I saw little point in assigning him another mission. But it was worth a long shot, I supposed. “If you come across a man called Bugsy, one of Monk’s men,” I said, “ask him about the envelope. Ask him who gave it to him and who might have had a chance to slip money inside.”
“What envelope?” His gorilla face was wrinkled into a frown.
“The one that got Daniel arrested,” I said. “Better still, if you see Bugsy, tell him to contact me—it’s Molly Murphy, Ten Patchin Place. Can you remember that? Here, let me write it down for you. Tell him it’s very important. Daniel’s life may depend on it.” I printed the words carefully onto a page in the notebook I always carried and handed it to him. “Bugsy. Can you remember that?”
“I’ll try, miss. I’ll really try.”
I wasn’t too optimistic but I smiled at him. “I’m glad to see you’re safe and well, Jack. And if you win this fight, for heaven’s sake, get out of the boxing business or your brain will be more addled than a plate of scrambled eggs.”
“You’re right, miss. I should ge
t out. It’s just a question of making the money last. I never was good with money.”
“Then buy yourself a little property. Settle down. Raise chickens.”
He laughed. “Chickens? Can you see me with chickens? If I picked up a chicken with this hand, I’d squash the life out of it in one second.” The smile faded. “I wouldn’t mean to, of course, but when you’ve got big hands like mine, and all this strength…”
He left the end of the sentence hanging in the air.
“So where can I find you if I need you?” I asked.
“Right here. Brighton Beach Hotel. See those turrets down by the beach? Real swank place where all the snobs stay. Monk’s taking care of it for me.”
“Monk must have a lot of money invested in this fight.”
“Oh yeah. He stands to do real good out of it, if I win.”
“Then I’d better let you get back to your training. I don’t think he’d be too happy with you if you didn’t win.”
“That’s right. I’ve got three times more around the track if I’m to get down to my fighting weight,” he said. “Nice seeing you again, Miss—”
“Murphy,” I said. “Nice seeing you too, Jack. Take care of yourself.”
“Come out and see the fight,” he said. “I’ll get you a free ticket, if you like.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said, although I didn’t think I’d want to watch two men beating each other to a bloody pulp.
Jack waved a big hand and loped off again around the track. I went on my way. I decided that since I was here on Coney Island I should take a look at the site where the prizefight would take place. Some casino, Jack had said. And a stroll in the sea air might do me good.
I headed toward the beach, passing the grand turrets of the Brighton Beach Hotel, sitting right beside the boardwalk. Fashionable ladies with parasols strolled the grounds beside men in straw boaters and striped blazers. It was the height of elegance and I wondered what they made of Jack Brady, lurching among them in his fighter’s training outfit. Sudden screams behind me made me turn in the other direction, just in time to see a carful of people come hurtling down from a high trestle on the roller coaster. I had once ridden that contraption with Daniel in the happy days before I knew about Arabella. The thrill of the speed, the sense of his closeness, his arm around mine, came rushing back to haunt me. I shut my eyes and marched toward the boardwalk.
It was hard to walk at any pace along the boardwalk, even though it was a wide thoroughfare. Today it was chock-a-block with people—families, mothers pushing prams, fathers with toddlers on their shoulders, old couples, sweethearts, all out for a day’s fun. I felt like a salmon, swimming upstream. And beyond the boardwalk the beach was a seething mass of humanity. The crowd spilled from the beach and into the ocean, where a sea of heads bobbed at the edge of the waves. If people did this to escape the crush of the city, I couldn’t see much point in it myself. My mind went back to the ocean at home in Ireland—deserted beaches, strands of seaweed, waves crashing, gulls circling overhead, and that salty tang that made you feel good to be alive.
I continued along the boardwalk, past one amusement after another—the giant Ferris wheel, the Flip Flap coaster that hurtled its riders in a complete loop, the waterslide with its boats rushing down a steep ramp to hit the water with a mighty splash.
Cooking smells wafted up to me.
“Get your red hots here,” a man was yelling and holding up something that looked like a sausage in a bun. The pungent smell of onions reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for a while and that disaster could strike at any moment. I stepped into one of the little shacks that were dotted along the boardwalk and downed a glass of lemonade and a cheese sandwich. Suitably fortified, I came out and resumed my quest for a casino, until suddenly I realized that I could go no farther today. I just wasn’t up to tackling the heat, the smells, and the crowds any longer. I’d come back on a working day, when I could have the place to myself.
I looked around and realized that I was near the ornate iron pier extending into the ocean. Beside it was a bathing pavilion, and squeals came from inside its walls as the bathers negotiated the waves. As I observed the structure of the pier and the pavilion, built out over the waves, I remembered that the first of the prostitutes had been found murdered at this very site. This was something else I should investigate, only not now. I’d have little luck finding prostitutes and their pimps working at this time of day. I’d have to come back at night sometime, and I was uneasy about coming out here at night and alone.
I made my way down the steps from the boardwalk, through the crowded amusement park, until I came to a busy street, stretching away to my right. It was boarded with planks and crammed full of amusement arcades, food booths, dance halls, beer halls, and God knows what kinds of vice. A sign on a post proclaimed it to be THE BOWERY, but it was not as savory as the real street with that name. My ears were assailed by the competing sounds of all kinds of music and shouting touts, luring people to their particular attraction. “Roll up, roll up. Three balls for a nickel. Have a go at Aunt Sally. Hit a coconut, win a prize. All the wonders of the Orient. Belly dancers straight from the harem of the sheik.”
I felt repelled but yet attracted at the same time. So did half the population of Manhattan by the look of it. The crowd surged down this Bowery, and I allowed myself to be swept along with them. We passed the entrance to the Streets of Cairo Pavilion, where the mysteries of the Orient would be revealed. Outside an Oriental archway, a man in a turban stood holding a real camel while a young girl, wearing precious little, gyrated to the tune of a wailing flute. A little farther and there was a fire-eater, standing outside a bunting-draped passageway. The sign proclaimed it as AMERICA’S PREMIER FREAK SHOW. The tout was a midget, dressed as a king, standing on a barrel. “Come inside, ladies and gentlemen, and see the freaks too amazing, too grotesque, even for P. T. Barnum. See the amazing snake woman. Yes, she’s half woman, half python. See the world’s smallest horse, only twenty inches high. See the horrendous human tree. Instead of limbs, he has branches; instead of skin, he has bark. And the world-famous mule boy. He was born with the face of a mule and the body of a human!”
I wonder how people can be taken in by that, I thought, shuddering with revulsion, but a portion of the crowd was already lining up and paying good money to go inside. I allowed myself to be swept onward past the India Pavilion, where a live elephant stood at an arched gateway. I’d never actually seen a real elephant before and just stood and stared until the crowd swept me along once more. Then more dancing girls, this time straight from the Moulin Rouge in Paris. The picture outside showed a girl dressed in corsets, fishnet stockings, and not much else, kicking up legs in a most unnatural fashion.
I felt safe walking along the real Bowery, but I didn’t feel entirely safe here, even though I was among so many people. I felt myself being watched from dark alleyways between booths where unsavory types loitered. I clutched my purse to me and decided I’d come far enough. Those seething, sweaty crowds, squealing children, and blaring music were all too much for me. I knew I had to get out of there or faint. The search for the casino would have to wait for another day. I pushed through the crowd and made my way back to the relative civilization of Surf Avenue and an elevated train station. I had a carriage to myself on the train back to the city.
EIGHTEEN
Monday morning’s post brought no message from Daniel or from his attorney. I dressed in my business suit, even though the day promised to be too hot for it. If I were to pose as Dr. Birnbaum’s assistant, I wanted to look the part of a bluestocking. So my hair was wrestled into a bun and tucked beneath my hat again. I wished I owned a pair of a bluestocking’s round wire spectacles to complete the picture. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to learn or accomplish by going with Dr. Birnbaum to visit the police officers, but at least it would give me the opportunity to see who had taken over Daniel’s case and hopefully find out what they had learned so far. Maybe I would get a feeling fo
r whether these men might be sensitive to Daniel’s cause—or the opposite.
Dr. Birnbaum was waiting for me at the corner of Canal and Mulberry. He was dressed today in a dark suit and homburg hat and looked every inch the somber physician.
“Miss Murphy.” He clicked his heels in that European way and gave me a polite bow. “I have serious reservations about what we are about to do. For one thing it goes against the ethics of my profession, and for another I am concerned that you will hear things never intended for a woman’s ears.”
“Are there no women medical students at your hospitals, Doctor?” I asked.
“One or two, yes. But I have always considered it a strange choice of profession for a woman.”
“I consider it a very natural profession for a woman,” I said. “Do women not spend their entire lives taking care of others? Is it not part of our very nature to want to heal and help?”
“Put that way, yes.” He nodded agreement. “But our profession has its seamy side—the blood, the infections, the operations, gangrene—one would not want one’s sister to experience sights that I have seen. And today’s discussion—a man who has repeatedly molested and mutilated young women…”
“I’ll handle it,” I said. “I have to handle it. If my friend dies in jail, it would be my fault.”
“Then he’s lucky to have such a noble and devoted friend as yourself,” Birnbaum said.
Damned right he’s lucky. The phrase went through my head even though I didn’t utter it out loud. Ladies, after all, never swear. We walked side by side up Mulberry Street. Tenement windows were open because of the heat. Bed linens were airing, babies crying, neighbors shouting to each other across the street, while below pushcart vendors called out their wares. It was the usual cacophony of noise. I hardly noticed it anymore, but I saw Dr. Birnbaum wince.
