Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  Not to mention her very elegant pastime, Jasper.

  The pulse at the base of his throat throbbed at the mere memory of the distinctive, sickly sweet odor of opium he’d smelled a few moments earlier.

  Pathetic.

  Jasper had to agree. He swallowed his hunger and forced himself to pay attention to what Miss Horgan was saying.

  “Mr. Finch was a man of broad tastes but not, to my knowledge, a pedophile. Nor was he indulging any of his tastes here last night. I can personally attest that he wasn’t here before nine, which is when I left. The last time I personally saw him was on Sunday.”

  “Your employee V-Velma said she saw Mr. Finch here last night.”

  Miss Horgan laughed. “She’d need damned good vision to have seen him.” At Jasper’s questioning look, she said, “Velma was at a private party along with three other girls up on Twenty-First and Fourth.”

  “Ah.” Jasper had a brief urge to throttle the beautiful young liar. “I shall n-need the names of these other w-women in your statement.”

  “Gladly.”

  “Is it p-possible Mr. Finch could have b-been here without your knowledge last night?”

  “Anything is possible, Detective. But it’s unlikely—I know what my girls are doing; watching over my employees is my job, and I’m good at it.”

  Jasper could believe it. Still, you couldn’t watch everyone all the time.

  “Did Mr. Finch ever c-come in here to m-meet business associates or gamble?”

  “Not that I recall.” For once, her answer sounded honest. She glanced at Mary, who shook her head. “He wasn’t much for cards, and I never saw him with no other men.”

  Again, Jasper thought that had the ring of truth to it. “Do you know Amos Baker or B-Benjamin Hoyle?”

  It was Mary who answered this time. “Every freedman and woman in New York knows about Baker,” she said grimly, “but I don’t know a Hoyle.

  “Baker would have known he wouldn’t be welcome here,” Miss Horgan said, with a glance at Mary. “As for Hoyle—he makes guns, doesn’t he?”

  “Why d-do you think Mr. Finch was f-found behind your business?”

  “I’d like to know the answer to that myself, Detective.”

  “Could you p-provide me with a list of employees or other c-customers Mr. F-Finch might have seen here?”

  Miss Horgan inhaled deeply, then exhaled with deliberate slowness before answering. “I don’t keep records of who my customers talk to, but I can get you a list of the girls he saw.” She glanced again at Mary. “It’s not a long list.”

  “It w-w-would make things easier.”

  “For whom?”

  “For you, Miss Horgan,” he said gently. This time it was Jasper who let his gaze wander to her fidgeting employee, who’d last been seen arguing with the deceased and possessed the world’s worst alibi: the word of a mother.

  “I’ll get you a list,” she said, and then scowled—managing to make the expression charming. “It’s not as if I have a business to run anymore.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “Peter Haslem has been in prison before, sir—at least twice,” Law told him the instant they stepped out of the building.

  Jasper hailed a hackney. “Eighth P-Precinct,” he told the driver. “Oh? What was she in j-jail for?”

  “Grand larceny—five years at Sing Sing.”

  Sing Sing, Jasper knew, was the state prison some thirty miles north of the city.

  “His lay was to lure rich men into alleys and steal their wallets while, er, well, you know—” Law’s heavy jaw tightened. “He worked with somebody who was never caught. Most of his victims were too ashamed to come forward, but five eventually did. Three said they felt a hand in their pocket and when they tried to turn, somebody knocked ’em unconscious. When they woke, they’d been robbed. A few times even stripped of their clothing. The other two said—”

  “Sometimes they were allowed to f-f-finish their business and then an irate s-s-spouse or family member appeared and demanded p-payment?”

  Law looked away from Jasper’s intent stare. “I know what you’re sayin’, sir—the diddle is a common one.”

  “V-Very. Besides, Haslem has an alibi—she was apparently with her mother all night.”

  Law snorted, and Jasper didn’t know whether he did so because of his choice of pronoun for Haslem or because of the flimsy alibi.

  “What about Saturday night?” Law asked.

  “She was with F-Finch.”

  This time Law laughed. “You d-don’t really think she’s—goddammit—he’s tellin’ the truth?”

  “We’re g-going to take her w-word for it until we learn otherwise.” Jasper could see the other man didn’t like his answer. “Did you question Haslem about Sealy and Dunbarton?”

  “Haslem only got out of jail a month ago.”

  “Was this the ch-charge you mentioned?”

  “Naw; this was just two months on a disturbance-of-the-peace charge.”

  “What w-was she doing?”

  “Haslem and several others had an antislavery meetin’.”

  “That’s illegal?”

  “No, but it turned into a brawl when some Dead Rabbits showed up. But look, sir, Haslem not bein’ here for Sealy and Dunbarton doesn’t mean anything. We know whoever killed Finch probably wasn’t the same person. Velma claims she saw Finch last night. Horgan would lie for Haslem—she’s got a weakness for strays and freaks.”

  Jasper flinched slightly at the word freaks, a name he’d been called often enough by teachers, schoolmates, and his father.

  “B-Being a f-freak is not evidence of guilt, Detective.” Jasper spoke as quietly as ever, but the way Law’s eyes widened told him he’d not been entirely successful at hiding his annoyance. “There are at least th-three witnesses to attest that V-Velma wasn’t even at the brothel last n-night. Rest assured, D-Detective, we’re n-not done with Haslem, b-but I would prefer to have evidence before we st-start arresting people.”

  Jasper suspected Law couldn’t be rational about Haslem. His reaction was more normal than Jasper’s own acceptance of behavior that was widely considered sexually aberrant—not to mention criminal in Britain. But then Jasper indulged in some rather aberrant behaviors himself, so he wasn’t one to point fingers.

  “I t-told Miss Horgan you’d take down her written statement this afternoon. We can compare it with my n-notes. Make sure to ask about her whereabouts on Saturday.” They hopped out of the hackney at the station.

  Law’s eyebrows rose. “You suspect Lizzy?”

  “I suspect everyone.”

  Law found that amusing.

  Jasper opened the door to the station and almost collided with O’Malley.

  “J-Just the man I wanted to see,” Jasper said.

  O’Malley gave him an uncertain smile, two bright spots of red on his pale, hairless cheeks. “I went along with Mr. Finch’s body—just like you said, sir—and was just comin’ to tell you that you got a message from the mayor.” He shoved a slip of paper at Jasper.

  Please come to City Hall at your earliest convenience.

  It was signed Fernando Wood.

  “Oh,” O’Malley said, when Jasper looked up. “Sergeant Billings said, well, er, no office for you yet, sir. There’s another desk in the bullpen.” He jerked his head toward the big glass-fronted office off to the left.

  Jasper had never heard the term bullpen. Featherstone and several other plainclothes policemen were lounging in the room, glaring in his direction. He had no intention of sharing the details of his investigation with Featherstone and his cronies, nor of leaving anything important lying about where it could be pinched or destroyed.

  “C-Come with me.” Jasper led them back outside and around the corner of the station.

  “Mr. O’Malley, I want you to go b-back to Miss Horgan’s and search every inch of the b-building. The d-detective will join you after running an errand.”

  “Should I bring more men?” O’Malley asked.
/>
  “No. I just want the t-t-two of you—I don’t t-t-trust anyone else.” O’Malley gave a startled gasp at such antipolice heresy.

  “Are we lookin’ for the murder weapon, sir?” O’Malley asked.

  Jasper’s lips twitched at the naïve question. “That would b-be ideal, but barring a bl-bloody knife or signed confession, I w-want you to check the m-mattresses, look under dresser d-drawers, check b-baseboards for hiding p-places, look for bloodstains—anything out of the ord-ordinary. And g-get the women t-talking as much as p-possible. Sound good?”

  O’Malley looked nervous, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Would you please s-s-summon a hackney for me?”

  When the boy left, Jasper turned to Law and gave him the piece of paper with Haslem’s mother’s address. “First thing: go get her statement.”

  Law glanced at the name on the paper and nodded.

  “Once you’re done with that, help O’Malley. What I r-really want to do is search Haslem’s room, but I d-don’t want to single her out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Law hesitated. “What about payin’ Baker a visit?”

  Jasper cursed softly. “He’ll have to wait until I come back after whatever this is.” He gestured to the mayor’s note.

  Law cleared his throat. “Are you going to ask Mayor Wood about Dunbarton?”

  “I intend to.”

  Law grinned, but the expression quickly melted away. “Look, sir, I know you’re wantin’ to be careful about this thing with Haslem, but I need to tell you that word that we’re searchin’ Horgan’s word will get out—no matter how careful we are—and people will jump to conclusions. Peter Haslem isn’t exactly unknown. People will put two and two—”

  “And that is f-fine, D-D-Detective, as long as we don’t help any of those people with their addition.” He smiled at the younger man. “D-Don’t let your m-mind become too attached to any one theory j-just yet. With the p-prior cases so cold, we n-need to be creative.”

  “Creative?”

  “A great deal of d-detection is an art f-form.” Jasper chuckled at Law’s flat stare and climbed into the waiting carriage. “I l-look forward to seeing what you c-come up with. Right now, I n-need to go do some c-creative work of my own.”

  * * *

  City Hall was fronted with grand Doric columns of the sort Jasper was already beginning to associate with government buildings in this country. The mayor’s seat of business had the look of French Renaissance Revival and occupied a sort of park. It was also rather down-at-heel, and he’d seen mention in the paper of demolishing it and building a new hall. Perhaps if the city just waited, the feuding police or gangs would take care of the demolition free of charge.

  Uniformed officers were stationed outside, and there appeared to be a great number of them, as if they’d been posted to subdue an unruly crowd. Jasper would have to ask Law if that was normal activity for a June morning.

  Two uniformed officers detached themselves and approached as Jasper ascended the steps; he couldn’t help noticing that both men wore side arms.

  “I’m here to s-see the mayor.” Jasper handed one of them the note.

  “This way.”

  The mayor’s office occupied pride of place in the rather ramshackle building. There was no functionary outside, so the officers knocked, and an older man answered the door.

  “Ah, Lord Jasper, thank you so much for coming. I’m Mayor Wood.”

  Jasper experienced an odd sense of déjà vu at the situation, especially when a man with a shock of snow-white hair in an ornate ladder-backed chair turned toward him. Sitting next to him was none other than Cornelius Dell.

  Dell grinned, but the lines of strain around his eyes told Jasper he wasn’t feeling too sprightly. “’Mornin’, my lord.”

  The mayor’s eyes slid from his guests to Jasper. “Er, you already know Mr. Dell. This is Mr. Randolph Symington—Mr. Stephen Finch’s father-in-law. He wished to be here as a representative of the family.”

  Jasper was nonplussed—what next? A representative from the New-York Daily Times?

  “Mr. Symington saw this.” The mayor held up a copy of the Herald, which shrieked: THE POUND OF FLESH KILLER STRIKES AGAIN!

  Jasper was impressed by both the speed and the ingenuity of the New York newsmen.

  He bowed to the white-haired man. “Please accept my c-condolences, Mr. Symington.”

  “Excuse me for not getting up.” Symington waved to his chair, which Jasper realized was wheeled.

  “Have a seat, my lord.” Wood motioned to the chair beside Symington, studiously avoiding looking at Dell.

  Just what the hell was going on? Who was Dell, and why did powerful men like Tallmadge and Wood tolerate his presence when it was clear that they despised him?

  “I’m afraid you’ve come to our great city during a troubled time,” Wood said, his expression theatrically solemn. “We’re in the middle of a constitutional crisis, if you’d not already—”

  “It’s a goddamned mess,” Symington cut in, his gravelly voice suiting his leonine looks. “This foolishness is nothing more than an invitation to criminals to openly pursue vice.” He shot Dell and Wood a look that should have left burn marks. “It’s gone on long enough.” The warning was clear.

  Wood looked unhappy at the older man’s words but didn’t contradict him.

  “But that’s not why I asked you here, er, Lord Jasper.” It was easy to see that the honorific sat uneasily on Symington’s Democratic tongue. Usually Jasper would have invited the older man to call him Inspector, but something about Symington—indeed, about this entire situation—had already worked its way under his skin, and he was in no hurry to put the man at ease.

  Wood spoke next. “I should confess I was opposed to bringing you here—to New York, that is—not because of you, but because of the current situation. I hope there are no hard feelings?” Wood’s angular features shifted into a scarecrow-like grin.

  “Of c-course not.”

  “Good, that’s good. Now that you are here, we’re honored to have your expertise. I must admit I’m surprised that I’ve not had to deal with opposition from White Street.” He paused, as if to allow Jasper to contribute information on the matter.

  Jasper looked at Dell to see his reaction, but the alderman’s eyes were closed, his mouth had fallen open, and his breathing was stertorous.

  When Jasper failed to volunteer any information about White Street, the mayor’s jaw tightened, a flash of displeasure in his eyes as he propped one bony hip against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms, his pose that of a man hunkering down for a serious conversation. “This killing is a tragedy, and—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Symington turned to Jasper. “Bunglers!” he shouted, causing Dell to startle but not wake. “Nothing but a clutch of goddamned bunglers.”

  “Er”—Wood cut a quick glance at Jasper—“what Mr. Symington is saying is that because the murder method is similar to that in the Sealy and Dunbarton cases—er, is that true?”

  “I couldn’t say, Mr. M-Mayor.”

  “What the hell do you mean, you can’t say?” Symington demanded. “Wood ordered you put on the case.” He glared at the mayor from beneath brows like snowdrifts. “Goddammit! Did Davies not—”

  “Captain D-Davies was most helpful,” Jasper lied. “But the case f-files for Sealy and Dunbarton were with the Sixth P-Precinct, and they are m-missing.”

  “Missing?” both Wood and Symington said at the same time, wearing equally stupefied expressions.

  “What do you mean, missing?” Symington demanded.

  Jasper tried to think of a word clearer than missing. “The f-files are gone.”

  Wood’s expression shifted from surprise to horror. “This is exactly what those bastards are looking for.” He cut Jasper a frantic look. “Have you told anyone about this? Newspapermen?”

  Jasper frowned. “No.”

  The mayor’s pasty cheeks darkened at Jasper’s expressio
n. “Uh, of course you haven’t. I beg your pardon. Did you speak to McElhenny?”

  “He’s the one who told me they were missing.”

  Symington’s gruff voice filled the awkward silence. “What the hell do you need those for? Everyone in the city knows they were strangled and stabbed—just like Finch—weren’t they?”

  Before Jasper could answer, the mayor spoke. “It is our concern—mine and Mr. Symington’s—that this murder will be used by those opposing us as a weapon, proof of the Municipal Police Department’s ineptitude.”

  Jasper thought that a fair assessment.

  “None of that matters.” Symington glared at the mayor. “What matters is the mess this will cause.”

  “M-Mess?”

  “I’m sure even in England you’ve heard of the Burdell case?” Symington said England the way another man might say sewer.

  Jasper blinked at the sudden change of subject. “The woman acquitted of m-murdering her husband. I’m afraid I don’t understand—was Mr. Burdell strangled and s-stabbed?”

  “No, no, no,” Symington said. “I’m talking about the fact that the damned case was on the front page of every newspaper for weeks, every minor detail fodder for the public’s insatiable hunger for scandalous drivel. The same was shaping up before those fools at the Sixth found Sealy and Dunbarton’s killer. I have to admire the woman for having the decency to do away with herself and spare the public the expense of a trial, not to mention a ridiculous spectacle.” Symington leveled a gnarled finger at Jasper. “Understand this: I will not have my daughter subjected to such a circus.”

  Mr. Symington was, Jasper suspected, a man whose will had not been thwarted in a long, long time. He reminded Jasper of the duke.

  “What Mr. Symington is saying is that this case needs to be handled with, er, discretion—and speed.” His eyes slid nervously to Dell at this last part. Dell remained sleeping.

  Symington snorted. “What I’m saying is that I don’t want to read my family’s personal details on the front page of the paper every goddamned day for the next six months.”