“I’m mentioning it now,” Alistair said, as I passed the copy of the musical score to the judge. “It’s not a musical symbol per se. Rather, the white rose substitutes for the bass clef symbol in the last bar of the page.”
The judge looked at it for some moments, then held it high in the air toward the light. Finally, he put it down on Alistair’s coffee table with a grunt.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “When did Hugo receive this?”
“It was among the letters delivered the same day he was killed,” I answered. “Do you have any idea what it means?”
Alistair shook his head. “Hugo appreciated fine music as much as anyone, but he only dabbled with the piano. I can’t imagine why anyone would send him a musical score.” He took back the copy of the score and crossed the room to the piano. “I wish Isabella were here. She is far more accomplished than I am.”
It would have been easy enough to invite her, for she lived across the hall—in the same apartment that she had occupied since her marriage to Alistair’s son. But Alistair sat down, opened the piano top, and began to hunt for various keys. It was now obvious to me why Alistair had chosen this room for today’s meeting, rather than his library—which, with its sweeping views of Central Park, was normally his favorite. When he finished the score, he swiveled the stool back around to face us.
“Well?” He gave me an expectant look.
I shrugged. “It’s a nice melody but nothing catchy or memorable.”
The judge was deep in thought for some moments. “You’ve played it in its entirety,” he finally said, “and it means nothing to me. Let’s try something else: Where the last bar shows a white rose instead of the bass clef, can you play that section alone?”
“All right.” Alistair obliged, saying the notes out loud as he played. “Low A, E, E, high E, G, E, middle C—”
Angus interrupted him. “Say, is there a rhythm to that?”
A look of annoyance crossed Alistair’s face. “I’m playing it exactly as written. It’s just a mix of quarter notes and half notes.”
“Can you try it again?” the judge asked.
Alistair shrugged and played the notes again, careful to follow their rhythm. It didn’t improve the melody at all.
“The rhythm leads me to believe the melody is unimportant,” the judge said, thinking aloud. “Do you have a blank sheet of paper?” Then, after draining his sherry, he began working out something on the coffee table. Alistair and I watched, mystified, until Angus finally leaned back with a look of smug satisfaction.
“It’s a musical cipher,” he said.
“A what?” I asked.
“A cipher—a code that conceals a secret message,” he explained patiently. “Specifically, the writer of this code”—he tapped at the musical score with his forefinger—“used Porta’s code, where musical notes represent letters of the alphabet.”
Alistair’s eyes lit up. “Giovanni della Porta?”
“Who?” I asked, puzzled.
It was Angus who responded. “Porta was a Renaissance man with many interests, and his code became famous. It was used widely throughout the eighteenth century and later adapted by others. Most musicians knew of it; many amused themselves by using it for secret communications with one another. I suppose it makes sense,” he added, eyes twinkling. “After all, many believe that music is the one, true universal language. Schumann wrote his Carnaval Opus Nine based on a cipher, and Brahms and Bach embedded names in their music. But I digress…”
He drew a musical bar on a new blank sheet of paper. “You see, in Porta’s cipher, every note has an alphabetic correlation. So the half-note value of A-below-middle-C corresponds to the alphabet letter A. But A-above-middle-C corresponds to the letter H. And so it continues till you reach high E … then you descend the staff, this time with quarter notes to show the difference. You finally end with low A again, this time representing Z.”
“So let’s work out what this means.” Alistair leaned in, making some notes with his own pen.
Angus nodded. I couldn’t quite decipher the odd expression with which he returned Alistair’s gaze. I felt as though they understood something that had eluded me.
When Alistair finished, he turned the paper around so the judge and I might read it. “Do I have it right?” he asked.
“You do.” The judge confirmed it, then read the full message aloud. “‘Leroy avenged.’”
“Leroy avenged.” I echoed the words, then looked at Alistair and the judge. “Al Drayson was never known as Leroy, was he?”
The judge shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. But we should double-check records of his middle name as well as any nicknames he may be known by.”
“Now the list of the judge’s former cases becomes even more important,” I said. “But if this is correct—”
The judge interrupted me. “It’s correct. I’m certain of it.”
“Then we’ve just found our killer’s motive,” I said.
Identifying the killer himself, of course, would be far more complicated. But Leroy, assuming he was not a clue planted only to lead us astray, now held the key to the case. Judge Hugo Jackson had somehow injured a man named Leroy. Who was Leroy? And what person in Leroy’s life wanted this wrong—whether it was real or perceived—avenged badly enough to kill for it?
The timing suggested a connection to Drayson. After all, this killer had struck on the eve of jury deliberations in Drayson’s trial. And while that might be a simple coincidence, I was coming around to Alistair’s view that little in this crime scene could be characterized as “coincidental.” There must be some relationship between Al Drayson and the Leroy named in the musical cipher, some as yet unknown link that would lead us to Judge Jackson’s killer. And given Commissioner Bingham’s and the police department’s unwillingness to entertain any leads that would not cripple the underground anarchist network, uncovering this connection would rest squarely on my shoulders alone.
CHAPTER 7
The Dakota, 1 West Seventy-second Street. 6 P.M.
“What’s going on? And why are none of you dressed for dinner?”
I caught my breath when I looked up and saw Isabella standing in the doorway—wearing a yellow dress, her chestnut hair done up for the evening. Her brown eyes sparkled as she regarded us all.
Alistair visibly relaxed the moment he saw his daughter-in-law, though he approached her with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Isabella. We were so caught up in discussion, I completely forgot.”
A look of disappointment crossed her face, though her eyes were warm as she greeted me first, then Angus Porter. Had she been looking forward to their dinner—or was she sad to have been excluded from the afternoon’s discussion? My bet was on the latter.
Alistair pulled out his pocket watch and frowned. “Past six o’clock already. Angus and I still have things to discuss; I’ll have Mrs. Mellown put together dinner for us here.” He turned to me. “Ziele, why don’t you take Isabella out for dinner and fill her in on this case? Take my automobile, even, if you like.”
Caught off guard by this unexpected display of generosity, I gave him a questioning look. Not only was it unlike him to offer me the use of his most prized possession—a 1905 Ford Model B motorcar—but I also knew that he regarded the friendship I had developed with Isabella with no small measure of suspicion.
“Alistair,” I said, “you know I’ve never driven a motorcar before.”
His expression remained bland. “You’ve watched me often enough. It’s not difficult.”
“No, thanks all the same. A hansom cab will suit us fine.” I’d been a passenger in Alistair’s motorcar many times, but I knew I lacked his skill in navigating roads filled with horse-drawn carriages, trolleys, and pedestrians. Not to mention his patience in hand-cranking the engine whenever the motor sputtered to a stop.
I exchanged a brief good-bye with Judge Porter as Alistair walked Isabella down the hallway. It was almost as though he couldn�
�t be rid of us fast enough—and I wondered what he wanted to discuss privately with the judge? Since our first case together last year, I’d learned that Alistair was often less than forthcoming; in fact, it was his habit to withhold information he didn’t consider relevant to the case—never mind that I might disagree.
Then again, I didn’t want to judge Alistair harshly. He and Angus Porter had been schoolmates with Hugo Jackson; I supposed it was natural for them to spend time alone reminiscing about their friend.
“Here,” Alistair whispered to me in parting as he handed me a small packet. “These are copies of the letters Guo Mei Lin wrote to Al Drayson. I thought you might want to review them over dinner.”
“How did you get these?” I asked, my voice rough.
“Connections, my friend,” he answered with an enigmatic smile.
“And why didn’t you mention these earlier?” I pocketed the letters.
He shrugged. “I didn’t think Angus needed to know. Enjoy your night.”
* * *
Once we were settled into our cab heading downtown and I had given the Chinatown address to the driver, Isabella gave me a curious smile. “Are we going to Mon Lay Won, Simon?”
I shook my head. She referred to the restaurant we’d frequented with Alistair in the past, known as the Chinese Delmonico’s, the usual choice of New York’s elite because it was said to be to Chinese food what the famed uptown restaurant was to fine cuisine. “Tonight I have a less fashionable Chinese restaurant in mind. We’re meeting a woman there.”
She looked at me askance. “We made dinner plans not fifteen minutes ago.”
“I didn’t say the woman was expecting us.”
“Then you’d better tell me quickly about this latest case of yours—and how she figures into it,” she retorted, gripping the sides of her seat as our wagon jolted suddenly to the right.
I filled her in as the cab took us downtown at a rapid clip, over cobblestones mired in sludge, and who knew what else, jockeying for position with motorcars and trolleys and other horse-drawn wagons, splattering mud on those unfortunate pedestrians who drew too close.
Isabella was a quick study, so it took little time to explain how Alistair had pulled me into this case—involving a prominent judge, a controversial trial, and a crime scene riddled with symbols. After I had filled her in on the background, I returned to China Rose and our purpose this evening.
“Her name is Guo Mei Lin,” I said, following the Chinese convention of pronouncing the surname first. “She’s also known as China Rose—and apparently she is Al Drayson’s sweetheart. She attended his trial every day and attempted to pass him love letters. I just received copies of two of them.” I gestured to the brown satchel at my feet.
“And you think she is somehow involved in Judge Jackson’s murder?” Isabella asked.
“Given the timing of his murder—and the notoriety of the Drayson trial—it seems likely that an anarchist was involved. If she wasn’t involved herself, then she may know who was.”
A perplexed look crossed Isabella’s face. “I wonder why she was never written about in the papers. I’ve followed the trial and read the news just like everybody else; Drayson has been vilified by everyone from Hearst and Pulitzer to Ochs. I’d have thought the yellow rags at least would have picked up the story.” She turned to me and laughed. “I could practically write the headline myself, based on what you’ve told me: ‘The Devil and His Chinese Paramour.’”
She had a point. “I’m not sure why,” I said. “Maybe because she’s Chinese?”
“Emma Goldman is Russian, and they write about her all the time.” She jutted out her chin.
“She’s also a prominent anarchist.”
“Yet you suspect China Rose to be just as active, if not as prominent.”
I gave up, laughing. “You’re right—and I don’t have an answer for it. It may be nothing more than a favor called in by the police, who have found controlling the crowds outside the courtroom to be a challenge. One of the commissioner’s deputies may have promised full access to Drayson after the trial in exchange for restraint during it.”
She looked at me closely. “Something else troubles you. You keep wrinkling your brow, the way you always do when your evidence doesn’t quite add up.”
Her lips curved into a smile when I nodded. She was coming to know me too well.
“It’s possible that the judge was killed merely to derail Drayson’s all-but-certain conviction,” I admitted. “But because of the symbols found at the crime scene—and the message ‘Leroy Avenged’—I believe the killer could be motivated by something in the judge’s past that the Drayson trial has brought to the surface.”
The hansom cab lurched to a halt—for we had arrived at our destination: the corner of Bayard and Mott.
“In other words, you think it’s more complicated than just anarchist support for Drayson?”
“I do. Come.” I paid the driver and helped Isabella out of the carriage. “We’ll talk more over dinner.”
Once we were on the sidewalk, I paused for just a moment to take in the unique odor that was Chinatown—always an olfactory sensation that overwhelmed me. This evening, the smell of the day’s fish from competing markets mingled with the pungent aroma of cigar stands and tea shops. Their scents were so strong that they generally masked the odors emanating from the mass of humanity around us—from sweaty laborers returning home to perfumed women headed out for the evening. And the din was terrific, as people shouted in all different languages: Mandarin and Cantonese dialects, mixed with Korean and Japanese as well as English. I could speak only my native tongue, but I could generally distinguish among the others if I listened to their tones.
The crowds jostled us as we descended into the street and made our way onto the sidewalk. Chinese laundrymen passed us, carrying bundles of clean clothes on their heads; women bumped us with baskets filled with meats and vegetables; young men jockeyed their way into saloon doorways; and the occasional patrolman on his evening rounds made a pretense of keeping order, stopping at various places of business to talk with the shopkeepers.
“You like tour? Only fifteen cents for half hour.” A lobbygow, or tour guide, came up to us. “Then I take you to a restaurant with exotic cuisine.”
“No, thanks,” I said, taking Isabella’s arm. I had no need of a guide; I knew this area well, thanks to a boyhood spent just blocks north of here. And during my own father’s frequent absences, Nicky Scarpetta, the gruff owner of a saloon around the corner on Pell Street, had served as a surrogate of sorts—helping my mother when the rent money was missing, and looking out for me in ways I appreciated only now that I was grown.
We continued down Mott Street, past several Chinese restaurants that competed for business on this block alone: the Imperial, the Port Arthur, and the Tuxedo.
“Which one are you looking for, Simon?” She pressed her hand into my arm as a basket of fish—seemingly suspended in air, so tiny was the person behind it—materialized from nowhere and bumped into her.
“The Red Lantern, just ahead.” I pointed to the yellow awning that showed Chinese characters only, next to the drawing of a simple lantern on a red flag.
I pulled Isabella toward me, out of the way of a man who staggered near us haphazardly, no doubt having spent too many hours this afternoon in one of Chinatown’s opium dens or saloons. Some advertised openly; others could be found only in the upstairs rooms of certain restaurants, hidden from general view. Their presence had given respectable Chinese restaurants all over the city a bad reputation—with the result that few survived in neighborhoods outside Chinatown. New Yorkers associated Chinese restaurants with these disreputable haunts, but, in fact, most degenerate patrons and owners were Irish or English, German or Russian. Anything but Chinese.
We eventually made our way to the corner, where the Red Lantern had a menu displayed in its front window. We ascended two steps, entered through red curtains that passed for a door, and found ourselves im
mediately greeted by a pretty, petite woman in a blue silk robe, or hanfu.
“Ni hao ma,” she said with a polite smile. “Good evening.”
“Hun hao, xie, xie. Table for two, please.”
“Of course.” Her second smile was broader, revealing yellow teeth that ruined the otherwise pleasing effect. I presumed she was a heavy user of tea, tobacco, or both—for there was no other explanation why her teeth would be so heavily stained.
We followed her into a small dining room filled to capacity; she led us to the one free table at the back. The other patrons stopped eating to stare at us—for we were the only non-Chinese diners in the room, and Isabella the only woman, save an elderly lady dining with her son.
When we were seated at a small wooden table in the back, our hostess addressed us again. “We have Chinese language menu only. You read Chinese?”
“E dien dien. Maa Maa dei,” I replied, trying two different dialects and probably bungling both. Only a little. I’d learned some Mandarin characters, enough to differentiate noodle dishes from rice, but nothing more.
She nodded. “I help you then.”
“Mei Lin!” A voice called out from the kitchen, followed by something in Chinese.
“Sorry,” she mumbled as she turned. “One minute.”
The moment she was out of earshot, Isabella leaned in to me, saying in a whisper, “She doesn’t look like an anarchist to me.”
I could only shrug. Bertillon may have been wrong when he argued that criminals had different features from law-abiding citizens, but he had one thing right: we all tended to expect a criminal to look the part of a villain. It was human instinct—and I recalled how, just this morning, I had searched for some telltale sign of evil in Al Drayson’s eyes. Of course there had been none. The worst sort of evil was invisible; it slept in the heart and mind.
We waited several moments, but Mei Lin did not return.
“If we order standard fare, chances are they’ll have it,” Isabella suggested. So we decided on our order: a pot of Long Suey tea, fried lobster in rice, and vegetable chow mein with a side of bok choy. I gestured to a male waiter who came over, introduced himself as Charlie, and wrote down our choices on his small tablet.
Secret of the White Rose Page 8
