Was it even possible Commissioner Roosevelt might want to meet him? Did he dare hope again?
Leaving the safety of his corner, Carver edged along the wall. What would he say? How would he say it? As he reached a spot directly behind the punch bowl, Jerrik Ribe finally got his question in: “What about the murder of Elizabeth Rowley? There are rumors the body was—”
“Tut-tut!” Roosevelt responded. It was a gentle, educated phrase, but uttered with such authority it sounded more like, “Shut up!”
“Hardly a tale for the children!” Roosevelt continued. He offered the orphans at his feet a wide grin, revealing the substantial gap between his teeth. Out of nowhere, he frowned. Suddenly, the stout man turned back toward Carver, his instincts as a hunter perhaps telling him he was being secretly watched. For a moment, their eyes locked.
Carver felt something powerful pulse from the stocky man. Roosevelt twisted his head curiously and then went back to the reporter. “I will say this much, in the first five months of 1895, we’ve investigated no fewer than eighty murders. I assure you, in each instance, we are on the case!”
“I’ve heard—”
Again, Roosevelt cut him off. “I’ve faced down rhinoceri, lions and even the former head of the New York City Police and always held my ground. Don’t think I can’t do the same with you. Request an interview through my assistant, Miss Minnie Kelly, and I’ll grant it, but only because she speaks so highly of your wife.”
Satisfied but chagrined, Ribe said, “Thank you, Commissioner.”
Miss Petty handed Roosevelt a glass of punch. He sipped it, smacked his lips and said, “Dee-lightful!”
Unable to bring himself to approach, Carver slipped away. Working for the police… what a dream. Sure, Delia could get what she wanted, but maybe dreams weren’t meant for him.
7
AS THE party wore on, everyone except Carver looked like they were having a great time. Seemingly haughty women risked getting dirt on their gowns to bring themselves closer to the children. The men scuffed the knees of their expensive tuxedos for a chat or game.
The only other person sticking to the sidelines was Finn.
If Carver’s jacket was too small, Finn’s was ready to burst. He looked like a trained monkey, the kind that worked with organ grinders selling bags of roasted peanuts.
But then his short second-in-command, Bulldog, trotted up to his mentor, speaking excitedly. He was twelve, but wide as Finn. His flat face made him look like his namesake. His looks had put him on the outs with the others, until Finn took him under his wing, earning his lifelong loyalty.
Carver couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was pointing to a tall bearded man by the sandwiches. Nearly all the boys from Finn’s gang were there, even Peter Bishop. A recent arrival, being part of Finn’s gang made him feel more American, but he had to be goaded into breaking rules.
As Finn listened to Bulldog, his look of misery faded. Curious, Carver slipped nearer.
“It’s legit!” Bulldog squeaked. “That there’s Colonel George E. Waring, the man who designed the Central Park sewers himself. He’s looking for us young men to sweep garbage in the summer and shovel snow in the winter. It pays real money! Fifty cents a week! Guy like you’d probably be a captain or something!”
The red-haired bully’s back straightened. “You think… ?”
A street-cleaner, eh? It was physical work, but Finn would like that. Even more, he’d love being his own man, free on the streets. With a sigh, Carver realized that even his tormentor had found a place in life.
But no sooner did the husky youth take a step than Miss Petty appeared. “Phineas, there are some people here who’d like to meet you.”
At her side stood an impeccably dressed couple. The man was narrow as a piece of cardboard, pinch-faced, and severe. The gown on his well-fed wife was so wide, the hooped hem prevented anyone from getting within three feet of her.
She raised a set of glasses with a long silver handle and surveyed Finn, as if considering having him made into a winter coat.
Miss Petty made the introductions. “This is Mr. Alexander Echols, a district attorney, and his wife, Samantha. I’ve told them a lot about you, and they’re interested in possibly adopting you.”
“Uh…,” Finn said. His eyes were riveted on the colonel and his friends, half a room away.
“Does he talk?” Mrs. Echols asked. “I’d rather he didn’t. But he does have a handsome face.”
Realizing the woman wasn’t joking, Miss Petty said, “He does talk. Isn’t that true, Phineas?”
“Yes…,” Finn said. Carver could feel him sweating.
“Ah,” Mrs. Echols said. “Do you have any handsome ones that don’t? We only need one that looks good in photos.”
“No,” Miss Petty said coolly. Though she clearly didn’t like them, she took Finn’s hand and drew him closer to the couple. They were rich, so of course she’d see that as a good opportunity for one of her residents. So that was Finn’s surprise.
Across the room, Colonel Waring had a little pad of paper out. He was licking the tip of a pencil, ready to write down names. Bulldog shrugged a sheepish farewell at Finn and then rushed off to join the others.
Once Miss Petty excused herself, the Echolses spoke as if Finn weren’t even there.
“His arms look fat,” Mrs. Echols said with disapproval.
“Perhaps it’s the clothes,” Mr. Echols said with a shrug. “But it will make great press to have him along at charity events.”
“It seems like so much trouble,” Mrs. Echols said. “Couldn’t we just borrow one?”
“I don’t believe so,” Mr. Echols said. “And the adoption itself will look very good. Very charitable indeed.” He leaned forward and addressed Finn loudly and slowly. “We would like to take you home with us. You will be fed, clothed and educated. What do you say?”
Carver could smell the wood burning in Finn’s head. The muscular red-haired boy, used to barking out orders and being obeyed, suddenly looked lost and sad.
Embarrassed for him, Carver stepped away. He thought about Delia. She was right about making your own luck. If Carver cared at all about what kind of life he’d be leading, he’d march up to Roosevelt and give it his best shot.
He moved toward the punch bowl, looking down at his feet. Should he mention his letter or just talk about how much he wanted to be a detective? He was halfway there when he looked up. Roosevelt was gone. He scanned the room, snapping his head faster and faster. The man was nowhere to be seen.
Delia was at the entrance, next to Anne Ribe and Miss Petty. Carver ran and yanked her aside. “Where’s Roosevelt?”
The smile fell from her face. “He left. You never did speak to him, did you? It was only a minute ago; maybe you could still catch him.”
Carver dove for the door. On his way out, he nearly knocked over an oddly stooped salt-and-pepper-haired man. The man growled something, but Carver ignored him. He jumped down the three steps and looked frantically up and down the street. Cool air hit the sweat around his neck.
Horse-drawn hansoms and private carriages clopped and clicked along the cobblestones. Pedestrians strolled along, but none had Roosevelt’s short stature or square shoulders.
Carver had stood by for hours, feeling sorry for himself, and now his chance was lost. How could he find his father alone? For as long as he could remember, Carver felt as if something were missing. Not just his past, not just knowing who he was, but someone who could tell him, show him. A father, if not his own, then someone like him. Now where would he wind up?
He turned back to the entrance and pulled so hard at his collar, it tore. The air that swarmed over the top of his chest felt like winter.
“Don’t they teach manners in this place? I said, watch where you’re going, boy!”
Carver looked up. It was the gnomish older man, still in the doorway, scowling fiercely. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?”
Carver twisted his head for a better lo
ok. He seemed the sort you wouldn’t want to mess with. His beard and hair were unkempt as a squirrel’s nest, but his eyes were practically shining with intelligence. His left hand, pressed against the door, looked terribly strong, but his right appeared damaged, mangled. It clutched the black stick of a silver wolf’s head cane with three fingers, as if the thumb and index finger were useless.
What was he? The old cape covering his hunched shoulders might have been formal once, but it was threadbare and wrinkled now. The rest of his clothes looked as if they hadn’t been laundered in ages. If he weren’t so sloppy, he’d look as if he belonged in a funeral home. An undertaker.
Carver was about to apologize, but the man yelled again.
“I said, boy, are you deaf as well as stupid?”
There was something about the nasal tenor that really grated. Aside from which Carver didn’t like being called boy or stupid.
“Neither,” Carver said.
The man looked more curious than offended. Still holding the door, he swayed his body closer. “Neither what, boy?”
Carver held his ground. “I am neither deaf nor stupid. And I hardly think I’m a boy anymore.”
The stranger rolled his eyes. “Are you a farm hog?! When addressing your superiors, whether you mean it or not, you always say sir. And when you nearly knock someone over, whether you mean it or not, you apologize.”
“I do apologize, sir,” Carver said. He hoped his tone communicated how little he meant it.
But the man wasn’t offended. A slight smile brought the edge of his lips into the same light as his eyes. “That you are. You are one sorry boy. Where are you going in such a rush?”
Once more, Carver looked up and down the street. “Nowhere.”
The man cackled. “Just like the rest of the damn fools in this city, eh?” He stretched the cane out. It almost touched the tip of Carver’s nose. “At least you know it. That’s something, isn’t it?”
He put the cane down. “Are you Carver Young?”
“What?”
“I thought you weren’t deaf. Are you Carver Young?”
“Yes,” Carver said. “And who are you… sir?”
Saying nothing, the man hobbled inside, leaving Carver feeling very much like a stupid boy, not knowing what to say or do.
8
CARVER stared at the door a good long time. Was that Miss Petty’s surprise? Was he going to be adopted by a… a gnome?
What could he do? Run away and not come back. He’d be thrown out soon enough anyway. He’d joked with Delia about it, but he could become a newsboy, spending nights in one of their lodges. It was better than working in a funeral parlor.
How long would it take to pack?
He headed back in, pelted by body heat and party sounds. Finn was in the same spot, staring enviously as Colonel Waring chatted happily with Bulldog. Mrs. Echols grabbed his chin and turned him back.
“Pssst!”
Delia was waving her hands at him. Maybe he could visit her at the Times when he picked up his newspapers for delivery. He took a step in her direction, but she motioned for him to stay put and frantically pointed in the direction of the back hallway where Miss Petty’s office was. Where was Miss Petty anyway? Or the undertaker? Ah. Delia was trying to tell him they were in her office.
He should just go pack, but the thought of leaving Ellis forever slowed him. Maybe he should at least try to find out what the gnome had to say.
He slipped into the hallway and gently closed the door behind him. Miss Petty’s office door was wide open, its light casting the oblong shadow of two talking figures. Carver pressed himself against the wall and inched along. Two feet from the door he still couldn’t hear them. He did see them, though, reflected in the Humpty Dumpty glass. He dared another foot in time to hear the stranger say, in a dismissive tone, “Of course he writes a fine letter, but in person the boy is not nearly as impressive as I’d hoped.”
Letter? The one he’d sent to Roosevelt? What other letter would there be? Carver’s heart began to pound.
“I’ll leave my card and let you return to your guests,” said the man, rising from his seat. He laid it upright against the desk lamp.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawking,” Miss Petty said.
Hawking. Did he work for Roosevelt? Had Carver ruined a second chance by nearly barreling him over, then being snotty about it?
Any second now they’d enter the hall. He doubted that finding him spying would improve Mr. Hawking’s opinion of him, but he’d never make it out in time. Why had he closed the stupid door behind him? The supply closet he often hid in was just past the office door. It wasn’t far, but he’d have to cross right in front of them to reach it.
When Hawking rose and faced Miss Petty, he put his back to the door, covering her view and giving Carver the chance he needed. He crouched, raced by and slipped into the supply closet. He kicked a mop but caught the stick before it clattered to the floor.
“So sorry to have wasted your time,” Miss Petty said as they entered the hall.
Hawking grunted. “If he puts on some weight, the boy could become a bouncer. At least then his people-shoving abilities would be put to good use.”
Carver bit his lip. He had ruined it. He might never even know what he’d ruined.
The hallway door opened and their conversation melted into the rush of the party. He waited, just to be sure, and then stepped out of the closet. He was alone. He might as well continue with his plan to run away. Then again, he no longer had a reason to run.
Was Hawking with Roosevelt? He had to know. Fingering his trusty bent nails, he approached the door to Miss Petty’s office and unlocked it with ease. It wasn’t the attic lock, after all. Remembering the card the man had left, he snatched it from her desk. It was printed on fine thick paper, but kind of crumpled, as if it had been curled, then flattened. On the front, in raised letters, it read:
Albert Hawking—The Pinkerton Agency
The Pinkertons?! Carver gnashed his teeth. The most famous detective agency in the world! Allan Pinkerton was the first private detective in the United States. For fifty years he and his agents battled kidnappers, robbers, murderers, outlaw gangs and more. He’d passed away, but his agency had offices everywhere. Their logo, a single eye over the motto We never sleep, gave birth to the term private eye.
Maybe Carver could still apologize. Beg. Weep, if it would help.
Was there an address? A phone listing? The front of the card contained nothing more than the name and the agency. He flipped it over. There were numbers and some letters on the back:
40 42.8 (W)
74 .4 (N)
They looked pressed into the paper, typewritten. That was why it was curled. Someone had run it through a typewriter roll. Hawking’s hand was damaged, and he probably couldn’t hold a pen or pencil. But why would he go to the trouble of typing some numbers?
Memorizing the contents, he carefully replaced the card. Rather than be seen walking into the party from Miss Petty’s office, he took the long way, through the laundry area, then back around front.
By the time he reached the entrance, things were breaking up. Carver scanned the milling bodies for Hawking. It was no use—like Roosevelt, he was gone. He couldn’t even spot Miss Petty. He tried to remember every name Finn had ever called him so he could use them on himself.
There was still the numbers on the card. They must mean something. If he could figure out what that was, he might still impress the man. A combination? No, there wouldn’t be decimals in a combination.
As he puzzled over it, Delia came up, buzzing with questions. “Did you meet him? Did you talk? He looked… interesting, like he’d been hurt in a war. Was he important? What did you do?”
When he didn’t answer, she noticed his dark expression. “Or should I say, what didn’t you do? Carver, tell me you did something?”
“Oh, I did something all right. I was in such a rush to find Roosevelt, I nearly knocked over Albert Hawking of the Pinkertons.
Then I insulted him to the point where he wanted nothing to do with me.”
“No!”
Carver nodded. “I saw his card, but it didn’t even have a city, or a country, let alone a… a…”
He stopped in mid-sentence, looked briefly at Delia, then bounded down the hall.
“Where are you going?”
“To make my own luck!”
9
CARVER hurtled up the stairs that led to the classrooms. He heard Delia follow, struggling to keep up in her long dress and awkward shoes, but couldn’t slow down now. Once inside, he headed to the hanging map of the world and eagerly ran his fingers along the lines.
Delia, shoes in one hand, dress hem gathered up in the other, appeared at the door panting. “You might at least tell me.”
Carver grinned. “The numbers and letters on the back of the card, latitude and longitude coordinates, degrees, minutes and seconds. The degrees put it right here in New York City.”
“Put what right here?”
“I have no idea, but it’s exciting, isn’t it?” He looked around. “I need something that shows minutes and seconds, something more local, a map of just the city… but where can I… Wait!”
He rushed past Delia. Moving faster now that her shoes were off, she stayed right behind him all the way to the kitchen. There she gasped as he began rifling through Curly’s recipes.
“He’ll kill you if he sees you going through those.”
Carver waved her off. “Once he finished cooking, Miss Petty gave him the night off. You know how he’s always getting lost? That’s why, along with his recipes, he also keeps… this!”
He held up a folded tourist map.
Pushing aside dirty utensils and bread crumbs, he unfolded the map. He ran his fingers first horizontally along the top, then vertically down the center of the island.
“It’s the corner of Broadway and Warren Street, right across from City Hall Park, near Newspaper Row.”
“What’s there?” Delia asked.
Carver frowned. “A department store, I think. Easy enough to find out. It’s less than half an hour’s walk.”
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