“Listen, Grace,” the man began, “I’m going to need you to go back in there and tell those two men that there’s a guy out here who has a payment for them—money owed to Fred, you understand?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Are you going to arrest them?”
“Just do as I ask, and it’ll be all right,” he said. “But Grace—”
He stopped her as she was turning to walk back up the stairs into the saloon. “If you disregard what I’m asking of you here, if you alert them to our presence, you can get ready for a long stay in the Tombs. You understand?”
“Sure, cop,” she said with the slightest hint of defiance. “I never liked Mick and Bob, anyway, you know. They treat us girls like dirt.”
She moved off up the stairs and disappeared through the doorway into the lighted saloon. Walking purposefully down the hallway into the noisy barroom, she glided past Roy, saying nothing to him, and maneuvered over to the table where Mick and Bob were still puffing on their cigars and talking loudly.
“Oh, you again,” Mick said as looked up at her. “You come to give me another drink, girl?”
“No, Mick,” she replied curtly. “There’s a guy out back who says he has some money he owes Fred. He wants to see you.”
“Money?” Mick said, looking up at her quizzically. “What money?”
“How’s the hell should I know?” she answered tartly. “I’m not his keeper, whoever he is. He just has a little package that looks like it’s got cash, all right? He’s waiting out back and says he wants to make a payment.”
Mick harrumphed as if irritated and placed his mug hard down on the table. Tapping his cigar so that more ashes fell onto the stained floor beside him, he got up out of his chair and motioned for Bob to follow him. “Get your piece out just in case,” he instructed the younger man. “Let’s see what this is all about.”
Grace watched as the two men headed over to the hallway and back toward the door leading to the alleyway. She moved over to the end of the bar where she could see and grabbed a dishrag to feign like she was working. Something about this just didn’t feel right, she thought to herself as the men arrived at the back door. Mick’ll kill me for getting him arrested.
She stood near the corner of the bar and peered down the hallway as Mick slowly opened the door with Bob at his side, holding a small revolver down near his hip. Grace saw them glance out into the open air of the alley and apparently not see anything there, as they looked at each other in apparent puzzlement for a moment.
Where did the cops go? she wondered as she gripped a glass hard in her hand with her heart beating feverishly. The bastards took off on us, and the joke is on me now.
Just then, though, she saw the tall cop suddenly appear like a ghost out of a back room off the hallway and silently approach Mick and Bob from behind as they looked out into the alley once more, vainly searching for the delivery person. Oh, no, Grace thought. This isn’t good.
She watched silently as the cop walked up to Mick and kicked him solidly square in the back, sending him flying down the stairs onto the hard ground outside. Just as suddenly, the cop swung something at Bob, who couldn’t react quickly enough to avoid the blow. Bob’s head snapped back sharply, and he fell to the floor with a dull thud, groaning and gripping his face with his hands.
Grace couldn’t stop herself and rushed down the hallway, half-gripped with fear and half-filled with a morbid curiosity about the violent events unfolding in front of her. She heard sounds of a fight happening outside as she came alongside Bob, who remained whimpering on the floor as blood now seeped through his fingers as his hands cradled his injured head. Stepping to the threshold of the door, she looked outside and saw the cop standing over Mick and battering him repeatedly with his fists as the Englishman stood silently to the side. The cop then grabbed the prostrate Mick by the lapels of his jacket and raised him up off the ground. “Who ordered the ambush on me?!” the cop yelled at him. “Was it Fred? Speak up, you damned dog—who ordered the ambush that night?”
The bloodied Mick looked up at the cop and winced with pain. “Fred did!” he shouted desperately. “It was Freddie…”
“Why?” the cop shouted, still clutching Mick hard by his jacket a couple of feet off the ground. “What did he say to you?”
“I-I don’t know,” Mick replied meekly through bloodied teeth. “Something about getting even with a cop who was walking by—that’s all I know, I swear. I just do what he says.”
Grace looked down the stairs as the cop raised Mick off the ground a little higher, dragged him a few feet, and flung him heavily against a row of trash bins standing against the other side of the alley. Mick crashed into the bins and disappeared in a jumble of garbage, broken up wood, and rotting food. The cop immediately set upon him, and Grace thought then, No, no, by the grace of God, stop—no more.
But the cop was not quite finished yet, and he stalked over to the where Mick was groaning inside the pile of rubbish and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket once more and ended the assault with one sharp punch to the dazed man’s jaw, leaving him lying semi-conscious on the ground.
Grace watched as the cop then turned to where she and several others from the bar were now gaping at the scene of destruction from their vantage point up on the top of the stairs at the threshold to the establishment. The cop started walking purposefully over towards them, and she could feel the people next to her step backwards lightly into the hallway. The cop reached the stairs and walked calmly up the steps, parting the people like a streetcar would a crowded city street. He then reached down and grabbed the injured Bob by his jacket with both hands and dragged him back down the stairs, dropping him on the ground with an audible moan coming from Mick’s henchman. Then Grace winced as the cop kicked Bob hard in the ribs several times until finally leaving him groaning on the floor of the alley.
The cop bent over and placed his hands on his own thighs as if to catch his breath after the tumult of violence that had erupted the past few minutes finally ended. Then, standing up and turning to Grace and the small crowd of shocked onlookers who remained staring in silence in the doorway, he spoke out: “You tell Fred that Detective Falconer from the Oak Street station came around looking for him, and this isn’t over. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” Then he slowly walked away down the alley, leaving his companion, the Englishman, standing silently in the shadows across from the people standing at the top of the stairs.
But as the tall cop’s form gently receded into the darkness, the Englishman walked over to where Grace and the others stood above him. Beckoning her to come down to see him, the Englishman pulled out a small pad and pencil as she walked timidly down to meet him. When she arrived before him on the last step, he looked up at her with what she perceived as an almost apologetic and embarrassed look on his face. “So sorry about all this, miss,” he said, removing his bowler and clutching it in his hands in front of him, “but we’re not quite finished here. I’m going to need the names of the other blokes who were with you and your man, Fred, in the alley that night—if you don’t mind?”
Grace stood before the Englishman and hesitated as she thought of Fred, and of Mick, now turning over in pain at his place in the jumbled, disturbed row of garbage bins, and of Bob lying near her feet and the others who were complicit in their deed and who awaited their fate at the hands of the angry cop at some point in the future. And then she nodded with resignation at the soft-spoken man standing before her, and she motioned with her head towards a dark corner of the alleyway nearby. “Sure, mister,” she said quietly. “Come over here away from these people, and I can talk to you there.”
The Englishman then moved aside to allow the young woman to step off the stairs and walk gently over to the dark corner of the alley, where they would speak in whispers for a few minutes before parting ways as the people in the bar gathered to help the stricken men lying in the alley.
55
Three days after giving Mick and Bob a beating at Fre
d McGuire’s saloon, Falconer waited patiently outside the men’s washroom at the Oak Street station house. He had sent Halloran inside twenty minutes earlier to change into his disguise as a female prostitute, complete with long ruffle corset skirt, a snugly-fitted, boned bodice with high collar, laced ankle boots that hurt too much, a wig, a handbag, and makeup that a helpful female clerk from a local boutique would apply shortly at Falconer’s request. Falconer had waited but now grew restless and called out to the young officer. “Halloran, are you ready yet?”
He listened for a moment and was about to enter the washroom when he heard Halloran’s voice from inside. “Do I really have to do this, detective? It seems ridiculous.”
Falconer ran a hand through his hair and looked down the hallway, attempting to formulate a proper response. “Halloran,” he finally said, “you’re not the only officer walking around in this sort of disguise tonight. It’s necessary to the operation, and no one views you differently because you’re dressed in this way. Let’s get on with it now. There’s hardly anyone around, anyway.”
He stood waiting in the hallway, and then, after a few seconds of silence, the door to the washroom slowly creaked open and Halloran appeared haltingly, first exposing only his gloved hand and arm, and then eventually showing his face and torso as he glanced around for any sign of any interested interlopers who might have a laugh at his expense. Falconer stepped back and looked the patrolman over. “Excellent, Halloran,” he said, grinning slightly. “You look pretty damned convincing to me, believe it or not.”
“I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment, detective,” Halloran replied. “So, what about all this makeup that you talked about?”
“Come on down the hallway here,” Falconer said. “I’ve got a lady who can help you out in that area.”
Falconer led the officer down a few doorways to a small interview room where a young woman was waiting. “Thanks for waiting, Miss Baxter,” he said to her as Halloran stood slightly behind him. “This is Officer Halloran, who is obviously playing the role of the woman in this operation that I told you about. Officer Halloran, this is Miss Baxter, who runs a shop down the street and knows all about how to apply this makeup for you.”
“Hello, officer,” the woman said, standing up and extending her hand to the patrolman. “Very nice to meet you.”
“Um, same to you, miss,” Halloran said, shaking her hand and glancing alternately in her direction and then down at the floor. “I appreciate your assistance.”
“Not at all, Officer Halloran,” she said, smiling. “It won’t take long. Just enough to trick any man out there, I can assure you.”
“Here, Halloran,” Falconer said, pulling out a chair from the table in the room. “Why don’t you have a seat, so Miss Baxter can work her magic and I’ll come back in a few minutes?”
“Yes, detective,” Halloran answered, sitting down glumly.
“Thank you again, Miss Baxter,” Falconer said as he moved from behind the chair and towards the doorway. “But please remember: knowledge of this particular operation must not leave this station house. You have been included in the small circle of people who know about it, and that circle is not large and includes, of course, the very highest echelons of this police department. I need you to keep this an absolute secret. Do you understand?”
“Yes, detective, you can count on me,” Miss Baxter replied. “I know that this involves something very important, and I won’t jeopardize it for you.”
“Thank you again,” Falconer said. “I’ll be back in a moment, Halloran.”
He stepped out and walked down the hallway to the front entrance of the station, leaving Miss Baxter to add the finishing touches to Halloran’s disguise. Across the city, in every ward and at every station house, other men of smaller stature were being dressed up in the guise of streetwalkers, made up to look the part of enticing young women, all to draw the attention of one unidentified man who—it was thought—remained at large and who would probably strike again.
On the authority of Chief Inspector Byrnes, Falconer had been placed in charge of the citywide ruse, and with this newfound authority, he had issued strict orders to maintain secrecy and security as the plan was executed. No one outside of the operation was to be told of its existence, and newspaper reporters especially were to be avoided at all costs.
The question came up, though, regarding the arming of the men who were dressed as the ladies of the evening. It was determined that to hide a revolver within their skirts and women’s jackets would be too obtrusive and clumsy, and therefore, the officers were told to keep something less obvious on their person, such as a blackjack or a knife.
After Halloran had finished with his makeup session, Falconer handed him a small curved fighting knife with an ivory handle before they stepped out into the streets, and Halloran held it up to his face to examine it, apparently taken aback with its exotic design.
“Never seen one before?” Falconer asked.
“No, sir,” Halloran replied. “What is it?”
“It’s called a karambit, from Southeast Asia. Legend has it that it was designed to act just like the claw of the big cats that exist in those parts of the world. It’s very effective in close quarters, Halloran.”
“Where’d you get it?” Halloran asked, twisting the little knife around in the air as he spoke.
“My father traveled a lot when I was younger,” Falconer answered as he checked his Colt revolver. “He brought this back from the Philippines, I believe.”
“Well, it sure is something,” Halloran observed, holding the knife closely in front of his eyes and inspecting it very carefully. “I’d hate to come face to face with it, detective.”
“That’s why I’m giving it to you, Halloran,” Falconer said. “I’ll be right near to you wherever you go, but if for some reason you need to defend yourself, just pull that out and slash out at your subject a few times—he’ll step back pretty quickly or else be sorry that he didn’t, all right?”
“Sure, detective, thanks,” Halloran said as he carefully placed the little knife into a pocket of his skirt.
The two men then stepped out into the night in front of the Oak Street station, and at the bottom of the front steps, Halloran turned to Falconer. “So where do we head, detective? And what am I supposed to do in this get-up?”
“Just walk around as the girls do, Halloran,” Falconer instructed. “You can look at the men and try and get their attention, but don’t talk to them, obviously—they’ll hear your voice and become suspicious. We’re just trying to draw in our suspect because he’s known to target girls who are walking alone late at night. He’s been described as a mid-fifties male with a dark mustache and fancy clothing, and he probably has a slight European accent of some kind. I know that’s not a lot to go on, but nothing in this investigation is solid. Let’s face it: the chances of us running into him are slim, but we have other men doing the same thing as you around the city. We can only hope that somebody encounters him somewhere. So why don’t you just head on down to Cherry and Roosevelt, and walk around the neighborhood there? I’ll be close behind the whole time, okay?”
“Right, detective,” Halloran said. “You know, if my folks could only see me now, they’d have a laugh, I’m sure.”
Halloran then slowly walked east towards Cherry Street and its abundant collection of brothels down near the East River’s edge. Falconer watched as the young man appeared to struggle initially to find his balance in the heeled woman’s shoes that he was wearing, holding out his arms slightly from his body and walking similarly to a tightrope walker in the circus. Falconer grimaced each time Halloran faltered as he stumbled down the street looking like a very inebriated young coquette heading home after one too many drinks.
As the disguised officer slowly made his way through the neighborhood, however, he seemed to find a rhythm to his gait and appeared to become more and more comfortable with the strange costume that he was wearing. Falconer always walked stead
ily behind him, puffing on a cigarillo and glancing around at any male party who came even partly close to the patrolman. And so, in this way, the two men spent the evening perambulating around the dense, heavily-trafficked jungle that was the Lower East Side.
Every so often, an eager young suitor who was game for a quick trick would approach the young lady, who strangely didn’t say very much. And when it became apparent that the smiling wooer was not the man they were looking for, Halloran would abruptly end the encounter, leaving the man cursing and gesticulating angrily on a street corner.
The two undercover policemen continued with these travels about the neighborhood for some time, and as Falconer followed the young man from gaslight to gaslight, darkened storefront to storefront, always keeping his distance so as not to draw any attention, he thought of the other men—and of Bly, too—who were similarly engaged in drawing out the mysterious killer in the city that night. And he hoped against hope that one of them somewhere would lure the man in somehow and catch a claw into him, ensnaring the prey, and that no one would be harmed in the process.
56
Charlie Penwill looked ahead to the next street corner as he and Eli Levine made their way through a darkened sector of the Tenderloin. Yes, he thought, that’ll be her right there as previously planned—good.
He nudged the professor by the elbow, motioning with a slight nod of the head at Bly’s figure standing under a gaslight at the corner. Levine looked at her, too, and then nodded back at Penwill, signaling his understanding. Then the two men silently made their way across the intersection to greet the young woman. As they got closer, Penwill smiled at her and she smiled back. He could see that, apart from a more significant amount of makeup on her face, she was dressed similarly to her earlier appearance at Falconer’s place.
This was to be expected, for it was well known that, out on the streets at least, prostitutes typically dressed as other, more respectable women did so as to not attract attention from the police. And yet, from Penwill’s perspective, there was something in her attitude now as she stepped jauntily toward them on the sidewalk, something in her manners and her airs that caused her to become a wholly different woman, a completely new persona vastly different from the determined and audacious young reporter who had transfixed the world in recent years with her travels and daring exploits.
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