A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “We heard there was trouble,” Pietro said. “The whole neighborhood is talking about it.”

  “A rich man was attacked in the alley,” his companion added in heavily accented English.

  “I heard he died,” said another of the roughs from his perch under the awning. He yawned.

  “They say he was asking questions in the saloons,” Pietro went on. “An Englishman, they said. It sounded like your boss. I was afraid you might have been with him.”

  Touched as I was by Pietro’s concern, it left his tongue dangerously unguarded. “It was nothing,” I said, hoping he read the warning in my eyes. “An accident.”

  “That is not what we hear,” said the big man. He was watching me carefully. “An attack, people say.”

  Damn.

  “I … suppose it was, yes.”

  The thug’s eyes narrowed. “Then why you say accident?”

  “I just…” My glance slid to Pietro. “I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all. Mr. Wiltshire will be fine, and I wasn’t hurt.”

  Pietro started to say something, but the big man cut him off. “Who was it? Who attack you and why?”

  “Just some street thugs. It was our own fault, really. A wealthy gentleman like that in this part of town … We were just asking for trouble.”

  A dark look crossed the big man’s face. “This street belongs to Augusto. Nobody touches nobody without permission.” He added something in Italian over his shoulder, and his fellow roughs rumbled their agreement. Pietro, meanwhile, studied his shoes.

  “You see these men again, you tell Marco, sì?” He pointed at his meaty chest. “I remind them who is in charge.”

  I had a pretty good idea of what that reminder would consist of, and for a moment I actually considered showing him the sketch, but there was no way to explain how I came to have a drawing of a supposedly random street rough.

  I offered Marco some vague assurances and hurried on my way, but not before trading a final grim glance with Pietro. I had a sinking feeling that I’d just made things worse for him.

  Again.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE BLOODHOUND—FUGITIVES—AN IMPROBABLE MUSE

  One-Eyed Johnny’s didn’t open until ten o’clock in the morning, which left me plenty of time to peruse the morning newspapers. I was half afraid of finding accounts of Mr. Tesla’s miraculous feat splashed across every morning edition, but only the New York World made any mention of it, and in such sensational language as to practically guarantee that no one would take it very seriously. (Witness reports of a foreign wizard electrocuting a man back to life were dismissed by the Edison Illuminating Company as simultaneously “preposterous” and “further proof of the dangers of alternating current.” I guess Mr. Edison wanted to hedge his bets.)

  Theodore Roosevelt, meanwhile, seemed to be everywhere. Not just in the papers but literally, with an exhausting schedule of campaign appearances all over the city, not to mention a barrage of interviews and editorials. A runaway locomotive, Mr. Clemens had called him, and I could see why. He was also, without doubt, the most famous man in New York, which made my job even harder.

  “I just wish we knew how deep this conspiracy runs,” I complained to Clara while she tidied up breakfast. “Even if we find Foster, there’s no guarantee that will stop whatever he’s put in motion.”

  “Mmm,” she said, barely audible over the clink of china.

  “We were already outnumbered before Thomas was put out of play.”

  “Even with Miss Islington’s help?”

  I glanced up from my paper. “There’s that tone again. You don’t even know her.”

  “No, I don’t. We wasn’t properly introduced. All I know is her name is Miss Islington, and as for me, I’m just plain Clara. Not that you made a point of saying so.”

  “It didn’t come up, that’s all. I didn’t make proper introductions because—”

  “’Cause I’m just the help.”

  I stiffened. “That’s not true.”

  “No? You telling me that if I was one of them high society types, a Miss So-and-So, you wouldn’t’ve handled it different?”

  “You’re being unfair,” I said, my cheeks burning. “I was preoccupied, that’s all. I needed her help with the investigation.”

  “Oh, I know. She’s part of the circle now, ain’t she? Let her in on your secret, and Mr. Wiltshire’s, too. But I bet you didn’t tell her everything.” Clara looked me straight in the eye, so hard that I squirmed. “Did you mention how you used to be the help, too? Or did you leave that part out?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t have to. “Uh-huh,” she said, and headed for the kitchen.

  I stared after her, angry and confused and ashamed all at once. It was true, I hadn’t introduced Clara properly, but I hadn’t meant anything by it. It hadn’t occurred to me, that’s all. I certainly didn’t think Edith was better than Clara.

  “You don’t have time for this,” I growled to myself, springing up from my chair and grabbing the satchel I’d packed for Thomas. Whatever was eating Clara, I’d have to deal with it later. I had a bounty hunter to recruit.

  I caught a stage down to Twenty-Eighth and hiked over to Broadway, at the easternmost fringes of the Tenderloin tenement district. After yesterday, the last thing I wanted was to crawl into yet another hole under a fleabag hotel, but One-Eyed Johnny’s was the favorite watering joint of one Annie Harris, also known as the Bloodhound, and about the only place you stood a level chance of finding her. So I took a deep, lingering breath of “fresh” Tenderloin air and plunged into the pit.

  First I paid court to the master of the house. Johnny stood behind the bar as always, fiddling with a leaking barrel of flat beer while he readied for the day’s business. Already, a few regulars stood at the bar, though it was too dark to tell if the Bloodhound was among them. I greeted Johnny with a nod and a smile, which he returned with a flash of white teeth that was disconcerting beneath the angry scar and eye patch.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” I began.

  “Sure,” he answered in his rich baritone. “You with Sir Thomas, ain’t you?”

  “That’s right.” I couldn’t help smiling, imagining Thomas’s irritation at the nickname he couldn’t seem to shed. “I was hoping I’d find Miss Harris here today.”

  “Today and every day she ain’t too drunk to stand. Couldn’t tell you what I done to earn the distinction, but she pays better ’n most.” He cocked his head at the far end of the bar, where a familiar wreck of a woman hunched over a glass of gin. “Hey, Annie. Lady here to see you.”

  The Bloodhound raised her head and peered at me through a thicket of tangled hair. “That so? And who’s she?”

  Johnny clucked his tongue impatiently. “Sir Thomas’s friend. She was here when he hired you last winter, remember?”

  The Bloodhound leaned back on her stool and stuck a cigar in her mouth. “I got hundreds of business associates,” she proclaimed. “Can’t be ’spected to remember ’em all.”

  “Damn sure can’t, with that gin-pickled egg you call a brain. Why don’t you get your sodden ass on over here?”

  “I don’t need no uppish gin-slinger tellin’ me how to handle my business,” the Bloodhound grumbled, but she shoved herself away from the bar and started toward us.

  Johnny shook his head and resumed fiddling with his barrel. “And where’s Sir Thomas at today?”

  “He’s not well, I’m afraid.”

  “Sorry to hear.” He paused to dab a handkerchief under his eye patch; for a terrible moment I thought he meant to lift it, but mercifully he didn’t. He caught me staring and smiled. “Lost it in the riots of sixty-three. Still weeps now and then, all these years later.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Coulda been worse. I’m still breathin’, ain’t I?”

  “Breathin’ stale beer and straw,” Annie Harris put in, sidling up beside me. She rapped the bar, the jeweled rings on her fingers glittering in the
lamplight. “Another gin, my good fellow.” Eying me up and down, she said, “I remember you now. You was with that sour old copper at the Tub of Blood.”

  “That’s right. I’m with the Pinkerton Agency now, and we’d like to engage your services.”

  “Figured that much. What’s the rub?”

  “We’re tracking a murderer. He’s killed six already, and has another in his sights, a prominent man.”

  The Bloodhound snorted. “’Course he’s prominent. Pinkertons wouldn’t give a dead rat otherwise.”

  I left that alone. “He was last seen down in Five Points, at his mother’s flat. Will you come and take a look?”

  “Take a sniff, you mean?” She narrowed one shrewd eye. “You’re a Pink now, too, eh? You can cover my fee?”

  Your king’s ransom, you mean? With what she charged to bring in a bounty, Annie Harris ought to be drinking cognac with the robber barons at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, but you’d never know it. She dressed like a ragpicker and swore like a sailor, and if she’d ever brushed a tooth in her head, it hadn’t done the job. I’d seen Bottle Alley bums with better personal hygiene. Only the jewels on her fingers offered any hint of the exorbitant fee she commanded. “The Agency will take care of it as always,” I said coolly.

  Johnny poured out a dram of gin, and the Bloodhound toasted me with it. “Lady Pink,” she said. “I like it.” She downed it in a gulp, slammed the glass on the bar, and smoothed her rumpled men’s clothing. “All right then, let’s get to it. Keep my spot warm, Johnny. With any luck, I’ll be back before dark.”

  * * *

  We arrived at the scene of yesterday’s excitement to find coppers everywhere. They studded Park Row from Baxter to Mott, stopping passersby to talk briefly before sending them on their way. Canvassing the neighbors, I supposed, for all the good it would do them.

  “Well, whaddya know,” said the Bloodhound, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Your copper friend is around here somewhere.”

  “Where, in the flat?”

  Another sniff, and the narrowed eyes that proved she was seeing, as much as smelling, the scents in the air. “Second floor, I reckon. And something else.” She paused, frowning. “Your partner had some trouble yesterday. Bad trouble.”

  “You can smell that?”

  “Sure. Human body puts out ten kinds of stink when it thinks it’s about to kick it. No different than a skunk or a squid, ’cept most people can’t smell it.”

  I eyed her uneasily. I’d hired her for this very reason, of course, but that didn’t make her abilities any less unsettling. Not for the first time, I wondered how a working-class specimen like Annie Harris could be born with such a potent brand of luck. Bloodlines with a talent like that almost always ended up in high places. Then again, what did I really know about her background? She could be the black sheep of some prominent family.

  “Lingers worse ’n a bad fart,” she declared.

  A very black sheep.

  We found Sergeant Chapman inside Mrs. Foster’s flat, along with another copper I didn’t recognize. Chapman didn’t introduce him, shooing the younger man out the moment I arrived, but not before the officer gave me a long, penetrating look.

  “Tried telephoning you this morning,” Chapman said. “Where you been?”

  “The housemaid was out this morning, and Clara and I were probably in the dining room when you called.” Belatedly, I noticed his grim expression. “What’s the matter?”

  He didn’t answer straightaway, glancing at the Bloodhound. “Reckon you’re here to start the search, so why don’t you get on with whatever it is you do?”

  Annie’s lip curled. “Mornin’ to you too, copper.”

  “Maybe start by that window,” I said, pointing. “He escaped through there, and he was bleeding.” She nodded and headed off to the little sitting room.

  When she was out of earshot, Chapman said, “You got trouble, Miss Gallagher. Byrnes is mad as a hornet, and he’s put a target on you and Wiltshire. There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

  I blanched. “What for?”

  “Obstructing police work or some such, but he don’t need a real reason. And if he gets his hands on you, might be the Tombs is the least of your worries.”

  Blackwell’s Island. For a terrible instant, those images came flooding back: wild-eyed lunatics frolicking with dogs, or being dragged away by stone-faced guards …

  “I thought we were on the same side. We had an understanding.”

  “Whatever understanding you think you had, it’s over. Byrnes holds you responsible for letting Foster get away.”

  “That’s absurd! Why, if it weren’t for us, the police wouldn’t even know who Foster was!”

  “I said as much, and he near bit my head off. Said if I knew what was good for me, I’d haul you in right after I got my hands on Foster. Which, by the way, I got no idea how I’m supposed to do, ’less she finds something.” He hooked a thumb at the Bloodhound, who was presently sniffing around the windowsill. “Byrnes figures he would’ve had the information on his own if you’d stayed outta the way. He’s got a couple of waiters from the Fifth Avenue Hotel in custody. Been interrogating them personally, in the old-fashioned way, if you take my meaning. Giving ’em the third degree, he calls it. Reckons they’ll sing soon enough, only now the bird has flown the coop.”

  I wrapped my arms tightly around myself, feeling suddenly small and fragile. “What are you going to do?”

  He frowned. “What’s that s’posed to mean? You don’t really think I’d take you in for something like that?”

  “But your orders…”

  “I ain’t been a clean copper this long to start shoveling shit now, not even for the chief of detectives. I’ll play along, though, if it keeps me on the case. Meantime, you ’n’ Wiltshire better lay low. Police’ll be looking for you at the house, if they ain’t been there already.”

  “Mr. Wiltshire isn’t there. He’s resting at—”

  Chapman stopped me with a gesture. “The less I know, the better.” Softening, he added, “How is he, anyway? You sounded pretty shook up on the telephone last night.”

  “He’s lucky to be alive. What Foster did to him…” I shuddered, still hugging myself tightly. “It wasn’t the same as what he did to me. He didn’t seem to want to kill me, but Thomas … that was different. The look on his face. The hate. How can you hate someone you don’t even know?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “One thing’s for sure, he’s got an agenda, and he’s serious about it. We’re still looking into it, but so far the only Jack Foster we’ve turned up is nobody special. Former printer’s apprentice, used to work at some small paper I never heard of. Nothing shady in his background. No reason I can see to give his employers a false name, ’less he was already planning something. My guess is he took the job at the hotel to get close to the Republicans.”

  That made sense. Everybody knew the Fifth Avenue Hotel was the party’s informal headquarters. “Even if he did have a plan, he’s obviously improvising now. He started working there months ago, but he couldn’t have known back then that Roosevelt would be the nominee.”

  “S’pose that’s true. Are we even sure Roosevelt is the target?”

  “If you’d seen what happened at the hotel, Sergeant, you wouldn’t need to ask. He’s the target, all right—or at least a target. I suppose there might be others.” The thought hadn’t occurred to me until now.

  Chapman glanced over at the Bloodhound. “Anyways, he’s gone to ground now, so unless your bounty hunter comes up with something, we’re stuck.”

  The Bloodhound overheard that, and she flashed us a rotten-toothed smile. “Don’t you fret none, copper. Got me a scent. These boys reek to hell and back, and there’s blood on top of it. It’ll take some time, but it’ll get done.”

  Sergeant Chapman looked half relieved, half wary. Which made two of us.

  “You find something, you let me know,” he said, handing her his card.

  �
�At the discretion of my client,” she slurred.

  Chapman cut me a wry look.

  “Let’s be on our way,” I said, “and let the police get on with their work.” The Bloodhound headed for the door, muttering something unflattering about police work as she passed. When she’d gone, I added, “Thank you for warning me about Inspector Byrnes.”

  “Take it serious,” he said, fixing me with his watery gaze. “Stay away from the house, and don’t be making eye contact with any of them uniforms you see on the street out there.”

  “Understood.” I thanked him again and quit the flat, careful to keep my head low as I walked past the young copper who’d been eying me earlier. The Bloodhound was waiting for me on the street, impatient to get started. We conferred briefly and parted ways, and I headed for Wang’s General Store.

  Thomas was still in the little room in the back, but at least he was sitting upright, and the color had returned to his cheeks. Even so, he looked the worse for wear, his clothing rumpled and his normally tidy beard in need of a trim. I hadn’t seen him this disheveled since his kidnapping last winter, when he’d been so anxious to clean up that he’d actually let me shave him. Even now, the memory sent a delicious little shiver down my spine. “You’re looking much better,” I said. “How do you feel?”

  “Weak. A little like recovering from flu, actually. Wang says I’m coming along nicely, though he insists on keeping it frightfully cold in here. Something about the flow of my qi.”

  “I brought some fresh clothes and a few other essentials.” I set the satchel down beside him.

  “Brilliant, thank you. I don’t suppose you packed my shaving kit?”

  “Of course,” I said, unable to suppress a blush.

  He saw it and smiled. “Don’t worry, I can manage on my own this time.”

  It was the first genuine smile I’d seen from him in days, and it did my heart good—which made my next words all the more unpleasant. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”