Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  “During the three months of summer, when the body is one or two days old, the flesh will change color, beginning with the face, belly, ribs, and chest. When three days have passed, a foul liquid will issue from the mouth and nose, and maggots will appear. The whole body will swell, the lips will pull back, the skin will rot and separate from the flesh, and blisters will appear. After four or five days, the hair falls out . . . .”

  I startled as the front door banged open and I heard the quick, light footsteps of Connor.

  “Harry?” he called.

  “In the parlor!”

  He pelted upstairs but hovered in the doorway without entering. Connor’s red-gold curls were damp with perspiration, as if he’d been running for miles. His face was ashen.

  “What’s happened?” I exclaimed, standing so abruptly the book spilled from my lap.

  “It’s Myrtle,” he said, twisting his cap in his hands. “Someone coshed her on the head. Broke her leg, too.”

  My heart froze. “Where is she?”

  “St. Luke’s Hospital. It was the nearest one to where they found her.” He paused. “She’s in a bad way, Harry.”

  “Oh God,” I said, covering my mouth with a hand. We shared a look of mutual anguish.

  For all her apparent callousness, my sister had rescued Connor from a life on the streets. At first she had given him odd jobs, but when he proved honest and reliable, he had come to live with us in the attic room. Connor never spoke of it, but I knew he worshipped Myrtle.

  I grabbed my hat and coat. A quick cab ride later, we were pushing through the entrance doors on Fifty-Fourth Street. St. Luke’s was run by the Episcopal Church and catered to the poor and indigent. I told the nun at the front desk who I was and she gave me directions to a large open ward on the third floor.

  Mrs. Rivers sat at Myrtle’s bedside. Her eyes brimmed with tears when she saw me. “Oh, Harry,” she said.

  My heart clenched as I looked down at my sister. Her head was swathed in white bandages, her face a mass of dark bruises. Myrtle had always seemed indestructible, a force of nature, and seeing her laid so low was a profound shock.

  “Will she be all right?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Rivers wrung her hands together. “The doctors will hardly tell me anything.”

  “Who did this?”

  She gave a helpless shrug. “Myrtle was found lying in the street by a pair of night soil men. They saw some hoodlums running away, must have scared them off. They took her here straightaway. If they hadn’t . . . .” She trailed off and wiped her nose with a handkerchief.

  “How long has she been here?”

  “Since yesterday afternoon. It took the staff some time to identify her. She had nothing in her pockets. Then one of the doctors recognized her from that picture in the paper a few months ago.”

  All the time I’d cursed Myrtle for skipping my birthday dinner, she’d been lying alone and unconscious in a hospital bed. I reached down and took her hand. The skin was dry and burning hot.

  “She’s got a fever,” I said.

  Mrs. Rivers wiped her eyes. “Myrtle’s a strong one,” she muttered.

  I dampened a cloth in a bowl of water and pressed it to her neck. How small she looked under the mound of white sheets. “Don’t let them bleed her,” I said. “Can you reach Mother and Father?”

  Our father was a doctor who had gone to India to lecture for a year at one of the medical schools in Madras. My parents both relished adventure and were admirably tolerant of their eccentric daughters.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll send a letter.” She paused. “But I don’t want to frighten them. I’ll wait until her condition improves a little.”

  I thought of Myrtle’s words the night we watched the Avalon.

  If anything happens to me . . . . There’s no one else, Harrison.

  I knew who had done this to her, though I had no proof. At least I could ensure that my sister was safe from further attacks. I spent the next hours contacting Sergeant Mallory and Mr. Kaylock and telling them what had happened. By afternoon, two uniformed patrolmen were standing guard outside Myrtle’s door. Then I sent Connor to Gramercy Park to fetch John.

  Mrs. Rivers brought in some sandwiches, but I had no appetite. Myrtle hadn’t yet stirred in her bed. The thought that she might have suffered permanent brain damage was too much to bear. When Connor returned and reported that John wasn’t home, a wave of despair washed over me. Mrs. Rivers saw my expression and her eyes softened. She took my hands in her own. They were work-roughened but warm and gentle.

  “Go find him yourself, dear. It’s all right, I’ll stay right here.” She glanced at the patrolmen in the hall. “Myrtle’s safe now. Go on.”

  I gave a wordless nod and we embraced each other, the familiar smell of her lavender soap making my eyes sting. Mrs. Rivers had been a stolid presence in our lives for as long as I could remember. I had taken her for granted, but now I could hardly imagine what I would do without her.

  It was late afternoon by the time I started walking the few blocks to Columbia’s neo-Gothic campus on Madison Avenue. Most likely John was studying in one of the grey stone buildings. With all his brothers, it was nearly impossible for him to find peace and quiet at home. I moved swiftly with my head down, lost in dark thoughts, and as I turned the corner of the Arts and Sciences Library, I crashed straight into a student hurrying the other way. He was carrying an armload of books that scattered across the sidewalk. I was starting to apologize when I saw who it was. The blood rushed to my face.

  James Moran didn’t spare me a glance as he knelt to gather up his things. It was as if I didn’t exist.

  I savagely kicked one of the books just as he reached for it.

  “What the devil is wrong with you?” Moran snarled, glaring at me.

  He didn’t look like a dandy now. In fact, he looked distinctly disheveled. His black hair wanted combing and his coat was buttoned wrong. In my enraged state, this was clear evidence that he had been up to no good.

  “I’ll see you burn for what you did,” I growled. “Mark me, Moran.”

  He scowled deeply. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pell.” The puzzlement in his dark eyes seemed genuine, but he was a master of deceit. “None! Now get out of my way.”

  If I stayed a moment longer, I knew I might do him real violence, so I stormed off. When I glanced back, I saw him staring at me, his face pale.

  The Arts and Sciences Library had the feel of a cathedral, with a soaring ceiling and tall arched windows. I found John in a quiet corner copying notes from a heavy textbook. His shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, though his eyes were bloodshot. He glanced up and read my grim expression instantly. “What’s happened, Harry?”

  “It’s Myrtle,” I said quietly, aware the librarian was watching us. “Someone attacked her. She’s in the hospital.”

  John stood at once and reached for his jacket. “How badly?”

  “I’m not sure yet. She has a broken leg, but she was struck on the head, as well. She has a fever.” I raised a shaking hand to my forehead. “I’m certain Moran ordered it. And I just ran smack into him.”

  I related the rest of the story as John threw his books into a leather satchel and ushered me from the library.

  “I’ll speak with her doctors,” he said. “Concussions are generally treated with bed rest. As long as her skull isn’t cracked she should recover fully, but I’ll need to have a look at her records.”

  “She’s always taking horrendous risks,” I muttered as we crossed Madison Avenue and headed west toward Fifth. “Working alone and going after the vilest scum in the city.” I was silent for a minute. “When she missed my birthday, I was so angry at her, John. I thought some awful things—”

  “Don’t,” he said firmly. “I’ve wished my own siblings dead more times than I can count. It comes with the territory.”

  “But what if—”

  “No speculating.�
�� He shot me a sideways look. “Your sister has survived worse. Remember the time she nearly blew the house up with one of her laboratory experiments?”

  I smiled weakly. “How could I forget?”

  “And the snakebites she deliberately inflicted on herself when she was writing that monograph on anti-venom for the Pasteur Institute?”

  “Naja naja,” I replied. “Indian cobra. Mother fainted when she saw it in the bathtub.”

  He steered us toward the wrought-iron gates of St. Luke’s, whose stone towers and narrow windows reminded me of a medieval abbey dropped into the center of Manhattan.

  “So a little bump on the head won’t do her any harm,” John said firmly.

  “She has a broken leg, too.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it will keep her out of trouble for a few weeks.”

  When we entered Myrtle’s ward, relief flooded me. She was awake. Mrs. Rivers sat at the edge of her bed helping her to sip from a glass of water. We gathered around and I waited until she had settled back against the pillows to launch my interrogation.

  “Do you remember anything about the attack?” I asked, my voice low and urgent. “If it was Moran’s thugs—”

  “It wasn’t.” Her voice was hoarse but firm. “In fact, it was a rival gang.”

  I frowned. “Are you certain?”

  Myrtle nodded. I waited impatiently while she took another sip of water.

  “Daybreak Boys,” she whispered. “Robbed the Manhattan Savings Bank a few weeks ago. Pinkerton hired me to find out where they’d stashed the loot before bringing them in.”

  “And you did?”

  Even in her weakened condition, sporting two black eyes, Myrtle managed a condescending look. “Of course. But then they caught up with me. . . .”

  “Names, Myrtle. I need names.”

  She swallowed painfully. “Sow Madden. Slobbery Jim. Patsy the Barber. Cowlegged Sam McCarthy.” Her eyes drifted shut.

  “That’s enough, dear,” Mrs. Rivers said with a frown. “Let her sleep.”

  “Did you get that?” I asked John.

  He’d had the presence of mind to pull out his little notebook. “All of them, Harry,” he said solemnly, tucking the pencil behind his ear.

  A commotion in the hall signaled the arrival of the entire Weston clan, who had been summoned by Connor. The duty nurse refused to let all of them in at once and I could hear Rupert arguing with her, followed by the booming exhortations of Judge Weston.

  The long day had taken its toll and I covered a yawn. John laid a blanket over my legs. “Get some rest, Harry,” he said. “You too, Mrs. Rivers. We’ll be on hand if you need anything.”

  I nodded drowsily as he went into the corridor to sort things out. Eventually it was agreed that his brothers could enter one at a time, which kept a lid on their usual bickering. I drifted off listening to John’s muffled conversation with the policemen and Mrs. Rivers’ light snores, reassured that all would be well – and ignorant of the far stranger events that were yet to come.

  With the aid of the detectives who had written down their names and addresses, I found the two night soil men and gave them a large reward for saving my sister’s life. By the end of the week, four members of the Daybreak Boys had been arrested and charged with bank robbery and attempted murder. The gang was already on its way down — the heist had been a last desperate bid to reclaim its former glory — and the arrests proved to be its death knell.

  My sister became such a nuisance on the ward that the doctors agreed to allow her to recuperate at home.

  Her leg was healing cleanly though she wouldn’t be able to walk on it for several months. The morphine she took for the pain didn’t dull her fixation with James Moran. In fact, with nothing else to occupy her mind, Myrtle was worse than ever.

  “Harrison,” she said one evening when I brought a tray up to her room. “I need a favor.”

  I misliked the speculative gleam in her eye. “What is it?”

  “You must return to the Avalon for me.”

  I sighed. A sleepless night in that shabby hotel room held little appeal. As usual, Myrtle seemed to read my mind. “This is a special assignment. I want you to go inside the club. Moran knows me well, he’d see through a disguise, but not you.”

  An uneasy feeling ran through me. “Don’t be stupid,” I said crossly. “Of course he knows who I am—”

  “He’s aware of your existence in a general sort of way,” she interrupted dismissively. “But he wouldn’t be expecting you.”

  Moran was aware of me in more than a general sort of way, but I couldn’t tell her that.

  I poured a cup of tea and added four sugar cubes to disguise the strengthening tonic Mrs. Rivers had slipped into the brew. Burnham’s Beef Wine & Iron promised to cure all manner of ailments and had a picture of a smiling cow on the bottle, though it smelled viler than the East River.

  I handed Myrtle the cup. “What could I possibly discover?”

  She sipped the tea and made a gagging sound, then dumped it out on the carpet.

  “Must you?” I eyed the dark stain.

  “Moran does business in a private room on the top floor. I’m sure you’re capable of observing who goes up and down the stairs. My source says there’s a tunnel leading to the disorderly house next door. We’ll disguise you. He’ll never know.”

  I knelt down and began soaking up the spill with a napkin. “And if I end up dead in an alley?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Harrison. You’ll be surrounded by his merry clientele. I’m not asking you to approach him, merely to sit at the bar like any other customer.”

  I shook my head in irritation, knowing Myrtle wouldn’t let up until I agreed. “Fine. But don’t expect me to make a habit of it. I have cases of my own, you know.”

  She gazed at me as if she knew perfectly well this was a lie. “Your usual street urchin disguise won’t work at the Avalon. They’ll think you’re a pickpocket aiming to poach on their territory.”

  “How do you know about that?” I muttered. I’d used it when I needed information from the patrons of a saloon in the Five Points, but Myrtle had been away at the time.

  “Never mind. The point is that it won’t be easy to pass you off as a man. You’re too short.” She tapped her chin with a finger, her eyes lowering to my bosom. “Perhaps—”

  “I’m not going as a prostitute,” I said firmly.

  Myrtle sighed. “Pity. I’ll see what I can do.”

  An hour later, I examined myself in a full-length mirror. A large wart adorned my cheek, just above ginger side whiskers. The glue itched like the devil, but Myrtle claimed that would pass. None of her own costumes fit so she’d stuffed me into Connor’s despised Little Lord Fauntleroy suit that Mrs. Rivers made him wear to church.

  “Perfect,” Myrtle chortled. “You look like a down-at-the-heel Bible salesman. No one will give you a second glance.”

  I picked up my walking stick and squared my shoulders, which wasn’t easy considering how tightly she had bound my breasts. “If I’m not back by four, you can assume I’ve had my throat slit.”

  Her grey eyes regarded me without pity. “I’m sure you can fend for yourself, Harrison.” Myrtle smiled. “But don’t worry, I’ll arrange for a princely funeral if you die in the line of duty.”

  I gave her a final bleak glare and stalked out the door.

  Chapter 6

  The Avalon’s three stories of vice were hitting their stride when Myrtle’s driver dropped me off shortly after midnight. I drifted through the doors behind a group of tipsy, well-dressed men – precisely the sort of marks such establishments existed to fleece – into a wave of noise and music and animal heat.

  The Avalon was named after a legendary island in the tale of King Arthur and it repeated that theme inside the main room, with gaudy murals painted on the walls and moldering suits of armor. Couples careened around a large sawdust-strewn dance floor, which occupied half the space. The other half had a bar running it
s full length and booths upholstered in crimson velvet where the most favored patrons lounged with buckets of champagne.

  Signs on the wall explicitly forbade foul language, fighting, robbery and murder. These rules were enforced by heavies called “sheriffs” who watched the crowd with thick cudgels.

  The place was packed to the gills, but I used my elbows to clear a path to the bar and squeeze into an empty space. The women were mostly working girls still in their prime, a world away from the desperate, hollow-cheeked creatures who walked the streets outside, though I knew the descent from one rung to the next tended to be swift. A few eyed me speculatively but seemed to decide I was too broke to bother with.

  An orchestra trio of cornet, violin and piano played jaunty music on a platform. The booze flowed freely and a haze of tobacco smoke hovered below the ceiling. Everyone seemed to be having a grand time.

  I ordered a beer and positioned myself so I could view the rear of the hall. As Myrtle said, there were two sets of stairs leading to upper levels, where I assumed private rooms were set aside for various depravities.

  My gaze landed on a large man holding court at one of the booths. He had a face like a bag of rocks and a heavy-shouldered physique just starting to run to fat around the middle. John Morrissey, the Avalon’s nominal owner. A former bare-knuckles boxer, he watched over the proceedings like the captain of a pirate ship, benevolent but ready to step in and crack skulls if anyone broke the rules.

  Every bit player in the city’s great pageant seemed to be at the Avalon that night: rubberneckers and rowdies, uptown slummers and downtown drunks, furtive husbands and rebellious wives. I overheard a waiter girl claim to be a Russian countess fallen on hard times, and watched a hairy fellow who called himself Ludwig the Bloodsucker coax some tourists into buying him a round on the basis that he was a vampire.