Second Street Station (22 page)

Whistling and naked except for a towel around his waist, Wallenski entered the steam bath to see the Bowler Hat all alone, covered with towels.

“Good of you to rent out the place for our meeting,” he said, referring to the empty steam bath, as he stepped forward to greet the Bowler Hat.

“I value my privacy.”

The Bowler Hat removed a towel, revealing that underneath he was fully dressed. In the same motion and with lightning-like velocity, he drove a dagger into Wallenski’s throat. Wallenski never had a chance. As he gurgled and blood poured from his neck, it took him a second to realize what had happened. He grabbed at the Bowler Hat, got his hands as far as his neck, but it was too late. All of the energy seeped out of his body, and he sank to the floor, dead.

The Bowler Hat shed the rest of his towels.
Now, that’s a clean elimination,
he thought, as if teaching the dead man a lesson.

He felt for the Chinaman’s necklace and stuffed it under his shirt. Wallenski had almost broken it when he grabbed for him. The Bowler Hat had grown fond of the necklace, and he had recently found someone to translate the saying on the charm.
“Ji qing ru yi”
meant “May your happiness be according to your wishes.” He felt that was especially meaningful to the way he led his life. He bent down and used a towel to wipe the blood off his dagger. Then he left as he had
entered—through
the back door.

At about this time, Mary had swung the door to the entrance open and was rushing inside. She was immediately stopped by the burly Russian attendant who was sitting with his feet on the counter. He pointed to a sign that read,
MEN ONLY
.

“Get out,” he said.

Mary immediately broke into a thick Irish brogue. “Thought you’d wanna know. A couple of laddies are whizzin’ on your front steps.”

Her act worked to perfection. He jumped to his feet and stormed out.

“Careful,” she called after him. “There’s a mighty stiff wind blowin’.”

Sure he was gone, she hurried inside to search for Wallenski. When she entered the steam bath, she found him, all alone, lying in a pool of blood. It was an ugly death, vastly unlike the neat, picture-perfect positioning of Charles Goodrich’s nattily dressed body on the floor of his study. She was horrified, but there was nothing she could do for Wallenski now. Quickly gathering herself, she bolted out the door.

Once outside, Mary charged past the chief’s carriage and ran up the side street where she had seen J. P. Morgan’s carriage. It was gone. The alley was empty.

Out of breath, frustrated by the terrible turns her case and her life were taking, haunted by the horrifying image of Wallenski’s dead body, she dropped to her knees. There, in that deserted alley, Mary’s emotions got the best of her. Her body revolted, and she started retching.

After Mary had reported Wallenski’s murder and the coroner had arrived, Chief Campbell was kind enough to let her use his carriage to go home. Mary decided to take a bath, hoping to wash off the dirt of that day’s events. It didn’t work, not that she really thought it would. The pleasure of bathing was no match for the ugliness of the world. As she dried her hair with a towel, she spotted a large jagged piece of Charles’s glass that she had somehow missed in her cleanup. She picked it up, carefully wrapped it in the same washrag she had used when she had burned her hand on the frying pan, and put it in her pocketbook. Charles was broken, too. She was going to keep that piece of glass until she found him and made sure he was whole again.

A while later, Mary stood in the ground-floor hallway of the boardinghouse where Charles and his father had been staying. She had no idea which room was theirs, so she knocked on the landlady’s door. She was extremely pleasant until Mary mentioned the Pembertons.

“Those parasites? They snuck out before dawn, shorting me two weeks’ rent!”

And she slammed the door in Mary’s face.

Nothing was going right. Charles had disappeared, and her case had evaporated. Adding to her woes, it was Friday night, and she was due at her parents’ house for dinner. She could have invented an excuse and missed it, but she decided not to. It was hard to explain, but she didn’t want to be alone that night. The company might have been hostile, but at least it was familiar.

The aroma of a roast cooking engulfed Mary as she entered her parents’ kitchen. Certain odors can set a mood. This one seeped into her blood, quieted her nerves, and blanketed her with an overall feeling of warmth and safety. It was a sensation Mary more than welcomed. Her mother stood in front of the stove, pouring the roast’s own juices over it with a ladle as it sat in a pan on top. Mary inhaled deeply, sniffing the air.

“Smells delicious,” she said.

Elizabeth turned. “Ah, Mary, you’re here.” She smiled hello, put the roast back in the oven, and went to kiss her. That’s when she noticed Mary’s bandage. It was also when Mary began to realize her wonderful sensation might be something she had invented, a façade created by a distant memory.

“My Lord, girl, what happened?” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“I’d rather not say.”

“You might as well. I’m gonna find out sooner or later.”

Mary knew she would, and she resented it. She was tired of worrying about her mother’s opinions, always having to cushion her words so she wouldn’t explode. She decided to tell her and not spare any gory details.

“A hired killer stabbed me while he was trying to gut me like a fish.” Mary stared at her mother, daring her to respond.

Elizabeth didn’t. Instead, she swiveled back toward the counter and began slicing an onion. Mary was well acquainted with all of her mother’s techniques, and this one signaled her complete disapproval. It meant she would soon be berated. Elizabeth didn’t disappoint.

“Why can’t you be normal like other girls?” It was spoken quietly and controlled, as if it were a simple, harmless question.

“Do define ‘normal,’ Mother. I seem to—”

Elizabeth slammed down her knife with a thud, cutting Mary off. “People are laughin’ at you!”

“Oh? And how do you respond, when they laugh? By defending your Mary?”

“There’s nothin’ to defend. You’re an embarrassment, girl!”

Mary blanched. Her mother’s words did more damage than Wallenski’s knife had done.

“Predictable, so predictable.” The emotion was building in her. It may have started with the events of the day, but it was multiplied by years of being told how odd and disappointing she was. She was tired and no longer had the strength to hold it in.

“Just once, Mother, just once, I’d like to hear, ‘I’m with you, Mary girl, all the way.’ That’d be nice. No, it’d be fuckin’ great!”

Mary had purposely cursed, knowing it would increase her mother’s upset. It had its desired effect. Elizabeth’s mouth fell open, her hands flew to her chest, and she held her breath as if her lungs had ceased to function. Mary stormed out the door into the backyard.

She was about to collapse into tears when she spotted her friend Sarah sitting on the back porch. It wasn’t that long ago that she had borrowed Sarah’s dress, but her stomach appeared to have pushed out further since then, and Sarah looked very close to popping. The sight of her good friend was therapeutic. Mary rushed over to Sarah and hugged her.

“Sarah, it’s so good to see you!”

“And there’s so much more of me to see,” Sarah joked as they separated and she stroked her protruding belly.

“You already have a boy and a girl. What do you want this time?”

“What I want,” Sarah responded, “is for Walter to leave me alone. Every time he looks at me I get pregnant.”

Mary knew Sarah was kidding. “Oh, Sarah, I’m so happy for you.” Mary hugged her again but this time held her tight. She would never be a gusher; this was as close as she would ever come. When Mary let go, she continued, “This is a wonderful surprise.”

“A surprise meant to inspire,” Sarah said meaningfully.

Elizabeth’s beliefs were no secret. Sarah was well aware the dinner invitation she had received had a purpose.

“Did you hear?”

Sarah nodded. “Reminded me of old times.”

Sarah’s presence calmed Mary. It made her less angry and more philosophical. She stepped off the porch and headed for the swings with Sarah by her side.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Mary recited reflectively.

“I wonder who makes up sayings like that.” Sarah wasn’t asking for a response, but she got one.

“Alphonse Karr,” Mary stated, and Sarah looked at her, puzzled. “The quote. He’s a French novelist.”

Sarah smiled. “You would know that.”

Each of them sat on a swing.

“Your life’s turned out well, Sarah. I’m glad.”

“I’ve made do with what I have.” Mary looked at her askance, and Sarah quickly added, “Don’t misunderstand. I love Walter and the children. I also recognized early on I wasn’t marked for something special.”

“Oh, come on…”

“But every time I read the newspaper, my buttons burst with pride. ‘That’s my friend Mary,’ I say. ‘She’ll catch that killer, know why? She’s the best-est chess player ever.’ ”

Mary laughed, and Sarah joined her.

“Sean still thinks I used to cheat.”

“Naturally,” said Sarah. “How else could a silly little girl outsmart a big, strong boy?”

They laughed some more, then Mary quieted. Sarah noticed. She could feel her friend’s pain.

“Sometimes I wonder about the choices I’ve made,” Mary mused. “Maybe I want too much, push too hard…”

“Don’t do that, Mary.”

“What?”

“Doubt yourself. You’re brilliant and beautiful and special, and you should’ve been told that all your life.”

Sarah’s words couldn’t have been more heartfelt or timely. And they were words Mary had longed to hear.

“Oh, Sarah,” was all she could get out before tears started streaming down her cheeks. The hurt poured from the deepest part of her. It came from years of rejection and self-doubt inflicted by those who were supposed to protect her and a world that didn’t understand her. Sarah wanted to erase Mary’s anguish and was frustrated that she couldn’t. Pretty soon she was crying, too. Eventually, Sarah took two handkerchiefs out of her pocketbook and handed one to Mary.

“Lord, I can’t do anything right,” Sarah wailed. “This is supposed to be a pep talk, and here we are bawling like two fools.”

They wiped their tears and started reminiscing. New times, old times, it didn’t make a difference. They wound up talking, laughing, and crying far into the night.

Briggs was working late. He had spent a good part of the last two hours trying to draft a reply letter to Mayor Chapin. His Honor wanted to know why there was no movement in the Goodrich case. Briggs was subtly attempting to blame Chief Campbell and Mary, but subtlety was not his forte. Hence, his wastepaper basket was filled with crumpled sheets of failed drafts when Jourdan burst in with a smug look on his face.

“That obnoxious grin is giving me the bends. Why are you still here?”

“I am here to save your rear.” Full of himself, Jourdan delivered his statement with a flourish. He took a telegram out of his jacket pocket and waved it in front of Briggs.

“What’s that,” cracked Briggs, “an invitation to another séance?”

“Albany wired me back. They have in custody a Roscoe Rodriguez.” He put the telegram in front of Briggs as he went on. “Arrested for
counterfeiting,
but—and take close notice of what follows the
but
—it was after he failed to elicit a five-thousand-dollar bribe from a man to stay away from the man’s wife. Sounds very much like the type of swindle Lucette described to us.”

Briggs was reading the telegram. “And he had just arrived from New York.”

“Well?” Jourdan repeatedly tapped his foot. “I’m waiting for an apology.”

Briggs didn’t let that bother him. He also didn’t point out that the séance and Roscoe’s being in Albany could easily be coincidences. The possibility of not having to write that letter to Mayor Chapin was too appealing.

“We better dispatch two men to Albany to pick him up.”

“Already done,” replied Jourdan, pleased to be a step ahead of Briggs. “And we should send Handley out of town, to Philadelphia or someplace. Campbell’s already told us she’s searching for Roscoe. Tell her he’s been spotted there.”

“Good idea. That woman’s a press magnet.”

“And when we deliver the Goodrich killer, we want them all to ourselves.”

They smiled like foxes in a henhouse with chicken feathers all over their faces.