A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

“It’s a thought,” Chapman said, “but almost all the newspapers is headquartered down in Printing House Square.”

  “The major newspapers, perhaps,” Thomas said, “but a small press could be housed almost anywhere.”

  “Not could be,” Edith interjected excitedly. “Were. The cartoon you mentioned, Mr. Wiltshire, the one in Harper’s—it depicted Bright rabble-rousing from the steps of his newspaper offices. He was jailed for inciting bystanders to blockade the tracks and throw stones at police. On Grand Street.”

  We all glanced instinctively down at the map, even though nobody needed to.

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” Thomas said, watching as Sergeant Chapman put the tip of his pencil to Grand Street.

  The sergeant grunted. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  The soap factory, the railroad lines, the overlapping circles—they all came together near the southern boundary of the Eighth Ward, a scant two blocks west of Grand.

  “So we weren’t far off at all.” Thomas traced a thick, dark line along Grand Street. “Five blocks, give or take. I’d call that a viable search radius, wouldn’t you, Sergeant?” He glanced up at Joseph with a smile. “What do you say to that, Mr. Davis? It looks very like a straw, don’t you think?”

  Joseph laughed and shook his head. “If you say so.”

  “You have our profound thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, but it seems to me Miss Islington had as much to do with it as I did. That’s quite a memory for details you got, ma’am.”

  Edith just smiled.

  “And then there’s these other marks,” Clara said, gesturing at the map. “How’d you come by those?”

  “Luck,” I said, “and lots of it.” She’d understand what I meant, even if Joseph didn’t.

  Thomas, Chapman, and I wasted no time after that, bidding our hasty farewells and fetching our overcoats. Thomas fairly crackled with energy; I hadn’t seen him this animated since the first day of the investigation. “It’s exhilarating, isn’t it, when everyone contributes a piece of the puzzle?”

  “That’s one word for it,” Chapman said. “This luck business sure is something.”

  “I just hope it proves out,” I said. “We don’t have time for another dead end.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Not this time. We’re getting close, I can feel it.”

  That was supposed to be comforting, I suppose, but close to Jack Foster was about the last place on earth I wanted to be. I wasn’t sure which of us was the hunter anymore, and which the hunted.

  I supposed we were about to find out.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE PRINTERS’ PLOT—MR. TESLA’S SPECTACULAR SPECTACLES—GOOD COPPER, BAD COPPER

  Sergeant Chapman didn’t have an exact address for The Journeyman’s Journal, but we didn’t need one. William Bright’s role in the streetcar riots had made his little paper notorious, at least to the neighborhood locals. Passersby were only too eager to point us in the right direction—and regale us with their own versions of events.

  “Watched the whole thing from that window,” a greengrocer said, shouting to be heard over the unholy screech of the Sixth Avenue el. “Haven’t seen the likes of it since the war. Coppers marching in columns, beating back the crowd with sticks … I had plenty of rotting vegetables on hand, so I…” He trailed off awkwardly, glancing at Sergeant Chapman as if noticing his uniform for the first time.

  “Anyways,” Chapman said, “which one’s the paper?”

  Sheepishly, the man pointed. “Far end of the street. Beside the paint place.”

  We crossed under the looming iron latticework of the el, hurrying to avoid the coal ash drifting down as a train shuddered to a halt above us. “There’s the soap factory,” I said, indicating the familiar redbrick building. “And look—the paint factory.” You could smell it from half a block away, acrid enough to cut through the stench of rotting meat from the slaughterhouses. These boys reek to hell and back, the Bloodhound had said, and she hadn’t exaggerated. “I hope the rent in this neighborhood is cheap,” I muttered, bringing a handkerchief to my face.

  Chapman paused, eying the stoop at the far end of the block. “Best be ready for anything,” he said, pulling his gun. “Hope you two came better equipped than last time. Them little one-shots ain’t gonna do much good.”

  Thomas opened his coat to reveal a Colt .45. “We’ve learned from our mistakes, Sergeant.”

  Chapman nodded approvingly. “What about you, Miss Gallagher?”

  “Mr. Wiltshire gave me this,” I said, hoisting my own gun.

  “Never seen one of them before.”

  “It’s a Webley,” Thomas explained. “Smaller and lighter than a Colt, but still packs plenty of firepower.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get this over with.”

  We approached the building cautiously. The windows were thick with grime, making it impossible to tell what lay within. Sergeant Chapman tried the door, but it was locked, so I went to work with my lockpicking tools. Happily, there was no enchantment, and it gave way without much fuss.

  Chapman went in first. Thomas and I fanned out behind him, creeping across the floorboards with our guns raised, but it didn’t take long to realize we were alone. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. A little of both, maybe.

  “Musta cleared out already,” Chapman said, holstering his weapon.

  “Or they were never here.” I trailed a finger along the top of the printing press; it came away covered in dust.

  “Someone was here.” Thomas held up a rumpled copy of The Radical Worker. “Dated Thursday the twenty-first.”

  I found more papers scattered across a nearby desk. “This one’s in German. Freiheit.”

  “Freedom,” Thomas translated. “It’s Johann Most’s paper.”

  “That German anarchist fella?” Chapman’s eyebrows flew up. “Ain’t he the one put out that pamphlet on how to make bombs?”

  “The very same.”

  “There are dozens of issues here,” I said, holding up a thick stack of papers. “Going back at least a year.”

  Thomas hummed thoughtfully. “It would appear that our Mr. Bright has a mentor.”

  “And an apprentice,” I said, “in Jack Foster.”

  “So it would seem. How delighted he must have been when he realized what Foster was capable of.”

  I took a slow turn about the room, absorbing the details. As crime scenes go, it was a lot more manageable than the Grand Opera House, and I felt almost like a real detective. “There were at least three of them,” I said, examining the contents of an ashtray, “and it looks like they spent some time here.”

  Chapman glanced over. “Cigar nubs?”

  “Three different brands, and plenty of them.”

  A heavy freight train rumbled down the nearby West Side line, setting the windows rattling. Something shimmied loose from the printing press and pinged off the floor; investigating, I found several more loose bits beneath the machinery. “Doesn’t look like the press has had much attention recently.”

  “There’s a blackboard over here,” Thomas called from the far side of the room. “Wiped down, but it’s seen use.”

  “That could be from a ways back,” Chapman said.

  “I don’t think so. There’s chalk dust on the back of that chair, where I found the newspapers. I expect you’ll find some on the papers as well.”

  Chapman ruffled through the pages and grunted. “Lucky guess.”

  Thomas lingered in front of the blackboard, as though if he stared hard enough, he might be able to make out what had once been written there. “They were planning something. I’d bet my estate on it.”

  The printing press was no help. The typesetting looked random to me, as if someone had been fiddling with it, and there were no scraps of paper left inside. A few copies of the Journeyman lay about, but they were months old. I scanned them anyway, just to be thorough, and took a glance through the rest of the newspapers, too. There was chalk
dust, all right, and a few smudges of ink, and …

  “Thomas.”

  I showed him what had caught my eye, and he paled.

  Chapman came over. “Whaddya got?”

  “An advertisement in the Tribune, circled in pen.” I turned the paper around.

  He squinted. “Theodore Roosevelt for Mayor. So?”

  “Keep reading,” Thomas said.

  “Grand ratification meeting at Cooper Union, Wednesday evening, October twenty-seventh…” He trailed off. “You think they’ll try to take Roosevelt right then and there? A bit public, ain’t it?”

  “I daresay that’s the point,” Thomas said. “It would certainly make a statement.”

  “Propaganda of the deed,” I murmured.

  “Precisely.”

  Chapman looked skeptical. “How will Foster get close to him in a place like that?”

  “He doesn’t need to,” I said. “They can shoot him down from anywhere.”

  “That don’t sound like his style.”

  “Not until now, perhaps,” Thomas said, “but we’ve already surmised that he’s improvising, and growing more ruthless in the bargain. Besides, if his aim is to make a show of it, gunning Roosevelt down in front of thousands of people serves his purpose far better than his usual method.”

  “This paper tells Foster exactly where and when to find Roosevelt,” I said. “Four days from now, at Cooper Union. A public venue he can study ahead of time, and a huge crowd he can blend into on the night.”

  “So we tell them to call it off,” Chapman said. “Or change the location.”

  I sighed. “Roosevelt will never agree. What was it he said to me? ‘I’m not the sort of man to flinch’?”

  “We have little choice but to try,” Thomas said. “He’ll have Sharpe’s warning fresh in his ears. Perhaps that will sway him.”

  “Sharpe?” Chapman looked blank.

  “F. Winston Sharpe. Head of the special branch. Our Inspector Byrnes, if you will. When last we spoke, he was going to try to convince Roosevelt to hire Pinkerton bodyguards. In fact…” Thomas consulted his watch. “He meant to take the train from Chicago if it looked as though Roosevelt wouldn’t budge.”

  He wouldn’t budge, I was sure of it. “We have to assume the event will go ahead. Which means we need a plan.”

  “Have you any suggestions?”

  “None at all.”

  For a moment we just stood there, staring at one another in glum silence. But I guess when it came down to it, I wasn’t one for flinching either, so I gave myself a little shake and tried to focus on our assets. “We know where William Bright is,” I pointed out. “Maybe Foster has been in touch with him in prison.”

  “Perhaps,” said Thomas, “and even if he hasn’t, Bright might yet know something of use.”

  “We also know where and when Foster will strike, and we have four days to prepare.”

  “I’ll take this to Byrnes,” Chapman said. When I started to object, he held up a hand. “I know what you think of him, Miss Gallagher, but I promise you, he wants Foster as bad as we do. He’ll have that event surrounded with coppers. ’Course”—he sighed—“that don’t change the fact that there’ll be thousands of people there. Finding Foster is still gonna be a needle in a haystack.”

  “We have the sketch Edith and I drew, and three days to have more copies made.”

  “That,” said Thomas, “and Tesla’s luck detector.”

  There, I wasn’t so sure. “That little cigarette holder isn’t nearly powerful enough. I could barely pick out someone across the room, let alone in a massive hall like Cooper Union.”

  “He’s worked a miracle for us once already. Perhaps he has some other tricks up his sleeve.” Thomas glanced at his watch again. “Half eleven already. We’ll need to split up.”

  “I’ll take our editor friend,” Chapman said. “A jailhouse crawling with coppers is the last place you two need to be.”

  “And I’ll pay a visit to Mr. Tesla,” I said.

  Thomas didn’t like the sound of that. “Do you think it’s wise for you to head back to Five Points after what happened yesterday?”

  “It’s not wise for either of us. And with due respect to Mr. Roosevelt and his views on women’s suffrage, I expect he’ll take your warnings more seriously than he would mine.”

  Thomas conceded the point with a sigh.

  “I’ll be fine,” I promised. “Foster won’t think to look for me in Chatham Square.”

  I was right about the second part, at least.

  * * *

  I arrived on Park Row to find it crawling with coppers. I’d given Mulberry Street a wide berth, swinging south well before Chatham Square, and that meant I had to walk past Foster’s mother’s flat. I’d assumed the police would be long gone—their suspect had fled two days ago, after all—but here they were, a pair of them outside the flat and another at each end of the block. Chapman was right about Byrnes: He really did want to catch Foster. I was glad of that, even if it meant I had to scurry along Park Row like a rat, head bowed, praying the coppers wouldn’t look my way. I managed to run the gauntlet unmolested, but I certainly wouldn’t be risking it a second time. I’d have to find another route out of Chatham Square.

  I found Mr. Tesla hard at work, and not at all surprised to see me. “How is Mr. Wiltshire today?” he asked, ushering me inside. “He seemed almost himself when I stopped by yesterday.”

  As he spoke, Scarlett appeared from wherever it—she?—had been hiding, circling me briefly before alighting on the inventor’s shoulder. I had the unsettling feeling it was watching me, but that was probably just my imagination. “He’s very nearly recovered, thank you. You and Mr. Wang ought to consider opening your own hospital.”

  “Tesla and Wang’s Cardiac Institute.” He smiled ruefully. “If my fortunes as an inventor continue as they are, I might just consider it.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re a brilliant inventor.”

  “Alas, it takes more than brilliance to succeed, especially in New York.”

  Well, I could hardly argue with him there.

  “You are here about the luck detector, I suppose? Shall I anticipate your request? You need something more powerful.”

  I smiled. “How did you know? Mental telegraphy?”

  “Common sense. The cigarette holder will only detect your killer from a few feet away, which is too close for comfort, as the events of the past few days have demonstrated. That is why I have been working on something entirely new since Thursday. Here, try this.” He handed me a pair of spectacles.

  I turned them over in my hand. They didn’t look like much, except that the frames were made of what seemed to be … “Rubber?”

  “Not very elegant, but necessary for insulation. Please, try them on.”

  Warily, I slipped the arms behind my ears and gazed out over the lab. “What am I looking for?”

  “Face me, if you please.”

  I turned and gasped. The inventor glowed, his outline haloed in a warm golden light. If he’d had a beard instead of a tidy mustache, I might have taken him for our Lord and Savior. “What am I looking at?”

  “Electromagnetic radiation. Put more simply, you are looking at my luck. Now, watch.” He closed his eyes, murmuring under his breath as he drew on his power. The halo began to spread, pulsing outward in waves until he was bathed in such radiance that I could barely make out his features. Even the ball of flame on his shoulder was completely eclipsed by the heavenly glow.

  “It’s beautiful.” Maybe it was the Catholic in me, but my eyes actually misted a little.

  “Visible from approximately fifty feet away. I am quite pleased with the results. Though…” He sighed, and the glow faded. “I do wish I could find a substitute for the minerals in the glass. The key ingredient is exceedingly rare, and unfortunately, it melts in water.”

  “It … what?” Hastily, I blinked back my tears.

  “I’m afraid so. The copper vanadate dissolves into its
constituent elements upon contact with water. If the lenses become wet, they will cease to function. I must ask you to be very, very careful with these, Miss Gallagher. I was fortunate to obtain a sample of the material the first time, and I have been extremely hesitant to use it, due to its rarity. If it should be lost, I shall not be able to replace it.”

  “But it’s October. It rains every other day!”

  “Yes. And there is another problem.”

  Of course there was.

  “Similar to the cigarette holder, it relies on the oscillation of electrons, though in this case it is the minerals in the glass that resonate. The copper vanadate conducts energy and amplifies certain spectra of electromagnetic radiation, permitting the halo effect you see now. Unfortunately, however, the specific frequency at which it operates and the power I require to transmit that frequency over any distance … Even with my luck, I cannot extend its reach more than a few blocks beyond the lab.”

  I made a small, despairing sound. “That’s an awfully big problem, Mr. Tesla.” I glanced over at the giant copper mushroom in the corner, the contraption he used to make lightning. “Can it be moved?”

  His dark eyebrows flew up. “It weighs many tons, Miss Gallagher. It could be disassembled and reassembled, but it would take the better part of a week.”

  “We have until Wednesday.”

  He shook his head. “Impossible. I would need two days just to take it apart.”

  “What about building a new one?”

  “From scratch? Not much faster, and we haven’t the materials. I would need hundreds of pounds of copper wire, not to mention zinc…” He sighed in frustration. “In any case, the real issue is not generating the power, but transmitting the signal. I have been working on the principles of wireless telegraphy for several years.” He tapped his head, which was apparently where the work was taking place. “The theory is sound. The problem is time. If I had just a few weeks to construct an antenna … Something tall enough to permit line-of-sight transmission, or even better, to reflect the signal off the atmosphere, using the sky as a sort of mirror. But in three days…” He shook his head.

  “Can you repurpose something, the way you did the cigarette holder and the watch?”