Ripper

by Stefan Petrucha

  They recognized each other at exactly the same time.

  “Carver?” a squeaky voice said.

  “Bulldog?” Carver rasped.

  27

  “IT’S A reee-yoon-yun!” Bulldog squealed, sounding as if he were using the word for the first time. The boys behind him picked up their pace. Among them Carver recognized the other members of Finn’s former Ellis Orphanage gang. Once over the shock of seeing them, he remembered how they’d all gleefully signed up for sanitation jobs.

  Their rivalry seemed so long ago, so childish, he couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t help him.

  “Bulldog,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Someone’s after me; I need help.”

  “I’ll say you do,” Bulldog answered with a chuckle. He hefted his iron-headed shovel. “We been waiting for this a long time.”

  Following his lead, the others swung and tested their shovels.

  Carver was shocked. “You still want to beat me because Finn stole a locket?”

  “Think we’d forget how you set him up?” Bulldog said.

  “This is serious,” Carver said. He took a step closer, only to be nearly knocked over by the flat end of a shovel.

  “This is serious,” Bulldog said.

  Part of Carver realized how badly outnumbered he was, but the other part, fresh from his encounter with a far greater danger, was incensed. He thought of taking out the baton and shocking Bulldog into dreamland.

  “Are you really this stupid—?” Carver began.

  Whoosh! He had to leap back to avoid being hit.

  “You really want to call me stupid?” Bulldog said. The others laughed.

  “This is crazy! I’m—”

  Whoosh!

  “Or crazy?” spat Bulldog.

  “Put that—”

  Whud!

  The last swing caught Carver in the stomach, knocking him on his back. Bulldog stabbed down with the shovel’s edge. The blade sliced through the snow and clinked into the pavement near Carver’s head. Having had enough, Carver glared up at Bulldog and tensed his leg muscles, preparing to kick.

  A taller figure came up, so much taller that Bulldog didn’t even have to crouch for Carver to see his face.

  “Hi, Carver,” said a deeper but likewise familiar voice. His flaming red hair was neatly cut, parted to the left, his freckled skin clean. The stylish black overcoat he wore was unbuttoned, revealing a suit and tie beneath. His face remained the same, cleaner maybe, but just as good-looking as ever.

  “Finn,” Carver said. “What’s with the monkey suit? Someone leave all the cages at the zoo unlocked?”

  “I like to hang with my friends when I can,” Finn said.

  “And Miss Petty’s not around to save him now, huh?” Bulldog said, elbowing Finn.

  Carver tried to simultaneously rise and reach into his pocket for the baton, only to have his arms grabbed by Bulldog and Peter Bishop. They hoisted him onto his feet, held his arms behind his back and thrust his face toward Finn.

  Finn eyed Carver’s ratty coat. “You a street rat? That where all your brains got you?”

  “I’d take my coat over your monkey suit any day,” Carver answered. “How often do your owners change the straw in your cage?”

  Finn’s eyes flared. He tugged off his coat and loosened his tie. “Thanks for making it easy.”

  “How easy does it have to be? You really need all this help?” Carver said.

  “Nah,” Finn said. “But this way’s more fun.”

  Bulldog chuckled as Finn raised his meaty fist. Carver braced himself, but nothing happened. There was an odd hesitation in the bully’s face. Was it possible Finn thought it unfair to pummel someone who couldn’t move?

  The others began chanting, “Finn! Finn! Finn!”

  “Go ahead,” Carver said. “You stupid thief.”

  That did it. Finn pulled back. The next thing he knew, the chanting stopped and the bully said, “Ow!”

  “Phineas! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  It took Carver a moment to recognize Samantha Echols, Finn’s new mother. She wore a peacock-feather hat and was wrapped in white fox fur that made her look like some sort of arctic creature. Her chubby hand twisted the cartilage of Finn’s ear so severely that Carver winced in sympathy.

  “Come away!” she said, pulling him by the ear. “Mr. Echols is about to meet the commissioner and there’ll be photographers! Look what you’ve done to your clothes! You’ll iron them yourself again!”

  Stunned, Bulldog and Peter released Carver as the portly woman dragged the burly Finn through the snow. Even after they’d vanished into a side entrance, the boys kept staring.

  “Ironing?” Bulldog muttered. “Ironing?”

  With the gang lost in wonder, Carver backed up a few feet and then broke into a trot. As the snow made its way through the rips in his coat, he thought about Finn’s newer, warmer clothes and how far, but how comfortably, the mighty had fallen. Why hadn’t Finn punched him when he was down? For that matter, what were the Echolses doing at the Tombs in this weather?

  He moved east toward Centre Street. It was away from the New Pinkertons, but he desperately wanted to avoid crossing paths with the dark figure.

  He didn’t think it possible, but the storm was getting worse. By the time he’d made half a block, lines of swirling white all but wiped the gang from view. Even the vast Tombs were blurry and indistinct, the swampy smell faded.

  Ahead he saw even less. The line between street and building was clear, but not between street and sidewalk. Before he realized it was there, he walked straight into a hansom cab. It sat lopsided and horseless in the snow. Apparently the driver hadn’t seen the curb. There was no sign of him, either.

  Carver was thinking of climbing in just to catch his breath when the cabin door swung open. Whirls of brown and gray emerged from the black interior.

  Was it the stalker? Carver stumbled back. As this new figure stood, though, Carver could see his shape and clothes were wrong. This figure was older, hunched…

  “Mr. Hawking?” Carver said. Frost ringed the man’s bowler hat. Flecks of snow mingled with his salt-and-pepper mustache. He looked particularly vulnerable standing in the storm. Carver was thrilled to see him.

  “Fool driver said he’d be back after he saw to the horses,” Hawking mumbled. He looked at Carver, only vaguely interested in the coincidence of running into him. “There’s been another murder.”

  Body wobbling slightly in the wind, Hawking stabbed his cane in the direction of the Tombs. “And the killer was kind enough to leave the body there.”

  28

  “I WAS followed,” Carver said.

  Ignoring him, Hawking attempted a few steps through the snow before waving him over to help. “After you left, Tudd called from Mulberry Street, jabbering like a mad old woman. He’s still hoping to get me involved, I suppose. I stupidly said I’d take a look.”

  “I was followed!” Carver blurted again.

  Hawking chuckled.

  As he told him the story, Carver put his arm around his mentor’s broad back and hoisted his bad arm across his shoulders. Leaving an odd set of tracks, they moved diagonally across Leonard toward Center Street. Part of him hoped Hawking would roll his eyes and give him some banal explanation that would make Carver feel stupid, but safer. Instead, Hawking stopped so suddenly, Carver nearly slipped and fell.

  The detective twisted his head this way and that, scanning what little was visible of the street. “I doubt just anyone would be out and about. You may well have stumbled upon the killer.”

  “Why?” Carver said, stunned. “Why would he follow me?”

  Hawking grimaced. “Must I explain the obvious? You’ve heard how some like to return to the scene of the crime? A man who dumps a body at the Tombs is looking for attention at the very least. Seeing you lurking around, he’d want to make sure you hadn’t seen him with the body. He was probably more afraid of you than you were of him.”

&nbs
p; He looked at Carver’s fearful expression and sighed. “That last part was an exaggeration, I admit. We’d better keep moving. He could still be here and there’s safety in numbers, even if it is just Tudd and our corrupt police force.”

  As they worked to get nearer, the front of the vast Tombs glimmered through the icy lines of the blizzard like a mirage in a sandstorm. When they turned the corner, Carver was startled by the commotion. Carriage-mounted searchlights, powered by hand-cranked generators, burned away the swirling snow, creating an eerie patch that looked like a sunny morning. A collection of wagons and carriages lay helter-skelter along street and sidewalk. That explained Bulldog and the rest of the snow shovelers. Clearing the streets near the Tombs was a priority because of the murder.

  Hawking winced at the arc lighting, but Carver, fascinated by any machine, was pleased he could make out the features of the fifteen or so thick-coated men standing in a semicircle on the stairs.

  “I want to stay out of sight,” his mentor said, indicating a street clock across the way. The pair soon rested against its wrought-iron pedestal, taking in the scene.

  Hawking cleared his throat. “Don’t ask any fool questions until I’ve finished and you’ll get your answers more efficiently. A few nights ago, after an evening on the town with her friends, Mrs. Jane Hanbury Ingraham of Park Avenue vanished. Her body was found here early this morning. Despite the strenuous objections of an extremely distraught Mr. Ingraham, Roosevelt, apparently not a complete idiot, has kept the crime scene untouched until it can be completely examined, a difficult task even for the competent in this weather.” He motioned toward a familiar man in the center of the group, who was stamping his feet and gesticulating wildly. “I’d hoped to beat our silk-stockinged cowboy here, but no such luck.”

  Hawking put his arm back around Carver’s shoulders. “We’ll have to get closer to learn anything. Should be easy to stay out of sight if we keep away from those lights.”

  Moving as carefully as their odd configuration allowed, they edged closer. The eerie spotlights made the crime scene look like some fantastic outdoor theater play. Roosevelt, his square head, bushy mustache and pince-nez glasses, was center stage, his open overcoat flapping.

  “Under our noses!” he barked. “The dastardly coward is saying he can do as he pleases whenever and wherever he likes! Can’t anyone tell us anything yet?”

  For the first time, Carver spotted Tudd, the head of the New Pinkertons, looking wan and tired. He approached the commissioner but spoke too softly for Carver to hear.

  Volume was not a problem with Roosevelt. “More time? The coroner’s had an hour! Mr. Ingraham is beside himself! He won’t even allow us to take her near the prison morgue. Do we at least know if she was killed here or elsewhere? Speak up! No?”

  Hawking whispered to Carver, enhancing his sense that they were watching a play. “Quite dramatic, isn’t he? Well, now… look who else we have.”

  A solitary, pinch-faced man had stepped out from the building’s wide doors.

  “Alexander Echols,” Carver said. So, that’s why Finn had been here.

  “Reading the social pages when my back is turned?”

  “No, they… he… adopted… someone. Isn’t he a district attorney?”

  Hawking nodded. “Pit viper. If Echols adopted, it was window dressing. Your friend will have money, but only what passes for affection among reptiles. I’m sure he’ll appear in a lot of photos, though.”

  Carver wanted to say that Finn was no friend, but the timing didn’t seem appropriate.

  Echols shoved his way past the patrolmen and looked down. Immediately, his thin face twisted like a sickly pretzel. He covered his mouth and stepped back.

  “Ha. A lizard with a weak stomach. What about you?” Hawking said. “Ever seen a dead body? Want to get a little closer?”

  When Carver hesitated, Hawking bristled. “It’s not for entertainment; it’s part of your training. You’ll see a real horror sooner or later. Better you vomit here in the snow than in front of some agent who might think you weak. Besides, I have to tell Septimus about whatever the police get wrong. Be quiet, be quick!”

  They moved another ten yards. All of Carver’s thoughts coasted to a halt when the body came into view. At first it looked like a pile of expensive clothing, dropped in a heap. But then his mind distinguished the folds of gown and cloak from the flesh and hair.

  The harsh light rendered Jane Ingraham’s skin nearly white as the snow. She looked like a statue carved in a ridiculously broken pose. As he stared longer, Carver made out a thin black line across her neck, dark stains on gown and ground. Maybe it was the distance, the snow or the lights, but as much as Carver knew he was looking at a human body, he couldn’t make himself believe it was real.

  “Tudd will have a field day,” Hawking whispered.

  “What do you mean?” Carver asked.

  “Unless my eyes fail me, and they’re the only organs yet to disappoint, those wounds are vaguely similar to those found on Elizabeth Rowley in May. Vaguely is all Tudd will need to connect them.”

  29

  “NOTHING yet?” Roosevelt bellowed. “What’s taking so long?”

  “Amateurs,” Hawking whispered to himself. “It’s obvious she wasn’t killed here; there isn’t enough blood.”

  Roosevelt picked up his head and, for an instant, seemed to stare directly at them. Hawking grabbed Carver and pulled them behind a listing carriage. His shoulder hit the side, knocking off a bit of the snow.

  If Roosevelt actually saw them, there was no sign of it. He was busy demanding to know how soon they’d be able to get the coroner’s wagon through.

  “We can’t bring her into the Tombs. Her husband thinks it would be a scandal!”

  “Barks like a dog, but still worried about class,” Hawking mused as they hid behind the carriage. It seemed to Carver that Roosevelt might just be concerned about the grieving man’s feelings. His mentor’s lips twitched. “We should be fine here; I’m confident no one saw—”

  “Carver!” a voice cried.

  Hawking leapt a foot. A pink face surrounded by a woolen hood was pressed into the cab’s window.

  “Delia!” Carver said, fighting to keep his voice a whisper.

  “Do you know everyone here, boy?” Hawking growled. “Why not hand out glasses of punch and we’ll have a party?”

  “It’s Delia Stephens, my friend from Ellis,” Carver said.

  Hawking furrowed his brow. “The one the Echolses purchased to go with their new rug?”

  Delia turned up her nose. “Nothing of the sort. I’m here with Mr. Jerrik Ribe of the New York Times.”

  Saying nothing, Hawking pulled Carver away from the cab.

  “You’re not going to run away again, are you?” Delia called.

  “I… don’t know,” Carver called back. He hoped not. Ever since Hawking had given him an idea what to say to her, he’d wanted to see her and try it out.

  His mentor, for his part, seemed antsy. “The Times?” he whispered. “You didn’t mention that. Well, it can still work well. Stay and chat, see what you can find out. Make notes. Roosevelt will protect you from any bogeyman still around. If the ferry’s down, they have a cot at Pinkerton headquarters. But obey this—do not return to Leonard Street until we’ve had a chance to talk again.”

  He touched the rim of his hat toward Delia and then moved down Center Street, managing the snow far better than Carver imagined him able.

  “And he was… ?” Delia asked from the window.

  “Mr. Albert Hawking,” Carver said. “He’s a retired detective.”

  Her face lit instantly. “Oh, how wonderful for you!”

  She opened the door and waved him in. “It’s awful out there!” she said, scooting over to make space.

  Carver didn’t realize just how cold he was until he joined her and felt the stiffness in his bones.

  “Why didn’t you just say so last time? And what are you doing here of all places?”


  Having practiced this conversation many times in his head, Carver said, “I can’t tell you. I promised Mr. Hawking I wouldn’t discuss his work. Last time we met, I was afraid I couldn’t say anything at all, but I got that much straight at least.”

  “Not so retired, then, is he?” The little sparkle in her eyes told him how quickly she was thinking. “But, you know, that’s exactly what Jerrik told Anne about a story he’s working on. She said to me, don’t worry, I know my husband. He’ll tell me eventually. And he did, and now I know, too. If I were the betting sort, I’m betting you’ll tell me eventually, too.”

  Annoyed by her calm self-assurance but relieved there wasn’t going to be an argument, Carver decided to ask some questions himself. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m to tell you what you can’t tell me?” she said. Then she laughed. “Oh, of course, I’ll tell you. I’m too lonely to hold back! I’ve so few friends my own age.”

  She spoke a mile a minute. “I’m working at the paper now, assisting Anne on the fifth floor, where all the women handle the society pages and light features. We spend all day on these silly anagram puzzles, like titian chemist for a stitch in time, you know? That one’s mine. Anyway, Jerrik’s big secret was that he’d been covering the library killer and trying to convince the editors to do more hard crime reporting. The Times is known for not being sensational, so it’s an uphill struggle, but they are losing money lately, so they had to consider it. This morning, Anne stayed home because of the storm, and Jerrik and I were just picking up some things at the office when the call came. He was the only reporter there, so they gave him his chance. He couldn’t very well leave me there in the storm, so after I begged and pleaded not to be sent home, here we are. Isn’t it exciting? I mean… terrible, but exciting? So, what are you? Like a detective in training?”

  Realizing the conversation had suddenly shifted back to him, Carver answered, “Something like that.”