Here

by Sean Moynihan

  “Sergeant,” Grumet said, offering his hand to Servitto.

  “How ya’ doing?” Servitto said, shaking Grumet’s hand. “Busy down here, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s been pretty good lately,” Grumet said. “The ladies do keep me on my toes. So what sort of help do you need?”

  “Well,” Falconer said, “we were doing a little investigating recently on a case and we found this cufflink at the scene.” He took out his handkerchief and unwrapped it, displaying the small, gold cufflink. “It has a little etching on the stem that we think refers to the maker, but we obviously don’t have much experience in that sort of thing. We were wondering if you’ve ever seen this.”

  He handed the handkerchief to Grumet, who then took out a magnifying glass and looked closely at the markings on the cufflink.

  “Ah, yes, Asprey and Company…very nice…very nice, indeed.”

  “What’s that?” Falconer asked. “Asprey?”

  “Yes, detective,” Grumet explained, handing the handkerchief with cufflink back to Falconer. “This is a very fine men’s cufflink made by Asprey and Company. Very exclusive jewelry makers—one of the best, in fact.”

  “So, this thing is obviously pretty expensive?” Falconer asked. “Not just a fake that anyone could buy down on the Bowery?”

  “Oh, no,” Grumet answered flatly. “That’s a genuine Asprey luxury cufflink made with the finest craftsmanship. It’s really a beautiful piece of workmanship, if I can say so myself. It’s a pity the owner lost it.”

  Falconer and Servitto looked at each other momentarily, and then Falconer turned back to Grumet. “So, this Asprey and Company,” he said, “where do they operate out of?”

  “That would be London,” Grumet replied. “Bond Street, in fact—they’ve been there for many years.”

  Falconer paused briefly, with this last bit of information sinking in and setting off all sort of thoughts in his mind, and then he looked back at Grumet.

  “Any chance the owner could have bought it over here, Sam?” he asked.

  “Well, there’s always a possibility,” Grumet replied, “but owners typically buy directly from the Bond Street location. In fact, they can sit and wait while the craftsmen work on their custom-made order upstairs. It’s very exclusive, gentlemen. I mean, the Queen and Prince of Wales have granted Asprey royal warrants to make jewelry for the royal family, if you know what I mean. You don’t get any more exclusive than that.”

  Falconer folded up the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket. “Thanks, Sam. This has been very helpful. Good seeing you.”

  “You, too, detective,” Grumet replied. “Always happy to be of any assistance. You take care of yourself.” He turned to Servitto and nodded. “Sergeant.”

  “Thanks,” Servitto said. “We appreciate this, Mr. Grumet.”

  Falconer and Servitto then departed, melting into the tightly packed crowd moving slowly through the expansive, gift-laden floor.

  Outside, Falconer motioned for Servitto to join him over against the side of the building where they could speak in relative privacy away from the unrelenting current of humanity that was slowly moving its way along the sidewalk.

  “Listen,” Falconer said, “I know this cufflink is important evidence now to your own detectives’ investigation of Ms. Mallory’s assault, but I’m going to have to ask you to let me keep it for just a while. I’d like to do some asking around, see if anyone knows anything about it—maybe the suspect got lazy and complained about losing it to someone at a hotel. Is that all right with you?”

  “Sure,” Servitto replied. “And I’ll have my officers start asking around at our hotels. You never know, right?”

  “Right,” Falconer said. “And thanks, Ed—it’s a long shot, but for now, it may be all we’ve got. Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Will do,” Servitto stated. “Thanks for coming by, Robert.”

  “Sure. I’ll stay in touch. I’ll see you.”

  Falconer then stepped into the mass of people moving down the sidewalk and headed over to the stairwell that led up to the train landing, with his objective being the Columbia College of Law over on the east side of town.

  35

  “What do you think?” Falconer asked Levine, who was sitting at his desk carefully holding the handkerchief containing the gold cufflink.

  “Fascinating,” Levine replied. “That you would actually find this expensive bit of jewelry right at the scene where the woman was almost strangled to death. And I agree with you that the chances of someone else leaving it back there are virtually nil—unless perhaps some common thief who swiped it from a gentleman then subsequently dropped it himself.”

  “I suppose there’s always that chance,” Falconer said, “but I have to go with the notion that Ms. Mallory’s abductor dropped this when he had to escape up the ladder quicker than he would have liked. He had been hurt, and he knew her screams were going to bring some men to that alley any second. He had to get out of there, and I’m thinking that the entrance to the alley was just not an option.”

  “So,” Levine said as he handed the handkerchief and cufflink back to Falconer, “where do you go from here? Finding out who may have lost that will be a difficult proposition, I think. He’ll notice that he’s lost it, and he won’t say anything to anybody. He’ll simply use a new pair of cufflinks.”

  “Probably,” Falconer said. “But I’ve asked some friends of mine to ask around the hotels—see if anyone said anything about a lost cufflink with a dragon etched on it. I’m not sure where else to go next, to be honest.”

  “Well,” Levine observed, “you said that the girl got a partial description of the man. That’s something.”

  “Not much, really,” Falconer said. “It was a basic description that could match thousands of males in this town. I’m not thinking that it’s going to lead anywhere.”

  “But think about it, detective,” Levine said. “You now have a surviving victim who may well be the only person who has definitively seen Jack the Ripper up close and in the flesh. From my perspective, that is something very new and very significant.”

  “I guess you’re right, professor,” Falconer conceded, folding up the handkerchief and placing it in his jacket pocket. “I think maybe we should go see Ms. Mallory and talk to her about that. She’s already given a statement to the 19th Precinct detectives, but it couldn’t hurt to go see her again—see if there’s anything special that she can remember about this guy.”

  “You just said ‘we’ again,” Levine observed. “Are you meaning to say that you want me to go see this young prostitute with you?”

  “That’s right,” Falconer answered. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, not at all,” Levine said. “Let me just get my hat.”

  36

  Falconer and Levine walked up the front staircase of Marcy McClure’s stately bordello on the 30th Street in the late afternoon, looking like just another pair of gentlemen who were in search of a few hours’ respite from the stresses of the daily lives. At the front door, Falconer knocked and a lovely young woman with long dark hair and the bluest of eyes greeted them and welcomed them into the front parlor. Falconer immediately surprised the young woman by identifying himself as a detective with the police department, and then he asked to see the proprietress of the place, with reassurances that he was not there to investigate any wrongdoing on the part of the ladies present.

  The young woman excused herself and left the two men sitting on a couch holding their hats. Falconer looked over at Levine and thought that he appeared ready to bolt for the door at any moment.

  “You all right?” he asked Levine.

  “Me? Oh, just fine,” answered Levine unconvincingly. “I just suppose there’s a little worry that someone I know may have seen me enter the house and…well, they may draw the wrong inference.”

  “It’s all right, professor,” Falconer reassured him. “We won’t be here very long. I don’t even know if the girl
is here—it’s only been a day since she was attacked.”

  Just then, the attractive personage of Marcy McClure swept into the room and greeted the two men, smiling at them and extending her hand as they both rose. “I hear you two gentlemen would like to speak to me,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “We apologize for the interruption, ma’am,” Falconer said, showing his badge. “I’m Detective Falconer with the police, and this is Professor Eli Levine of Columbia College who’s been assisting me on a particular investigation. We’re looking into the attack on Ms. Mallory last night over at Greeley Square, and we were wondering if she might be around to speak with us very briefly.”

  “I see, detective,” Marcy answered. “We are all very shaken by this and are doing everything in our power to cooperate with your colleagues, but I must tell you that she is not here this evening. She is home recuperating with her older sister, who happened to be visiting from out of town today.”

  “Yes, of course” Falconer said. “I had an idea that’s what she would be doing so soon after the attack. Would you mind letting her know that I dropped by and was hoping to speak with her when she is well again?”

  “Yes, of course I will, detective,” she answered. “But may I ask why you are wanting to speak to her again? She already provided a statement to detectives this morning.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Falconer replied. “Let me just say that I am not with the 19th Precinct. I’m with the Oak Street station down in the Fourth Ward, and I’m trying to find out if the perpetrator of Ms. Mallory’s attack can be tied to some other attacks that I’ve been investigating. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, yes, it does,” she replied with a reassuring smile. “I will let her know, detective, if you would just give me your card?”

  “Certainly,” Falconer said, handing her a business card from his wallet. “We appreciate you time, ma’am. Have a good evening.”

  “Yes, my pleasure, detective. Estelle here will see you out.”

  Ms. McClure motioned for the young woman with the long dark hair to show the men to the door, and then she herself walked away up the stairs leading to the higher floors. Falconer watched her leave as he placed his bowler on his head, and then he and Levine exited the house and walked down the front steps to street level. At the bottom, Levine stopped and turned to Falconer. “Well, that was a disappointment,” he said, “but it is to be expected. She was only assaulted last night, after all.”

  “Yes,” Falconer replied. “I just didn’t feel right asking for her address—not so soon after the incident—so we’ll just wait and see if she responds to me. If I don’t hear from her in a few days, I’ll check back with Ms. McClure.”

  “Where are you off to now?” Levine asked as they began to walk down the sidewalk.

  “Nowhere special,” Falconer answered. “I suppose I’ll head back to my place—get something to eat. You’re welcome to join.”

  “Oh, thank you for the invitation, detective,” Levine said, “but I have some research of my own that is calling, and it has been a long day. I’ll walk a bit with you on the way to the train, though.”

  “Sounds good, professor,” Falconer stated, and the two men began walking down the street towards the distant thrum of the elevated train on Sixth Avenue.

  37

  The grim-faced man stood in the entranceway to his saloon on 30th Street and took a puff of his cigar as the sun disappeared and the evening slowly fell over the city. He looked down the sidewalk and saw two men approaching—a taller one who had a decidedly menacing look about him, and a shorter one, more thickly built and wearing glasses, who appeared out of place with the tall one in this part of town. Strange pair of snots, he mused.

  As the two men walked past his saloon, the man took another look—a hard, serious look—and then he remembered it all. By Jesus, he thought.

  He quickly turned and went into the saloon, walking briskly over to a young woman who stood next to the bar. “Listen, girl,” he whispered urgently, “that copper who broke my tooth back on the train is out front and I want him. I need you to go out back and in one minute, start screaming that you need help, you understand?”

  “Start screaming?” the girl asked. “What am I supposed to say, Fred?”

  “Just scream, is all,” he said, grabbing her by the elbow and pushing her towards the back hallway of the place. “What do you need—a goddamned script? Just scream like someone’s attacking you, and I’ll handle the rest. Now, go!”

  As she moved off to the back door of the saloon, the man motioned to several of the men who also worked for him in the saloon—men with equally hard looks about them and with calloused hands and shady pasts. He gathered these men quickly in a corner of the saloon and spoke to them in a quiet but deliberate voice. Then, after a few brief words, they quickly dispersed, with two of them running out the front entrance to quietly follow the cop and his companion and a few others running out the back door through which the girl had disappeared just seconds earlier.

  38

  Falconer and Levine walked down the street toward Broadway on their way to the train station up at Greeley Square. As they reached the end of the block, they suddenly heard the sharp, plaintive yelp of a female’s voice, cutting through the nighttime air: “Help! Help me, please! Get away from me!”

  They both looked to their left in the direction of an alley running down the side of a saloon. “Help me, please!” the female voice shrieked once again.

  “Stay here, professor,” Falconer said as he unholstered his Colt .45 and began to run towards the opening of the alley. He could still hear the voice pleading for help as he got closer, but he could not make out any figures deeper into the alley as he scanned its length.

  He walked slowly down the alley, carefully scanning the walls and the dark little recesses that hid behind various obstacles lying in the way. The woman’s voice had suddenly quieted, and there was no sound coming from deeper into the alley, where another alley, perpendicular to the one he found himself in, cut across the path. Holding his gun at the ready, he moved closer to the end. As he inched his way past a beat-up old fruit cart shoved against the wall on his left, a woman suddenly appeared from behind a large barrel standing on end to his right near the intersection of the two alleyways. She appeared hurt as she glanced over at him and their eyes met.

  “Help me, sir,” she gasped. “A man just attacked me back here.”

  As she slowly slid to the ground beside the barrel, Falconer ran over to her to help, but as he did, an object suddenly appeared from his side, coming down swiftly over his head from a hidden corner and striking a glancing blow against the back of his head. The world swirled about him and he heard more voices—men now, shouting something to each other above the din of the sharp, ringing noise going off in his head.

  He realized he was on the ground and was no longer in possession of his revolver, and he tried to get up, but his arms and legs would not obey his wishes as he saw shiny stars flashing in front of his eyes.

  Suddenly, several legs appeared within his blurry view from hidden crevasses to his left and right, and they began to pummel his torso and head, causing him to curl up in pain to ward off the hard blows as best as he could.

  “Get him! Get him!” a voice yelled from behind the attackers. “Beat the son of a bitch!”

  Falconer grimaced and covered himself as best he could as the attackers kicked and punched him more, and as he slowly slipped into unconsciousness, he wondered how he had let this happen.

  39

  Levine crouched against the corner of the alleyway entrance, listening to the sounds coming from deep in the alley.

  A fight, he thought. Good lord, Falconer is in trouble.

  He determined to go help his friend, and as he moved closer, he could hear the distinct sound of grunts and curses from men, and the loud “thwack” of leather hitting flesh, and so he moved faster down the alleyway, ignoring the voices in his head telling him to
retreat and save himself. As he finally came upon the scene at the crossing of the two alleyways, he saw Falconer curled up in a ball and several men in dark clothing circling him like hyenas. A smaller man outside the circle who appeared to be leading the pack looked over at him and pointed. “There’s his buddy—grab ’em!”

  Levine attempted to turn and flee, but the attackers were quicker, grabbing his jacket from behind and flinging him hard to the ground. He somehow managed to get up despite the pain before they set upon him, and he slowly eased himself backwards with his hands raised to the end of the alley until his back touched a brick wall and he could move no farther.

  Four of the men then slowly approached him, smiling and grasping wooden clubs in their large hands, and the smaller man—the ringleader—cheered them on as they drew closer: “That’s the way, boys! Take care of that one, too—yes!”

  As the men came within three feet of Levine, he found himself thinking to himself that his friends and family would never understand, would never know why he was found clubbed to death in this dark, forgotten alleyway in the lower Tenderloin section of Manhattan. They would grieve and wonder, and torment themselves about the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death in a crime-ridden neighborhood, and Levine regretted deeply in that moment that all his loved ones would probably think that he was involved in some sort of nefarious activity and he would be remembered in ignominy and shame.

  He looked up now at the men as these thoughts pranced through his feverish and panicked brain, and he could see their clubs raised high over their heads, and he closed his eyes and twisted down against the wall and away from their coming blows, waiting for the end.

  “BLAM!”

  The sound of what appeared to be a gunshot or a large firecracker whipped through the air like a clap of thunder hitting close by. Levine opened his eyes and saw the thugs and their master turn in an instant together and face the front of the alley, looking for the source of the sudden report. Levine also looked from his position crouching against the brick wall, adjusting his glasses on his face and straining to see what caused the sound.