Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  Mary faced him straight on. “I’m at a disadvantage. Have we met?”

  “No, no,” he said, avoiding her stare, then somewhat frantically making his way behind the main counter by the cash register. “But everyone in New York knows you, Miss Handley. Everyone.” Bending down, he disappeared behind the counter briefly. Mary readied herself. He could reappear with anything, including a weapon. But when he straightened, he was holding a newspaper in his hand. He pointed to the headline: LADY SEEKS GOODRICH KILLER. Underneath it, there was a photograph of Mary.

  “Hmm.” Mary nodded. “Makes discretion difficult.”

  With a cheery “Quite so, quite so, indeed,” he returned the newspaper to its place, relieved that he had deflected her suspicion. But Mary was persistent.

  “In that case, are you Roscoe?” She knew he wasn’t. This man didn’t come close to fitting any of the descriptions she had heard. She just wanted to see what the mention of the name would do to him. And it did plenty. A simple no would have sufficed, but he nervously began chattering on.

  “Me? Do I look like a Roscoe? Clarence, maybe, possibly a Gerard, but no Roscoe, never…My name is Mortimer.”

  “But you do know Roscoe, don’t you?”

  “Roscoe, hmm, Roscoe,” Mortimer babbled on, feigning to search his mind. “I know a Richard, a Roger, a Randall…Rodrigo. But no, no Roscoe.”

  “Think harder.” Mary leaned on the counter, trying to rattle him even more. “Somewhere amidst all those acquaintances, there must be a Roscoe.”

  “I have a facility with names, Miss Handley. I’m certain I don’t know a Roscoe.”

  “Speaking of names, Mortimer, do you know what I know for certain? It’s what they call a person who hinders the police in a murder investigation—an accomplice.” For effect, she stared at him in silence for a moment. Then Mary opened the door, the bell rang, and she was gone.

  Had Mortimer been a flower, he would have wilted.

  Commissioner Briggs sat back in his desk chair, puffing on his cigar. Moments earlier, Jourdan had rushed into his office with some redheaded tart claiming it was urgent. Jourdan had made a habit of involving him in his pathetic attempts at romantic liaisons. Still, Jourdan was his colleague, so Briggs summoned as pleasant an expression as he could stomach and tried to be cordial.

  “What does this lovely lady have to say that could possibly be so urgent?”

  Lucette blurted out her answer. “A man named Roscoe killed Mr. Goodrich.”

  “What?!” Briggs exclaimed as he sat up in a flash. “Roscoe! You saw it?”

  “Oh no, thank God. If I had, I’d have been too traumatized to speak.” Lucette looked over at Jourdan, assuring him that she was but a helpless female.

  She explained that she lived on Degraw Street, across from Mr. Goodrich. A few days before his murder, she had witnessed a heated row between him and a man she knew only as Roscoe. She didn’t know exactly why they were fighting, but it was shortly after she had seen him flirting with Mr. Goodrich’s fiancée right in front of Mr. Goodrich, visibly upsetting him.

  “Roscoe is a swarthy Latin, the kind who compromises innocent young women,” Lucette explained. “With these men, there’s always a wealthy father, husband, or fiancé involved from whom he extorts a tidy sum to disappear.”

  Jourdan decided it was time to reassure Lucette that he himself was a complete gentleman. He pounded on the desk, expressing his outrage.

  “The scoundrel!” he shouted.

  Lucette knew the game much better than he did and took it one step further.

  “He tried his charms on me, but I prefer refined, educated gentlemen.” Her eyes landed on Jourdan, who lost all powers of speech and twirled his mustache again.

  Briggs was annoyed. This was important business, and Jourdan was behaving like a dog in heat. It was enough. They could make puppies later.

  “Where can we find this Roscoe?” Briggs interrupted with a sense of urgency.

  Lucette turned toward him. The blank look on her face told him she didn’t know.

  “Think,” he pressed her. “It’s very important.”

  After a moment, her face brightened. “It might take some time, but I’m certain I can furnish you with his whereabouts.”

  “Excellent,” he said, commending her. “But for now, let’s keep this between us.”

  Now part of the same conspiracy, they all smiled. Underneath his smile, Briggs was hoping Lucette and Jourdan’s relationship would last long enough for her to lead them to Roscoe. If not, he was sure this trollop would blab everything she knew all over Brooklyn.

  Mary didn’t stray far from Eastside Imports. She had no doubt Mortimer was hiding something. He most probably knew Roscoe, maybe also knew where he was and might even be involved himself. She had frightened him, and she hoped it was enough to send him running to Roscoe. Hiding in a storefront doorway across the street, waiting to see if her strategy worked, she didn’t have to wait long.

  About fifteen minutes after she had left him, Mortimer exited the shop, put up the CLOSED sign, and locked the door. He looked around uneasily and then headed up the street.

  Mary smiled. Mortimer couldn’t have behaved more suspiciously. He was actually rather comical. She followed him from across the street at a distance. He stopped periodically and looked around, obviously trying to see if he was being followed. Mary would duck into a doorway or behind a carriage, and he detected nothing. Then a trolley passed him, and he started to run for it. Mary quickened her pace, too.

  Waiting in an alley, watching the cat-and-mouse game, was Samuel. It wasn’t easy for a man his size to be invisible, but he’d had practice. Just like he had been given orders earlier to follow Goodrich, he had been instructed to keep an eye on this situation. As always, he was given the freedom to act if necessary. It was time.

  Samuel emerged from the alley and collided with Mary.

  “Excuse me, madam,” he apologized in his thick German accent.

  Mary needed to catch up with Mortimer and couldn’t stop for pleasantries. As she hurried her way around him, Samuel extended his massive arms and grabbed her. She struggled to get free but to no avail. With one hand over her mouth, he dragged her into the alley while whispering an edict in her ear.

  “The Goodrich case is over for you. Now!”

  With that Samuel squeezed her, cutting off her air supply until she lost consciousness. When he let go, Mary’s limp body fell to the ground like a rag doll.

  15

  Waking after being unconscious can be an excruciating experience. It was decidedly better than the alternative, but Mary hardly had that thought in mind. A throbbing, sharp pain shot through her head, feeling like an arrow dividing her brain, and a debilitating nausea made it hard for her to focus. Slowly, other senses started to return. The morning light pierced her eyes, and she slowly opened them to find herself staring at a decaying ceiling with chipped paint. It took a while for her to process that she was indoors. Then the cold registered. It came from the hard surface beneath her. She slid her hands across it. It was cement. Groggy, Mary sat up. A cockroach ran across her leg, but that did little to rouse her. She casually swatted it away. It was the sight of the iron bars that shocked her into full consciousness.

  Mary was in a jail cell. How she had gotten there, what she had done to get there, was a mystery. She had a hazy memory of being extremely giddy mixed with bouts of fear, yet her recollection was very dreamlike and certainly vague. Mary’s senses came alive, and she noticed there was an awful stench. She sniffed around and discovered it was her! To say she smelled like a bar minimized it. It was more like a bar floor the morning after a busy night.

  She heard giggling and turned to see two women sitting against the back wall. Judging from their dress, she concluded they were prostitutes. Their lack of cleanliness led her to believe they weren’t getting much for their services, but that didn’t stop them from having a grand old time kissing and fondling one another.

  “Care to
join us, sweetie?” one of them asked Mary, and they both laughed, showing their rotted teeth. It wasn’t a genuine invitation, but they reveled in the shock value it might have with this very establishment-looking young lady. It was hard to shock Mary, but that was soon to happen. She heard a tapping on the bars and turned. It was Chief Campbell.

  “A rather auspicious beginning, eh, Mary?”

  He was there to get her out, but her embarrassment at facing him almost made staying in jail with her two new friends a viable alternative. Almost.

  Chief Campbell and Mary left in his carriage. They sat on opposite sides as far apart as possible, due in part to her shame but more to her strong odor. The chief told Mary what had happened. An officer had discovered her stumbling out of an alley, reeking of wine.

  “You were screaming that snakes were attacking you, and then you passed out. A sad example to set for the Brooklyn Police Department,” he said.

  Mary couldn’t explain her behavior, but she vehemently denied any drinking and told Chief Campbell of her encounter with the large German. He listened, nodding his head periodically, occasionally asking a question for clarification but not indicating whether he believed her or not. After she was done, he picked up an empty bottle that was next to him on the seat.

  “This was in the alley near where you were found.” Then he sniffed the opening, crinkling his face in distaste. “If one were to judge by aroma alone, it’s a match.”

  When he handed her the bottle, she simply stared at it, somewhat dumbfounded. Then she noticed the label. Suddenly, she became animated as she pointed to it.

  “This proves I was set up, Chief,” she practically shouted. “This is Vin Mariani. It’s a coca wine, and cocaine’s supposed to energize you, not rob you of consciousness.”

  The chief considered what she said, then nodded. “That’s a valid point, Mary.”

  Mary breathed a sigh of relief, but her relief was short-lived.

  “So,” he continued, “either the wonder drug is no wonder or you were overmatched and ill suited to perform your duties. Which would you like me to believe?”

  He was right. She had been careless and let the excitement of the chase distract her. Mary wouldn’t let that happen again. But she knew better than to make that promise. She would have to show him with her deeds.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. When the carriage arrived at Second Street Station, Chief Campbell alighted, closed the door, and then turned to Mary.

  “My carriage will take you home.”

  As Mary thanked him, her gaze soon wandered to the police station steps. A dummy wearing a thin black dress and a police hat was lying on them. An empty wine bottle was attached to it, as was a note written in large letters that read, PARIS CHIC BROOKLYN COP. Mary winced.

  “The men despise me enough as it is.”

  Chief Campbell picked up the dummy and turned to her.

  “You can seek redemption next Wednesday night at Clancy’s Bar, our monthly morale booster.” Chief Campbell saw her dubious look and continued. “It’s mandatory for all my ‘boys,’ Mary. Maybe you can give them pointers on hoisting a few.”

  He climbed the steps with the dummy. Mary sat back, but there would be no respite. Amanda Everhart had been waiting for Mary’s return and rushed up to the carriage. She knew how demoralizing an event like the one Mary had experienced could be and wanted to encourage her to be tenacious.

  “We know they’re trying to discredit you, sister, but take heart—” That’s as far as she got. The odor emanating from the carriage overwhelmed and repulsed her. “For God’s sake, woman, if you have no respect for yourself, at least show some for your gender,” she chastised Mary. “No matter how depraved your inclinations, you have a responsibility not to drag us into the sewer. The future of women in this city depends on you.” After a stern look, Amanda Everhart marched off.

  Mary had no desire to be the image of the Brooklyn Police Department or to be the torchbearer for femininity. She simply wanted to be a detective, but no variation of “simple” applied to her situation. She would have to learn to manage it better. She sagged in her seat, weighed down by the responsibilities thrust upon her, then took a deep breath and signaled the driver to move on. She was going home to take a bath.

  Bathing was not a simple ritual. Mary was fortunate her small tenement apartment had a sink with running cold water and a toilet in the hall. Many didn’t. Waiting on line to use the toilet was much better than braving an outhouse on a cold winter’s night. Bathtubs, though, were a luxury out of her reach. A bathtub attached to indoor plumbing was limited mostly to the very wealthy and to luxury hotels. Most people bathed infrequently, sometimes very infrequently. Rumors spread that regular bathing made a person more susceptible to disease. The scare of cholera and typhoid epidemics gave credence to those rumors, but the truth was that bathing was difficult and time-consuming. And odor wasn’t an issue. People were used to it. Some would try to cover up with perfumes, but most, even elite ladies and gentlemen, would just stink.

  Mary was an exception. She enjoyed bathing—not the lengthy, arduous process but the feeling she had at the end of being clean. It was as if she had washed the dirt of an imperfect world off of her. She had a large tin tub that, when not in use, she leaned against the wall under the only window in her apartment, not far from the sink. It was light, manageable, and just big enough to sit in. She’d fill it partway with cold water from the sink. Then she’d heat up pots of water on the stove and keep heating and pouring until the temperature was bearable. After the bath, she’d drag the tub to the window and use a pot to ladle the used water out into the back alley. Once the tub was light enough to lift, she would pour the rest out.

  When Mary got undressed, she spotted a mark on her right arm and soon realized it was the result of a hypodermic needle injection. It enabled her to finally deduce what had happened. She had read in one of her scientific journals that the nausea and headache she had experienced along with her bizarre behavior, hazy memory, and extreme fatigue were consistent with the effects of a morphine overdose. The large German must have injected her after he had knocked her out. However, the answers to who he was and why he wanted her off the Goodrich case still eluded her.

  In spite of what had transpired, Mary’s bath proved to be invigorating. After it, she was ready to charge forward with the investigation no matter what obstacles were put in her way and in spite of the obligations that were placed upon her. But good feelings can be fleeting.

  She returned to Eastside Imports and found it vacant except for a couple of items and empty crates left from a hasty move. She then checked moving companies. None of them had been hired. Mortimer, possibly Roscoe, and whoever might be helping them, must have moved their inventory by themselves during the twenty-four hours or so Mary had been incapacitated. Mary’s one lead had gone cold.

  16

  Senator Conkling had finally died, succumbing to the illness he contracted after venturing out during the Great White Hurricane. The former New York senator was a popular figure, and normally his passing would have been headline news, but not that day. What pushed it aside were the dubious adventures of a young female detective. CASE OVERWHELMS HANDLEY was the headline of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, among similar headlines in other papers. It was written in big block letters that consumed half of the front page. Underneath was a photograph of Mary passed out in a police officer’s arms as he carried her into the police station. Reproducing photographs in newspapers was in its infancy. It was more expensive than the artists’ drawings normally used, and yet whenever Mary was involved, the newspapers decided the expense was worthwhile. And it was. The evening edition of the Eagle sold out in record time.

  Mary sat with the Eagle at a booth in Longdon’s, a modest restaurant in Brooklyn where people of lesser means could dine reasonably. She held the newspaper high to avoid being ogled. It was to no avail. She could feel stares penetrating through the newspaper. It gave her a modicum of relief tha
t three men at a nearby table were drunk and rowdy, thereby deflecting some attention. She also took some solace in knowing it was Friday, and she was missing the ritual dinner at her parents’ house. She cringed imagining what kind of hell her mother would have put her through.

  The last thirty-six hours had been eventful in her young career as a detective, mostly in a negative sense. After failing to find Mortimer, she had tried to see Nikola Tesla, the other name in Goodrich’s date book for that fateful day, but Tesla couldn’t meet with her until Monday. She then proceeded to J. P. Morgan’s mansion, hoping to ask him a few questions. Morgan’s butler informed her that Morgan was having cocktails and would contact her when he was available. He shut the door in her face without giving her a chance to respond. The next day she was due to take yet another trip to West Orange to meet with Edison, though she had no faith he would keep the appointment. She wondered if she was being taken lightly because she was a woman or if the wealthy and influential always got such preferential treatment. She doubted a poor, uneducated person would be able to avoid interrogation. She made a mental note to ask Chief Campbell at the proper time, when he wasn’t disappointed in her.

  Mary had no intention of putting the newspaper down. In order to thwart the curiosity seekers, she was determined to read it from beginning to end and then again. In the middle of the first section, around page ten, there was a tiny article in the lower right corner with a small headline that read, CHINESE LABOR LEADER SLAIN. She casually glanced at it, and that’s when the name Wei Chung jumped out at her. This couldn’t be her Wei Chung. The Chungs she knew lived in San Francisco. She frantically scanned the article, hoping it was merely a bizarre coincidence. When she read that Xin was also killed and that they had a daughter, Tina, who was a teacher in San Francisco, there was no escaping it. Mary’s heart filled with sadness and despair. What kind of animal would kill such wonderful people? Her thoughts went to Tina. She couldn’t fathom the enormity of what she was feeling. It made her own troubles seem minuscule. She put the newspaper down. Let the gawkers have their day. Three innocent people had been murdered: Goodrich, Wei, and Xin. That’s what mattered. Nothing else.