The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library hb-3

by Alice Kimberly

  Like a ragdoll, my body had been thrown forward, then back, then forward again. With an exploding hiss, my airbag deployed, and I felt the painful impact of the bag’s cold inflated material smacking my face.

  Dazed, close to passing out, I heard the sound of a car door slamming somewhere nearby. The jerk, I realized. The jerk is coming to pull me out.

  But he didn’t.

  I heard a car door opening and realized the man had entered my car through the back door. He was searching the back seat for something. Then he opened my door and felt around the floorboard for the trunk release. I was strapped in and nearly unconscious, but I willed my head to turn out of the bag. The night was so dark, the rain still falling. All I could see was the silhouette of a man in black, a ball cap shoved low on his head, a dark scarf tied around his face.

  “Who are you?” I murmured, the words jumbled gibberish to my own ears.

  The sound of the trunk popping open was the only reply. Then the man’s dark image was gone; the cold rain continued to pelt the windshield, and my eyes fell heavily closed.

  New York City

  October 22, 1946

  My eyes opened.

  I stood in a dim alley between two run-down tenements. Dingy brick walls rose five stories on either side of me; rusted black fire escapes clung like dead vines to their dirty sides. Laundry hung from frayed ropes between the buildings. The faded clothes fluttered over my head like dejected flags—patched and repatched, the sort of threadbare garments I’d seen people wearing in histories of the Great Depression.

  I heard shouts and followed the sound out of the dim tunnel until I reached the sidewalk. Like a period movie, I watched the street action play out in the day’s waning light.

  Kids with grimy faces in dirty pants, fraying sweaters, and flat newsboy caps were playing some sort of dice game on a stone stoop, next to a passed-out man clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag. A taxicab driver and a bicycle messenger were shouting their heads off at each other. And impossibly huge cars, not boxy like SUVs, but antique Packards and DeSotos, long and wide and heavy, rumbled down the one-way street.

  The smell in the air was a combination of putrid garbage overflowing from cans lined up at the curb and a strong, stinging smell that I guessed was unleaded gasoline.

  I started down the block and noticed the cross-street signs. “Tenth Avenue and Forty-Fourth Street?” I recognized the address, but nothing else.

  In my time, this Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood wasn’t notorious or scary—just an extension of Times Square’s flashy theater and restaurant district. The residential housing consisted of a mix of renovated brownstones and yuppie high-rises, the occasional quaint little bistro tucked just below street level.

  But this wasn’t my time.

  And these, I realized, weren’t my clothes. A pencil-thin wool skirt clung to my hips and tight-fitting sweater hugged my padded bra. The nylons on my legs felt scratchy and uncomfortable. I felt my thigh and realized I was wearing a garter belt.

  “Hey, there, girly, you lost?” A pasty-faced man approached in a soiled suit and battered fedora. He reeked of cheap alcohol. “Or maybe you’re lookin’ for a date?”

  “No,” I said, stepping backward. “Not interested.”

  “How do you know, if you don’t try a sample?” He moved quickly, backing me against the dirty wall before I knew what was happening.

  “Back off or I’ll scream!” I warned.

  “Scream away. Nobody’s gonna care about our little business.”

  “I will.”

  The voice was deep and clipped and familiar. I looked up to find Jack Shepard in fedora and slate gray suit, looming behind the man who’d accosted me.

  “Feel that, shitbird?” he growled. “It’s the business end of my .45, jammed between your third and fourth rib. You still interested in doing business here?”

  “No, mister. I don’t want no trouble. Pretty girl here smiled at me and I guess I misunderstood—”

  When the drunk was gone, stumbling quickly up the sidewalk, I straightened my sweater. “Yuck. I did not smile at him.”

  “I know.”

  “So why are you scowling at me then?”

  “Because”—Jack flicked the safety on his weapon, then slipped it back into the shoulder holster hidden beneath his double-breasted suit jacket—“you shouldn’t have left the alley, that’s why. I put you there for safekeeping until I came back.”

  “Back? Where did you go?”

  “Come on.”

  As Jack took my elbow and hustled me down the sidewalk, I realized why I was here. It was Jack’s ongoing missing persons case. He was close to solving it now, and he wanted me with him—presumably to clue me in on something important in my current case. What, I had no clue.

  “I hate this neighborhood,” Jack groused as we strode swiftly along. “One of the worst slums in the city and the Men’s Night Court ten blocks away.”

  “Men’s Night Court?”

  “Eight in the evening till one in the morning, the Seventh-District Magistrate sees an unending column of drunks, panhandlers, pickpockets, wife beaters, and brawlers. Every petty offender arrested in Manhattan and the Bronx is brought to this neighborhood for a hearing—but, of course, you know all about hearings, don’t you, sister?”

  “What’s that supposed to imply? You know I wasn’t guilty.”

  Jack’s gunmetal gray eyes flashed with amusement. “Just trying to keep your fight up, baby. You’re going to need it tonight, remember that.”

  “Fine. Now how about enlightening me where we’re going and why?”

  “Just follow my lead.”

  We dodged traffic on Tenth and continued heading west, toward the freight yards, garages, and docks. At the very end of the street, the island of Manhattan dropped off into the Hudson River—and I was hoping Jack would slow his bullet pace before we hit water. The sun was sinking just below the horizon line now. It looked like a big orange ball, threatening to smash New Jersey under its fiery weight.

  Jack pulled me up short between two buildings and silently pointed into the shadowy tunnel between them.

  “Not another alley!”

  “Let’s go.”

  In the dim light, I heard a noise like a man whispering, “Pssst.”

  Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him. He moved carefully forward, dipping his hand into his double breasted jacket and once again drawing his .45.

  “Put your gat away, it’s just me,” rasped a young man. He was skinny with short raven hair, dark eyes, and a prominent nose.

  Jack holstered his gun again and made a quick deal with the young man he called “Beak,” handing him a five-dollar bill and receiving two folded brown garments and matching hats.

  “It’s grand theft what you’re charging me,” Jack complained.

  “So call the cops,” said the young man with a highpitched cackle. Then he disappeared, seemingly melting back into the alleyway’s shadows.

  “Here,” Jack said, handing me one of the folded garments.

  I unfurled it. “Overalls?” I saw a logo on the pocket. “SWIFTY DELIVERY.”

  “Put them on.”

  Jack gave me his back as he walked to a fire escape’s ladder, peeled off his jacket, and hung it over a low rung. His muscled shoulders and chest were nicely outlined by the tight-fitting leather holster. He slipped it off and began to strip down to his undershirt. When he went for his belt, I protested.

  “You’re changing? Right in front of me?”

  Jack glanced around, raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one looking. And didn’t I tell you to change, too?”

  “Right here? In the alley?”

  “Stop bucking for the Miss Priss award, will you? It’s dark enough back here to develop crime-scene photos.” He turned around and continued disrobing. “Now move. We don’t have much time.”

  I frantically searched for some sort of private Idaho, found a discarded fridge, and put it between me and Jack. Then I
unzipped the skirt, pulled off the sweater, stepped into the overalls, and zipped them up. They were too big so I folded the cuffs at the bottom of the legs and the edges of the sleeves.

  When I stepped out, I found Jack waiting, arms crossed, his back to me to make sure I got my privacy, his front to the alley entrance to make sure no one surprised us.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He turned and took me in, couldn’t stop a small smile from lightening his usual granite profile. “You look cute as a button. Here.”

  I stuffed my hair into the hat and followed him out of the alley.

  “Jack?” I asked nervously. “Do you still have your gat—er, uh, gun?”

  “Baby, I don’t take a piss—excuse me, visit the facility, without my rod. I transferred everything I had in my pockets to the pockets of these overalls. If a hobo finds my clothes they can have them, but not the stuff inside. You follow?”

  We reached a warehouse and Jack pulled me into yet another alley.

  “This alley thing of yours is becoming a real obsession.”

  “Quiet, baby. We’re going in.”

  “Don’t you want to brief me?” I whispered.

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s time for the shift change. Follow my lead.”

  Again with the lead! I thought, but kept my lips zipped. Jack never looked more serious. He’d unzipped the top half of his overalls, and I knew why. He wanted easy access to the gun strapped under his arm. This, of course, meant that we were heading into life-threatening danger.

  “Put your hands in your pockets and keep your head down.”

  I looked down at my hands and realized someone had given me a manicure with bright-red nail enamel. I shoved my painted fingers into the overall’s pockets.

  “Keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Got it?”

  “Gee, Jack,” I couldn’t resist whispering, “you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “You want a good time, baby, my offer’s a standing one. Let me take you on the town, get us a room at a nice hotel.”

  “I told you before, Jack. I’m a married woman.”

  “In your dreams, baby.”

  The back door stood open and Jack sauntered in as if he owned the place. Some men stood around a desk, smoking and talking. They all wore the same Swifty Delivery overalls that we were wearing.

  Jack partially averted his face, tipped his hat, and grunted at one of the men who glanced his way. The man returned Jack’s gesture with a short nod. I kept my head down and followed Jack like a loyal puppy, happy to stay cowed because these men looked like pretty rough trade—tattoos and scars, faces lined with the track marks of hard living.

  Jack led me through a door and into a deserted stairwell. He bent down to tie his shoe, pulled me close, whispered hot and low against my ear. “I’ve cased the place and paid off a pigeon. The records are on the third floor. Let’s go.”

  We minded our business and the few people we passed—more rough-looking men—minded theirs. Unfortunately, the records room was locked. Jack pulled a small kit out of his deep overalls pocket, opened it to reveal a set of thin silver instruments.

  Jack looked tense. I thought a joke might help.

  “What’s this,” I whispered, “you have a sudden urge to practice dentistry?”

  Jack scowled. “Go to the end of the hall and light up a cig. Act like you’re on a break. See someone coming, cough loudly.”

  “But I don’t smoke. So I don’t have any cigarettes.”

  “Cripes.” Jack fished for a pack of cigarettes and lit me up.

  I coughed. He grimaced.

  “Uh-oh,” I said, coughing again, “the signal might not work.”

  “Don’t smoke it then, just look like you’re smoking it.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Feeling like one of Jack’s “rubes,” I did as he asked. No one came, thank heavens. Jack picked the records room door, and I quickly stamped out the foul, unfiltered cancer stick.

  We closed the door behind us and relocked it. The room was dark but Jack didn’t turn on the lights. He went to the single small window and cursed. “No shade, no curtains, nothing.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We turn on the lights, someone might notice from outside.”

  “But how are we going to read the files otherwise? We don’t have flashlights.”

  “We’ll have to chance it.”

  Jack flipped a switch and two bare bulbs came to life, bathing the room in cheap yellowish glow. A gray row of battered metal file cabinets lined one wall. A wooden desk and chair sat against the other.

  “Let’s get to it,” he whispered, quickly scanning the labeling system on the drawers. It wasn’t alphabetical—but rather, set up by calendar. Each cabinet was a year, each drawer a few months of the year.

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Any files you can find under the names Dorothy Kerns, Vincent Tattershawe, Ogden Heating and Cooling, or even…Mindy…Mindy Corbett.”

  Jack had a little trouble saying her name. I knew why.

  We searched for ten minutes and found nothing. Then, finally, I hit pay dirt. “Tattershawe. I’ve got one.”

  “Pull it.”

  We took it to the desk and examined the contents. There were carbons of forms he’d made outlining deals. “No Dorothy Kerns,” muttered Jack. “No Ogden Heating and Cooling. But what’s this?”

  Jack’s finger stopped on a name: Grant Barneby. A short typewritten note scrawled next to it read, Contact through the Madeleine.

  Jack rubbed his lantern jaw, rough with the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. Without a word, he went to a cabinet at random and pulled out a stack of files. He riflled through them. Every few pages or so, he’d find a client with the words: Contact through the Madeleine scrawled beside the name.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mindy said her investment firm was setting up legit clients, but suckers, too. They were being brought in by silent partners. She said Tattershawe didn’t like it much. I think Vincent Tattershawe realized how dangerous these scum are and skipped town to get out of the business without losing his life—and it’s looking like he used Dorothy Kerns’s inheritance to fund his getaway. Dorothy, being a sucker for romance, still thinks Tattershawe’s her knight in shining armor, so she insisted a PI be hired to track him down. She had no idea he was tangled up in some dark deals. I think that’s why her brother stepped in to hire me. He needed to be in control of any investigation. He has too much to lose if Dorothy or the police find Vincent before he does.”

  “But I thought he was trying to recover his sister’s money?”

  “I don’t think Baxter Kerns cares a fig about his sister’s money. He probably never expected her to fall for a guy working at the very firm he’s using to scam cliff-dwellers and war widows. Now he’s just trying to protect his nut.”

  “Wait, back up. You’re saying you think Baxter Kerns is involved with this corrupt investment company? Why?”

  “The Madeleine. It’s one of those private clubs on Forty-fourth. Baxter’s a member. Had me meet him there. And that’s obviously where he’s pulling in some of his suckers, probably highly recommending Carter & Thompson as ‘smart bets’ for investing—you know how it goes. Seems to me the only reason he wants me to find Tattershawe is to give him lead poisoning before he can spill to his sister or anybody else.”

  “But, Jack, a lot of men belong to that club. Why do you think Baxter is one of the silent partners?”

  “My gut, baby. This stack of coincidences is just too high to be random. Think it through. If Baxter were as innocent as a spring lamb, and he suspected Tattershawe of taking a powder with his sister’s money, then why didn’t he go to police with his tale? Why wasn’t he looking for an all-out investigation of Carter & Thompson? Why did he hire me to find Tattershawe but reveal his whereabouts to no one but Baxter himself? I’ll tell you why—because Baxter Ker
ns is dirty too.”

  “But there still might be other explanations. To accuse him, you’ll need proof—”

  Just then, we heard voices in the hall.

  “Hey, what is that?” (A smooth male voice.)

  “What’s what?” (A much gruffer male voice.)

  “There’s a light under the records room door.”

  Jack didn’t say a thing; in about two seconds, he stacked up the files on the desk, picked them up, and grabbed my arm. Before I could utter a word, he pulled me into the far corner and shoved me down.

  We were tucked between the outside wall and the file cabinets—well hidden unless anyone walked all the way to the end of the room; then they’d see us crouched here, for sure. Jack maneuvered me behind him and pulled his weapon. He didn’t have to tell me not to make a sound.

  The knob rattled as the men unlocked then opened the door.

  Smooth voice said, “Who left these lights on?”

  “Dunno.” (Gruff was a real genius.)

  “Well, we’re going to find out.”

  “Whatsa matter, you worried ’bout the electric bill?”

  “I’m worried about a fire, you idiot. This place is a fleapit and the last thing we need is an electrical fire.” We heard the men come into the room. A file drawer opened and shut, then another, then a third.

  “Turn the lights off and let’s go,” said the smooth voice. “I’ve got a meeting with Baxter Kerns across town in less than an hour.”

  Before the door shut, Jack carefully peeked around the file cabinet—to get a good look at the men talking, I assumed. When they shut and relocked the door, I heard him exhale a long, furious breath. His left hand was balled into an angry fist, and his right was clutching the gun so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.

  “For what they did to Mindy,” he bit out low, “this whole operation is going down. And if I get my hands on Baxter Kerns, even his sister’s not going to recognize him when I’m through.”

  Jack put the gun back in his holster, then we carefully left the room. I thought we were in the clear; the hallway looked empty, but the two men who’d just left were doubling back, complaining about grabbing the wrong file.