Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “So that’s why,” she replied, unable to resist a dose of sarcasm. “You boys are feeling neglected and passed over. Experiencing life from the other side, are you?” Mary leaned in toward him. “Better be careful, Sean. You may grow breasts.”

  She marched off into the darkness. It was another perfect exit, but as she’d learned back at McGinty’s Tavern when she left Charles, perfect exits didn’t always produce perfect results. She turned and headed back toward Sean.

  “By the way, where exactly is the evidence room?”

  11

  Officer Hayworth cursed his fate. He had coveted the position in the evidence room for five years. While active on the streets, he had been seriously wounded twice, and he definitely didn’t want to tempt fate a third time. When Officer Gleason retired, he lobbied hard for the job and had been thrilled to get it. At this point in his career, he’d rather file murder weapons than face them, and he looked forward to whiling away the rest of his working days in a tranquil place with plenty of time to read and take an occasional nap. Fate was not through fooling with him though, forcing him to face a new enemy—the plumbing. It rebelled, turning his personal utopia into a dripping hell. He was forever trying to keep the evidence dry and mopping the floor. If he had wanted to do custodial work, he would’ve followed in his father’s footsteps. His father was always miserable, and now he was, too.

  Officer Hayworth handed Mary Handley a large envelope wrapped in a towel. Mary looked at it askance, and he decided to make a preemptive move.

  “It’s as dry as it’s gonna be. The pipes have been broken for over a month now, and my complaints fall on deaf ears. ‘Budget cuts,’ they say. ‘Budget cuts’ is all I hear.”

  He looked right at Mary, daring her to say something, and then returned to mopping the floors, periodically muttering complaints.

  Mary spied a small table and chair nearby that were dry enough. She wiped some surface moisture off the chair with the towel, then emptied the contents of the envelope onto the table. They were all personal items: a wallet, a key chain, some change, and a date book. The gun was missing, but she was sure it was safely in the coroner’s hands, so when he dug the bullets out of Charles Goodrich he could match the size, caliber, and markings to it. The science of making a match like that was not exact, but Mary was sure it didn’t matter. It was simple. The gun placed in Charles Goodrich’s hand was the murder weapon, or the murderer wouldn’t have placed it there.

  The wallet was empty, so Mary needed to concentrate on what was missing. Although there was no money, she immediately dismissed robbery as a motive. W. W. Goodrich had told Chief Campbell that, as far as he knew, no valuables had been taken from Goodrich’s brownstone. If someone broke into your house, Mary reasoned, they would take more than what was in your wallet. She would check the brownstone herself later, but robbery seemed unlikely. Also, most men kept important papers in their wallets. Charles Goodrich could have been killed for something he was carrying, but it was more likely that he had everything important filed away. He was a bookkeeper, and a bent for organization usually went hand-in-hand with that profession.

  Mary then opened the date book and noticed something odd.

  “Pardon me, Officer Hayworth,” she said, trying to be as polite as possible, “but none of the pages before the day of the murder are here. Did I overlook something?”

  “Whatever you see is how it came in,” he said defensively. “I don’t alter evidence, I don’t lose it. I file it, I protect it, and I mop.” And he returned to mopping, muttering a little louder than before.

  Mary rapidly thumbed through the date book. Besides a few water stains, most of it was extremely neat and orderly. Beyond the day of the murder, nothing seemed to be of any significance. There was a doctor’s appointment and several dates when rent was due on the properties he owned. On the day of the murder, there were three entries:

  8 A.M. to 7 P.M.—Last day of work at Edison Electric.

  9 P.M.—Meet Tesla at Tavern by the Park.

  10 P.M.—Meet Roscoe at his place.

  Mary studied these entries for a while and then closed the book. It occurred to her that she knew someone who might be able to shed some light on what she’d just read.

  Mary arrived at her tenement on Elizabeth Street late afternoon. She had been delayed at the police station by Chief Campbell, who had asked her to sit for newspaper interviews and pose for photographers with him and several local politicians. It was not his idea but rather a directive from Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs, who were conveniently absent.

  Kate was not in her room. She normally would not have been home at this time, but Mary assumed that, after what Kate had been through, she would have stayed home from work. Mary immediately headed to the Lowry Hat Factory and got there just after the shifts had changed. She could see Kate up the street at the corner.

  “Kate,” she called. “Kate.” But Kate didn’t respond and she started to cross the street. Mary had to catch up with her, and hurrying in women’s fashions was no easy task. She lifted her skirt to give her some freedom of movement, and taking short steps, she felt very much like a mouse as she scurried across the street.

  “Kate!” she cried out. This time Kate immediately turned toward her.

  “What, Mary, what do you want?” She reacted impatiently, as if she’d known Mary was there all along.

  Mary didn’t take offense. Her friend was in pain.

  “Why didn’t you stay home from work? You need time to grieve, Kate. I’m sure even the Widow Lowry would understand.”

  “But would our landlord understand when the rent is due or the grocer when I go to buy food?”

  Mary shrugged. “You could always share burnt French toast with me.”

  Mary’s comment seemed to cut the tension, giving Kate a slight smile. “What’s the matter? Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?”

  Mary also smiled. She put her arm in Kate’s, and they started walking.

  “The truth is,” Kate said, “I couldn’t bear staring at the four walls in my room knowing that was where I was going to be for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s not true, Kate…”

  “I’ve done some soul searching, Mary. It’s time for me to face reality. Charlie and I were not everything I made us out to be, but I’ll never get any closer to love.”

  It upset Mary to see Kate in such a deep state of melancholy.

  “Kate, what happened was absolutely dreadful and impossible to comprehend. But you’re still young and pretty. In time—”

  “It’s late,” Kate said as she broke from Mary and quickened her pace. “I need to get my mail from Haddonfield, since it seems they’re the only family I’m ever going to have.”

  Mary saw that Kate was in no mood to be soothed. She needed to embrace her sadness before she could let it go. But Mary also had a job to do. Once again, she lifted her skirt and scurried to keep up with Kate. She was slightly winded when she spoke.

  “On the day Charlie died, he met with Nikola Tesla and a man named Roscoe.”

  Kate stared ahead of her as she walked. When she spoke, her words were controlled and lacking in emotion. Mary knew she was trying her best not to fall apart.

  “I met Roscoe. Dark-haired, a Spaniard. Charlie did some business with him.”

  “Roscoe may have been the last person to see him alive.”

  “Roscoe?” Kate responded, a far-off look on her face.

  “Yes, Roscoe,” Mary said emphatically, trying to get Kate to focus. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “I don’t even know his last name,” Kate replied, shrugging helplessly.

  Mary knew the next question could be upsetting, but she had to ask it.

  “Kate, where were you that night?”

  Kate stopped short and recoiled. “You think I killed my Charlie?” With that one question, Kate went from hurt to betrayal to outrage.

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said, jumping in quickly. “It’s my job.
I have to ask.”

  “You want to know?!” Kate said, her pain and anger weighing on every word. “I was at home, all by myself, like a fool, planning our wedding!”

  Fighting back tears, Kate picked up her pace again. Mary started to follow, then stopped. She had gotten most of the information she needed, and Kate was in no state to give out any more. She would speak with her another time. Mary had read about Nikola Tesla and his recent splash in the scientific world as a brilliant young mind. She would arrange a meeting with him. But Roscoe intrigued her more. She didn’t know how or why, but her instinct told her that he was the key to Charles Goodrich’s murder.

  12

  Mary quietly watched as the line of carriages leading to J. P. Morgan’s mansion kept growing. The passengers, mostly from the upper strata of New York society, were amazingly tranquil. The endless complaints and egotistical fits that usually accompanied such a delay were virtually absent. No one, not even these people, wanted to risk creating a scene at a J. P. Morgan/Thomas Edison event. As carriages emptied, the men strutted out dressed in top hats and tails and the women in the latest fashions. Flash powder from newspaper cameras exploded with such regularity the scene rivaled Fourth of July fireworks.

  Chief Campbell’s carriage repeatedly stopped and started on the cobblestone street. Inside, Mary paused to take in what was happening. Everything was going so fast. Last week she had been an unemployed sweatshop worker with no prospects. Now she was on her way to an event hosted by Governor Hill and J. P. Morgan in honor of Thomas Edison. She normally had little regard for events of this nature, viewing them as mere excuses for affluent people to parade around like peacocks, the women sporting whatever jewelry would garner the most attention and the men boasting about their latest business triumphs. But Mary believed this one might have more substance. Thomas Edison deserved the recognition; he had immeasurably enhanced people’s lives. Unfortunately, that also made it difficult to get an appointment with him.

  “I’ve ventured to West Orange every day for almost a full week,” Mary had told Chief Campbell earlier that day as he was looking through some papers on his desk.

  “I’ve only read about it. What’s it like?” said Chief Campbell, cutting her off.

  “It’s massive, really, spread out over many acres. There’s a three-story main building with laboratories, studios, and offices, not to mention four other structures containing more laboratories. He must have countless employees, and right next door he’s just broken ground on a huge manufacturing complex.”

  “I heard it was impressive,” said Chief Campbell. “All those busy bees slaving away to accomplish one common goal: making Thomas Edison absurdly rich.” He looked up at her, a trace of a glint in his eye.

  “I would be more impressed if I had been able to secure an interview with Mr. Edison. I’ve spent six full days dealing with delays. I realize he is an important man, but this is a murder investigation. He must have some obligation to cooperate.”

  “They do have a talent for making you feel like a nuisance. I’ll attest to that.”

  “I searched Charles Goodrich’s brownstone and found nothing of consequence. I had hoped to also search his office, but Mr. Edison’s secretary, a Mrs. Embry, has blocked my every move. She has made it abundantly clear that only Mr. Edison can grant that permission, and only after meeting the person asking for it.”

  “And since you haven’t been able to see him…”

  “Exactly,” Mary said with a resigned shrug.

  “I’ve met Mrs. Embry. Stalwart woman. She’d make an excellent prison guard.”

  Mary smiled her agreement.

  Lost in thought, Chief Campbell scratched under his chin. “Would you accompany me to a formal gathering this evening at J. P. Morgan’s house?”

  Mary was stumped for an answer. Chief Campbell was married and older and…

  “I’m not trying to court you, Miss Handley.”

  “No, certainly not, I—”

  “My wife and I have been invited to Governor Hill’s Salute to Thomas Edison. If you take her place, I might be able to arrange an introduction.”

  “That would be wonderful, Chief, but I don’t want to deprive your wife—”

  “Deprive?” Chief Campbell interrupted her. “You’d be doing her an enormous favor. At these things, she inevitably finds herself with a group of women who go on and on about the difficulty of running a household with multiple servants. She’s afraid one day she may lose control and speak her mind.”

  Mary didn’t have to meet Mrs. Campbell to know she’d like her. Yet, as cynical as Mary was about the merits of those in the upper crust, she was wide-eyed as she stared out of Chief Campbell’s carriage at the parade before her.

  “They still put both feet on the ground when they walk,” Chief Campbell told her.

  “I would have thought they’d have someone do the walking for them.” Mary glanced back at Chief Campbell. “It’s a larger gathering than I had anticipated. I borrowed this gown from my friend Sarah. I hope nothing happens to it.”

  “It’s perfectly safe, Mary. No ruffians here, only pompous blowhards.”

  “I can see why you attend these affairs. You seem to love them so.”

  “I have no illusions about my status. At the moment, I’m one of a few who help fill their Admiration for Public Servants quota. When someone supplants me, I will be persona non grata at these events.”

  The carriage lurched forward again, then stopped. They had reached the entrance. Mary thanked the driver, who opened the door and held her hand to guide her down. She was wearing an evening dress that fastened in the back and had a low yet respectable neckline, most of which was covered by a garnet, diamond, and pearl necklace that she had also borrowed from Sarah. The dress was pale pink in color and flowed graciously from top to bottom, as form-fitting as good taste would allow. Long, formal white gloves rose almost to her elbows. Mary’s hair was pulled loosely up and put into a chignon held by one of Sarah’s jeweled combs. Short and curly bangs adorned her forehead. Sarah had told Mary how lovely she looked. It was an understatement.

  Mary noticed that most of the reporters and photographers outside the entrance were gathered around a theatrical-looking man in his fifties. She instantly recognized him as Edwin Booth, who, despite having the star-crossed disadvantage of being John Wilkes Booth’s older brother, had persevered to become the premiere actor in America.

  “I am presently converting my home in Gramercy Park into the Players Club,” Booth announced with a theatrical flair. Like many actors, when in public he was always onstage. “It will hopefully be a place where artists from all walks of life can interact with businessmen from all walks of life, so they can see that we are not all heathens.”

  The crowd laughed as a reporter tossed out a question. “Mr. Booth, when will you next do Hamlet?” It was a natural question. Booth’s Hamlet was considered the greatest of the nineteenth century.

  “Not until the fall,” Booth responded. “However, I am currently at the Brooklyn Academy of Music rehearsing An Enemy of the People, a new play by that brilliant Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen.”

  More flash powder exploded. By now Chief Campbell had gotten down from the carriage and joined Mary. He whispered, “Let’s get inside before they notice.”

  “Notice what?”

  “You, of course.”

  He ushered her toward the entrance, positioning himself on Mary’s right, trying to block her from the reporters. Mary had been at Edison’s complex in West Orange, New Jersey, for the past few days and hadn’t fully experienced the fervor her newspaper interviews and photographs had caused. On her way to and from West Orange, she had noticed looks of recognition. There was one woman who had approached her, asking if she was “that lady detective, Mary Handley.” Still, it was hard for Mary to fathom that she could attract as much attention as Edwin Booth!

  Before she knew it, she was inside J. P. Morgan’s mansion and dancing a waltz with Chief Campbe
ll. Chief Campbell had not yet told her exactly how he planned to approach Edison, because he felt that amateurs often obsess and nerves cause mistakes. He obviously didn’t know Mary very well.

  As they danced, Mary looked around. It was a spacious room with a domed ceiling and a gigantic crystal chandelier. There was fine art everywhere. Along one wall was a huge marble fireplace. The wall facing the street had tall, oversized windows framed by drapes, imported from the Orient, that were tied back with sashes. The orchestra was at the far end of the room, and the dance floor in the middle. It was surrounded by people chatting in groups, as waiters served drinks and hors d’oeuvres on trays. Most of them had already separated according to gender.

  “What do you think of Mr. Morgan’s house?” Chief Campbell asked.

  “My parents live in a house,” Mary replied. “This is a castle, and a rather large one at that.”

  “And J. P. Morgan is the king.” Chief Campbell instructed her on the dynamics of the room. “Notice how they’ve gathered,” he said, then indicated each group he identified with a tilt of the head. “There’s Jay Gould’s group, Andrew Carnegie’s, Rockefeller, Westinghouse, and finally, J. P. Morgan with Mr. Edison.”

  “They have their own little fiefdoms.”

  He nodded. “New York society. They run in packs like rats. Those weasel-like fellows floating from group to group currying favor are the Tammany Hall politicians who run New York government.”

  “And I thought Tammany was for the common man,” Mary said with a touch of sarcasm.

  “The only reason their former leader, Boss Tweed, got caught for swindling was that he temporarily ignored his obligation to these people.”

  “Shame on him,” Mary replied, tongue still in cheek. “Thanks for the lay of the land, Chief. Hopefully, we’ll be able to secure a meeting with Mr. Edison.”

  “It’s akin to getting an audience with the Pope, but it’s not impossible.”