I registered that for a moment and decided it made sense—except for one thing. “Then why take up with the Creole woman rather than a fellow Swede?”
The boy exchanged a look with his father, then gave me an odd stare. “Sir, that is exactly what my father and I have always wondered.”
* * *
Before leaving the print shop, Mulvaney had called ahead to check in with his secretary for messages. To our surprise, he was informed that Lars Halver had been captured and was waiting for us in a holding cell at police headquarters on Mulberry Street. Richard Green’s assessment of the Swede had been uncanny in its accuracy: Lars had been arrested at a boardinghouse run by a Swedish woman named Anna Brundige. All we had to do was identify him as the man we’d seen at the Breslin Hotel and question him about the recent killings.
We were so close to wrapping up this case—for surely the questions we would ask of Lars Halver would generate the answers we wanted. We’d figure out how—and why—he had targeted Jackson, Porter, and Hartt in the name of achieving justice for Leroy Sanders. We’d learn why Sanders was important to the anarchist cause. And just maybe, the answers we found would satisfy Commissioner Bingham.
Of course, it wasn’t to be that simple.
Our first intimation of trouble came when we arrived at the grand lobby at Mulberry Street and heard a booming bass voice from the hallway, launching a series of profanities. I recognized the voice as that of Big Bill Hodges, the commissioner’s right-hand man.
Mulvaney and I exchanged a worried glance.
“See what’s going on,” he said, leaning heavily on his cane. Normally he’d have been first to see for himself, but his broken leg continued to slow him down.
I entered the hallway and saw Hodges himself, apoplectic with rage. “This is beyond belief. Just what kind of incompetent louts are running our jails? This man was valuable to us—”
“We know, sir.” A man in a black suit took his arm. “Don’t worry; General Bingham remains satisfied. As he puts it, dead men cause no trouble. There’ll be no trial now; no defense. We’ll frame the story we give the press to suit our purposes.”
Hodges, somewhat mollified, said something incomprehensible as they rounded the corner and descended the stairs.
“Ziele!” Mulvaney called out.
I stuck my head into the first office door to our left, where a young man sat alone, nervously drawing on his cigarette. I recognized him as one of the department secretaries.
“Captain Mulvaney and I are here to question Halver, the man you just arrested. Can you tell me what’s going on?”
The man’s eyes grew wide. “You mean no one’s told you? He’s dead.”
“Who? Not Halver.” I hoped I had misunderstood.
He gave me a sober nod.
“But how? You just picked him up. No one told us he was injured during his arrest.”
“He wasn’t.” The young man ground his cigarette into an ashtray. “That’s why everyone’s upset. Someone managed to knife him in the gut, right in his holding cell.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “Where?”
“Downstairs in the basement. Within the last half hour.”
I returned to Mulvaney’s side, helping him along the corridor and into an elevator where the attendant took us down to the basement, which swarmed with men in blue.
Commissioner Bingham was at the center of it all, gazing down at a crumpled man lying in a pool of blood. He caught sight of us. “Ziele. Mulvaney. Is this the Swede you saw at the scene of Angus Porter’s murder?”
The other men broke ranks and made way for us to draw closer. When we did, I immediately recognized the white-blond hair and broad face of the man in the elevator.
“It’s him,” I said. “What happened?”
“One of us?” Mulvaney added, his voice low.
“What do you mean?” The commissioner’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Who else had access to this man other than the police?” Mulvaney asked with a shrug. “Surely not another anarchist?”
The commissioner ignored the question but seized upon a thought that occurred to him. “That’s exactly how we’ll play this one, boys. A hated suspect—an anarchist ringleader—meets his deserved end. Never mind that his landlady thinks he was a choirboy.”
“What if the reporters ask how, General?” one officer said.
General Bingham’s lips curled into a self-satisfied smile. “We’ll distract them. If we give ’em what they need to make their story a sensation, boys, they’ll never ask. Now, let’s put this case to bed.”
But was Lars Halver the real criminal mastermind or the perfect scapegoat? Had he sent the blackmail letters that killed the judges as well as Professor Hartt? Would his rooms at Anna Brundige’s reveal any answers? Mulvaney opined that he was certain all evidence necessary would be found there, and he would personally take charge of the search.
I looked one last time at Lars Halver’s lifeless, bloody form.
Was this case over?
Or not.
CHAPTER 28
The Tombs. 10 A.M.
For my part, I returned to the Tombs. I owed it to Mrs. Strupp, who had left me multiple messages asking that I check on Jonathan. I owed it to the investigation, for I believed that Jonathan possessed the answers I sought regarding Lars Halver’s role in this conspiracy. But most of all, I owed it to myself. All around me, stories were being manipulated and framed for public consumption; tales told that would satisfy politicians, judges, and the masses alike. I’d no use for polite fictions. I wanted the truth.
Jonathan’s cell was at the end of the second-floor corridor. He had been isolated; no one occupied the cells immediately surrounding his. His only company was the guard who sat, silent and wooden, charged with ensuring that Jonathan would neither escape nor cause further trouble.
I motioned to indicate that I wanted privacy. The guard got up from his metal chair and stretched. “Time for my cigarette break anyhow. Just call if you need help,” he said.
I muttered a quick thanks, grabbed the metal chair, and placed it opposite Jonathan’s cell. Then I waited.
He sat at the foot of his bed, staring at the wall of his bare cell. There was scant light. And, presumably because they believed he had been involved in the bombing that had taken two of the department’s own, he had even been denied the usual courtesy of a washbasin and bucket. He looked frail and small, in prison clothes at least two sizes too big for him.
It was a long time before he finally spoke. “What do you want?”
“Answers,” I replied.
He let out a long sigh but did not turn. “You always wanted to understand everything. As though that would make things better. It doesn’t.”
“Maybe not for everyone.” I waited some more, then said, “Jonathan, you’re going to be charged with conspiracy to murder.”
A brief pause, then, “I know.”
“Is it true? Did you help plan the bombing?”
“Individual responsibility doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, turning wearily. “They say if one of us did, then all of us did. We’re all co-conspirators.”
“It matters to me.”
He looked toward me for the first time, sizing up my colorful bruises. “You don’t look so good.”
I didn’t miss a beat. “Neither do you.” Jonathan’s guards had been none too gentle transporting him to his cell; there was a large purple contusion near his left eye.
“I know what you think, but it wasn’t me who ordered it.” It was as close to an apology as he was going to offer.
“I can help you, if you help me. I need information.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t promise what you can’t give. The commissioner intends to make an example of all of us. There will be no room for leniency.”
“I’m well aware of the political complications,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Even so, there are many who want to see justice done. I have contacts in the newspapers and the
law—and I will see to it you have the best defense available.”
He made a wry face. “In my case, that may mean little.”
He was silent for a few minutes, then finally gave me the opening I’d been waiting for. “What can I tell you?”
I leaned in to see him clearly, placing my elbows on top of my knees. “What do you know about Lars Halver?”
“Ah, the Swede,” he said, his face lighting with recognition. “One of our most reliable members, who handled all our newsletters and flyers, among other tasks. We could always count on Lars.”
“We know about the flyers,” I said quietly. “Was he the man commissioned to murder the judges?”
Jonathan grew pale. “I don’t know about that.”
“There’s evidence that he was. I myself saw him at the scene of Judge Porter’s murder.”
“Look,” Jonathan said, beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow. “Al Drayson and Paul and the others all talked a good game. They constantly had plans going on for one thing or another—and I’m not going to lie to you and say I wasn’t part of it sometimes. I knew about Drayson’s first scheme, and I also knew there was a plan to break Drayson out. God knows I’ve no love for anyone here; they got what they deserved,” he added, his voice bitter. “But I didn’t know about any plan to kill the judges.”
“Tell me about the woman who kept company with Lars Halver. She’s been described as ‘exotic-looking’ and possibly Creole. Did you know her?”
“Of course. She was a true comrade. Paul liked her and relied on her, giving her a good deal of work.”
“What was her name?”
“Her real name? I don’t know.”
My voice grew hard. “How could you possibly not know? You just told me one of your highest-level members gave her a good deal of work.”
“Sometimes we make it a practice not to know. Especially for those comrades who want to keep their true identity a secret … those who would risk their livelihood if they were discovered. Anyway, we called her Allison. Whether that is her true name is anybody’s guess.”
“So what do you know about her?” I asked.
“I first met her when she came to a meeting with China Rose. They worked together for a while on feminist issues, and both of them were close with Al Drayson, Paul, and other higher-ups.”
“Did you ever personally work with her?”
“No. Paul tended to use women for one kind of work and men for another.”
“But someone apparently assisted Lars—”
He cut me off. “You discovered that, not me. She never helped me with any project. I just saw her regularly at meetings.”
“Any idea where I might find her?”
A curious look crossed his face. “Normally, I’d say to check out the next meeting. Assuming you haven’t arrested her by then.”
“But you don’t know where she lives?”
“No. I never knew that. Paul might.”
Tired of sitting, I stood—and took a step closer to Jonathan’s cell, leaning on the cold iron bars. “There’s one more thing. There was blackmail involved in this case. I take it you knew nothing of that?”
He shook his head.
“I wouldn’t misplace your loyalty,” I said, keeping my tone reasonable. “If I wanted to follow the money, where would I begin?”
He gave me a guarded look. “What do you mean?”
I was thinking again of something I had told Mulvaney at the beginning of this investigation: more anarchists have done jail time for robbery than dynamite.
“Whatever the citizens of New York may think of your group, the fact is, you are an organization,” I said. “You sponsor activities—some legal, some admittedly not. All of them require money.”
“So you’re asking me where we keep our books?”
I nodded.
“I can’t tell you that,” he said, sitting straighter. “They’ll have my head if I do. Paul especially—he’d pin every action our group has taken in recent months on me. If I managed to escape the electric chair, he’d ensure I never saw the light of day again.”
“Paul Hlad has never had your best interests at heart.”
“Yes, he has,” Jonathan said, setting his jaw. “He has done nothing but good for me.”
“I’m sure that’s why he’s turned evidence against you,” I said, my voice sarcastic.
He stood and walked toward me. “What do you mean?”
“I guess they don’t tell you guys much. Paul Hlad is providing evidence against Drayson, you, and others in exchange for immunity from prosecution. He was released this morning.”
“You’re bluffing me.” He caught hold of the bars that caged him, and I’d no doubt that he would have grabbed me instead if he could.
“I wouldn’t bluff, Jonathan. If you like, I’ll call the guard and you can ask him yourself.”
He glowered. “If I find out later that you lied…”
“Where do you keep the books?” I asked again. “Not the money itself. Just your financial records that show cash flow coming and going.”
“If I tell you…”
“Then I will help you to the best of my ability.”
With a sigh, he walked away. Crossing to the opposite side of his cell, he banged his fist into the wall, hard.
I simply waited.
The words, when they came, were wrenched out of him as though against his will. “China Rose,” he said. “She keeps the books—and the cash—at her parents’ restaurant. But she won’t help you; you’ll have to break in.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Do you want the books or not?” he said with a growl. “Now, in the cellar, you’ll see a wall filled with bags of rice. One bag will look deflated compared to the others; that one contains our records as well as the money. And there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If what you told me about Paul Hlad is true, then you’d better hurry. Because he is certain to run the moment he’s out, no matter what they promised him. And those books—not to mention the money we have on hand—will be among the first things he’ll go for upon his release.”
“All right.” I gave him a final look before I left. The sadness I felt was almost unbearable; I’d have done a lot to spare him the ordeal that lay ahead of him.
“You’ll help?” he asked in a whisper, suddenly drained of all bravado.
“I promised I would.”
“Because of what I just told you?” His voice caught in his throat.
I shook my head. “No. For your daughter.”
And although I didn’t say it out loud … for Hannah.
* * *
It would have been better to wait for nightfall, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t risk Paul Hlad getting to the information I wanted before me.
It was now almost noon. It was a good window of opportunity; lunch service would demand everyone’s attention upstairs—or so I hoped.
The streets were as crowded as ever. I shadowed a man carrying a giant basket of fish on top of his head, on the theory that it would somewhat disguise my presence. When he rounded the corner of Mott Street, I ducked into the alleyway behind. Slinking past garbage containers and wooden crates, I found a second back alley leading to the rear of most buildings on Mott.
I counted carefully, five buildings from the corner.
But no rear entrance to the cellar. How was I to pass unnoticed if the only entry was from the cellar door in the front sidewalk?
I crossed back through the alley to the sidewalk and decided: there was no help for it. I’d enter through the front. So long as I looked like I knew what I was doing, chances were no one would question me.
Head held high, I walked to the cellar door, flung it open, and descended the staircase into the dank space below the Red Lantern. No one shouted at me or followed me; there, I was lucky.
I found the shelf of rice bags exactly as Jonathan had described. With my left palm, I punched each in tu
rn until I came to one that deflated the moment I touched it.
I reached to grab it—then froze, for somebody had shouted.
The voice was male—guttural and Chinese. I tucked into the shadows so that I was hidden from the view of anyone peering down from above. Of course, if anyone descended the stairs, then I had no hope of avoiding discovery.
Another shout from above—female this time.
Then the metal doors clanged shut and all went dark. So long as they didn’t lock them …
I made my way to the burlap sacks containing rice as my eyes readjusted to almost total darkness. I felt rather than saw the deflated sack—and reached in. I first came across a stack of bills but left them for now. I’d tell Mulvaney to send a pair of officers to retrieve the anarchist funds later. My focus now was on the records ledger, which was at the bottom of the sack.
Grabbing it, I shoved the ledger inside my coat flap, replaced the sack on the shelf, and felt my way back to the ladder that would take me to street level once again.
I reached my hand up, prepared to lift open the door, when it was flung open wide.
Blinded by the sudden light, I could barely make out Mei Lin—her face livid with anger. “What are you doing here?”
“Must have taken a wrong turn,” I said without a hint of humor on my face.
Her eyes narrowed. “The others will find out. You will not be safe.”
“Are you threatening a police detective?” I replied.
“I’m responsible for what’s down there. You cannot take. They will blame me and my family.” She crossed her arms, blocking my way.
“I only want the ledger,” I said in my calmest voice. “The money is still there. You can check.”
In answer, she began to clamber down the ladder herself, forcing me to retreat into the small basement space.
She immediately went to the rice sack, opened it, and began counting the bills and coins. I stayed near the afternoon sunlight and opened the ledger, scanning their list of donations. Most amounts were small, given by members themselves: a nickel here, a penny there. Larger donations in dollars were given by organizations, including the UAW. Given their close association, I wondered if a portion of union dues was regularly diverted to the anarchist coffers.
Secret of the White Rose Page 25
