Here

by Sean Moynihan

  “Really, detective?” Seidler said, looking at him intently. “Even if it reveals the true motives of a criminal?”

  Falconer chuckled. “No,” he said, taking another large draught of his beer. “All I care about is catching them and taking them off the streets—their motive be damned.”

  “But to see deep into a man’s heart—or soul, if you like,” Seidler said. “It would explain his actions so much. It would show you the very essence of the man.”

  “That’s a little beyond me, doctor,” Falconer said. “I don’t care about a man’s inner soul.”

  “I see,” Seidler said, smiling. “So how do you intend to catch this murderer, detective? Do you think that he is here in this hotel?”

  “I’m not sure if he’s here or not, doctor,” Falconer replied. “And I doubt that he’ll ever allow me to catch him, frankly.”

  “So…if you don’t think you can catch the man, what will you do?”

  “I expect I’ll have to kill him instead.”

  Falconer noticed a slight change in the doctor’s face, very faint and almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless—as if the doctor had just seen a ghoul appear from behind Falconer’s head.

  “I see,” Seidler finally said. “I suppose that is a part of the policeman’s lot, of course.”

  Falconer started to think about how he could corner this man in the discussion—perhaps push him a little off-kilter to draw him out a bit and make him slip up just slightly—but his machinations were interrupted by the sound of raised voices behind him near the entrance to the saloon. Both he and the doctor looked over in that direction and Falconer saw two barmen arguing with a female who appeared to be trying to enter the place, and as Falconer looked closer, he realized that he knew the woman, in fact: it was Bly, and she was standing before one of the men, talking up at his face.

  “Excuse me, doctor,” Falconer quickly said as he got up out of his chair. “I’d better deal with this.” He walked away and quickly made his way through the crowd of bemused men before the long bar. Arriving next to Bly just as Penwill and Levine did, he gently grabbed Bly’s elbow and spoke directly to the barman. “It’s all right, sir, I’m with the Fourth Ward—I’ll deal with the lady.”

  “Excuse me?” Bly said incredulously. “I’m not going anywhere. I demand to be allowed to speak to a certain patron of this bar, and I do this a working journalist—you are intruding on the freedom of the press right now.”

  “Again,” Falconer said to the bartender, “I will take care of this.” He then turned to Bly and said menacingly, “You’ll come with me, Miss Bly, or I’ll have you thrown in the Tombs in half an hour.”

  “On what charge, may I ask?” she said.

  “Willful obstruction of a police investigation—let’s go.”

  “Miss Bly,” Penwill chimed in, “please—we’ll explain everything outside, if you’ll just give us a moment?”

  Bly looked at the men surrounding her and then spoke up. “Very well then, but do know that I may bring up an investigation into your tactics here today.” She turned and moved towards the exit of the saloon, and Falconer, Penwill, and Levine quickly followed.

  Outside on the street, Falconer turned Bly around forcefully and spoke down at her. “What’s the idea, coming around here where you’re not supposed to be?”

  “Don’t pull that with me, detective,” she shot back. “You’ve all been keeping your secrets the past few months, but I’m onto you. I know that there are women who are dead, and you may have a suspect in there—a certain foreign doctor, correct? You may think you can keep everyone in the dark, but this is 1891, and journalists have a right to get to the truth, too—even women journalists.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Bly,” Falconer said through gritted teeth. “We are on an investigation, that’s true, but no one’s trying to keep secrets. We can’t alert any suspects before we have the evidence, understand?”

  “I understand that the Whitechapel killer may be sitting inside that saloon sipping a cognac right this very minute, and I intend on interviewing him, detective—it’s my right as a journalist and a citizen.”

  Falconer moved slightly closer to her. “You’ll back off,” he warned, “or as I said, you’ll be behind bars facing a charge—even if you are a world-famous globe-trotter.”

  “Miss Bly,” Penwill interrupted, “if you’ll just step aside with me for a moment, I can explain the need for absolute secrecy on this right now. But I can assure you, you won’t be kept in the dark forever. Please.”

  Bly looked up at Falconer again, and then turned to Penwill. “Very well, inspector,” she said. “Let us take a walk down the block and cool off bit, shall we? I’ve had enough of the New York Police Department for one day.”

  She moved off with Penwill at her side, and Falconer was left standing against the side of the hotel with Levine. “Professor,” he said to him, “that was close. This woman could jeopardize everything.”

  “I think it is as they say in the papers,” Levine said, watching Bly walk away down the block with Penwill. “The world is changing, and the old ways are dying fast. Did you get anywhere with the doctor?”

  “Not particularly,” Falconer replied glumly. “He appears very calm and calculating. He won’t be tripped up easily. Come on—let’s arrange for some men to shadow him, and we can go deal with the body outside my building.”

  The two men then walked back into the hotel to send a telegraph to the Central Office about the man known as Doctor Johannes Seidler.

  73

  “Well, I suppose I’ll get over to Bellevue to see what they’re saying about the woman found next to my building,” Falconer said as he and Levine walked out of the small telegraph office within the hotel.

  “Yes, I figured you might be doing that,” Levine replied.

  “I’m sorry we really didn’t get anywhere tonight, professor,” Falconer said, straightening his bowler on his head. “And to think we had another body added to our list. This isn’t good at all. Keep in touch?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Levine said. “Please keep me posted over at the law school.”

  “Will do, professor,” Falconer said. “Have a good night.”

  “You, too,” Levine said, and Falconer walked out of the hotel.

  Levine stood alone for a moment, pondering his next move. Should I? he thought. Penwill is busy with Bly, it seems, and the man is probably still in there. Could I be causing mischief?

  He looked back towards the entrance to the saloon and started walking towards it. As he moved into the barroom, he looked casually over at the painting under the red canopy and was relieved to see Seidler still sitting there alone at his small table. Levine straightened out his jacket and tie and then walked slowly through the crowd of men over to the bar. After getting a brandy from the bartender, he turned and walked over to the painting. As he came up on Seidler, he looked up at the canvas. “Marvelous,” he said taking a sip of his drink.

  He didn’t look down but heard Seidler’s reply: “You think so? I must agree with you then. Such a visually stunning scene, and a shame that it must be hidden within this saloon, yes?”

  “Yes, very much so, sir,” Levine said. “Someday our culture will be more admiring of such works of beauty.”

  “Indeed,” Seidler said. “Someday. Would you care to have a seat, sir?”

  “Why, thank you,” Levine answered, moving to take a seat. “That’s very kind of you…Mister?...”

  “Johannes Seidler, physician, from Vienna,” he said. “And you are, sir?”

  “Eli Levine, professor of criminal law at Columbia School of Law,” Levine said, shaking Seidler’s hand.

  “Professor of criminal law?” Seidler said. “Well, I am meeting just the most interesting people this evening. Just moments ago, an actual detective with the police department was sitting in that very chair—investigating a murder, no less.”

  “A murder?” Levine asked. “What murder
?”

  “He didn’t say, unfortunately,” Seidler said, taking a sip from his drink. “He said that it may be connected to others, actually, but he was not allowed to speak further on the subject, so we discussed the Bougereau here instead. And then suddenly he was gone—apparently, a row with some woman trying to get through the entrance over there.”

  “Interesting,” Levine said. “Investigating a murder.”

  “Yes,” Seidler said, “and perhaps you could have helped him on it, professor, given your position at the school of law.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Levine said, smiling. “I am limited to lectures on the English common law on criminal acts, and perhaps the occasional exploration or commentary on a particular notable crime in the news. I wouldn’t know the first thing about actually solving a mysterious crime.”

  “Really?” Seidler said. “And what sort of notable crimes have you expounded on, professor? Anything recent?”

  “Well, nothing too recent, I’m afraid,” Levine responded, “but I did travel to Whitechapel a couple of years ago to research a short book on those infamous murders.”

  “A book on the Whitechapel killings?” Seidler said, looking suddenly more intrigued and rapt as he placed his glass down and moved closer to Levine. “Tell me about your book, professor.”

  “Well, I had the good fortune to spend about a month over there back in the summer of eighty-nine,” Levine explained, “basically visiting the murder scenes and interviewing anyone I could, you see. And then upon my return, I wrote a small history of the murders and included my conclusions as to the character and likely persona of the Ripper.”

  “And what did you conclude about the man, professor?”

  “Well, it’s a little difficult to narrow it down to just a few sentences, you understand,” Levine said, smiling, “but if I could reduce everything I wrote to a few key observations, I would say that the Whitechapel killer is basically a broken individual, a pathological childlike brute who suffers from a certain sexual perversity and who killed the ladies out of a profound insecurity around the female sex.”

  Levine took a drink of his brandy and looked over at Seidler, who was sitting back in his chair. “What do you think, doctor?” he asked. “Is it too ambitious? Too unmoored from the available evidence? For, as I’m sure you are aware, no one has ever actually met the man called Jack the Ripper and interviewed him about the murders, so we have no idea what he’s truly like.”

  Seidler looked at his glass on the table and smiled slightly. Then he looked over at Levine. “Yes, I’m sorry, professor, but it seems to me that your views might be just a little too melodramatic, with no offense intended, of course. Perhaps the Whitechapel killer is just a regular man who has had his fill of the filth, the wretchedness, and the—how shall I say it?—the black and sinful ways of women of the street?”

  “Black and sinful ways?” Levine said. “How so?”

  “Well,” Seidler said, “you of all people must know that those women were a scandalous, lowly lot—all dirty and reprehensible prostitutes who walked about the streets at night, looking to draw men into their dens of pestilence to make a profit for themselves.”

  “Yes,” Levine said, “I am aware that they all appeared to be at least occasional prostitutes—and I know how the profession generally works. But is it fair to call them by those names? Dirty? Reprehensible? Lowly?”

  “Why not?” Seidler asked. “Are you saying that prostitution is a benefit to society and that these fallen harlots should be extolled?”

  “No, not at all,” Levine replied. “I only feel a certain degree of sympathy for them, for their station in life, because surely a woman like that does not seek out that unfortunate existence when she embarks on life. And, of course, they all ended up killed in a most ghastly manner, strangled and mangled by a vicious maniac on dark, lonely street corners. No one deserves that horrible end.”

  “I am sorry, professor,” Seidler said, lifting his glass once more. “I agree that they met a horrible ending, but it is hard for me to sympathize with women who essentially put themselves in that vulnerable position, trolling about for a quick payment and not being discriminating about their company in the least.”

  Levine took a sip of his brandy. “And does that mean, doctor, that you don’t condemn completely the acts of a coward like the Ripper?” he asked, placing his glass on the table.

  Seidler placed his glass down, too, and peered at Levine for a moment. “A coward, you say?” he finally said. “Why is this man, the Ripper, a coward, professor? That seems to me to be a rather strong word.”

  “Well, doctor,” Levine said, moving closer to Seidler and rubbing his hands together as if it would stimulate his mind even more, “you must admit that a man’s act of victimizing a poor, vulnerable woman on a dark street corner isn’t exactly the most gallant of acts. In fact, it is the act of a man who picks on the weak, who is probably afraid to try the same thing with a man his size and age, who is afraid of anyone other than an unsuspecting, broken-down prostitute. In short, sir, it is the act of a man seeping with cowardice. Or am I wrong?”

  He took another sip of his brandy and looked over at Seidler to see what effect his latest salvo had had on the man. He could see that Seidler was now leaning back in his chair, smiling slightly as he stared at the floor. Now, Levine thought…how does it feel to be confronted with your acts finally? You vile demon….

  “Well, I see that you feel very strongly about those murders, professor,” Seidler finally said. “And I can understand your feelings, but you must forgive me if I don’t agree with you completely on it. Terrible murders, yes, but they don’t necessarily show us the character of the man, this ‘Ripper.’ And now, I’m sorry, but I must excuse myself and bid you goodnight. I have work to do tomorrow and I need to prepare. Thank you for joining me, professor. Very nice making your acquaintance.”

  Seidler reached out his hand and Levine got up and took it, shaking it very briefly before letting go. “Yes, well, thank you, Doctor Seidler,” he said. “I appreciate your invitation to sit with you tonight. Good evening to you.”

  “Good evening, professor,” Seidler replied, and then Levine saw him wander off slowly across the barroom towards the entrance. As Seidler drifted out of sight around the corner, Levine glanced to the left of the entrance and saw one of Falconer’s men slowly move to the entrance and disappear around the corner, as well. Another man who had been standing at the bar then moved quickly to follow, and Levine realized that this must be another roundsman working the case with Falconer. They will stick close to him now, he thought.

  He looked around the room uncomfortably, feeling that he did not really belong, after all, and wondering if dozens of moneyed and privileged eyes were staring at him with contempt at this moment. And then he turned and walked briskly through the crowd of men in the barroom and headed for the exit to the street.

  74

  “Another dead prostitute, and on your own doorstep, Falconer? What the hell is going on here?”

  Falconer stood before Chief Inspector Byrnes in Byrnes’ office on Mulberry Street the day after his confrontation with Seidler at the Hoffman House, and he could tell that the chief was struggling to contain his rage.

  “We’re about a hair’s breadth away from another scare in this city, gentlemen,” Byrnes continued, his voice rising such that the air in the room seemed to stand still, “and I’m not going to tolerate that, damn it! You need to arrest this Seidler person immediately and stop this nonsense!”

  Falconer looked at Penwill, and then over at Byrnes’ men, McNaught and Clubber Williams, who were standing to the side, tall, erect, and unsympathetic, like ancient idols carved out of dark stone. Then he looked back at Byrnes, who appeared to be eyeing him impatiently. “I had men on Seidler,” he said, “And I have men on him still, so I don’t know how he could have done in this latest woman. But regardless, we really don’t have much to arrest him on except the word of a common th
ief, Spotsky. And when Spotsky tried to contact him when we were watching over at the hotel, the man didn’t bite. An arrest won’t get past the judge, chief inspector.”

  “You let me worry about the damned judge,” Byrnes said quickly. “You just go grab this Seidler character and bring him before me. Then we’ll see how cute he gets.”

  Falconer looked at Penwill, who shrugged almost imperceptibly.

  “What’s the heat from the press on this one?” Byrnes asked McNaught.

  “They’re sniffing around,” McNaught replied, “but nothing too intense yet—just a few inquiries this morning. I gotta’ tell you, though, boss: they know about another dead lady uptown, and they’re going to be asking a lot of questions—and soon.”

  “Well, start stonewalling,” Byrnes said, “and figure out a way to explain the death as something other than another cursed knife attack by the same killer. Is there anything else, Falconer?”

  “Nothing,” Falconer replied.

  “Good,” Byrnes said. “Then get me this doctor today. I’ll get some damned answers out of him. If he’s the one that’s been pulling this, he’ll rue the day he ever set foot in this town. Now go and keep me posted.”

  Falconer turned and exited the office with Penwill, leaving Byrnes and his men gathered about Byrnes’ great oak desk. As the two men walked down the stairs, Penwill turned to Falconer. “Well, old boy,” he said, “we are in a fix, if I ever saw one. I suppose we must just go and grab up Seidler and worry about the consequences later. It falls on Byrnes’ shoulders now.”

  “Yes,” Falconer said, stepping onto the first floor of the headquarters and heading out the front entrance to Mulberry Street. “I’ll go prepare a warrant to be signed. You meet me at the Hoffman House in an hour, all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Penwill answered as he placed his bowler atop his head. “I’ll notify Halloran and Waidler, as well.”

  “Good, thanks,” Falconer said. “If Byrnes wants his arrest, he can have it.”

  He watched as Penwill stepped off the curb and hailed a hansom cab rambling down the street. As Penwill disappeared into the cab, Falconer turned back and headed into the great big headquarters building again, determined to write the quickest request for a warrant ever in his career.