by Erin Lindsey
Thomas consulted his watch. “Perhaps we ought to call it an evening. We’ll want to start bright and early tomorrow.”
“Yes, you had better.” Mr. Burrows’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Rose has made a promise, after all. When thou vowest unto God, defer not to pay it.”
I scowled. “It wasn’t as worshipful as all that.”
He just laughed. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. He has that effect on people, especially the first time they meet him.”
“Yes, he packs quite the voltage, doesn’t he?” Thomas glanced over his shoulder to where the candidate was still making his farewells. “I suppose everyone knows about it?”
“Everyone who recognizes the signs. Some are more sensitive to it than others, but I doubt anyone has ever met Theodore Roosevelt without feeling that pull to some degree or another. Most simply put it down to charisma, but some of us know better.”
“Which variety, do you think?”
Mr. Burrows stifled a bored yawn. “I haven’t the faintest. Whatever the species of luck, I daresay it will carry him far in life.”
If he survives. No one had to say it aloud.
It was nearing a quarter to three by the time our carriage pulled up, and I was stifling some yawns of my own. “All that work, and for what? We didn’t accomplish anything.”
“Except to warn Mr. Roosevelt,” Thomas said, tapping on the roof of the brougham to set it on its way. “Still, you’re right. I only managed to eliminate a handful of names from our list. There are simply too many potential suspects. We need to go about this in another way.”
“Maybe we should stay close to the candidate. Wait for the killer to make his move.”
“Risky. We don’t know for certain that Roosevelt is a target, and even if he is, there’s no guarantee we’d spot the killer in time. Unless…” He frowned, staring off into the distance.
“What is it?”
“I’ve just had an idea. An inventor friend of mine is working on a few devices that may be of some use to us. Perhaps we ought to pay him a visit tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know you had an inventor friend. Anyone I’ve heard of?”
Thomas smiled. “Not likely, but if there is any justice in the world, his will soon be a household name. He’s a genius to rival Edison. Perhaps even greater.”
“That’s quite a claim.”
“A fair one, I assure you. But you can make your own determination tomorrow. We’ll visit his lab. Though”—he looked over at me, suddenly grave—“I must warn you, Rose, don’t touch anything.”
I drew back in alarm. “Why, is it dangerous?”
“The most dangerous place you’ve ever been.”
CHAPTER 11
TAMMANY HELL—THE WIZARD OF CHATHAM SQUARE—AWESTRUCK
I went down to breakfast feeling as if I were half naked. Compared to the heavy gown I’d worn last night, my simple dress seemed like little more than underthings. Liberating as it was, I was sorry to be without at least one part of my costume. The brooch Thomas had given me was much too extravagant for everyday wear, but oh, how I hated to tuck it away. It reminded me of how I’d felt when I returned his watch back in January, after days of keeping it in my breast pocket. The Patek Philippe had been a piece of him to carry with me; giving it back was like having something torn out by the roots. As for the brooch, though I’d had it barely two days, I treasured it more than anything in the world, and not because of diamonds and pearls.
I’d just reached the bottom of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Answering it, I found a bedraggled Sergeant Chapman. His normally smooth jaw bristled with stubble, and his eyes were threaded with blood. “Long night?” I asked, inviting him in.
“You could say that. Is Wiltshire here? He oughta hear this.”
We gathered in the parlor. Chapman dropped onto a chair, rubbing his balding pate restlessly. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him so preoccupied.
“Are you all right? Can I bring you some tea?”
“Can’t stay. Fact is, I probably shouldn’t be here at all. Ain’t gonna do any of us a lick of good if I’m spotted.”
Thomas arched an eyebrow. “I think perhaps you’d better expand on that remark, Sergeant.”
“Got a summons from Chief Byrnes yesterday. He was none too pleased with me. Tore into my hide about involving the Pinkertons in police business.”
“Oh, dear.” I sank onto the sofa, feeling anxious myself now. “How did he know it was you?”
“He’s no fool. I was the investigating officer on the scene. And I was sniffing around that witness, which he didn’t appreciate none.”
“He discouraged you from making further inquiries,” Thomas said.
“That’s one way of putting it. Threatened to have my badge if I kept it up. ’Cept it wasn’t my badge so much as my hindquarters, and that wasn’t the word he used, begging the lady’s pardon.”
“He threatened us, too,” I said, shuddering at the memory. “He’s an evil man.”
Chapman hitched a shoulder. “I wouldn’t go that far. When it comes to ethics, he don’t sweat the small stuff, but he’s still a copper, and he gets the job done. However he’s mixed up in this, I’d guess it has more to do with cleaning up a mess than making one. But that don’t mean he ain’t dangerous, which is why it’s probably plain stupid for me to be here. Byrnes finds out, I’ll be eating this badge for breakfast. I’m gonna have to take a step back for now, lay low for a couple of days.”
Thomas nodded. “Eminently sensible.”
“You might consider doing the same. Byrnes has a lot of power in this town, and from what I can tell, there’s even more powerful folks cracking the whip. Tammany’s been all over him since this thing started. Every time I look up, there’s some Democratic bigwig or another chewing his ear off, and boy, is he in a sweat about it. Which explains the mood. Up till yesterday, I thought he liked me well enough. Then Croker and his boys show up and it’s all fire and brimstone.”
“Wait.” Thomas straightened in his chair. “Richard Croker was at the police station?”
“Down at HQ, in Byrnes’s office. Him and a bunch of other Tammany types. HQ’s been hell ever since.”
I’d read about Croker in the papers. What was the boss of the Democratic Party doing at police headquarters? “You think it has something to do with the murders?”
He shrugged. “Tammany fellas come around now and then, but the boss himself? That’s new.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed, and he trailed a thumb along the neatly trimmed line of his beard. “If the Democratic machine is involved at the highest levels, it would certainly explain why Byrnes is under pressure. And I can well imagine that the party would wish to keep the whole thing quiet. An assassination attempt could create a major sympathy vote for Roosevelt.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but it was the Republicans’ convention. They must have an interest in keeping it hushed up, too, or it would have got out whether the Democrats liked it or not.”
“True enough. It’s all very interesting, isn’t it?”
“I’ll leave the politics to you folks,” Chapman said. “I just wanted to warn you what’s doing down at HQ.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. With all the distractions of the past two days, the threat of Inspector Byrnes had faded from view. It was helpful to have the reminder that our killer wasn’t the only menace lurking out there.
“Now, that being said … You all know a fella called Andrew Price?”
I’d heard the name. “He’s wealthy, isn’t he?”
“Extremely,” said Thomas. “His father made a fortune on real estate speculation, though he himself has since rolled the profits into other, less savory endeavors. Which is why he wasn’t among the guests at last night’s reception, incidentally. Mrs. Hendriks would consider a man of his reputation quite beneath her.”
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I thought sourly. “What’s wrong with his reputation?”
“Rumor has it he owns half the cathouses in New York,” Chapman said with his characteristic bluntness.
Well, I could hardly fault Mrs. Hendriks for that. “But what does a brothel owner have to do with any of this?”
“He was there. At HQ, I mean, with Croker. They was gabbing about the election.”
“Hmm,” said Thomas, “there may not be anything in that. Price is a major Democratic donor, and the party boss would have little else on his mind these days.”
“Sure, but listen to this. Croker said something like Someone will have to answer for it, and Price said sure, of course, he’d give him up when it was done.”
Thomas leaned forward sharply. “Repeat that, please. Do you recall his exact words?”
Chapman squinted, thinking back. “When it’s done, you’ll have him. Or, I’ll give him to you. Near enough, anyways.”
I turned the words over slowly. “You’ll have him … when it’s done. Have who when what is done?”
“Exactly. Sounds to me like they got themselves a gull.”
Thomas cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“A dupe,” I translated. “You see it a lot in my neighborhood. Men like Augusto trick someone into doing their dirty work, so that if things go bad, the gull takes the blame. It’s how people like Pietro get into trouble.” Pietro and a hundred others like him, desperate immigrants indebted to an unscrupulous benefactor. So far my mother’s boarder had avoided getting drawn into any of his padrone’s shadier endeavors, but I feared the day would come. Augusto wasn’t the sort of man you said no to lightly. Neither, I’d wager, was this Andrew Price fellow. “He must have found someone to carry out the killings, and he means to turn the assassin over when it’s done.”
“Slow down,” Chapman said with a cautious gesture. “That’s one explanation, sure.”
I clucked my tongue impatiently. “What else would they be talking about?”
“Any number of things. I got the same feeling as you, but I been on the job long enough to know that these sorta things got a way of sounding how you need ’em to. Best to keep an open mind, is all I’m saying.”
“Sound advice,” Thomas said. “But it’s an excellent lead all the same.”
“Well, in that case, good luck to you.” Chapman picked up his hat and stood.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Miss Gallagher and I were feeling somewhat adrift. You’ve helped us immensely.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I thought you said we should step back?” I said, taking the liberty of dusting a splatter of mud from his badge with my handkerchief. It didn’t help with the stubble or the bloodshot eyes, but at least his uniform could look tidy.
“Yeah, well.” He put his hat on. “We all know that wasn’t gonna happen. Just keep outta Byrnes’s sights, or we’re all gonna regret it.”
Thomas showed the detective out. I expected him to come back to the parlor, but a moment later, I heard footsteps thumping up the stairs, and when I went out into the foyer, I found him taking the steps two at a time. “Where are you going?” I called after him.
“To write a note to Burrows. We’ll need his help to arrange an engagement with Price. I’ll only be a moment.”
“And then what?”
He peered over the balustrade, looking embarrassed. “Please, Rose, it’s terribly undignified to call after each other like this. Besides, I thought we’d agreed on our destination this morning. We’re for Chatham Square.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t recall any discussion of heading down to Five Points. “What’s in Chatham Square?”
“Tesla,” he said, and disappeared.
* * *
“Out with it, then,” Thomas said half an hour later as our carriage tumbled along the Bowery. “You haven’t said a word since we left the house. What’s bothering you?”
I squirmed. He was right; I did have something on my mind, but it made me terribly uncomfortable. “It’s … an indelicate question.”
“We’re partners. You needn’t worry about being delicate.”
I glanced out the window, avoiding his eye. “The note you sent. I’m just surprised … That is, I suppose I couldn’t help wondering…” Dear Lord, this was mortifying. “How does Mr. Burrows know a cadet?”
“A what?”
“Someone who traffics in prostitutes,” I mumbled, blushing all over.
“Ah, I see! Thank you, Rose. You are slowly educating me in the local vernacular. As to your question, there’s nothing unusual in it. For the most part, society is content to feign ignorance as to the nature of Price’s business. It makes it less awkward for all concerned. Besides, with due respect to Sergeant Chapman, I wouldn’t call Price’s establishments cathouses, precisely. They cater to a more exclusive clientele. I believe the correct euphemism is parlor house, and it’s not unusual for society gentlemen to patronize them.”
I gave him a sharp look. “Are you implying what I think you are?”
“Not at all. Burrows has never mentioned any such thing to me, though it wouldn’t surprise me.”
By this point my skin was so hot that I half wished we were in a hansom cab, in spite of the weather. It amazed me that Thomas could speak so offhandedly on the subject—to a woman, no less. It was undignified to call down from the second floor of his own home, but the notion that his best friend might patronize prostitutes didn’t faze him in the slightest.
Then, a new thought formed in my head. If the previous one made me uncomfortable, this one made me positively sick. I glanced at Thomas out of the corner of my eye.
“No,” he said quietly. “Never.”
“I didn’t…” I looked away, blushing all over again. But there was no point denying it; he could read me too well. “It’s none of my business,” I concluded miserably.
Now it was awkward.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to endure it for long. The hack came to a halt in front of an old factory, one of several wired into the cat’s cradle of electric cables crisscrossing the street above our heads. “Now remember my warning,” Thomas said. “The man is a wizard, but he is not always cautious with his inventions. Many of the devices he leaves lying about are deadly or worse. If you’re not careful, you could find yourself transported to another dimension.” And with that bit of everyday advice, he rang the bell.
A moment later the door opened a crack, and a raven-haired young man stuck his head out. “Ah, Mr. Viltshire! Come in, come in.” He extended a hand for Thomas to shake.
Thomas hesitated and I didn’t blame him. The proffered hand was clean and manicured and surprisingly soft-looking, and it also happened to glow like the business end of a firefly. “Er, is that quite safe?”
“Perfectly safe. It will wear off in a moment.”
Thomas didn’t look very reassured, but he was too much of a gentleman to refuse a handshake, even if it did look extremely flammable. “May I present Miss Rose Gallagher.”
The inventor gave a little bow. “Delighted, madam. Nikola Tesla, at your service.” He was a pleasant-looking fellow, tall and reedy, with prominent cheekbones and a tidy mustache. Yet there was something a little too piercing about his gaze; I had the uncomfortable notion of standing before a physician, awaiting diagnosis. “Forgive the gloomy entryway,” he said, gesturing for us to follow. “I use electric lighting now and then, but I need as much power as possible for the machinery…” He spoke animatedly, in an unfamiliar accent, visibly pleased to have visitors in his lab.
Pushing aside a heavy curtain, he led us into a vast, brightly lit space full of unfathomable contraptions. Hulking shapes of glass and metal dotted the expanse like a herd of mechanical beasts grazing in a jungle of iron. They peeked from behind riveted columns, hunkered beneath a canopy of ductwork. Materials were piled neatly in groupings of three: wires and cylinders and coils, pistons and rods and gears, beakers and vials and vats. Valve wheels the size of supper plates jutted out from a network of pipes that climbed the walls like thick vines to
branch out across the ceiling, where they traced an elaborate maze, feeding radiators and engines and little dangling spigots. Of the latter there were a great many, suspended at regular intervals above the machinery.
“Water sprinklers,” the inventor explained, following my gaze.
“Why, Mr. Tesla, are you expecting a fire?”
I’d been trying to make light, but he just looked at me gravely and said, “Always.” Except he pronounced it alvays, which somehow made it sound even more ominous.
We followed him to the far corner of the room, where a desk and a few filing cabinets made up a little office. The scent of cigar smoke pricked my nose, and I realized we weren’t the only visitors. A figure lounged behind the desk, his feet arranged over its surface as comfortably as if it were his own. So bright was the glare from the electric lamp that I couldn’t make out the face behind it, but Thomas obviously recognized him, and he let out a barely audible groan.
“Thomas Wiltshire.” The man rose, revealing a patrician figure with a thick mustache and a luxuriant head of dark, wavy hair—much like Thomas’s, in fact, though longer in cut and streaked generously with silver. “I had a feeling it would be you,” he said in a playful drawl. Then he stepped out of the glare of the lamp, and I gasped.
“Mental telegraphy, no doubt,” Thomas said dryly. “Miss Gallagher, may I present—”
But this man needed no introduction. I’d seen his likeness a dozen times and carried his words close to my heart. “Mr. Clemens.” I thrust my hand at him, etiquette lessons quite forgotten. “I am such a great admirer.”
“Charmed, madam.”
“It’s an absolute honor to meet you, sir. I have a very well-worn copy of The Innocents Abroad at home. I must have read it a dozen times. I wanted to be a travel and adventure writer, you see, and your letters were such an inspiration. They helped me through a very difficult time, and I really ought to thank you…” Lord help me, I was babbling, but could anyone blame me? Mark Twain. Here, in the flesh!
