Secret of the White Rose

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “Any idea where it went off, boss?” A thin man with a tired expression called out from the far end of the crater.

  The cigar-chomping man considered. “I think the bomb was in a bag planted right here by the wall,” he finally said, gesturing to a crumbled area marked by heavy black charring.

  “Maybe even garbage,” his assistant added. “Just look at the debris.”

  The debris here was even more concentrated than in the area we had just passed through: all manner of trash—food scraps, cigarette butts and newspapers—was strewn throughout the crater and beyond.

  “Did they really think they were going to blow up the Tombs?” The thin man gave a half-amused shake of the head.

  “Maybe they just wanted to make a point.” The heavyset man dropped his cigar butt and ground it into the dirt with his heel.

  “Which precinct are you men with?” I called out.

  “None,” the cigar man answered. “Name’s Burt.” He walked over and held out his hand. “This is Sam.” He nodded to the thin, lanky man at his side. “We’re assistants to the General, based at Mulberry Street.”

  I introduced myself quickly and indicated that the guards helping me should proceed to the place in the wall where the anarchists were struggling to escape. I would follow, I hoped, with additional reinforcements.

  “How did you get here so fast?” I gave them a puzzled look.

  “We’re bomb specialists,” Burt said with a grin. “As luck would have it, we were testifying in court when the bomb exploded. Court adjourned—so we walked across the street.”

  I’d heard that General Bingham had developed a bomb response team to deal with handling the evidence following a spate of Black Hand bombings. Unbelievable, really, that dynamite was a big enough problem in this city that we needed a special division just to deal with it.

  Burt pulled a handful of pink flyers out of his pocket, some of which were half burned. “We found these blowing around. Damn anarchists.” He held one up for us to read.

  “‘Our acts of destruction will rid the world of your institutions.’”

  “Nothing’s more institutional than jail,” the thin man muttered.

  The sound of tumbling rocks interrupted us.

  “We’d better get over there. I think the anarchists are making progress,” I said, adding, “The bomb created an opening in their cell wall where they’re trying to escape.”

  Burt looked confused for a moment, but then grabbed his Browning pistol out of its holster. “Not if we can help it. You’re all armed?”

  The prison guards with me were—but I was not.

  “Here, take my Colt.” Sam, Burt’s assistant, handed it to me nervously. “You’ll make better use of it than me.”

  I took it and led them toward the broken wall opening where the guards were waiting. My thoughts turned to Jonathan, struggling to escape, and I certainly hoped no guns would be necessary at all. Stepping forward, I placed the gun barrel within the opening and called out in my most authoritative voice. “Move away from this wall now!”

  In answer, a barrage of rocks was launched from inside the jail.

  I nodded to Burt, who fired his own gun into the air. At the sound of his shot, the rock volley ceased.

  “If anyone tries that again, we’ll fire inside your cell. Now, step away from the wall,” I commanded. I motioned for the other men to make a lot of noise as we set our position. It was enough to convince the men inside to cooperate.

  And we held that position, keeping the jailed anarchists from making use of their escape route. We were still there—waiting, guarding—when our reinforcements from Mulberry Street arrived.

  “We’ll take over here, boys,” a grim-faced man in a black bowler hat said. “You all need to report to your supervisors immediately for alternate instructions.”

  “Why?” I asked, my voice filled with suspicion. “It’s an emergency situation here; I doubt we can be spared.”

  He shook his head. “We got a worse emergency now.” He fixed me with a sober look. “It’s Drayson. During the chaos, he killed two guards and managed to escape.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Fifty-seventh Street and Ninth Avenue, Hell’s Kitchen. 11 P.M.

  “All that destruction and bloodshed so that one bastard can steal his freedom? There’s no justice in this world, that’s for sure,” Mulvaney said, his voice rough.

  We were sitting in the main living area of Mulvaney’s flat, sharing a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey. While I sipped the whiskey in hopes of settling my nerves, Mulvaney was using the alcohol to dull the pain in his broken leg, judging from the overfull glass of tawny liquid in front of him. Assured that I would keep watch over her husband, Bridget had left to gather those supplies she felt would be required while Mulvaney was out of commission.

  “Which doctor set your leg?” I asked, with a quick glance at his stiff limb, now propped up and surrounded by pillows.

  “You think I’d let anyone but Jennings touch me after what happened to you? I intend to have this leg back, good as new,” he said.

  “A simple break … will mend good as new.” I’d heard that diagnosis myself, coming from the very doctor whose poor skills had doomed my right arm to a lifetime of pain and partial use.

  “So the commissioner believes that the bomb was planted only as a diversion,” I said, wanting to move on.

  Mulvaney nodded. “The anarchists surely wouldn’t have minded had more died. Or if any of their jailed comrades had managed to escape. But the point was to free Drayson when he was in transit and not as closely guarded.”

  “They say the bomb created even more damage than the anarchists expected. They didn’t think the wall would crumble in parts.”

  “And two guards murdered by Drayson’s hand,” Mulvaney said, shaking his head.

  “Any leads on who slipped him the gun?”

  “Not one. No one even heard gunshots, there was so much noise and confusion from the bomb.”

  It was true; I had been just across the street.

  “When are you back on duty?” Mulvaney shot me a worried glance.

  “Five in the morning.” Because I’d been at the scene of the bombing, I’d been granted a few hours’ leave to rest before joining my fellow police officers in a full-scale manhunt for Drayson.

  “Bridget made up the bed where you slept last night,” Mulvaney said. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll be all right out here.”

  “You sure?” I set my whiskey glass on the table. I was exhausted—and now that Mulvaney mentioned it, sleep seemed like a good idea.

  Clapping him on the shoulder, I said good night. And after making my way into the makeshift bedroom that Bridget had created for me the night before, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  The entire household was dark when I was awakened by the shrill ring of Mulvaney’s telephone a few hours later.

  It was Bridget who answered; I heard her brisk steps, then her voice, husky with sleep, followed by a pause as she waited for the operator to make the connection. When she spoke again, it was clear that something was wrong.

  After a series of whispered words and the sound of awkward shuffling, Mulvaney’s own voice spoke into the telephone.

  “That’s not even my jurisdiction!”

  Another pause.

  When he spoke again, he was more agitated—which always made his brogue thicker. “My resources are all going to Commissioner Bingham, as well.”

  He stopped, listening. Then he went on to say, “I’m aware that I command one of the largest precincts. I’ve got absolutely no one available. The Drayson hunt takes precedence.”

  After more silence, I heard him sigh and agree to send a man up.

  I got up and sat on the edge of the bed when it became clear that he was shuffling in the direction of my makeshift sleeping area. Mulvaney’s large, six-foot frame was simply not designed to move with only one good leg—and his walking stick wasn’t tall enough
to offer him real support.

  “Wait.” I rushed to meet him, and taking his arm, I helped him sit on one of the dining room chairs. “Careful,” I warned, as he nearly knocked his broken leg into the table. “We’ll find you a better walking stick today.”

  “There’s got to be someone in this city who makes them for tall men,” he said, grimacing with pain. “Blasted leg.”

  I waited, knowing that he would explain the telephone call the moment he could.

  “I need you to handle a shooting victim uptown,” he finally said. “Three eleven West 103rd Street—off West End. The victim’s wife found him.”

  “Suicide?” His description—“shooting victim,” rather than “crime scene” or “murder case”—made me think so.

  Mulvaney shrugged. “I don’t normally take the family’s word for it, but that’s what it sounds like.”

  I glanced at my pocket watch. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning.

  “I’m sorry,” Mulvaney said. “There’s no one else. You know I’ve got every man on the search for Drayson.”

  “You’ll make it right with the commissioner’s deputy?” I asked. Saunders was running the Drayson manhunt, and he was not a man I wanted to cross.

  “Of course,” Mulvaney said with a nod. “Besides, I don’t expect you’ll find any complications. Sounds cut-and-dried. The sort of thing you can do in your sleep.”

  “I wish I could.” Between my exhaustion and frustration, the last thing I wanted to handle was this case. The crime scene would be easy; the distraught family never was. But I had no choice. I got dressed and caught a hansom cab to 103rd and Broadway, resolved to make quick work of the visit. With the manhunt for Drayson, my investigation into the murders of two judges, and Alistair’s mysterious disappearance—I had far more urgent demands on my time.

  Friday

  October 26, 1906

  CHAPTER 20

  311 West 103rd Street. 4:30 A.M.

  The gaslights flickered eerily on West 103rd Street, creating dancing shadows that half illuminated number 311, the middle row house in a line of red sandstone buildings. With a deep breath to steady myself, I ascended nine steep steps to the front door and lifted the brass knocker.

  No one answered at first—which prompted my frustration to rise. Bad enough that I had drawn this assignment when more important work was being done downtown. Even worse if I had the wrong address.

  I pulled a scrap of paper out of my pocket and read my hastily scrawled notes. “311 West 103. Gunshot victim Allan Hartt. Found by wife Elizabeth.”

  Reading the words, I felt a pang of guilt. There were two victims here: the man who had died and the family he had left behind. It wasn’t their fault that personal tragedy had struck the same night that Drayson had broken free.

  Glancing up, I confirmed that I was at number 311. I rapped the knocker again, more loudly this time.

  “Coming,” a woman’s voice called out. A lock turned, the large wooden door swung open, and I found myself face-to-face with a heavyset woman in her late forties, far too well dressed to be a servant. She had a tear-streaked face, and a small child—a sturdy fellow of about three or four years old—clung wide-eyed to her skirt.

  “Didn’t they send more officers?” she asked, her eyes searching wildly behind me.

  “Detective Simon Ziele,” I said, presenting her with my credentials. She barely glanced at them. “I’m expecting two medical men to join me shortly,” I finally added, putting the situation as delicately as possible. Dr. Jennings—not to mention every other coroner’s physician—had been put to use treating victims at the Tombs. But his office retained men on staff who would operate the coroner’s wagon at all hours of the day and night. They should arrive soon to take away this victim.

  I regarded the woman for a moment when she remained silent.

  “Are you Mrs. Hartt?” I asked. I would not have expected the victim’s wife to answer the door herself tonight, but the child’s presence made me uncertain.

  To my relief, she shook her head. “I’m Mrs. Johnson—Mrs. Hartt’s mother. My daughter is resting upstairs. She is overwrought; I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” I said with a nod. “May I come in?”

  She picked up her small grandson, saying, “There are two more children asleep upstairs.” Then she stepped aside so I might enter.

  I glanced around the entry hall, which was lit by gaslight sconces. Apparently the Hartts had not yet installed electric lights.

  “I believe a patrolman is here?” I asked. I’d been told that a night watchman had called in the report of Allan Hartt’s death.

  “He’s in the back parlor,” Mrs. Johnson said, gesturing to the rear of the brownstone. Her lip trembled.

  “You needn’t go with me, if you’d like to wait out here,” I said, indicating the front parlor to our right. “I won’t be long, but I’ll need to ask you a few questions momentarily. Probably your daughter, too.”

  She nodded mutely, and—still carrying the boy—she took a seat on a sofa that stretched the length of a long bay window.

  Meanwhile, I made my way to the rear of the building. Was there no one here except the family? While it was obviously not as wealthy a household as the Jacksons’, I’d still have expected such a large home to retain at least one live-in servant, if not two.

  I started to push open the wooden door, but it opened from behind—and the night watchman welcomed me with obvious relief.

  “Detective,” he said, “I’ve never been happier to see a superior officer. My name’s Will Blount.” He held out his hand, and I introduced myself, as well.

  The lad was probably twenty-one, but he looked much younger: he had hazel eyes, large freckles that lined his nose and cheeks, and thick uncombed brown hair. I suspected he usually stuffed the hair beneath his cap, but tonight it stuck out in all directions.

  “The victim’s in here?” I asked. It was a hint for the patrolman to let me by. In fact, the sickly-sweet smell of blood that dominated the room—an odor that never failed to turn my stomach—was all the confirmation I needed.

  “Of course.” He backed away from the door but continued to talk in a rush as I entered the room. “It’s my first crime scene, sir. I’ve only been on the job for two weeks. And Frankie—that’s my partner, who’s been doing this for almost twenty years—had to pick this night to leave me on my own.”

  “Where is Frankie tonight?” I asked, walking toward the figure obviously slumped in a chair at the window.

  “He’s working downtown. Some emergency at City Hall,” the youth said, twisting one edge of his coat.

  He meant the Drayson manhunt, of course. Only rookie cops like the young man with me now were exempt. It was where I ought to be now …

  With another pang of guilt, I pushed the thought from my mind.

  I stepped to the window, cracked it open, took a deep gulp of fresh air to settle my stomach, and then turned to face the chair where Allan Hartt had taken his own life.

  A blood-soaked pillowcase covered his head—a small mercy, I supposed, designed to protect the wife who would probably be the first to find him. I walked around to the left and saw the perfect hole in the pillowcase where the bullet had entered and ended his life, most likely immediately. His arms hung lifeless over each side of the upholstered green chair.

  I stepped closer. I knew that we would have to remove the pillowcase—both to positively identify the victim and to ascertain whether he had suffered any other injuries before the fatal gunshot. I wasn’t looking forward to this task and decided I would wait until the coroner’s men arrived.

  Looking down, I saw that the day’s newspaper sections were scattered on the floor. Something was missing …

  “Where’s the gun?” I asked—for it should have fallen to the ground.

  “I didn’t think to look,” Will said, flushing a deep red. “Probably under the chair—if not under some of the papers.”

  He got on his han
ds and knees to search while I continued to survey the scene.

  “Maybe his wife moved it?” I finally suggested when he came up empty-handed.

  “Probably,” he said too readily. “She’s distraught, obviously. And I don’t know exactly how much time she spent in here.”

  “Couldn’t have been long. Didn’t she report it right away?”

  “She ran screaming into the street when she found him. Luckily for her, I was just three houses away. It took me several minutes to calm her down enough to figure out what was wrong.”

  I turned, noting that the carpet in this room was threadbare, and the green upholstered chair was ripped. Mr. Hartt was obviously a man of some means to afford a brownstone of this size, but the interior did not match the grandness of its façade. Had they come into recent money troubles? This would not be an uncommon reason for suicide. And committing suicide at home, with a wife and children upstairs, suggested a severe desperation. Or callousness.

  “Any neighbors hear? Someone must have come to help,” I said.

  “Can’t imagine the neighbors didn’t hear,” he said, shaking his head. “But it was early this morning, and no one left their home.”

  “So you came inside and called for help?” I had begun to walk the length of the room, trying to learn something more of Allan Hartt. He seemed to be a historian by hobby if not profession, for several books on United States and European history lined the bookshelves.

  “That’s what I expected to do, but she doesn’t have a telephone. I hated to do it, but I had to leave her for several minutes while I walked back over to Broadway. That’s where I asked a cabby to go to the precinct house and tell them I needed help.”

  The simple walnut table that served as Mr. Hartt’s desk was covered by a mess of bills and papers. I leafed through them quickly. He had been a frugal man, spending little—but no account appeared to be in arrears.