Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  “Just like Daniel Cherney,” I said, glancing at John.

  Kaylock nodded without a trace of his usual sarcasm. He looked troubled. “Just like Cherney.”

  Here were the bare facts as I knew them:

  At one thirty-five in the afternoon of August 13th, a graduate student named Daniel Cherney was struck and killed by a horse-drawn omnibus at the busy intersection of Thirty-Fourth Street and Sixth Avenue. Several witnesses reported that an errant gust of wind blew a newspaper into his face at the precise instant he stepped off the curb. The time was fixed since there was a large, handsome clock above the entrance to the Madison Park Hotel and bystanders noted the hour.

  A tragic but run-of-the-mill accident — if it weren’t for the fact that Cherney was seen at the exact same time sitting in a lecture hall several miles away, also by dozens of witnesses.

  No one spoke to the Daniel Cherney who attended the lecture on structural engineering. By all accounts, he sat quietly taking notes. When it ended, he vanished among the crowd of students hurrying to their next class.

  It seemed impossible, but there was no doubt that the mangled body in front of the Madison Hotel was also Daniel Cherney. His parents positively identified him by a scar on his left shoulder from a childhood sledding accident.

  So who was the man who attended the lecture?

  The newspapers were having a field day with this mystery. And now it seemed there was another dead student seen in two places at once.

  “What happened to Francis Bates?” I asked.

  “A grisly accident in a theater where he worked as an actor. There was a leak in the roof and water dripped through to the scaffolding he was standing on. Bates slipped and fell into the ropes.” Kaylock’s lips tightened. “He strangled slowly. There’s no indication it was murder. Several cast members saw it happen, but they couldn’t reach him in time.”

  “How awful,” I said. “Why was he up on a scaffold?”

  “They were trying out a new harness that would allow the actors to descend from the ceiling above the stage. Some silly melodrama with angels. Bates had a bit part.”

  “So what’s the connection to Cherney?” John wondered.

  “Cashel O’Sullivan – that’s who you just saw leaving my office – well, he came to us insisting that he saw Bates across the street from his house at the same time the accident occurred. Bates was allegedly standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the window as if debating whether to come in. O’Sullivan called out to him but got no response. He hurried down to the street, but Francis Bates – or whoever it was – was gone. If not for the Cherney case, I wouldn’t give his story much weight. But it makes one wonder.”

  “Mistaken identity?” I ventured.

  “Perhaps, but he’s quite insistent. He recognized the coat and bright red scarf. Bates was a bit of a dandy.” Kaylock sighed. “It’s all most bizarre. O’Sullivan worked at the same theater as a stagehand. He did the lighting.”

  “So he would have been familiar with the scaffolding,” John said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, but he wasn’t there when it happened. Witnesses confirmed that. And why would he claim to have seen Bates across town?”

  “He could be an attention seeker,” I suggested. “The Cherney case might have given him the idea.”

  “He could be,” Kaylock agreed gravely. “But I just spoke with him. Unless he is an extremely practiced actor, I don’t think he could have faked such distress. He seemed deeply shaken by the experience.”

  “And O’Sullivan wasn’t the actor, was he?” John muttered. “His friend was.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question and Mr. Kaylock rode over me. “It’s not your case, Miss Pell. Nor yours, Weston. I’ve already told you more than I ought to have.” He looked down at the papers. “Off with you both.”

  “But—”

  “Miss Prince and Mr. Copperthwaite have the matter well in hand.” Kaylock made a show of examining his pocket watch. “The Night Squad will send a man to fetch you when the golem is seen again. Don’t forget, Mayor Grant wants a speedy resolution.”

  “So do we,” I muttered.

  We left the office and wandered downstairs to the stuffy room where Kaylock sometimes held mock séances. Our boss disliked his fellow man on general principle, but he reserved a special contempt for those who took advantage of the lonely, desperate and grief-stricken. And his experience as a former professional magician made Kaylock well-suited to expose the various tricks used by mediums to dupe their clients.

  The room had a round table covered by a black cloth. Hidden pulleys could make the table jump up and down, while a magic lantern projected howling ghosts on the walls. It all looked ordinary enough now, save for the talking board and planchette that spiritualists used to communicate with the dead. Cashel O’Sullivan was gone, but Kate and Wayne conferred at the table. They fell silent when they saw us.

  “Are we interrupting?” I asked, hovering in the doorway.

  “Hello, Harry,” Kate said, hastily gathering a stack of photographs spread across the table and turning them facedown. “No, it’s fine. Come in.”

  “We met the mud man last night,” John said, sinking into a chair. “Turns out it’s a golem. Nasty business, but we have the full blessing of a rabbi, should be a piece of cake to put it down.”

  I didn’t bother to contradict the numerous inaccuracies in that sentence. “Daniel Cherney was Jewish, wasn’t he?” I asked, taking a seat next to Kate.

  “You think there’s a connection?” she asked with a frown.

  “Not really. Just considering all the possibilities.”

  “Yes, he was Jewish. But Clifford Bates was Catholic. And we’ve found no evidence that either had any interest in the occult.”

  “Was Cherney very religious?”

  “I don’t think so. His family attended synagogue on the Sabbath and High Holidays, but the kid wanted to build bridges. That was his dream. He was quiet, a good student. No one we’ve interviewed outside the family admits to knowing him well.”

  “What about Bates?” John asked. “The name doesn’t ring a bell, though if he’s not at the medical school, I doubt I’d know him.”

  Wayne pushed the planchette aimlessly across the talking board. “Bates wasn’t a student anymore. He’d dropped out in his third year and gone on to take a few small roles at the Union Square Theater. Sometimes he’d help out with the lighting and other technical aspects of the production. The accident itself seems like rotten luck.”

  Kate saw my gaze fix on the face-down photographs. “They’re gruesome, Harry,” she said quietly. “Sergeant Mallory ordered pictures taken before they cut Bates down.” She glanced at John. “If you’re willing to have a look, maybe you’ll notice something we’ve missed. Like those burned fingerprints you caught on that victim in the Hyde case.”

  John nodded and rose to stand at her shoulder. Kate flipped the photos over. There were nine, taken from various angles. I forced myself not to look away, though she was right, the images were deeply disturbing. One rope circled the young man’s neck, while another had caught his ankle so he dangled like a worm on a hook. I made out a thatch of dark hair, but his features were too discolored and bloated to tell what he’d looked like. In truth, he did remind me of the murdered actress Anne Marlowe, who had been strangled with a chain.

  John studied the photographs and sighed. “It looks consistent with accidental suffocation, but you’ll need a full autopsy. Better check his stomach for poisons as well, just to be sure.”

  “His body is with the coroner now,” Kate said, turning the pictures over again. “Not that I want it to be murder, but I hope they find something we can use.”

  “Did your witness know Daniel Cherney, too?” I wondered.

  “You mean Cashel O’Sullivan? He claims not,” Kate said.

  “But you don’t believe him.”

  She sighed. “I’m honestly not sure. His grief seems genuine, but I get the sense he’s hold
ing something back.”

  I turned to her flame-haired partner. “What do you think is going on?”

  “Death specter,” Wayne said at the same instant as John.

  They grinned at each other.

  “It’s been reported before,” Wayne said. “Kansas 1843. A woman saw her sister clear as day, standing by the foot of her bed at the very same instant of the woman’s death a thousand miles away in Salt Lake City.”

  “And one in Boston,” John added. “I can’t remember the year, but the phenomenon is well-documented. Ghostly apparitions that haunt the living within minutes of someone’s passing.”

  “Or a well-crafted illusion to distract attention from a murder,” Kate put in darkly.

  “There are no signs of foul play,” Wayne admonished. “Just two terrible accidents. Dozens of witnesses corroborated the circumstances.”

  “It just seems like a mighty coincidence,” Kate said. “Both of them being students at Columbia and all.”

  “Francis Bates—”

  “Dropped out, I know. But it was only a year ago.”

  “Are death specters the same as ghouls?” I asked.

  John gave me a patronizing smile. “No, Harry. They’re just echoes. They can’t do any harm.”

  “Why do they appear?”

  “No one seems to know.”

  Kate shook her head. “It’s all slippery. There doesn’t seem to be any crime in it, and if it is a hoax, whoever’s pulling the strings has us flummoxed.”

  “I’d be happy to trade cases,” I said with a smile.

  Kate grinned back. “Not on your life. But if I discover anything related to your golem, I’ll let you know, Harry. Do the same for us, eh?” She stood. “We’re meeting Mallory down at the Union Square Theater to finish the interviews.”

  I nodded. “We’ll walk you out.”

  John and I parted ways with our fellow investigators at the corner of Fulton and headed across town towards Wall Street.

  “See, Harry,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot. “The grass is always greener. I know you’ve been salivating after the Cherney case, but it sounds like they’re at an even worse dead end than we are.”

  “I wasn’t salivating. Merely curious.” My tone softened. “And we’ve only made progress thanks to you. I suppose I ought to concede that your monster research hasn’t been entirely useless.”

  John looked amused. “You ought to. But I’m still not sure if I’ve been complimented or insulted.”

  I laughed and took his arm as we passed the Stock Exchange. “The first, Weston. I never would have guessed it was a golem in a million years and we would have grown old and grey doddering through those sewers.” My smile died. “I imagine you want the case closed quickly, too. Midterm exams will be coming up.”

  “What?” he replied absently. “Oh, yes. Second year is much more grueling. I’ll be hard-pressed for time.”

  We dodged across the madness of Broadway towards the Sixth Avenue Elevated stop at Rector Street. The tracks ran so close to the tenements you could see what people were cooking for dinner in their kitchens. John watched me buy my ticket.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I asked.

  “I’m meeting some friends from school at Delmonico’s.” He rubbed his forehead and I saw how tired he was beneath his cheerful demeanor. “We’re all taking chemistry together. The professor’s a dragon, but I’ve got to pass. It’s a study date, Harry.” He paused. “You’re welcome to meet them, if you like.”

  “No, you go,” I said, swallowing my disappointment. “Stop by the house later, if you can.”

  “I’ll try.” He gave me a weary smile. “Keep your rubber boots ready by the door.”

  I heard a rumbling vibration on the tracks. “Oh, train’s coming!” I gave John a quick wave and hurried up the stairs to the crowded platform. The engine barreled into the station, belching steam and cinders.

  I stepped through the doors, my smile fading. John had always wanted to be a doctor and I had no doubt he’d make an excellent one. But who would I hunt monsters with when he was gone?

  Kaylock would give me a new partner, of course, but I didn’t want a new partner.

  I wanted Weston.

  For the first time, I found myself hoping the golem case would drag out a good long while — even if it meant a hundred more descents into New York’s abominable underworld.

  Chapter 3

  A week passed with no sightings of the golem.

  I imagined it stomping through the sewers trailed by its entourage of flies, occasionally shaking a fist at the blissfully ignorant herds moving through the streets above. The creature reminded me of Mary Shelley’s monster, lonely and bitter, perhaps scorned by the mad father who’d brought it into the world.

  John was mired in schoolwork so I occupied myself by reading all I could find about golems, though there wasn’t much beyond what Rabbi Mezritch had already told us. The time dragged. I both longed for a visit from the Night Squad and dreaded it.

  When I woke to a sound in the middle of the night, I thought at first it was one of Mallory’s messengers, come to fetch us into the tunnels.

  Then I realized it was coming from inside my room.

  I sat up with a racing heart to find Myrtle perched on the edge of my bed. She held a candle, its light illuminating the unforgiving planes of her face.

  “Hello, Harrison,” she said, as if we’d just bumped into each other over toast at the breakfast table.

  We looked nothing alike. I was a short, roundish strawberry blonde whilst my sister stood just shy of six feet, with grey eyes and raven hair that spilled down her thin, board-straight back. Her gaze was acute as always.

  “Get dressed,” that familiar dry voice commanded. “We’re going out.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  I frowned at the pitch-black window. “What time is it?”

  Myrtle pretended not to hear. She placed the candle on the bedside table, rose without another word and went downstairs. I sighed and threw off the bedcovers. There was little point in inquiring where or why. My sister would tell me when she felt like it.

  I pulled on a light dress and hastily pinned up my hair. Then I took the candle and made my way downstairs just as the grandfather clock in the hall chimed one o’clock. Myrtle waited outside with a cab. I recognized the young, burly driver as a man she used often in her investigations. He tipped his cap at me and spurred the horses north up Sixth Avenue.

  It was relatively quiet until we reached the twenties, where the revelry began. Twenty-Ninth Street dedicated itself to brothels, whilst Twenty-Eighth had high-end gambling parlors like Chamberlain’s and Twenty-Seventh claimed the cheap clip joints.

  Fifth Avenue and Broadway teemed with brightly lit theaters, posh hotels and lobster palaces, but venture into the side streets a little farther west and you’d find saloons with names like The Morgue and Cripples’ Den. It wasn’t quite as bad as the Bowery, but came in a close second.

  My sister kept her own counsel the entire way, staring out the window of the carriage with a fixed expression, though I caught a gleam in her eye that said she was on a trail. Was it a coincidence that we’d come to the Tenderloin? I supposed I’d learn soon enough.

  The cab halted at the corner of Thirty-Fifth Street and Myrtle hopped out. “Come back at the usual time,” she instructed the driver. He gave her a quick nod and drove off.

  I glanced at her inquiringly but Myrtle was already striding down the block. I trailed her into one of the shabby “hot sheet” hotels frequented by streetwalkers and up a narrow flight of stairs. Myrtle unlocked number thirty-six on the top floor and we entered a musty room. The bed had been shoved against one wall and two chairs were arranged in front of the window, which provided the only illumination.

  Myrtle took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. I stood there for a moment, feeling foolish, and then sat down.

  “Why are we here?” I asked, slightly e
xasperated.

  She gazed out the window. “Do you know who owns that club?” she asked, tipping her pointy chin at the place across the street.

  Two bruisers stood at the front doors. Tinny dance music blared through the walls and a crowd of people milled on the sidewalk. The club seemed to enjoy a higher grade of clientele than its neighbors, though it definitely mixed high and low in equal measure.

  “The Avalon? Yes, it’s that bare-knuckles boxer. John Morrissey, isn’t it?”

  Myrtle smiled. “Old Smoke.”

  “What?”

  “Morrissey’s nickname. They call him that because he was backed into a coal stove and set alight during one of his bouts.”

  “Dear God. Are you after him for something?”

  Myrtle gave a low laugh. “No, though he’s as dirty as they come. You’re correct in asserting that Morrissey is the legal owner of the Avalon, but he’s merely a smokescreen to conceal the true owner. James Moran.”

  It was the perfect opening. “I ran into Moran the other night,” I said casually.

  Myrtle’s gaze tore itself from the window. “Where?”

  “Around here, as a matter of fact. I was on a case for the S.P.R.—”

  “The mud man.”

  “Er, yes, that one. I’d just emerged from the sewers and he happened by. At least, I think he happened by. It seemed like odd timing. But if his club is only a few blocks away, it makes more sense.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  I never lied to my sister unless it was absolutely necessary, not because of any moral qualms but because she invariably caught me. So I opted for the unvarnished truth. “He offered me a job.”

  Myrtle laughed. “You should have taken it.”

  “Maybe I should have,” I muttered. “He probably pays better.”

  “Than the S.P.R.? Undoubtedly. Moran might be evil incarnate, but he does take care of his employees. And he’s a man of his word.” She lit the cigarette and cracked the window open. “I’ve been watching him for six months.”

  “From this room?”

  She gave a brief nod.

  I hadn’t spoken to my sister in days – weeks really, unless you counted brief, random sightings – and now I was starting to understand why.