Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “Billy’s a rough character,” I said. “Maybe that’s why George hired Thomas Sweet for protection.”

  Billy McGlory was one of the city’s most prominent gangsters and club owners. Although Mayor Hewitt vowed during his campaign to shut down the seediest disorderly houses and red light districts, so far Billy had dodged the hammer. His bouncers were some of the most feared criminals of the Five Points, and the only edict they religiously enforced was that actual murder should not be committed inside the dance hall.

  As we weaved through the other couples, I told John the famous story of how Billy once turned up at the offices of the New York Sun to complain about an article alleging a man had been stabbed at the Armory.

  “He was stabbed just outside of McGlory’s,” Billy had objected to the editors. “I don’t permit stabbing and shooting inside.”

  After re-interviewing the victim in the hospital, the newspaper ran a retraction the following day explaining that in fact, he had been stabbed on the street side of McGlory’s threshold.

  “The place is a cesspool of beastliness and depravity,” John said earnestly, shaking his head in disapproval. Then he flashed white teeth in a wicked grin. “No wonder it’s so popular.”

  “So you think riding the trains could be part of the thrill?” I wondered aloud.

  “If we’re dealing with someone who’s a Jekyll and Hyde, like the papers say, he might adopt a totally different persona than the one he wears for the people around him,” John pointed out.

  Two teenage girls in identical harlequin costumes, except with the black and white reversed, flashed past as we spun along the edge of the dance floor. Parthena and Permelia Sloane-Sherman, twins and debutantes extraordinaire. Their matching blue eyes aimed daggers at me through gold-painted colombinas on sticks. They liked John. Therefore, they didn’t like me.

  “A mask of sanity,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And hunting in the streets would make him feel free, unencumbered by the expectations of society. Like a predator moving through the jungle.”

  “Let’s say it is George,” John said. “What’s his connection to Straker?”

  “What if Straker went back to Becky’s flat for some reason? What if he witnessed her murder? George could hardly leave him alive.”

  “And yet we know that Straker was alive and at home the next day. At least, according to Brady.”

  “According to Brady,” I repeated. “But there’s something off about his story. Nothing fits.”

  My feet stumbled on the left box turn, but John caught me before I fell on my face in front of Mrs. Kane’s entire ballroom.

  “It fits if Straker did it,” he said. “You may disagree with me on motive, but you must admit he’s the only one the evidence really points to. Maybe Becky was blackmailing George. Maybe he gave her the money and the book to get rid of her. But it could be a coincidence.”

  We began the promenade.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” I said.

  “But what about Billy? He disappeared going to find Straker. How could George have known?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “And back to Becky for a moment. Why would George want to kill her anyway?”

  “So she wouldn’t reveal their affair,” I said. “It could ruin him if it came out.”

  “But you said yourself that he’s a known cad. Becky wasn’t the first, and I’m sure she won’t be the last. George’s parents may not like it, but they haven’t disowned him yet.”

  We spun past Temple Kane, who was chatting with a small circle of the most powerful women in the rigid hierarchy of New York Society. Mrs. Kane was in her late forties, but looked a decade younger. She wore a shimmering gown of gold leaf cunningly sewn to resemble fish scales. Her husband stood several paces away. His eyes passed over me, pausing for a moment, and I suddenly wondered if he recognized me from our brief encounter at Chamberlain’s. But then a fat, red-faced man started speaking to him and he turned his back to us.

  “Maybe he was afraid Becky would be the final straw,” I mused.

  The band struck up a new tune and John smoothly switched to a polka.

  “Alright, I’ll give you that one, even though I’m not entirely convinced. But that in turn brings us to Raffaele and Anne. Are you really certain it’s the same killer?”

  “I’m certain,” I said.

  “So if the motive was to stop a blackmailer, then why go after them? They had no connection to Becky.”

  “Because he’s mad,” I said. “Because he likes it. Stalking them, subduing them, watching them die. It makes him feel powerful. And he’ll go to increasingly extreme lengths to recreate the rush he gets from killing.”

  John considered this. “There’s been new research into a certain type of aberrant personality. Some call it mania without delirium, or moral insanity. It describes someone who engages in antisocial behaviour without regard for the consequences. They’re often fluent liars and seem entirely lacking in empathy. But in other ways they’re perfectly sane, capable of cool-headed planning and manipulation. The German psychiatrist Julius Koch has been doing preliminary work in this area.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Weston,” I said, smiling. “I’d say that description could fit George Kane, or his henchman, or both. Speaking of whom, he’d have to be in on it, don’t you think?”

  John didn’t respond. I felt his shoulders stiffen beneath my fingertips.

  “What is it? Thomas Sweet?”

  I hadn’t yet spotted George’s bodyguard, the one who had given Becky the grimoire, but that didn’t surprise me. Sweet was terrifying to look at, it was a large part of his effectiveness, and I somehow doubted that Temple Kane wanted her party guests in the presence of such a menacing man. He wouldn’t be far, I imagined, but he’d keep well out of sight.

  John didn’t reply, just made a minute gesture with his chin toward the entrance foyer. I scanned the crowd. The Kane ballroom was immense, even by the standards of Mrs. Astor’s 400, as the oldest and richest families were known. In the tradition of too-much-is-never-enough, the carved and gilded walls were covered in heavy oil paintings, frescoes and chandeliers decorated the ceiling, and there were enough flowers to sink a battleship.

  Bewigged waiters in 18th century outfits that would have fit right in at Versailles dispensed buckets of champagne to the flushed, chattering guests. I caught a quick glimpse of Edward, like some rare Amazonian parrot, escorting Puss and her stuffed cat to the other end of the dance floor, where dancers were lining up for a quadrille.

  And then I saw James Moran. He moved slowly through the crowd, his flat eyes taking everything in with a mixture of contempt and amusement. The women, young and old, whispered behind their fans. Some giggled. Others looked at him in frank appraisal. I suppose he was handsome enough, with his raven hair and lean, wolfish build. He was certainly rich, and the Moran name still held influence in New York politics.

  But as his black eyes locked on mine, I knew I wouldn’t care to be in a room alone with him for all the tea in China.

  “Why do you think he’s here?” John asked.

  He’d stopped dancing, but his arm was still wrapped protectively around my waist. I gently disengaged it and took a step back.

  “Oh, sorry Harry.” He flushed a little. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I don’t know why he’s here,” I said. “I’ve heard he hardly ever accepts party invitations. But he’s coming this way.”

  Moran’s eyes never left mine as he glided across the room, like a barracuda cutting through a school of bright tropical fish. Several men tried to approach him, and even one or two of the bolder women, but he brushed them off.

  Suddenly, my bodice felt very tight. I’d stuffed one of Myrtle’s smallest pistols in there, and had a momentary vision of myself shooting James Moran in the middle of the Kanes’ ballroom, while three hundred party guests looked on in horror.

  Then he was standing in front of us, his
snowy white shirt immaculate under an open dress coat with silk lapels. John had a tight rein on himself, but his fists were clenched as though he were having fantasies of his own.

  Moran allowed his gaze to linger on my bosom a fraction of a second too long for propriety, and then he seized my gloved hand and brushed it with his lips before I could snatch it back.

  “Miss Pell,” he said in a surprisingly soft voice. “I was hoping to see you here.”

  “Really?” I said. “Why so?”

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “We are talking,” I said with a thin smile.

  “In private.”

  This was too much for John. “If you think she’s going off somewhere with you after—”

  I laid a restraining hand on John’s arm. “You can say whatever it is you came to say right here,” I said.

  Moran looked around and arched a thick eyebrow. He looked as though he was trying not to laugh, and I decided that shooting him on the spot might not be such a bad idea after all.

  “Well, we do seem to have everyone’s rapt attention,” he observed.

  Indeed, the murmur of conversation had dropped several notches, and a few people were actually leaning towards us to listen better. Just at that moment, the band struck up Strauss’s Phenomene waltz.

  “I wish to apologize for last evening,” Moran said. “It was not what I’d intended. I only want to speak with you. Say for the length of one dance?” He held out his hand.

  John said nothing, but I could tell he was furious. He had every right to be.

  “One dance,” I said.

  As distasteful as the prospect was, I needed answers too.

  John looked at me with incredulity. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I think it’s worth it to hear why Mr. Moran has taken an interest in…certain matters.”

  “That doesn’t mean you have to dance with him,” John hissed.

  “Unless we want everyone in this room to know our business, I don’t see any choice,” I said, reaching for his hand. John pulled it away.

  “It’s your decision, of course,” he said stiffly.

  “John…”

  But he was already walking away. I watched as Parthena and Permelia Sloane-Sherman homed in on him, each one taking an arm and leaning in close as they led him to the punchbowl. He didn’t look back.

  “Shall we?” Moran asked.

  I nodded curtly. He placed feather-light fingers on my back and we linked hands. A moment later, James Moran was whisking me into the fray. I could feel curious eyes on us, but between the music and our swift movement, I doubted anyone could eavesdrop on our conversation.

  “So you’re Myrtle’s little sister,” he murmured in my ear. “Does she know what you’re up to, I wonder?”

  I schooled my expression to perfect indifference. He hadn’t a clue if he thought he could bait me so easily. “You’re not as good a dancer as my last partner,” I said.

  “Dancing’s not what I’m skilled at,” Moran responded, a dark mirth in his eyes.

  “Tell me something,” I said. “Do you make it a habit to set your jackals on helpless young ladies?”

  “I’d hardly call you helpless.” Moran laughed. “By God, I thought Declan was ugly before, but you should see him now. And no, it’s not my style. Things got out of hand.”

  “Out of hand? They tried to kill me.”

  The music rose and fell, the faces of the other dancers flashing before me. The barrel of the pistol pressed into my ribcage. I wondered if he knew it was there.

  “Regrettable,” Moran said, although he didn’t look particularly sorry. “I shouldn’t have sent Declan. He has an excitable disposition.”

  “Let’s get to the point,” I said. “What’s your interest in the Jekyll and Hyde case?”

  The tempo suddenly increased, and I realized that he’d just been toying with me. He was every bit as good as John, perhaps even better. Moran’s hand tightened around my waist and I had no choice but to let him guide me through the dizzyingly fast steps.

  “The Forsizi boy,” Moran whispered. “His brother works for me. I want this lunatic off the streets as much as you do, Miss Pell. Besides, it’s bad for business.”

  “And what is it exactly that you want from me?”

  “I want a truce between us until this man Straker is found. And I want to offer my assistance in accomplishing that.”

  I tried not to betray my shock that he knew Straker’s name. From what Myrtle had told me, James Moran sat at the center of a vast criminal web, spinning its threads as it suited him. His family was an old one, and outwardly respectable. He had been a child prodigy in both music and mathematics. Then, at the age of sixteen, he had shot and killed his father and spent eight months in the Tombs. He had claimed self-defense, and his youth—along with the Moran fortune—had bought him an early release. Myrtle believed it was during this time that James Moran had made several key gangland connections.

  There was a minor bloodbath when he got out of prison. None of it was traceable back to Moran, he was far too smart for that. But when the dust settled, he smoothly took control of New York’s criminal underworld.

  I believe I mentioned before that Myrtle’s record was unblemished, except for one man.

  Well, I was dancing with him now.

  “What kind of assistance?” I asked.

  “Whatever you require,” he responded. “I’ve been watching you for some time, Miss Pell. You’ve made impressive strides. But it’s not enough. You’re at the stage where you need raw manpower. The kind the police could easily supply, but you haven’t gone to them yet. I suppose you have your own reasons, and I’ve no desire to pry into those.” He smiled like a lazy, sun-warmed cat, letting me know that he knew precisely what those reasons were. “But I can give you boys. As many as you want.”

  I suddenly realized where he could have learned Straker’s name and my blood ran cold.

  “Did you harm Billy Finn?” I demanded, trying to pull away.

  Moran held me fast. “No, I didn’t harm Billy. I know who he is, but I’ve nothing to do with his disappearance. In fact, I’ve had my own boys looking out for him. But he seems to have vanished.”

  I held his black eyes, trying to gauge whether or not he was telling the truth. It was impossible to tell.

  “So you seek a truce,” I said.

  “Temporary, of course,” he agreed.

  Myrtle would be home in two days. Although Billy appeared to have run away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in terrible danger. And the Hunter. He wouldn’t stop. He had a taste for it now.

  “Tomorrow night,” I said, reaching my decision. “We fan out and ride the elevated lines. That’s where he finds his victims. He dresses as a soldier.”

  “I know.”

  The music died. Moran let go of me and stepped back.

  “Tomorrow then, Miss Pell.” He gave a deep bow. “Thank you for the pleasure of your company. I hope I may enjoy it again someday.”

  “Highly unlikely,” I said. “And by the way, that leaky quill you’ve been using to solve problems is still leaky, though I see you’ve tried to repair it more than once. And you really should hire a professional piano tuner. You may be a brilliant player, but you’re hopeless at adjusting the strings. Good evening, Mr. Moran.”

  I smiled in satisfaction and left him standing in the middle of the ballroom with his jaw hanging open in bafflement.

  So I’d made my own pact with the Devil, I thought as I made my way to the edge of the dance floor. We desperately needed what Moran had to offer, but there was always a price to pay in the end. I tried not to dwell on what that might be.

  After a few minutes of searching, I found John with the Sloane-Shermans and their odious friends, Georgia DeForest and Lulu Rhinelander Jones. They were petting him like a dog, and John didn’t look as displeased as he ought to have. I tried to catch his eye but he studiously ignored me.
I stood on the fringes, feeling like an idiot, as the girls shot me poisonous sidelong glances, and finally decided that I deserved a glass of punch.

  I’d more than earned it, having to dance with beastly James Moran and then be shunned by my best friend for what was really an act of self-sacrifice, I thought, taking a gulp of the fruity concoction. A pleasant, loose warmth instantly spread through my chest. It’s funny, because I couldn’t taste any alcohol. But by the time I’d finished my first glass and started on the next, I was feeling both reckless and resentful.

  I wandered aimlessly through the crowd. Several young men approached me to dance, but I turned them down. I’d had enough dancing for the night. Instead, I nibbled on pastries and played a game of scrutinizing my fellow guests. A woman with a tame white dove perched on her wrist was having a torrid affair with her footman. Another dressed as a gold-and-black wasp was blind as a bat without her glasses but too proud to wear them. A man with thick ginger whiskers had colored them so as to appear younger; traces of the dye stained his left earlobe. It was all very mundane.

  I stood up on my toes and peered over their babbling heads. Moran had vanished.

  It was at that moment that I spotted George Kane making for the garden.

  I’d kept half an eye on him all night, and he’d always been surrounded by a group of sycophantic admirers, hangers-on hoping for a bite of the Kane pie. This was the first time I’d seen him alone.

  I handed my punch to a passing waiter and made an unsteady beeline for the door I’d seen him go through. Some fresh air would do me good anyway. It was stuffy in the ballroom, and my ears were buzzing from the din of drunken laughter and loud music.

  I pushed through the crowd and followed the faint breeze down a long hallway to a set of open French doors. A group of men stood just outside, smoking cigars. They leered at me as I passed, despite the fact that most were old enough to be my father. A few stragglers from the party sat (or slumped) on stone benches, but as I moved deeper into the lush gardens, the sounds of revelry faded.