Brooklyn on Fire

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “Good morning, Miss Handley.”

  Mary was taken aback. “Mr. Huntington, what are you doing here?”

  “Gloating. It’s a much-maligned activity, but it’s making a big comeback with me. Have a wonderful day.” Smiling broadly, he got into his carriage and rode away.

  WHEN MARY GOT up to the third floor, she could hear McLaughlin shouting from the hall.

  “What the hell does that bastard Huntington have on me?”

  “I have no idea, sir. None,” said Liam, obviously shaken by McLaughlin’s bluster.

  “Ya better find out and find out soon. He’s settin’ me up for a fall, and if I go down, Liam, you know who goes with me, don’t ya?”

  Liam’s mind was rapidly searching for an answer. “Maybe he’s bluffing.”

  “Bluffin’?”

  “He could be. That is possible.”

  “Have ya learned nothin’ from me? Men like him don’t bluff. They destroy.”

  The voices started to quiet, and, no longer able to hear them, Mary decided to go inside. The second Mary had closed the door Liam popped his head out of McLaughlin’s office.

  “Who is it? Is that ass Huntington back?” McLaughlin called to Liam from inside.

  “It’s that lady detective….” Liam paused, trying to remember Mary’s name.

  “Lady detective?” McLaughlin responded as he quickly emerged from his office.

  Mary stepped forward. “How do you do? I’m Mary Handley.”

  McLaughlin suddenly calmed and started oozing charm. “I know who ya are, girl. I’d be ashamed to say I was from Brooklyn if I didn’t know Mary Handley.” He walked over and shook her hand, then pointed to Liam. “This is my associate, Liam Riley.”

  “Mr. McLaughlin, Mr. Riley, pleased to meet you both.”

  “What brings you here, Mary? I hope ya don’t mind if I call ya Mary?”

  “No, of course not, go right ahead. I was hoping we could have a word.”

  “Certainly. Please step inta my office.”

  Mary did just that, followed by McLaughlin and Liam. McLaughlin nodded to Liam, and he closed the door. As McLaughlin sat at his desk, he gestured to Mary, who sat facing him. Liam plopped down on the windowsill behind the desk. When they were all settled, McLaughlin began. A consummate politician, he made it his business to know something about each one of his constituents, especially the Irish ones.

  “So, what can I do for the lady whose father has the best butcher shop in Brooklyn?”

  “Thank you, but it’s not his. He just works there.”

  “For goin’ on twenty years. Believe me, that place would shut down without him.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Mary cleared her throat. “Mr. McLaughlin, as you probably know, my brother has been arrested for murdering his fiancée.”

  “Yes, a terrible, terrible tragedy. Isn’t it, Liam?”

  “Awful. My sympathies, Miss Handley.”

  “The point is, he didn’t do it, and I’ve been reviewing the evidence. Some odd occurrences have arisen, and I was hoping you could help me explain them.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can,” said McLaughlin, then he looked at Liam.

  “Anything to help,” Liam said.

  “On the day my brother was arrested, you made a call to District Attorney Ridgeway’s office. Do you remember what that was about?”

  “Let me see—”

  “I’m sure you remember the day. It made big headlines in all the newspapers.”

  “I remember, all right. It’s the phone call. Ya see, I make a bunch of ’em. But I’m pretty sure I haven’t spoken ta Ridgeway in, oh, weeks.” He looked at Liam, who nodded.

  “What about Judge Moore?”

  “The judge? Whew, that’s been longer. The last time I saw the good judge was at my New Year’s Eve party. I throw a fine party, Mary. Yer family should come this year—”

  “Thank you. I look forward to the invitation.” Mary knew not to hold her breath for it. “So you haven’t spoken with Judge Moore?”

  “Not in a month of Sundays.”

  “Then I don’t suppose you spoke with Ridgeway when my brother was arraigned or on the day he was transferred to the Raymond Street Jail.”

  “I just heard about Sean being stabbed. It’s an awful thing and I know yer upset—”

  “There’s no question I’m upset, Mr. McLaughlin, and I want to find out why, on each day there was a major decision affecting Sean’s case, the person responsible for that decision got a phone call from you.”

  “I see,” said McLaughlin, pausing to size Mary up. “I don’t like what yer implyin’, young lady.”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m just asking a question that you refuse to answer.”

  Liam jumped in. “Better watch your mouth. Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  Mary held her ground. “I know perfectly well who Mr. McLaughlin is, and I didn’t say anything disrespectful.”

  “Ease up on the girl, will ya, Liam? She’s been through hell.” He turned to Mary. “Sorry, he’s just bein’ loyal ta me. The fact is, I don’t remember makin’ those phone calls—the last one fer sure. I was out on Long Island buyin’ my new house.”

  “Well, there it is then.” Mary rose to leave. “Nice meeting you, Mr. McLaughlin and Mr. Riley. Thank you for your time. And congratulations on your new house, Mr. McLaughlin.”

  There were handshakes, pleasantries exchanged, and another hollow offer by McLaughlin, this time inviting the Handley family out to his house on the North Shore for a summer weekend. McLaughlin and Liam were sure they had evaded what might have been, at the very least, a political nightmare and maybe much more. When Mary got to the door, she turned to them.

  “By the way, gentlemen, aren’t there telephones on Long Island and don’t they have records?”

  The truth was, if McLaughlin had called from Long Island, it wouldn’t have been from his private phone. He had just bought the house and probably hadn’t moved in even if he had intended to get a phone. Most of the phones at that time on Long Island were not in private residences but rather in stores, and on the slim chance Mary could prove McLaughlin had placed a call from one of those stores, she couldn’t prove what they’d discussed. Mary just wanted to see their reactions when she made them aware she knew the phone records could be checked. McLaughlin’s and Liam’s faces had dropped, but it was hard to tell if it was because of the call or the realization that they hadn’t bamboozled her, or both. So, knowing full well that they weren’t going to divulge any more information, she left.

  Walking downstairs, Mary was frustrated. Nothing had changed. Huntington and McLaughlin were still strong suspects, but despite the evidence she’d uncovered against Shorty, she was no closer to finding the person who was truly behind the murders. She needed that person in order to free Sean. Mary started to pore over the facts yet again. Besides Shorty, she had thought that she was the connecting piece between Abigail Corday’s murder and Patti’s. However, it was conceivable Gabrielle Evans was just another murder Shorty had committed that he’d tried to cover up by framing Sean, and Mary wasn’t part of the equation. It was all too coincidental, though, that three unrelated murders involving her and her family would occur separately in a fairly short amount of time. So where did that leave her? It was almost impossible to find a trail leading to the person who hired Shorty to kill Gabrielle Evans and Patti. That left one alternative. She would have to start back at the beginning—or at least the beginning for her in all of this—and find out who hired Abigail Corday to impersonate Emily Worsham.

  It was upsetting. She had spent a lot of time chasing down leads, finding Shorty, questioning Huntington, trying to determine McLaughlin’s role in all this, yet she was really no further along than when she had returned from Biltmore. She’d had no idea then how to find out who hired Abigail, and now was no different. The clock was ticking away. She didn’t have time to waste and neither did Sean.

  She walked down the b
usy Brooklyn street, crowded with people rushing to work, and racked her brain, reviewing all the facts over and over. Then it dawned on her. There was one person who might be able to help.

  She chastised herself. Why haven’t I thought of it before?

  32

  THE MARQUEE OF the Brooklyn Academy of Music read THE ROBERT DAVIES PLAYERS PRESENT: A ROBERT DAVIES PRODUCTION OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S HAMLET STARRING ROBERT DAVIES. Mary looked at it, thinking that this was a long way to come for an actor who, not long ago, was playing the bit role of the porter in a production of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, and naturally she wondered how he’d managed such a dramatic turnabout. She had gotten his address from the police, but he had moved, having bought a spacious new brownstone in Clinton Hill. His neighbor, a round woman wearing too much jewelry, had told Mary where she could find him.

  “He says he’s a Danish prince,” the neighbor had said. “If that pompous blowhard is a prince, I’m Pocahontas.”

  None of this seemed to fit the man she had met who was wailing over Abigail Corday’s body the night of the fire, devastated by her death. When questioned further, the neighbor had very little other information about Robert Davies and emphatically stated that she had no desire to find out any more about him.

  Inside, the theater company was in the middle of rehearsal. It seemed as if no expense had been spared for this production. The sets were already up and quite magnificent. There was no scrimping on the size of the cast either. If the play called for a crowd, there was going to be one, no matter how many actors with nonspeaking roles had to be paid.

  When Mary entered, they were rehearsing act 3, scene 2 of Hamlet, where Hamlet instructs the actors how to perform a play, hoping the reaction to the play will help reveal that Claudius killed Hamlet’s father. The scene hadn’t gotten very far when Robert Davies stopped and turned toward the director.

  “This doesn’t feel right.”

  The director, the same one who had directed A Doll’s House, approached Robert. He seemed weary, as if this was a regular occurrence.

  “What’s the problem now, Robert?”

  “Robert? Who is this Robert? I am Hamlet, prince of Denmark.”

  “Yes, you are. What can I do for you, Lord Hamlet?” The words “Lord Hamlet” came off his lips with a tinge of disdain, which either Robert didn’t pick up or he just ignored.

  “It’s the early seventeenth century. I’m royalty and there is nothing more common than actors. Why would I be walking amongst them?”

  “Because you want to convince them to perform the play the way you want it done.”

  “I’m a prince. I can convince them from anywhere. Say…over there.” He nodded toward an isolated part of the stage.

  “We need movement in this scene, and the problem we have if you deliver your speech from over there is that it becomes static and less interesting.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “Good.” The director thought he was done, but he wasn’t.

  “I know what we can do. When I’m over there, you can shine a light on me.”

  “Shine a light on you?” The director obviously thought this idea was insane.

  “Yes, that should make it more interesting.”

  The director started to protest. “I think it’s a mistake to—”

  “I want a light. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.” Robert pointed to the exit.

  After the fiasco of A Doll’s House, the director, who had a wife and child to support, desperately needed a job. His relation to Louise Carnegie was very distant, his branch of her family tree being far from wealthy. Aware of the director’s desperation, Robert knew he could control him. It was an extra bonus that he got to order around the man who thought he was worthy of only a tiny role in A Doll’s House and wouldn’t even let him understudy the lead part of Torvald for no pay.

  “All right, you’ll get your light,” the director said, exasperated at dealing with Robert. “Take a break, everyone.”

  As they all went their separate ways, Robert picked up a copy of the play and sat in the first row of the theater by himself, studying it. Mary approached him carefully.

  “Excuse me, Prince Hamlet, might I have a word with you?”

  “Why certainly,” responded Robert as he turned to face Mary.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “You’re Mary Handley. How could I forget? What a tragic, awful evening that was. Almost as tragic as when that bastard Claudius killed my father.”

  Robert had merged his realities: Prince Hamlet in the play and his own experiences as Robert Davies. Abigail evidently had never allowed that to happen. When she “lived a part,” she only recognized the world of that role. Robert obviously didn’t have the dedication or the talent that Abigail had, and Mary viewed that as a fortunate circumstance. It seemed he wasn’t denying the memories of Robert Davies as Abigail Corday would have denied hers, but she would soon find out. Mary decided to play along, acquiescing to his desire to parade around as a prince.

  “If it pleases you, my lord, I would like to discuss that tragic evening.”

  “Of course,” he said, beckoning her by patting the seat next to him. “Sit down. No need to be in awe of royalty. We have real emotions like you common folk.”

  “Thank you. I was hoping you might be able to answer some questions about Abigail.”

  “Ah yes, Abigail was a very dear friend. Her death was devastating to me.”

  A good start. Needless to say, Mary wondered how an actor could gain any insight into his character amid the confusion of two opposing realities, but then reminded herself she wasn’t there to give acting lessons. She needed information.

  “Are you aware that Abigail impersonated Emily Worsham in order to engage my services?”

  “Yes, a thoroughly misguided decision.”

  “Why was it misguided?”

  “Abigail was a true people’s performer. She would assume characters and go out onto the streets and entertain the masses for free. People started noticing her brilliance and began hiring her to perform characters at parties and other such whatnot.” He waved his hand in what he thought was a royal manner. “The people who hired her to play Emily told her she was doing a good deed, that John Worsham had been murdered and that the killers needed to be caught. It turned out to be an elaborate plot to embarrass an influential family.”

  “The Huntingtons?” Mary asked.

  “Yes…nouveau riche,” he said with disdain. “That kind doesn’t know how to deal with such matters.”

  Nothing Mary had ever read suggested Hamlet was a snob, but she had no desire to contest Robert’s choices as an actor. It would only delay the relevant information she was seeking, so she proceeded. “Did Abigail ever mention that they had threatened her?”

  “I don’t think those people give warnings. Besides, by the time the plot was exposed, she had gotten the part of Nora, and, deep down, though she’d never have admitted to thinking as Abigail since she was now Nora, she had to have been having second thoughts. She was on her way to becoming a huge success, and it could have all become undone with a scandal, like that actress/producer of An American Cousin when President Lincoln was shot.”

  “Laura Keene? She continued to work after the assassination.”

  “Yes, but her career was never the same. And what did she do? Simply produce and act in a play. Booth wasn’t her ally. He wasn’t even in her play. And by agreeing to hire you, Abigail was in the thick of a huge scandal involving very influential people.”

  The more Robert talked, the more he dropped out of his Hamlet character. Finally, Mary couldn’t resist. “Prince Hamlet, I’m fascinated by your keen mind. Here you are living in the early seventeenth century, and yet you have knowledge of events in the nineteenth century. Are you clairvoyant?”

  Robert froze, then finally dropped all pretenses. “You caught me, Mary. But you wouldn’t have caught Abigail. I could never get her out of character. That’s probab
ly why she’s dead today.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She always took on the characteristics of the person she was playing, sometimes exaggerating them to truly understand who that person was. In a way, getting the part of Nora was her downfall.”

  “Since Nora Helmer becomes a liberated woman and freethinker, Abigail became one.”

  “She wanted to go public, naming the people who had hired her, revealing that they had lied to her and that she wasn’t aware the coffin was empty. It was part of Nora’s compulsion to be open and honest. If she were playing Lady Macbeth at the time, this never would have happened.”

  “If she were Lady Macbeth, we’d have infinitely more corpses.”

  “But not hers. I warned her not to cross these men, but I was just the lowly porter to her.”

  “Did she ever mention who they were—the men who duped her into playing Emily?”

  An announcement came from the director. “Break is over. Everyone back to rehearsal.”

  Robert instantly became Prince Hamlet again. “Be there presently.” He then turned to Mary and shrugged. “She wouldn’t divulge any names, but I sensed they were powerful. Of course, since Abigail was playing Nora, she was fearless. It was frustrating. She wouldn’t heed anything I said.”

  “You realize that no one would take the chance of going after Collis Huntington unless there was considerable remuneration?”

  “I have to go, but you should really see this production. I have spared no expense. It’s going to be brilliant, a Hamlet like no one has ever seen before.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be,” Mary said, trying to hold back the sarcasm that was fighting its way into her every syllable. His conceit not allowing him to think otherwise, Robert thought Mary had agreed with him. He nodded to her and started back to rehearsal. He had avoided her question, and it set her thinking. She called to him, “Of course, one does wonder how you came into all of this so directly after your friend’s demise.”

  Upon hearing her words, he tripped, falling on the steps leading to the stage. The cast broke out laughing.