Secret of the White Rose (20 page)

With a final, malevolent stare, he walked across the room and opened the concrete-plated wall. “Leave. Now.”

I took Isabella’s arm as we got up. And before we passed through the door, I turned to him one last time. “Hannah wouldn’t have wanted this, Jonathan. She expected something different from you.”

With a pointed glance at Isabella, he said, “I’d say she expected different from you, as well.”

His face was pinched tight as he closed the door and followed us for a few moments before he disappeared into the crowded room. The speaker had finished, but most of the audience remained behind—drinking and talking.

“We may as well get out of here,” I said loudly into Isabella’s ear as I ushered her toward the door. Clearly I could expect no favors from Jonathan—which led me to feel decidedly less than comfortable here. And even worse, any hope I’d held that Jonathan was innocent of anarchist violence was now dashed. How was I to tell the Strupps that their only son might well be guilty of murder?

*   *   *

Thirty-fifth Street—at least this far west—was quiet with no one in sight. I pushed Isabella to walk faster, explaining, “I’ll feel safer when we reach Broadway.”

She shot me a puzzled look. “You don’t think we’re in danger, surely.”

“I don’t trust Jonathan” was all I said.

“They weren’t what I expected,” she said, shaking her head. “Paul Hlad especially. I’d not expected him to be so articulate.”

“Don’t tell me you believe everything you read in the papers: that all anarchists are crazy, dynamite-throwing immigrants?”

“Of course not. But I didn’t expect them to sound quite so rational, either.”

“Their arguments are solid,” I said, quickening my pace. “Much of their talk is hopelessly idealistic, but it’s rational.”

I glanced behind us and saw three men in the distance. Had they come from the beer hall? I was uncertain but wanted to take no chances.

“Can you walk faster?” I asked Isabella. “We need to reach Broadway, where we’ll have more company on the streets and can find a hansom cab.”

Another glance showed the men gaining on us. A look to the street showed no motor cars. I’d hire a cab if I could find one this time of night.

“I need you to hurry,” I whispered to Isabella. We could now hear footsteps behind us.

Another backward glance.

They were now running, on the verge of catching up to us. If we split up, at least Isabella would be safe.

I could see the lights of Broadway just ahead. “They want me, not you,” I said forcefully. “Keep going without me. Ask for help once you reach Broadway.”

She gave me a panicked look. “Simon—I—”

“You can do it,” I reassured her. “Get help right away. Find a night watchman. Or a hotel—anyone who has telephone service to call the precinct house.”

As she ran ahead, I crossed the street, nearly tripping over a pile of muck in the middle of the road. She would be fine, I told myself.

The three men crossed, as well. Was one of them Savvas, the large Russian I’d encountered at the front door?

Bracing myself for a fight, I raced forward—but it was only moments until a violent thud felled me onto the sidewalk.

“We don’t like pigs stickin’ their nose in our business,” a throaty voice growled.

Savvas.

I rolled over and kicked up. I hit him hard in the groin with every ounce of my strength; then he was on the ground, too. Another swift kick to his head and he didn’t move.

But his companion, a stocky blond man I didn’t recognize from the beer hall, came at me with a bully stick that I barely avoided.

I was outnumbered. Still, I was not an easy target. With a youth spent on the dangerous streets of the Lower East Side, I was no stranger to brawls and gang violence. I quickly took stock of the two remaining men. In addition to the man with the bully stick, there was a swarthy man who did not appear to be holding a weapon. Good. I had left my gun at the precinct, worried that I would be searched entering the beer hall.

Without warning, I dove at the knees of the blond man, knocking him off balance. As he fell to one knee, I chopped him to the throat with my good left arm. The man and his bully stick fell to the ground. Grabbing the weapon, I turned to the swarthy man.

“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Jonathan Strupp?”

The sole response was a grunt and a stream of spit sent to the street.

Realizing that I was not going to talk my way out of this predicament, I advanced cautiously, brandishing the stick.

But my advantage was short-lived. Savvas must have recovered from my initial attack. It was no use, I thought, as he sucker-punched me to the side of the head. The swarthy man then jumped on top of me. His breath was sour and stank of chewing tobacco as he held me down.

I thrashed, trying to knock him to the side. But out of nowhere came a thud to my head—and as white flashes danced in front of my eyes, all faded to blackness.

*   *   *

“Simon. Simon!”

I was vaguely conscious of Isabella’s voice calling my name, each time more insistently. But when I opened my mouth to speak, no sound came. And though I tried to open my eyes, I could not.

“He’s going to be all right. It looks worse than it is.”

That was Mulvaney’s Irish brogue, comforting Isabella. She was all right, then.

I felt her hand softly touching my cheek and the sensation of other hands lifting me, before I once again descended into a darkness that was a release from all pain and worry.

Thursday
October 25, 1906

CHAPTER 14

Fifty-seventh Street and Ninth Avenue, Hell’s Kitchen. 9
A.M.

It was Bridget Mulvaney’s voice that called to me, permeating the fog of my heavy slumber the next morning.

“I’ve got ham and eggs waiting on the table. You’d best get up before they’re cold,” she said tartly. “You’ll find clean clothes on the chair. They belong to Declan’s brother. He’s much bigger than you, but I daresay they won’t fall off.”

I sat up slowly and tried to open my eyes, but heavy, swollen lids prevented me from managing more than the tiniest slit. I was disoriented and sore; the slightest movement sent fresh darts of pain throughout my body.

“Here.” She placed an offering on the bed: a small brown towel holding a block of ice that I applied with relief to my eyes.

I managed to mutter a few words of thanks, but she brushed them off in typical style. “’Tis nothing. Mrs. Hart got an ice delivery this morning that she was happy to share. Her youngest, Annie, got married last month—and now it’s just herself living downstairs.”

After she left, I managed to get dressed. There was no mirror in the makeshift guest room where the Mulvaneys had put me—a corner of their main living area where they’d placed a mattress and hung faded red and white checkered curtains for privacy. But I knew what sort of shape my face was in.

I made my way to the round pine table off the kitchen where the Mulvaneys regularly ate.

Mulvaney was sitting down already, waiting. “Good night’s sleep, Ziele? It should’ve been. The doctor gave you a heavy dose of chloral hydrate.” He grinned. “Knockout drops.”

“That explains how hard it was to wake up this morning,” I said ruefully. It also explained my fuzzy head; my thoughts were slow to form and process.

I took the seat opposite Mulvaney. “How did I get here last night? I don’t remember much.”

In fact, I hardly remembered anything at all after my attackers caught up with me.

“Your professor’s daughter-in-law ran straight for the precinct house after she left you. I was still there, working.” He raised an eyebrow. “You gave her quite a scare; she thought you were going to be killed. So we sent a couple of young guys to scare off the thugs. Then I arrived with Tim Gallagher to take care of you.”

He pushed a cup of coffee toward me. “I made it strong.”

I took an immediate gulp; the heat and the familiar flavor provided both comfort and relief this morning.

“Of course,” he said with a grin, “I also gave the order to break up that worker’s movement meeting you attended. And since Isabella couldn’t identify which men attacked you, we’ve got at least thirty anarchists holed up in a jail cell until you’re well enough to make it downtown to formally identify your attackers and press charges.”

“Is Jonathan among them?” I asked.

More soberly, Mulvaney nodded. “A damned shame, isn’t it?”

“We can’t be sure—” I started to say, but he held up his hand.

“Don’t say it.” He looked at me hard. “I asked Isabella to identify the man you’d spoken with earlier. She described how angry he was—and we believe that he is same man who ordered this attack. You show a lot more consideration for him than he has for you.”

But I couldn’t believe that Jonathan was responsible. It could just as easily have been Hlad or Savvas. Besides, it wasn’t Jonathan that I worried about. It was his family.

“We’ll ask you to identify the others later today. No rush, of course.”

“No rush” meant that Mulvaney intended for all of them to spend the maximum amount of time possible in a holding cell before being released.

“Seriously, how are you feeling?” he asked with a sharp look. Either my appearance—or my black mood—had given him cause for new concern.

“I’ll be fine.” I shrugged. “Sometimes I think the commissioner is right: there’s nobody but scum of one sort or another in this city. Everyone’s out for themselves; those who get in their way be damned.”

Mulvaney’s face tightened. “It’s not just here; it’s everywhere, Ziele. And with a job like ours, we see the worst of human nature, don’t we? Between the greed and the complete disregard for life…” He was quiet for a moment, then continued talking. “Last night I was still at my desk because a Black Hand operative was arrested. He was caught in the act—just about to light the fuse of his bomb in a tenement hallway.”

“So he planned to destroy the tenement because the building owner wouldn’t pay protection money?” I asked, shaking my head. “Never mind the cost to innocent lives.”

“With them, it’s always about the money—and keeping up the reputation of the Black Hand,” Mulvaney said.

I pushed my plate aside; I had no appetite this morning. “The anarchists claim they’re motivated by moral ideals. But I wonder: if they got what they wanted, would they turn out to be as corrupt and greedy and addicted to power as the men they want to destroy?”

“There’s not much place for honor and decency in this city, Ziele.” Mulvaney looked at me with sad eyes. “We only do the best we can—especially for those that deserve it. It’s the only reason I can still work murder cases after all these years.”

“Speaking of which, did you attend Judge Porter’s autopsy last night?” I asked.

“Yes. Death by gunshot wound—pretty straightforward. But don’t worry,” he said, eyes gleaming, “we’ve still got one solid lead to investigate.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his white cotton handkerchief, and placed it before me on the table.

I unwrapped it slowly to reveal the shiny gold object inside. “It’s a bullet. The same one we found in the hotel yesterday?”

“It is. And Dr. Jennings has confirmed it’s the bullet responsible for killing Judge Porter.” He gave me a curious look as he passed me another handkerchief bundle. “Now, tell me if you think it’s a match with this one. Use the magnifying glass.” He gestured to a silver-rimmed glass on my left.

Through bleary eyes, I did my best to compare the two small brass .32-caliber bullets, focusing on the number of lands and grooves. There were distinctive marks on each that appeared similar, at least to my untrained eye.

“They look alike. Where did you get the second bullet?” I asked.

“Yesterday I visited Funke, the gun seller.”

“And he just happened to have a spare bullet on hand that matches our murder weapon?”

“Even better,” Mulvaney said with a self-satisfied grin. “He happens to have the murder weapon itself.”

I was incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Couldn’t be more so. The killer—or someone helping him—returned it yesterday, claiming it was defective.”

I could only stare at him.

“Finish your breakfast,” he said. “We’ll head down to Chambers Street so you can hear for yourself.”

*   *   *

A. H. Funke’s gun shop at 53 Chambers Street had proven indispensable to us time and again. There, Funke and his right-hand man, Sullivan, sold and repaired all manner of guns. Rumor had it that we paid dearly each month to keep them on retainer as police informants. But if their information wasn’t cheap, it was at least good: the result of the fine line they walked between the legitimate firearm trade—and that which was decidedly less so.

The shop was small, with all manner of guns from rifles and pistols to shotguns hanging from its walls and ceiling. The smell of gun polish and cleaner was overwhelming as we walked in the door and were greeted by Sully’s broad smile.