Brooklyn on Fire (19 page)

H
UGH
M
C
L
AUGHLIN WALKED
into a saloon near Clinton Hill in Brooklyn looking for Alfred Chapin. He found him sitting alone at a booth in the back as far away from any other human being as possible. His nerves evident, Chapin was nursing a drink with his hands wrapped firmly around the glass. He didn’t look at McLaughlin but stared straight ahead, almost as if someone were sitting across from him.

“Sit down,” Chapin whispered.

McLaughlin was amused. “Ya talking to me, Yer Honor?”

“Shush. No names.”

“I didn’t say yer name unless ya changed yers to—”

“Will you please just sit?”

McLaughlin finally gave way and sat. “Is it possible ya don’t know? Huntington’s out of the consolidation project. That oughta cheer ya up.” It clearly didn’t. “Okay, what has yer knickers in an uproar this fine evenin’?”

“We need to talk about…the thing.”

“What thing?” McLaughlin knew perfectly well what Chapin meant, but he couldn’t resist toying with him.

“You know…
it
.”

“It? Sorry, but I’m not catchin’ yer drift. What exactly—?”

“The deal, damn it! The deal! Think
water
….”

“Oh, right, the deal…What deal again?”

McLaughlin saw that Chapin’s veins were about to pop out of his forehead, so he decided to stop fooling with him before the mayor had a stroke.

“I was just havin’ some fun. I know what deal.”

“I’m glad you’re so smug, but you wouldn’t be if you knew what’s happened.”

“Tell me then. What happened?”

“Someone upped the bid on the company. I don’t know who. I’ll have to pay three times what we discussed.”

“Three times?” McLaughlin was genuinely surprised.

“Ah, all of a sudden you’re not so smug.”

McLaughlin’s face slowly spread to accommodate a wide grin. “Well, looks like I have an anonymous benefactor.”

“You’re not Pip in
Great Expectations
. This is serious.”

“Who? In what?”

“It’s a Charles Dickens novel.”

“Who the bloody hell is he?”

“Forget it. What are we going to do?”

“I dunno what yer gonna do, but I’m gonna celebrate.” He reached over, took Chapin’s drink, and downed it.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m gonna make three times more than I thought I was gonna make. So are my friends. I could kiss ya. We all could kiss ya”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“my beautiful mayor.”

“This is going to get out, and when it does—”

“All that’s gonna get out is that our wonderful mayor got Brooklyn water, savin’ our dear city from those New York bastards.”

“But the price.”

“Do the deal. Nobody knows and nobody cares. Companies, contracts, kickbacks, they’re all the same. It’s been goin’ on for years and will continue long after we’re gone.”

“Well, I’ve never done this,” Chapin pronounced emphatically, beginning to perspire.

“What do ya know? The college lad is about to pop his cherry.” He turned toward the bar. “Bring me a bottle of yer finest Irish whiskey. My friend and I got some celebratin’ to do!”

Chapin could stand it no longer. He rose and whisked out of there as fast as he could.

Completely unfazed, McLaughlin shrugged and chuckled.
Oh well, more for me then,
he mused as he got ready to get rip-roaring drunk.

G
EORGE HAD TAKEN
Mary home. He hadn’t wanted to risk her staying at his house in Manhattan on the off chance that someone might spot them, thus compromising her reputation. Mary didn’t care about flighty things like reputations, especially when she rejected the criteria on which they were based. George did care, and his reasoning wasn’t entirely misguided. He knew there would be enough speculation about a Vanderbilt marrying someone from a lower social class, and he didn’t want Mary to be subjected to further gossip about her being a loose woman who’d trapped him with her sexual wares. He realized the absurdity of altering their behavior to suit those of smaller minds, but he wanted Mary’s transition to marriage to be easy and painless.

“I’ll have to take a short sabbatical from being your assistant the next few days. I have some business about Biltmore. It’s here in town, but I’ll still be busy.”

“I can’t have my assistant run willy-nilly, attending to less important work. I just may have to hire a new one.”

“I’d be devastated if you did, and even more so if he performed some of the same duties I have.”

He leaned over and kissed her. When they broke, she said, “Since we won’t be seeing each other for the next few days, why don’t you spend the night at my apartment? I guarantee that no one there knows anyone from your neck of the woods.”

He agreed as long as they didn’t make a habit of it. He truly was concerned about her reputation. After they had entered her apartment and she had turned on a couple of kerosene lamps, Mary curtsied mockingly.

“Welcome to my humble abode, extremely humble—that is, bordering on pathetic.”

He looked around the one-room apartment with its used furniture, rusty sink, and ancient Franklin stove, trying to be as positive as possible.

“You do this place a disservice. It’s a bit cozy but really quite nice. I like what you’ve done with it.”

“Oh yes, I do have a decorator’s touch,” Mary said, and started giving a mock tour. She first pointed to her small dining table. “Reclaimed from a garbage heap on the street.” Then she indicated her bed. “Early Handley, very early. It was my bed growing up and before that it was my grandmother’s.”

George played along. “Ah, an antique piece then.”

“Most definitely, if age is the only requirement to be one.” Then she went to the sink. “And did you know that rust is fashionable this year?”

“Of course. I have relatives who, though still alive, are gathering quite a bit of rust.”

They shared a laugh.

“No, this really is…fine. One minor point. I don’t see a bathroom.”

“Not minor, I’m afraid. More major…Down the hall, two doors to your right.”

George opened the door, looked, then shut it. For the first time he seemed nonplussed. “There’s a line in front of it.”

“There often is at this time of night.” She went to him. “Now you have a larger grasp of the life from which you are rescuing me.”

“It is you who is rescuing me, from a life of humdrum, loveless relationships.”

They kissed, and the talk was over.

The next morning George dropped Mary off at Patti’s apartment building, and he continued back into Manhattan. Whatever happiness Mary had experienced the night before with George had been more than countered by the direness of Sean’s situation. She figured her first move should be to speak with Mrs. Schmidt, the woman who had heard Sean and Patti arguing and had found her body. It had crossed her mind to ask Gaynor for permission to investigate, but she’d rejected the idea. Wealthy people hired private investigators when they were in trouble. Why shouldn’t Sean have one? Besides, Mary couldn’t imagine sitting still while Sean was in this kind of trouble.

Mrs. Schmidt was a stout, kindly German in her early fifties. A widow, she lived alone. She had emigrated to the United States a couple of years after her husband’s death, hoping for new beginnings, but those new beginnings only led her to Brooklyn, a small tenement apartment, and a job in a sweatshop. Having once slaved away at the Lowry Hat Factory, Mary could easily sympathize with her, but she had questions that needed answering.

“Did you see Sean and Patti arguing?” Mary asked her after her arrival and an exchange of pleasantries.

“Ach, many times, but that day, just hear. I work two shifts. I was tired.”

“In all those times, did you ever see Sean hit her?”

“No, never. He is nice boy. I never thought he would until…” Mrs. Schmidt shrugged, seemingly not wanting to verbalize what had happened.

“What made you go to Patti’s apartment?”

“The voices quiet. I think it is over. Then, twenty, thirty minutes later, I hear horrible screams, shrieks, and then silence, an awful silence.”

“Did you hear or see Sean?”

“No, just some footsteps clanging down the stairs. I go to check on Patti. The door is open and…it was terrible, such a beautiful young girl.”

“Very beautiful. It was a tragedy. We all loved Patti.” Mary stopped and took a moment, trying to overcome the strong emotion she was feeling of having lost her close friend. But Sean needed her and she had to press on. “Is there anything else that you can remember, maybe in her apartment, things moved around, something different?”

“In fight, they knock over many of Patti’s beautiful plants. Dirt everywhere. It is lucky I go there.”

Mary was confused. “Why, to save the plants?”

“No. They also knock over garbage and it catch fire right by her bed. I put it out or whole building burn down.”

The fire was new information, and it sounded all too familiar to Mary. “Did you tell the police?”

She shook her head. “They don’t care about plants like you. They never ask.”

“How do you know the fire started because of their fight? Did you see a candle or a broken kerosene lamp?”

Mrs. Schmidt took time to think. “No, but if I don’t put it out, whole building goes. For sure.”

Mary thanked Mrs. Schmidt for being so helpful. She offered Mary a pickle, but Mary was in no mood to eat. On her way out, she was contemplating the striking similarities of two crimes: the killings of Abigail Corday and Patricia Cassidy. Patti was strangled, and Mary had seen strangulation marks on Abigail Corday’s neck. It was very possible the killer had tried to strangle her but found a knife more effective. In both cases, a fire was started afterward. The question was: Why would the same person want to kill both Abigail Corday and Patti? What was the common link?

No matter how many ways Mary examined it—and she tried every conceivable one—logic kept telling her that
she
was the only link.

It was a devastating thought.

“O
H NO,
M
ARY,
not again!” moaned Superintendent Campbell, his mouth full of home-fried potatoes. Mary had just told him everything she had found out in Richmond. “Tell me you’re not really going after Collis Huntington.”

“I’m not.”

“Why am I not convinced?” he asked as he cut a piece of his rare steak, popped it into his mouth, and started chewing away. They were in O’Brian’s, Superintendent Campbell’s favorite luncheon spot just a few blocks from police headquarters, where the quantity of the food, not the quality, was their specialty. Superintendent Campbell had started planning his day around his meals ever since he left the field and his work had become less interesting. His huge porterhouse steak hung out over the plate’s edges with home-fried potatoes piled on top and crammed into what little plate space was left. Mary’s lunch was much lighter. She was having O’Brian’s “Salad of Chicken” with some fresh fruit.

“I just have some questions to ask him.”

“Please, we all know what that means.”

“So the rich should be able to do whatever they want without being questioned?”

Superintendent Campbell stopped chewing and stared at her for a moment. “I just figured out what your problem is. You’re prejudiced.” And he continued eating.

“Me?”

“Yes, you…against the rich.”

“Oh, the poor rich. They’re so disadvantaged, so picked upon.”

He pointed with his fork. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“And what I’m talking about is that Arabella Huntington was irate that I was looking into her past, and then all of a sudden the client who hired me to do so was killed. Then Collis Huntington threatens my family and in no time at all, my brother is accused of murder, a murder oddly similar to my client’s at the theater. Could they all be coincidences? Possibly, but considering my discovery in Richmond, they certainly need investigation.”

“Of course they do. No one can question your analytical skills, Mary. It’s just the way you go about things. It’s like you’re venting anger on them.”

“What anger?”

“That they’re privileged and that you’re not. Especially now, when you’re so emotionally involved.” He cut another big piece of steak and pointed his fork at her. “You can’t bull your way over Collis Huntington, because he’s a much bigger bull than you.”

Superintendent Campbell’s words gave her pause. She remembered when he had suggested a mode of behavior to get the most out of Thomas Edison, and it had worked perfectly. She decided she needed a more subtle approach with Huntington.

“You’re right, Chief. I do need to set my emotions aside and be more tactical.”

“Of course I’m right, and I’m also right that you’re prejudiced against the rich.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

“No, I am one hundred percent—”

“I can’t be prejudiced against the rich. I’m marrying one of them.”

Superintendent Campbell was caught so completely off guard he almost choked on his food. He stopped and patted his mouth with a napkin before asking, “What’s this?”

It was then that Mary realized she had been so consumed with Sean she hadn’t told any of her friends the happy news yet. It made her feel good that she finally had.

“George Vanderbilt and I are engaged.”

“That certainly qualifies as rich.” Suddenly perturbed, he put down his fork. “How do I not know this?”

“It’s very recent, Chief, and I haven’t really told anyone—”

“Not the engagement. I didn’t even know you had a relationship with George Vanderbilt.”

“Well, I’m sure you would have, but you’re hidden away in an office all day and—”

“Not necessary to explain, Mary,” he said, quickly cutting her off. “I understand.”

Knowing that this was yet another painful reminder to Superintendent Campbell that he had been separated from the action he loved, she decided not to pursue it further.

After devouring a forkful of home-fried potatoes, Superintendent Campbell had gotten over his brief consternation. He looked Mary in the eyes. “The important thing is, are you happy?”

Mary smiled. “Beyond anything I ever imagined.”

“Good, then
I’m
happy. You deserve it, Mary.”

A period of time passed—it could have been a minute, maybe longer—where they both sat there smiling, basking in Mary’s glow. Then she broke it and glanced at his plate.

“Of course, I’d be a lot happier, Chief, if you’d limit your food intake.”

He stared at her as if he had discovered a traitor in his midst. “Did my wife put you up to this?”

“No, but I’m thrilled she’s aware. Chief, please excuse me for saying this—”

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“As much as you would like to blame your recent…growth on your sedentary job, we both know it has more to do with your fondness for cuisine, all types of cuisine, and in significant portions.”

Superintendent Campbell started to contest this but stopped. He knew she was right.

“It’s one of the few pleasures I have left.”

“Think of dieting this way, Chief. You may be eating smaller portions on a daily basis, but you’ll probably live longer to enjoy many more meals. So in the end, you’ll come out ahead.”

“That’s a great way to look at it, Mary.”

“But it doesn’t help?”

“Not in the least.”

As Mary chewed on a strawberry, Superintendent Campbell cut into his steak with the fervor of a man who was having his last meal.

M
ARY CONTEMPLATED HOW
she was going to deal with Collis Huntington. When she had met Thomas Edison, Superintendent Campbell (Chief Campbell at the time) had advised her to behave as the cliché of how men of the day viewed females: unknowledgeable and helpless. That wouldn’t work in this case. Huntington had already met her and knew that she didn’t fit that stereotype. Besides, any man who was married to Arabella Huntington had to be apprised of a female’s abilities. She had decided that she shouldn’t alter her true investigative nature but was also fully aware she had to control one thing. She had to make sure her distress over Sean’s situation didn’t interfere with her business, and that wouldn’t be easy.

Her first challenge was somehow getting to speak with Huntington. She’d had trouble trying to interview Edison and J. P. Morgan during the Goodrich case, and she was representing the Brooklyn Police Department then. She didn’t even have that much leverage now with Huntington. Mary had decided against attempting to arrange a meeting in advance. It might be too easy for Huntington to refuse her or delay. Instead, she had opted to knock on the front door of the Huntingtons’ Park Avenue home, hoping that she might catch him in a generous enough mood to grant her a few minutes.

Mary looked around the outside of the Huntington mansion and, bracing herself, knocked on the door.

A butler answered. He immediately left to check with Collis Huntington, who happened to be at home. He returned shortly, beckoned Mary to come in, and escorted her to the drawing room. This seemed all too easy. Mary couldn’t help wondering if this was pure luck or if Collis Huntington had plans to toy with her. If he chose the latter, she was ready.
Let the games begin,
she thought as she entered the Huntington drawing room.

Arabella was on the telephone. Also present besides Collis Huntington was his nephew Henry. At forty, Henry was closer to Arabella’s age, and they both had similar interests in the arts. After the butler escorted Mary in and left, Arabella raised her right pointer finger in the air, smiling, as if to say,
Wait a minute,
as she continued her telephone conversation.

“Why, of course, Louise, I completely understand. These things do happen….Yes, well, thank you for giving proper notice. Good-bye.” She hung up the telephone and turned to her husband. “Louise Carnegie. There seems to have been some horrendous snafu, a nightmare she called it, and the caterer can’t accommodate half of the people they have invited to their benefit. She’s so, so sorry, but…” Arabella stopped, her sarcasm evident.

“I’m sure they had to cut down their list,” Huntington replied, “by two.”

Arabella nodded her agreement, then turned to Mary, assuming a relatively convivial tone. “Miss Handley, sorry to keep you waiting. May I present to you Collis’s nephew Henry Huntington.” Henry nodded, which Mary returned. “We were about to have afternoon tea. Would you like to join us?”

“That’s very kind of you,” Mary replied, “but if you don’t mind the interruption, I just desire a few words with your husband.”

“I suppose that’s fine,” said Arabella. “Isn’t it, dear?”

“Of course.”

“Splendid,” she exclaimed, then turned to the other Huntington in the room. “Henry, I believe you’ve heard us speak of Miss Handley.”

“Yes,” Henry responded, narrowing his eyes. “The nemesis.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. In order to be a nemesis, one has to be a formidable opponent. I doubt whether even Miss Handley’s impression of herself is that grandiose.”

Arabella was trying to bait her, but Mary would have no part of it. “You’re right. Nemesis is far beyond my reach. I think of myself merely as an impartial fact collector.”

“Really? I’d have thought you had greater ambitions now that you’re marrying a Vanderbilt.”

Apparently, the upper-crust gossip pipeline had been working overtime. It occurred to Mary that in all probability the only reason she had been admitted to the Huntington mansion was that she was soon to become “one of them.” With the social snubs they had suffered lately, they couldn’t afford to turn away a Vanderbilt, even if Mary was only a Vanderbilt-to-be. Of course, none of that guaranteed Mary would find complete cordiality and cooperation. After all, she was viewed as the source of their troubles.

“Oh, you’ve heard,” Mary said, trying to sound as innocent as possible so as not to seem bothered by Arabella’s words. “George is an incredible man. I’m absolutely thrilled.”

“Yes, I bet you are,” Arabella replied, her words full of disdain.

This exchange was followed by a silent but brief war of looks as Arabella’s expression implied
Gold digger
and Mary’s response said,
Me? You invented the term.

Arabella broke the silence when she turned to Henry. “Let’s adjourn to the dining room for our tea. Collis can join us after his little chat.”

“You and I in the dining room,” Henry said, flirting. “Imagine what could happen.”

“Don’t be naughty, Henry. I keep a baseball bat by my seat.”

They both laughed and were soon gone. Huntington turned to Mary.

“I’m afraid my nephew has an incurable crush on Arabella. Thankfully, they both know my claim supersedes all others and that there will be plenty of time after I’m gone.”

“That’s very…understanding of you.”

“And practical.”

Mary thought differently. His statement sounded more territorial than anything else.

“Have a seat, Miss Handley.”

They both sat on two love seats adjacent to each other.

“I don’t want to waste your valuable time, so I’ll try to be brief.”

“You’re here about your brother.”

“Why do you think—”

“Why else would you be here? Certainly not because of your deceased client, whatever her name was.”

“Abigail Corday, though to be frank, she presented herself as John Worsham’s niece Emily.” That was as close as Mary was going to get to an apology until she was absolutely sure the Huntingtons had nothing to do with Patti’s death and Sean’s arrest.

“The point is, I didn’t frame your brother. I assume that’s what you are working toward, so we might as well get to it right away.”

Superintendent Campbell was right again, and his words kept repeating in Mary’s mind. It indeed appeared that Huntington could be a bigger bull than she was. Mary realized if she wanted to get anywhere with him, she’d have to be more sly.

“I want you to remember, Mr. Huntington, that you said that and not I.”

“Duly noted.”

“I don’t make accusations lightly. I would need considerable evidence before ever considering those words.”

“Yes, I know how professional and ladylike you are,” he said, his impatience growing.