Doppelgänger (21 page)

Piker Ryan was said to be one of the leaders of a vicious gang called the Whyos. They made their trade, so Julian had heard, rolling drunks, robbing the johns of prostitutes, raiding gambling games and doing occasional other dirty-work for hire.
“Worse than the Dead Rabbits back before the war
,
”
Roman Chenowerth had told him.
“They've killed something like ten policemen.”
Looking at Ryan in the flesh Julian didn't doubt he was capable of it. The Irishman had a bullet-shaped head crowned with a dirty tuft of thinning hair, ridiculous protruding ears and a rough bearded visage set in an eternal scowl. His mouth was crooked, canting down his face to the left. He wore a wood-stained wool overcoat and was, at the moment, playing faro with a companion several years younger but equally vicious-looking.

“What do
you
want?” Ryan grunted, noticing Julian standing above the table. A dirty cigarette hung from his lips.

“I understand you do jobs,” said Julian. He chose his words and the lilt of his speech carefully, trying not to sound like a gentleman. “I got somebody I need a job done on. Can you do it?”

Ryan threw down his cards, took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at his companion. The two of them broke into laughter that sounded like the cackling of crows. “I do
jobs
!” Ryan laughed, mocking Julian's tone of voice.

“You do
jobs
, Paddy?” said the companion.

“Yeah, Clops, I do
jobs
! How many
jobs
I do last week?”

Julian had hoped not to have to resort to flashing money at first, but he knew the men would pay him no attention otherwise. From his dirty jacket pocket he withdrew a ten-dollar gold piece and slapped it on the table. Ryan and Clops—
what sort of a name is that?
—immediately went silent. After barely two seconds had elapsed Ryan cupped his hand over the coin and pulled it toward him, dropping it into a pocket of his overcoat.

“Clops, go get me another drink,” said Ryan.

“No doin,' Paddy. I got to hear what this dandy have to say.”

“Clops, go get me a fucking drink!” the assassin shouted. The younger man immediately vacated the chair across from Piker and Julian sat down.

Ryan leaned back in his creaky chair and smoked. “Well?” he said impatiently. “What's the job?”

Figuring the ten-dollar piece had already disclosed that he was an uptown gentleman, Julian saw no further need to disguise his speech. “A lady. A society lady. She'll be coming downtown in a carriage in two weeks—I don't know the exact day yet. She must be attacked in her carriage between the railway station and Fifth Avenue. There will be a man with her. He's not to be harmed. But the woman must be killed. Make it look like a robbery, but I don't care about the money—they'll have some on them, jewelry too probably. The woman must die before Fifth Avenue. That's the most important thing.”

Ryan's cold eyes registered little reaction. Then, oddly, he bandied his head about, rolling it first to the right side, then the other. After puffing on his cigarette the killer said, “That's a big job. Ain't my usual thing. Cost extra.”

“You kill women before?”

“Yeah, I done killed women. Whores, mostly. That ain't the problem. You're talking about rich folks. There'll be police. Roll a carriage in the street on Fifth Avenue?
That's
a big job. Dangerous.”

“It doesn't have to be on Fifth Avenue. It has to be
before
Fifth Avenue. I'll pay anything you want.”

“Three hundred dollars,” Ryan replied coldly.

“
Five
hundred dollars. I want a guarantee that she'll be dead and that it will be done exactly as I say.”

Ryan chuckled. “For five hundred dollars you can have whatever you want.” His cigarette had gone out. Striking a match to re-light it, he said, “I want it in gold. No paper. You bring it the day of the job.”

“I'll bring half. The other half you'll get after she's dead.”

“You got a picture of this lady?”

“I might be able to get one.”

The Whyo smoked. He looked quite at peace with the transaction, and indeed quite satisfied. “We meet here when you know the exact day. You bring a picture and a map.”

Julian nodded. “All right.”

“How you want it done?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Knife or gun? Seemings you're so
partic'lar
about things.”

“I don't care about that. Just kill the bitch.”

Matter-of-factly Piker Ryan reached forward to pick up his cards. “Nice doin' business with you,” he said, and the interview was over.

Outside the Morgue on the rainy street Julian was positively relieved to be out of the den of horrors, but as he pulled Bryan Shoop's hat down over his eyes and started northward he was seized by the terrible feeling that he would be knifed and left for dead right here on the street.
That would be a supreme irony
, he thought. Nevertheless, he managed to make it north of Canal Street without incident. Though he was bitterly cold and soaked to the bone he walked all the way back up to the Grand Hotel and even made several random roundabout detours through extraneous streets to confuse anyone who might have observed him, though of course no one had. Only now after the meeting with the Whyo assassin did he begin to entertain second thoughts.

If it goes off, I'm going to have to live with it forever
.
And if it doesn't go off, it may well come back to bite me.
As guilty as he felt about the Indian on the train four years ago—and he had only witnessed that crime, not committed it—he wasn't sure how he was going to live with murder on his conscience. But he would have to find a way. The doppelgänger left him with no alternative. It had to be destroyed, and this was the only way to destroy it. In future years he hoped the regret, if he ended up having any, would fade, as the memories of Mrs. Quain herself were bound to.

Obtaining a picture of Mrs. Quain proved tricky. Julian had never actually seen her in the flesh, and the only picture of her that he knew of was the portrait that had been hanging in the Green Parlor when they moved in. During the stay in Newport when Julian had Roman Chenowerth empty out the house, all of the Quains' belongings, including the portrait, had been hastily crated and moved to the Western Manhattan Warehouse. Julian told Chenowerth to sell them off as best he could. He did not even want to know about the sales. The day after his journey to the Five Points he called Chenowerth into his office at the law firm. “Remember the junk from the house I had you send to that warehouse?” he said. “You manage to sell any of it yet?”

Chenowerth was a young man with beady eyes and a bushy handlebar mustache upon which he lavished ludicrous attention. “I sold the furniture the first week. The rest of the stuff has been much harder.”

“Bring me the ledger, will you? I may be doing a deal with the Minthorns for the rest of it.”

Julian did not think a personal portrait would be worth much to a second-hand buyer, and thus he expected to find it still listed in the inventory that had not yet been sold. He was right.
Portrait of Woman. Est. value: $20.
The picture showed what Mrs. Quain had looked like twenty years ago but it was the best he could do for Piker Ryan.

The next afternoon Julian left the office half an hour earlier than usual. He let it be known that he was dining at his club that evening, but outside of the office he called for a carriage and asked to be taken to the Western Manhattan Warehouse. Secreted in the pocket of Julian's suit was a carpet knife with a folding handle.
If anyone asks why I went to the warehouse
, he decided,
I'll tell them I wanted to inspect the property to make sure it was in good repair for return to the Minthorns
. Already he had begun going through the motions of pretending to honor the deal that no one outside the Minthorn family even yet knew was happening. He'd hired a team of movers and told them to report to the West 38th Street house on Monday, November 29. He'd also taken the liberty of opening an escrow account with a bank to receive Lucius Minthorn's $50,000 draft. The belongings at the Western Manhattan Warehouse, he hoped, would simply become another convincing piece of set-dressing for the charade.

The warehouse was dank, dusty and cluttered. A mousy man in a brown jacket led him through the place with two kerosene lanterns, squeezing between the brick wall on one side and rows of dusty crates on the other. “You managed just to catch us before closing time, sir,” said the warehouseman. He consulted the small scrap of paper he'd taken from the office on the floor below. “Lot number eighty-four. It'll be up this way.”

With the furniture gone there wasn't much left of Lot 84, and the corner in which it had been stacked showed an unusual amount of bare dusty floor. What remained consisted mostly of books from the library which were packed in cartons, several rolled-up carpets, and a few other odds and ends that lay lumpy and irregular under dust-caked shrouds. There was also a tall slab-like box made of wood with chalk markings on its sides: the lot number and the name
ATHERTON
. Julian's heart began to pound as he saw it. That, he knew, was the picture carrier. Why was he nervous about looking inside of it?

“Well, I'll leave you to it, sir.” The warehouseman set one lantern on the floor and took the other with him. “When you're done, just come out the way you came. I'll meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Thank you.”

After he'd gone Julian stood in front of the picture carrier, gingerly reaching out to touch it with his gloved hand. He did not know why but along with the rapid beating of his heart butterflies flickered ferociously through his stomach.
It's a picture
, he told himself.
Paint on canvas. It has no soul. It can't hurt me
. He knew this to be true, but he also knew that the doppelgänger could read minds. It had pulled the Indian from his, for instance, and seemed to have learned Swedish from Anine. How far did its power stretch? West 38th Street was many blocks away, but could it somehow know what Julian was planning, or feel the “pain” of his desecration of the portrait when he plunged the knife into it?

“Nonsense,” he said aloud, and began to root about inside the dark dusty slots of the portrait carrier.

There had been several pictures left behind on the walls of the house, mostly nondescript paintings of flowers that had no real value; the bulk of the Quains' art collection had been sold off years ago. The portrait of Mrs. Quain was by far the largest picture that remained and it was the only one with a gilt frame. It was visible immediately as Julian held the kerosene lamp over the carrier; he saw the dull gleam of the gold paint. He paused just a moment before he began to pull it out of the slot. The lump in his throat stubbornly resisted swallowing.

The portrait was set in its slot facing away from him. In order to look at it Julian had to turn it around, lift it over the picture carrier and lean it up against the box. He caught only a flash of it before he realized he had almost unconsciously squinted his eyes shut.

All right. This is ridiculous. There's nothing to be afraid of
. But his hand, holding the wire handle of the kerosene lamp, quaked.
I'm going to open my eyes on three. One…two…three!

He looked at the picture. Relieved, he exhaled the breath he'd been holding. Mrs. Quain's cheerful face was as dead and lifeless as it had been when he'd seen the picture hanging on the wall of the Green Parlor. It was nothing more than pigment on a canvas depicting a middle-aged woman in a dress twenty years out of date. The eyes were just blobs of color, and appeared not very colorful at all in the blaze of the lamp.

Julian's fear soon gave way to a new emotion: hate. It sprang suddenly out of nothing, as if planted there by an evil spirit. As he drew the carpet knife out of his pocket his jaw hardened and his teeth ground together.

This evil woman has been destroying my life and taking my property from me
.
It's well and good that she'll be rotting in Hell soon—and that I will send her there
.

His plan was to cut a square out of the picture containing Mrs. Quain's face, small enough so it could be folded and carried in his pocket easily without arousing suspicion. Then he would put the defaced portrait back in the picture carrier. No one would ever see it. He'd already decided that after the murder he would quietly pay someone to take away the rest of the Quains' belongings and burn them. He would make a claim against the Western Manhattan Warehouse for theft or destruction, but he would drop it when they protested and leave it at that. And he would insist that Piker Ryan destroy the canvas face after the job was done.

Now, with knife in hand, Julian decided to start cutting the square out of the picture just under Mrs. Quain's jaw. With savage glee he plunged the carpet knife into the canvas and was almost frightened at the satisfaction he got from drawing the blade across the picture—cutting the hateful old woman's throat. For several minutes he wished he could do it himself in real life.

Chapter Sixteen

The Attack

A week after Anine arrived at Lucretia Atherton's winter home in St. Augustine Rachael Norton wired to say that she would be coming to visit her.
“Have been searching for excuse to get out of N.Y.,”
her cheerful cable read.
“Thank you for providing one.”
She reserved a suite of rooms at the Seminole-Ritz Hotel to which she invited Anine to brunch the morning after Rachael herself arrived. Anine was surprised at Rachael's sudden reversal of her policy against being seen in public with her, but she was very grateful of the company. She'd been on pins and needles since leaving New York, hearing no word from Julian and hoping desperately that he'd found a new place for them to live. She hated to be in the dark but figured that sending her own wire asking what was happening would only annoy him.

At brunch, which occurred on an open-air terrace looking over the beach, Anine asked Rachael what had changed. “Surely word will get around New York that you're receiving me here. Isn't your mother still scandalized?”

“Well, St. Augustine is St. Augustine, not New York,” Rachael shrugged. “In any event I decided that between knowing what was happening with your house and scandalizing my mother, or
not
knowing what was happening and keeping in her good graces, the latter was much more intolerable. And who knows? Maybe society will take my lead and start to soften toward you, especially now that you and your husband are apart.”

It's her macabre curiosity again
, Anine realized, somewhat dejected.
Well, maybe she's right—if there is a way back into society's graces, it will probably be through her
.

“So, you want to know everything?” She dreaded rehashing the whole horror but knew that Rachael would never cease hounding her until she did. “I'll tell you. It's utterly awful, though. Far worse than we imagined.”

Rachael's eyes blazed hungrily. “How
horrid
for you,” she said, with relish. “Please tell. I'm all ears.”

So Anine told her everything. Not only did she not spare Rachael the grisly details—the various obscenities shouted by the
spöke
, the disturbing violation in the entryway, the dreadful sensations of smothering—but in fact she embellished them, knowing that her friend throve on gruesomeness and horror. Anine was surprised that she was able to relate the tale so dispassionately, or, more accurately, without feeling too much like she was reliving the trauma. Rachael's smile, however, grew thinner and her countenance whiter as the tale went on. By the end of it she was sitting passively, hands in her lap, having abandoned the tea and half-eaten crumpet on the plate in front of her. She looked as if she'd finally had enough.

“Monstrous,” was all she said.

“I pray that it's over. I want to take Julian at his word—that he's buying another house, I mean—and I know he was deeply shaken by the experience in the parlor. He can't abide being run out of his own house, I know that. But the spirit is just too strong. I hope he understands that there's nothing more to be gained by resisting. All we can do is leave.”

“Your husband was right to ask the doctor what happens when Mrs. Quain dies. That's what I would have asked too. Knowing your luck, though, she'll live to be a hundred and six. I agree with you, getting out is the best thing.”

“Now that I've told you, I don't really wish to speak of it anymore.” In a moment of unusual bluntness Anine added: “Will you be going back to New York now that your curiosity is satisfied?”

Rachael deflected the barb with a cheerful smile. “My, you really
do
believe I'm shallow and hard-hearted, don't you? As thrilled as I am to know someone who lives in a haunted house—one haunted by a doppelgänger, no less, which I take to be a special honor—I really
was
excited to hear you were down here by yourself.” She leaned in closer. “I have a confession to make.”

“A confession?”

“Yes.” In a whisper Rachael added, “A rather scandalous one.”

“And you thought you would confide in me?”

“You've given me enough of your own confidences. I thought I would give you one of mine in return. It's the least I can do.”

“Well, what is it?”

Rachael's smile broadened, and bore a hint of mischief behind it. “Let's get our parasols and go walking on the beach,” she suggested. “Then I'll tell you.”

The breeze was stiff today and more than once it tugged Anine's flimsy parasol with uncomfortable force. The cawing of the seagulls and the soft rushing of the waves was a tranquilizing chorus. Out here on the sand dunes with the ornate filigree-dripping hulk of the hotel shining in the sunlight behind them it seemed to Anine as if all the nightmares back in New York were imagined. As the ocean lapped the shore she felt a twinge of the excitement and hope that had brought her to America months ago.
When this is all over, I wonder if Julian and I can truly be happy
, she thought.
I'd like to think so. There must be something left of that handsome, awkward boy I fell in love with back in Sweden—if the doppelgänger hasn't eaten away his soul.

“Well, do you want to hear my confession?” said Rachael, after a long period of silence.

“Yes, very much.”

“I've been carrying on. It's part of the reason I came to St. Augustine. I mean, my wire was absolutely truthful—you provided me the exact excuse I needed to get out of New York without arousing suspicion. At this very moment I have my maid out searching for a quiet little house in the old city where nothing will be noticed. There. Are you scandalized?”

Anine thought she missed it. She did not appreciate the meaning of the words
carrying on
. “I'm sorry. I don't understand what you mean.”

“I mean I'm carrying
on
. I've taken a lover. He arrives by train on Friday. I'm desperately hoping that you'll agree to be my alibi. That is, if anyone asks, to say that I'm with you.”

Anine supposed that several months ago she probably would have been scandalized but after all she'd been through it was very difficult to get worked up over the small issue of Rachael Norton's infidelities. Still, she was curious. “Who is it?” she asked.

Rachael smiled more broadly. “Oakley Minthorn.”

“Who is that?”

“Lucius and Gertrude Minthorn's eldest son. He's engaged also, to Matilda Rochefort. They're to be married in April. See how low and shocking the whole thing is? Two happy marriages wrecked before they even begin. And I simply can't be bothered to care!” Rachael giggled airily.

Lucius and Gertrude Minthorn's son
. Anine realized that Rachael's lover was Mrs. Quain's nephew, and it made her uneasy. “What about your fiancé, Daniel? You can't marry him after this, can you?”

“I don't see why not. He's a nice enough man, and will make a fine husband, if a dull one. But we both know our marriage is mainly for the benefit of the families. A match between the Nortons of Fifth Avenue and the Wythes of Broadway has been written in the stars since time immemorial, and Daniel and I are merely the executors of the prophecy. But to be honest with you I don't even much believe in marriage. It's an old-fashioned custom, just as stodgy and useless as every other old-fashioned custom that New York society pretends to hold dear. Oakley is alive and audacious. I do say he ravishes me in ways I would never have thought possible. That's
passion
, Anine. It's something sorely lacking in almost everyone we know. If you find passion you must hang onto it.”

At these words Anine thought guiltily of Ola Bergenhjelm. She'd felt no passion for him, but it seemed he'd felt it for her. Was it not passion—at least a
kind
of passion—that had projected his spirit into the parlor at the Vänersborg summer cottage to bid goodbye to her? Likewise, was it not some kind of passion that split Mrs. Quain's spirit in two and lodged its foul half in the house on 38th Street?
She must have had passion with her husband in the early years of their marriage
, she thought.
Maybe that's why she was so unwilling to leave
.

With a sense of shame Anine realized that the ordeal of the doppelgänger had so affected her that she had begun to see everything through its lens, even Rachael's love affair. “Well, if you're happy,” she sighed, “I suppose that's the most important thing.”

Rachael suddenly stopped walking and turned to her, the parasol flapping in the breeze. “Do you really think so?” she replied, with intensity that was uncommon for her.

“Of course. Why would I think otherwise?”

“If I can be frank, you've always been so hard to read, Anine. I never know what you really think—about society, about love, about your husband, about anything. You seem so grimly willing to do your duty, to stick with your husband despite the horrible things he's done to you, to try to find your way back into society. And yet you say you believe a person's happiness is the most important thing. Do you
really
think that? Or did you just say it to placate me?”

Wait, what is she accusing me of?
Anine's brow furrowed, not sure at all whether Rachael was on the verge of becoming hostile or whether this was just the frankness that seemed to come out once the social pretenses dropped. “If you love Oakley Minthorn, then be with him,” she finally replied, with a hint of defensiveness. “Why would I want you to be unhappy just for the sake of keeping up appearances?”

“If you really feel that way, may I give you some advice?” Rachael said, somewhat curtly. “About your own situation.”

“All right.”

“Divorce your husband. Plead cruelty. It's grounds for divorce in New York, and he's clearly been cruel to you. Divorce him and go back to Sweden. The scandal doesn't matter. You're not happy in New York, or in America, and you never will be. In fact I wouldn't even go back to New York at all. New Orleans is a day's train ride away from here. You can catch a ship there for Sweden, I'm sure, or at least England. If you truly believe a person's happiness is most important, this is the only thing you can do.”

Anine turned away, looking back at the hotel. “You're the second person to give me that advice in the past few weeks.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to the both of us.”

Does Julian deserve one more chance?
She didn't know why she was trying to sell this to herself; she knew Clea and Rachael were both speaking from their hearts, but for some reason there was an almost instinctive resistance at giving up. Ultimately she decided she would need to think about it. “Let's start back to the hotel. Aunt Lucretia will be wondering what happened to me.”

When she returned to Lucretia's winter house Julian's aunt informed her that here had been a telegram—an unusually long one—for her from New York. “I suspect it's news about your house,” she said, pressing the fat envelope into Anine's hand. “Hopefully it's good news.”

The telegram, from Julian, contained the news of the deal and the move. He gave the details of the transaction and his instructions to her were precise, the wording devoid of emotion.
Remain at aunt's until move complete. Likely to be 1st week December. Make no effort for return to NY until I instruct.
She read and re-read the telegram while sitting in Lucretia's sun-dappled solarium. Now, strangely, the horror in the house did not seem as far away as it had earlier in the day.

Is he sincere?
Anine guessed she had no reason to disbelieve Julian, but something instinctive told her that all was not as it seemed. If not for this kernel of doubt she would have been overjoyed at the absolution of ever having to return to Mrs. Quain's house. The deal with the Minthorns seemed to suggest there was at least the possibility that Julian's sins could be redeemed, and the Athertons eventually admitted to polite society. But this too had the curious air of a hollow promise.

I'll believe it when it's all done
, she ultimately decided,
and when I'm living in the new house on West 26th Street.
She folded the telegram message and put it back into the envelope. Later she secreted the envelope in the bottom of one of her trunks. She did not know why but she thought it might be prudent to keep hold of it, perhaps as a backstop against any duplicity by Julian.

The next weeks passed in an eerie silent agony. There was no further word from Julian. The recurring nightmare of Ola returning from the grave had resumed the first night after Anine left New York and it continued to plague her, if not nightly, often enough to cause her to dread the coming of darkness. She and Lucretia had very little to talk about and thus socialized infrequently. Clea Wicks was ensconced in the servants' quarters and in any event speaking to her in anything like the familiar fashion Anine was used to was completely improper here. Rachael Norton remained in St. Augustine, but always seemed to be out; presumably she was
carrying on
with Oakley Minthorn. Anine's main diversion consisted of walking on the beach and reading books in Lucretia's parlor. The hours crawled by like languid centuries.

On Tuesday, November 30, another wire finally arrived from Julian. This one was short and even more terse:
Move occurring this week
.
Prepare for your return Monday next, 6th December
. That was all.

The instant she read the words scrawled on the telegraph sheet Anine's heart nearly stopped. A cold terrifying certainty had suddenly seized her:
Something terrible is going to happen. And it's going to happen before I get there
. Far from being relieved by what should have been Julian's good news, she was even more on-edge. Each swing of the brass pendulum of the grandfather clock in Lucretia's hallway seemed to slice another second closer to the nameless doom that she was sure was impending. Ironically, the prospect of being free from the
spöke
had caused more anxiety than anything that had come before.