Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  If the club was the capital of Moran’s criminal empire, there was little evidence of it. But I soon detected a subtle difference in the traffic on the two staircases. The gentlemen coming down the right side looked happy and languid, while those descending on the left had a more serious demeanor. One or two looked familiar and I realized I had seen them before at police headquarters on Mulberry Street.

  “Another?” the bartender asked, running a rag across the counter.

  I lowered my voice to a gruff baritone. “Not just yet—”

  “Three drink minimum,” he said in a bored tone. “There’s cheaper places around the corner if you ain’t got money.”

  I nodded. “I’ll have another then.”

  He slid it down the bar.

  The beer was half water, but I wanted to keep my wits, so I discreetly tipped the first one onto the floor. It wouldn’t do to seem like a teetotaler.

  “Ach!” Someone shoved me hard. “You spilled yer ale on my shoe, ye lackwit!”

  I looked up into the reddened face of a giant with a thick Scottish burr.

  “Beg your pardon,” I said hastily.

  “Ye little pimple,” he roared, knocking my full glass aside. A tide of beer ran down the length of the bar, provoking cries of outrage from the other patrons. The bouncers instantly grew alert and I cursed my stupidity, when at that exact moment a gaunt figure descended the lefthand stairs, his dark eyes dissecting the crowd. I turned my face away but not before his gaze landed on me.

  “For your trouble,” I said quickly, tossing a wad of notes on the bar. The sight of the cash distracted the giant long enough for me to jam my hat on and slide off the stool. Two gentlemen immediately pushed into the open space, momentarily blocking the view from the stairs.

  The door seemed very far away. I instinctively knew that running would be a mistake akin to tossing raw meat into a tiger’s cage, so I forced myself to keep to a walk, deftly skirting the knots of whirling dancers. I didn’t look back but the itch between my shoulder blades told me Moran was still watching.

  I waited for him to signal at his gorillas to grab me, to do something, but no one moved and then I was out the front door.

  The cool night air was a balm on my flushed skin. I gave the bully boys outside a polite nod and started walking briskly for Seventh Avenue. I’d hoped Myrtle’s driver might be waiting, but he wasn’t due to return until two-thirty and the only empty cab in sight was snatched up by a giggling couple.

  Thieves and footpads often lurked in the shadowy alleys around such clubs, waiting for hapless drunks to pass by. I walked with a steady gait, keeping my chin up despite the fact that I could feel the whiskers starting to slide down my cheeks. The heat inside the Avalon must have melted the glue.

  Perhaps Moran hadn’t recognized me after all. I breathed a sigh of relief as the bright lights of the avenue drew closer, though this was followed by the dispiriting realization I’d have to walk the two miles home since I’d thrown all my money on the bar. Then I heard the rumble of carriage wheels and spun around. A glossy black brougham drew to a stop at the curb. The door opened and Moran leaned out.

  “Miss Pell,” he said, doffing his hat.

  I cleared my throat. There was no point in denying it. “What do you want?” I hefted my walking stick and tried to seem unconcerned, though my heart was racing.

  “It’s not safe on the streets at night. Let me escort you home.”

  I laughed. “As if I’d get into a carriage with you.”

  His smile died. He was dressed as elegantly as ever, but up close I could see dark circles ringing his eyes. He stepped down to the curb and I took a step back.

  “I need to speak to you privately,” he said in a low voice. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”

  “Call at Tenth Street.”

  His jaw clenched. “I obviously can’t go to your home.”

  I looked up and down the street, wishing for a cop, but of course they were never around when you needed one.

  “I imagine your sister sent you.” He studied my too-tight velvet suit with a hint of amusement. “Well, I have nothing to hide. And I don’t care if you’ve been spying. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

  I turned away. “Goodnight, Mr. Moran.”

  A hard edge of desperation entered his voice. “Wait—”

  I bolted flat-out toward Seventh Avenue, expecting to hear the sounds of pursuit, but again Moran let me go. Still, I didn’t stop running until I reached the nearest police precinct. It was brightly lit and a few patrolmen loitered outside, swapping war stories from their nightly rounds. I hung on the fringes for a while, but the glossy black brougham never reappeared and I finally headed back to Tenth Street just as dawn was breaking.

  I only wanted to sleep, but there was no way to get past Myrtle’s door without stepping on the creaky board in the hall.

  “Harrison!” her muffled voice called through the door. I rubbed my head and went inside, my eyes burning at the blue haze of tobacco smoke. It was worse than the Avalon.

  Myrtle’s cast was propped on a pillow and she was using it as a shelf for an overflowing ashtray. I walked to the window and threw open the sash, stepping over empty vials of morphine scattered across the floor.

  “Well?” Her eyes were feverishly bright.

  I told her what I’d seen, the twin staircases and dirty cops coming out, but omitted the fact that Moran had accosted me in the street. Instead, I made it sound as if he had seen through the disguise and I’d gotten out as fast as possible. Mainly, I didn’t want Myrtle sending me back there.

  “You’ll never get near his inner sanctum,” I warned. “He has boys at the bottom of the stairs and probably a lot more at the top.”

  Her chilly gaze, so reminiscent of Moran’s, bored into me. “Are you sure he didn’t speak to you?”

  For a moment, I wondered if her driver had seen us together. He could have beaten me back here hours ago and given Myrtle a report. But I felt certain there hadn’t been any other carriages on the street.

  “No.” I covered a yawn. “That’s all, really. You ought to get some rest, too. It’s growing light out.”

  She snarled something and I slunk off to my room, too tired even to remove the wart and whiskers before snatching a few hours of sleep.

  When I woke around nine, I resolved to go straight out before Myrtle could sink her claws into me again. The library was John’s favorite sanctuary when he wanted to escape his rowdy brothers, so I headed off for a quiet afternoon at the Astor Library on Lafayette Place. It still troubled me that I’d never learned who made the golem and I wondered if there wasn’t something we’d missed. A religious man implied a rabbi, but it was hard to imagine a devout man of God unleashing something so dangerous for no clear purpose.

  The library had just been expanded and the maze of stacks now contained more than a quarter million volumes. The main problem was finding the ones you wanted. There were three different card catalogues and many of the books were too newly acquired even to be listed. I spent a few painstaking hours locating some compendiums on European folklore but found nothing useful.

  On impulse, I approached one of the librarians, a buxom middle-aged woman who eyed me with suspicion when I said I was writing a research paper on New York’s most prominent Irish families. They’d gotten stricter about access since some of the library’s patrons took to cutting out the pages they wanted instead of writing the information down, but after some persuading she led me to a special roped-off section on New York history and pointed out a few titles. I gathered them up and took them to a table.

  Only one mentioned the Morans and it said little I didn’t already know. The grandfather had emigrated to New York from County Cork in 1814 and risen through the ranks of Tammany Hall to become a force in New York politics. His eldest child was the ill-fated Declan Moran, who would be shot by his own son, but there was little information about Declan except that he’d followed his father’s path into politics
and married Tamsin Bayard.

  The Bayards were a very old, very wealthy Dutch family and I guessed they must have been less than thrilled with the match. It wouldn’t have mattered that the Morans were also rich. They were new money and they were Irish, two unforgivable sins in New York Society.

  I rose and began returning the books to their shelves when I heard a soft footfall and the devil himself appeared at the end of the narrow aisle. He looked even worse today, still wearing the same clothes from the night before, all crumpled and creased. His face had always been lean, but now it looked utterly hollow and I wondered when he’d last eaten anything. We locked eyes and I drew a deep breath. Moran flung out a hand.

  “Don’t scream,” he said quickly.

  “Why not?” I demanded. “You obviously followed me.”

  “I’m not here to harm you.” Moran’s voice grew harsh. “And you owe me one, Miss Pell. The least you can do is hear me out.”

  There, he’d said it. The thing I’d been dreading for a year. You owe me.

  I couldn’t dispute it.

  I gave a curt nod. His keen eyes swept over the books in my arms, but he made no comment.

  “I heard about the attack on your sister,” he said. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know that now,” I replied stiffly. “She told me.”

  “Did she?” Moran muttered.

  I thought that must be the reason he’d cornered me but he sounded uninterested.

  “So what is it you want?” I took a step forward, hoping he’d make way, but Moran blocked the aisle. We were in the restricted section and there were no other people around. He stared at me with an unreadable expression.

  “I want to hire you.”

  The ludicrous statement stopped me in my tracks. “What?”

  “You heard me. I wish to retain your services.”

  I frowned. “That’s impossible. As you well know.”

  Moran’s mouth tightened. He clearly wasn’t used to anyone telling him no.

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . .” I trailed off in exasperation. Where to begin? “Because my sister would disown me. Because I already have a job. And mainly because I have no interest in aiding you in any capacity!”

  His scowl deepened. “Listen, Pell, you owe me. And I’m collecting.”

  My own anger rose. “I never asked for your help. You offered it freely. And I can’t take you on as a client. Not under any circumstances. You’re mad to come here. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I know what killed Danny and Francis,” Moran said in low, urgent voice. “It was after Cash, too. That’s why he hung himself.” He paused, those flat black eyes showing a glint of something I’d never seen before. Fear. “And if you don’t help me, Pell . . . .” Moran swallowed. “I’m next.”

  I stared at him for a long, awkward moment, then realized my mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap.

  I knew he attended Columbia as a graduate student, but I wasn’t aware he had any connection to the mysterious double victims. Of course, he could be lying. It could be a trap to lure me somehow. But why? I’d been fully in his power last night. If Moran wanted to harm me, he could easily have drugged my drink at the Avalon, or brought his bully boys along when he stopped me in the street afterwards.

  Yet he’d let me go.

  I’ll admit I was also intrigued by his choice of words – not who killed Danny and Francis, but what.

  “It’s not my case,” I said. “However, if you have vital information, I can refer you to the investigators who are handling it—”

  Moran cut me off with a sharp gesture. “No. I want you.”

  “But why? What difference does it make?”

  “I don’t know them.”

  “You don’t know me either!”

  His jaw set. “I’ve followed your career, Pell. You’re clever.” He said it the way Myrtle did, grudgingly and with a touch of condescension. In other words, clever – but not as clever as he was.

  “Go on,” I said. “Get it all off your chest. The answer will still be no.”

  Moran braced a hand against the shelf. He had made no attempt to physically intimidate me, but I would have to push him aside if I wanted to leave.

  “I don’t have much time,” he said. “I can’t afford to bet on the wrong horse.” His lips quirked in an arrogant smile and then a curious thing happened. There was a distant sound in the stacks and Moran stiffened, his face going white as snow as he spun to look over his shoulder.

  The stout librarian pushed a cart of books past the end of the aisle and he visibly relaxed.

  “We can’t talk here. Come to the house tomorrow night. I have proof.” He studied me with a shrewd expression. “Name your price. There must be something you want. Something in my power to give you.”

  I hesitated, and he clearly thought I was afraid.

  “My mother and aunt will be home,” he said quickly. “I swear on my honor as a gentleman that no harm will come to you, Miss Pell.”

  So now it was Miss Pell again.

  “Please,” he added, belatedly.

  The Astor Library had no artificial light sources; they posed too much of a fire risk. The library always closed at dusk and it wasn’t far off now. I could see the daylight starting to fade, the shadows lengthening.

  “I’ll come,” I said. Moran’s hands, which had curled into fists, loosened at his sides. “On one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “I bring John Weston.”

  “No,” Moran said immediately.

  “Then you can forget it.” I prodded him with one of the books. “Get out of my way, please.”

  Moran scowled. “Fine. Bring Weston. But make it clear to him that what I say isn’t to go any further.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t make that promise,” I said calmly. “This touches upon an active investigation by our employer—”

  “Just come,” he snarled, the last thread of his patience finally snapping. “Seven o’clock. And don’t tell your damned sister!”

  Myrtle was the last person on earth I planned to tell, but I didn’t mention that.

  “What’s the address?” I knew it was uptown somewhere in the posh neighborhood dubbed Mansion Row.

  “You don’t know?” Moran asked with some surprise.

  “My visit to the Avalon was an anomaly,” I replied coolly. “I have no interest in your exploits, Mr. Moran. It was simply a favor to my sister.”

  “I knew she sent you.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s 680 Fifth Avenue. Don’t be late.”

  And Moran strode away without a word of goodbye.

  “He what?” John demanded, wiping grease from his chin with a paper napkin.

  I had decided to butter him up with sausages first so we were ensconced at a wooden table in the Atlantic Gardens down on the Bowery, amidst the wreckage of half a dozen bratwurst. Waitresses in high red-tasseled boots flitted through the crowd as tinny German music emanated from the Orchestrion, a wall-sized music box that was the restaurant’s pride and joy.

  “Moran wants to hire us.” I took a judicious sip of my lager. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what killed those boys?”

  “Well, yes. Obviously.” John shook his head. “But if Myrtle finds out, she’ll string you up.”

  I looked around at the other diners and lowered my voice, despite the hubbub of four or five different languages being spoken at the adjacent benches. “She won’t find out.”

  John laughed. “This is Myrtle we’re talking about.”

  “She didn’t learn of his involvement in the Hyde case.”

  “That’s because she was out of the city at the time.”

  “John, she’s drugged to the gills on morphine and hardly gets out of bed. You just let me handle Myrtle.”

  He sighed. “So you actually believe Moran’s story?”

  “He claimed he had proof. I’d like to know what it is. He seemed genuinel
y afraid, John. I say we go. Nothing will happen to us at his mansion in broad daylight.”

  “He shot his father there,” John pointed out.

  “True,” I admitted. “But he’s never shown any animosity towards us before. Why now? Anyway, we do owe him a debt. And I don’t intend to help him, not really. If he is being hunted by something . . . supernatural, it can have him. But if he has information that could crack the case, it’s our duty to find out and bring it to Kaylock.”

  John finished his own lager and signaled to the waitress for another round. “How do you always make the most idiotic courses of action seem perfectly logical?”

  “It’s a special talent,” I replied with a smile. “Come, John. Can you honestly say you aren’t the least bit curious?”

  “Of course I am. But I wouldn’t trust him for a single instant.” John’s expression darkened. “Moran might have a polished veneer, but underneath it he’s a beast.”

  I couldn’t disagree; I’d glimpsed that beast myself in another claustrophobic space beneath the streets of New York the summer before. Yet when Moran had asked me to name my price, an idea came to mind. Probably a mad one, but I’ve never been short on those.

  “It’s a jungle out there, John,” I said, my gaze moving to the large windows fronting the Bowery. “If we can manage to tame it, a beast might be exactly the thing we need.”

  Chapter 7

  Dusk was falling as we approached the Moran mansion at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Eighth Street, a few blocks north of the Vanderbilts’ monstrous battleship. John gave a low whistle as we saw the limestone hulk that was number 640. It had turrets and gables and a wrought-iron gate surrounding an immaculately tended lawn.

  “Crime does pay,” he murmured.

  “Of course it does. All these old families started as bootleggers and pirates and land grabbers. They just don’t like to admit it.”

  We were greeted by a uniformed maid and led into a large drawing room with windows facing the park. She took our coats and silently withdrew to fetch her master.

  “Look John,” I whispered. “There’s one missing.”