Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  John pulled a face. “Kaylock’s not the most patient fellow, is he?”

  “No, that is not the word I would choose to describe him. Cantankerous, ill-tempered, scathing—”

  “All far more apt,” John agreed. “But don’t worry, Harry. Last night was a real breakthrough. I’m sure we’re on the right track now. I can feel it in my bones.”

  I nodded, though in the light of day it all seemed far-fetched. The logical part of my mind wanted to blame the wavering lanterns, the wild shadows on the tunnel walls and my own overheated imagination.

  But I could still smell that awful stench, hear the drone of the flies.

  And over the last year, I’d seen evidence of another world that existed beyond the edges of the candlelight, where fey things walked and the dead could not be trusted to stay quietly in their graves.

  I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand, having gulped a quick cup of coffee before dashing out with no time to eat breakfast. Lack of sleep was one of the hazards of the job. Ghosts and ghouls keep late hours, especially that bleak stretch between two and four o’clock in the morning when the forces of darkness hold the greatest sway.

  The doors of the synagogue were unlocked and we entered a vast chamber with a soaring barrel-vaulted ceiling. Marble sinks in the vestibule offered congregants a place to wash the grime of the streets from their hands before entering. For many, the taps of running water would be an almost unimaginable luxury.

  I stood still for a moment, admiring the magnificent rose window, brass fixtures and hand-painted walls with celestial motifs of the heavens.

  “It is beautiful, yes? The style is Moorish Revival, a tribute to the great temples of Berlin and Prague.”

  We turned to find a man in his early sixties with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard and pleasant, scholarly face. He wore a black coat and wide-brimmed hat, tipped back on his head.

  “Very beautiful,” I replied with a smile. “Are you Rabbi Mezritch?”

  “I am. And you must be the ones Julius told me about.” Rabbi Yaakov Levi Mezritch spoke with a thick Russian accent, but he seemed fluent in English. “Julius said two of his colleagues would be coming.” He looked at us with some puzzlement. “I had expected policemen.”

  “We’re with the Society for Psychical Research,” I replied, showing him my credentials and making formal introductions. “We work closely with Detective Brach on cases of an unusual nature.” I paused, feeling awkward. “I’d hoped he might have explained some of it.”

  Rabbi Mezritch shook his head. “He gave me no details. Only sent a brief note requesting my help. I will give it, if it is in my power to do so.” He gestured toward a flight of stairs leading to the upper level of the synagogue. “Come, we can speak privately.”

  He led us to a small study lined with shelves of books, many quite old-looking. Rabbi Mezritch sat behind his desk and gestured at two chairs. “Tell me what has brought you here. Julius said it was urgent.”

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss all the details,” I said carefully.

  “It’s a criminal matter,” John added. “But perhaps you can answer some general questions.”

  “A criminal matter?” The rabbi looked alarmed. “I hope none of my congregation is under suspicion.”

  I understood his trepidation. New York City was a far cry from the American South, where I’d heard rumors of rampant hostility toward Jewish people. The community here numbered in the tens of thousands and was well-established. But a new wave of emigration was fanning the flames of prejudice and some hotels in the North openly refused to serve Jews. Rabbi Mezritch was right to be worried – another reason we needed to dispose of the golem as soon as possible.

  “It’s nothing like that,” John said reassuringly. “The police have no suspects. As Miss Pell said, we simply want your expertise.”

  The rabbi gave a wary nod. “Go on. What is your question?”

  John took out his dog-eared notebook and pencil. I gave him a smile that said, Be my guest.

  “How would one make a golem?” he asked seriously, the nib of his pencil poised over the paper.

  Rabbi Mezritch regarded him without expression. “A golem.”

  “Yes. A clay man. The animated kind. What would that entail?”

  The rabbi smiled faintly. He seemed relieved. “Well, it’s not a simple matter. According to the stories, you must be touched by God, have a divine experience. This is all folklore.”

  “What are the origins?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

  He clasped his hands together on the desk and leaned forward. I had the feeling he enjoyed telling a good story. “Well, in the Talmud, Adam began as a golem, a simple creature made of dust. God gave him life. So it takes a very special person to make a golem. Someone who has experienced some type of . . . .” Rabbi Mezritch paused to search for the right words. “Let us say, ecstatic revelation.”

  John scribbled madly in the notebook. “Is there a specific ritual?”

  “Naturally. One must invoke the name of God in a shem. Letters from the Hebrew alphabet are written on a piece of paper and placed in the mouth or forehead of the golem.” He chose a book from the shelf and paged through it. “Ah, here we are. Elijah of Chelm, around the middle of the sixteenth century, was the first person credited with making such a creature. But over time it grew violent and the rabbi feared it might destroy the world.”

  That sounded familiar. “Are they all monsters?” I asked.

  Rabbi Mezritch pondered this question. “Not always. Or they do not begin that way. In the case of Rabbi Loew — that is the most famous story — he made the golem to protect the Jews of Prague against the pogroms. Some versions of the legend claim that Rabbi Loew also used him as a servant. On the Sabbath, the day of rest, he removed the shem to keep God’s law.

  “But one Sabbath, Rabbi Loew forgot to take the shem and left for the synagogue. The golem could not expend his energy on productive work and became enraged, destroying everything within his reach. Rabbi Loew was summoned and managed to retrieve the shem. The golem returned to dust. After this terrible experience, he vowed never to make another.”

  “But that’s how they’re stopped?” John asked. “By removing the shem?”

  “So the stories say.”

  I frowned. It had been dark in the tunnel, but I didn’t recall seeing any symbols on the creature’s head. It looked rough and shapeless. “So the shem is on the forehead?”

  “Or inside the mouth,” Rabbi Mezritch said.

  John looked up from his notebook. “Harry!” he exclaimed. “I think I saw something when it struck the wall. A bit of parchment poking out from between its teeth . . . .”

  I glared at him and he trailed off, giving a weak shrug.

  The rabbi looked startled. “You have seen the golem yourselves? It is real?”

  I nodded. There was no point in dissembling now.

  “Where?” he asked softly.

  “In the sewers,” I said. “Uptown in the Tenderloin.”

  Rabbi Mezritch frowned. “It is running loose?”

  “Unfortunately. And this one was most definitely not resting on the Sabbath. It’s been attacking people, though no one has been seriously hurt yet. I don’t suppose you’ve heard rumors? Anything that might help?”

  He shook his head. “Not a whisper.”

  “Let’s go back to the whole touched by God bit,” John said in a businesslike tone. “What does that mean exactly?”

  The rabbi thought for a moment. “Well, according to the old legends, one who devotes himself to tireless study of the Scripture may discover the means to endow an artificial being with life. But there is an inherent flaw. Just as man by his very nature can never equal his Creator, man’s creation will also be imperfect — a mechanical imitation of a living being with no will, thoughts or feelings of its own, existing only to carry out the will of its master.”

  I was tempted to point out that God’s own creations were frequently flaw
ed as well, but held my tongue. “So you’re saying someone is controlling this thing?”

  “I fear it must be so. And it would be a person well-versed in mysticism.” Rabbi Mezritch heaved a deep sigh. “This is very serious. Are the victims Jewish?”

  “No, not a single one. And it doesn’t seem to be carrying out any particular task. It hides in the sewers and surfaces periodically to frighten people walking the streets above. Then it returns to the tunnels.”

  “If word gets out, it could be very bad,” he said solemnly.

  “We’re aware of that.” I paused. “Mr. Weston and I encountered the golem last night. It was large and strong, but it didn’t harm us, not badly at any rate. But it did seem angry, Rabbi. And I’m afraid that eventually it will hurt someone, perhaps even kill them, if we don’t stop it. Is there anything else that might be useful?”

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve told you all I know. I can make some discreet inquiries among the other rabbis. See if they’ve heard anything.”

  John closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket. “If someone is directing the golem’s actions, is there any way to tell who it is from the shem?”

  Rabbi Mezritch held out his palms in a helpless gesture. “I don’t see how. It is not their name written on the shem, but the name of God.” He hesitated. “What you describe sounds like it could be a rogue golem. One who was abandoned or neglected by its creator.”

  I slowly nodded, recalling the way the golem had seemed to stare at John in particular, and its sudden rage when he spoke. Could it be searching for its master?

  “Well, thank you for your time, Rabbi Mezritch,” I said, leaving my card on the desk. “Please contact us if you hear anything at all that could be relevant.”

  We left the synagogue and walked a few short blocks south to Pearl Street, named after the massive oyster beds that had once thrived in New York Harbor. The offices of the Society for Psychical Research sat across from Mr. Edison’s experimental power station, which consisted of an adjoining pair of four-story brick structures with three tall smokestacks. The whirring dynamos inside made very little noise and provided electricity to customers in the immediate vicinity, including our employer.

  The neighborhood was decrepit, perched at the edge of the waterfront and a stone’s throw from the dangerous slum of Five Points. Our destination, number 253 Pearl Street at the corner of Fulton, looked like a ramshackle tenement — from the outside.

  We were greeted by the antediluvian butler Joseph, who informed us that Mr. Kaylock was occupied but that we could wait outside his office.

  “Thank you, Joseph, we know the way,” John said quickly. “There’s no need—”

  Joseph executed a stiff turn and tacked for the staircase. “I’ll escort you, Mister Weston, Miss Pell.”

  John sighed. “Certainly.”

  Joseph always insisted on accompanying us to Kaylock’s study, as if we might pocket the silver if left to our own devices. Now he led us up to the second floor, pausing on each step to emit a rattling death wheeze, then down the hall to a parlor with rich furnishings and a toasty fire in the hearth.

  “Do you require anything further?” he asked at the door with a touch of irritation, as if he had much better things to do than ferry us around.

  I shook my head and Joseph retreated down the hall, his footsteps swallowed by the thick Persian carpet.

  John removed his Homburg and threw himself into an armchair, stretching out his long legs. The walls were adorned with unsmiling portraits of the Society’s founders and one or two bland landscapes. A stack of journals rested on the table. I listened to the clock tick on the mantel as I composed my thoughts, while John started thumbing through one of the journals.

  Technically speaking, neither of us were actual employees of the S.P.R. We were paid a fee upon the successful completion of assignments, but John and I had both signed contracts absolving the S.P.R. of any liability for injury or death in the line of work. I still wasn’t sure how I was supposed to cobble together a decent living from it, but for the moment I didn’t have to worry. I lived at home and my expenses were modest. Once John finished school and became a respectable doctor, I supposed he’d quit, a prospect I tried not to dwell on.

  After thirty minutes, the door to Mr. Kaylock’s study opened and three people emerged. I knew two of them fairly well. Kate Prince and Wayne Copperthwaite were fellow agents. Kate had coffee-colored skin and kept her hair in French braids. She was tall and strong and pretty, with an oval face and intelligent brown eyes. Her particular talent was sniffing out fakers and frauds. She had been hired by Mr. Kaylock.

  Her partner had auburn hair and the kind of complexion that turned beet red at the drop of a hat. Wayne had been hired by Orpha Winter, Kaylock’s co-vice president and a rabid devotee of spiritualism. From what John said, he could smell ghosts or something. In any event, I knew they’d been given the Cherney case.

  The third man was a few years older, mid-twenties, I reckoned, with dark blond hair that curled around his ears. He barely glanced at us. I’d seen that same look on the faces of Myrtle’s clients countless times. Stunned disbelief mingled with desperation.

  “G . . . G . . . .” He swallowed painfully, his face contorting as he struggled to get the syllable out. “Good d . . . day.”

  We murmured polite greetings in return. I was dying to ask Kate if there had been a break in the case, but she only gave us a distracted nod and swept past.

  John and I entered the inner sanctum and found Harland Kaylock behind his desk, perusing a stack of papers. He gestured to the chairs arrayed before his desk without looking up and we obediently sat.

  Mr. Kaylock had a sharp nose and thick, rather wild dark hair swept back from his high forehead. He wore a perpetually displeased expression and I always found myself sitting up a little straighter at these meetings.

  “Report?” he muttered.

  I took a deep breath. “We’ve made tremendous progress, sir. First off, we actually saw the thing last night. Turns out it’s a creature from Jewish folklore called a golem. That was John’s work, he deserves all the credit.”

  Keen eyes flicked up from the paper. “Golem?”

  “Yes, sir,” John said. “A man made of clay and brought to life with a talisman called a shem. It’s a scrap of paper that one puts in the—”

  “Very good,” Mr. Kaylock interrupted acidly. “Does one know how to stop it?”

  John nodded. “We consulted with a rabbi this morning. He told us that if the shem is removed, the creature will return to dust.” He scratched his head. “Unless it has to be done by the person who made it. We forgot to ask him that, Harry.”

  I frowned. “John’s right. In both of the examples he cited, it was the golem’s creator who stepped in when it grew uncontrollable.”

  Mr. Kaylock’s fountain pen drummed against his pile of papers. “You’ll simply have to test the theory yourselves.”

  “About that . . . .” I cleared my throat. “Might I suggest that the Night Squad make arrangements to conduct a broad manhunt in the sewers? They’ll need to muster at least two dozen officers, but it would be the most effective strategy. The sewers are too extensive for me and Mr. Weston to search all alone.”

  This was a poke at the negligent Sergeant Mallory, but Kaylock didn’t seem to notice.

  “You can suggest it,” he replied with a mirthless chuckle, “but don’t expect results. The Night Squad is otherwise occupied at the moment and an army of police officers descending into the sewers of midtown Manhattan would attract precisely the sort of attention we don’t need right now.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” John interjected. “The golem is growing more violent. And the creature is strong. It cracked the brickwork of the tunnel with a single blow! We were lucky to escape unscathed.”

  “I sympathize,” Mr. Kaylock said in a tone that conveyed very little sympathy at all. “But we have limited resources. This creature must be
stopped before the press starts taking it seriously. We’ve managed to keep it quiet so far — God knows how, with all the paid informants in the police department — but there’s pressure from City Hall. Mayor Grant wants this case to go away and he’s close friends with Orpha Winter. Do you understand?” The tone brooked no dissent.

  “Perfectly,” I muttered.

  “What else have you learned?”

  “Golems carry out the will of a single master, usually a person with profound knowledge of religious scripture,” John said. “So someone is controlling it.”

  For the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine interest in Kaylock’s predatory eyes. “To what purpose?”

  “We don’t know,” John admitted.

  “Then the information is irrelevant.” Kaylock’s clever, apelike fingers gripped the edge of the desk. “The point is that these attacks have become an acute embarrassment to the City of New York. If they continue, tourists will shun the Tenderloin and the economy will suffer. A critical aspect of our role is to prevent the public from ever learning what walks among them. So here’s what I suggest.”

  His gaze speared us both to our chairs. “The next time this golem is sighted, you will drop whatever it is you’re doing and rush into the sewers to destroy the talisman that animates it. Are these instructions clear? Is there any part you don’t comprehend? If so, please do tell me now.”

  John and I exchanged a sour look. “No, sir,” we said in unison.

  “Excellent. You’d best get cracking then.” His attention returned to the papers.

  I rose but lingered before his desk. “Mr. Kaylock?”

  “What is it, Miss Pell?”

  “I was wondering who that was with Miss Prince and Mr. Copperthwaite a moment ago.”

  He sighed and laid down the pen. “I don’t suppose I need to keep it secret, you’ll read in the papers soon enough. There’s been another death of a student. His name was Francis Bates. The gentleman you saw is the unfortunate young man’s friend.” A shadow crossed Kaylock’s face. “He claims that he saw Bates across town just before he died.”