Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  “What happened, Mr. Edison?”

  “An accident, no need to bother,” he said, trying to hasten her exit. But the efficient Mrs. Embry headed straight for the mess in order to clean up.

  “I said don’t bother!” he snapped impatiently. Mrs. Embry was wisely out the door in no time.

  Edison finally seemed to realize he had lost control. He sat down on the edge of his desk and rubbed his temples.

  “I assure you, Miss Handley”—he spoke now in a modulated voice—“there are easier ways to turn a profit.”

  Mary was eager to encourage Edison’s effort to regain his composure. “Many are envious of your success.”

  It seemed to work. Edison sounded more disappointed than angry when he said, “Nikola Tesla is an ingrate. I brought him over from Europe to work with some of the greatest scientific minds in the world, and this is how he repays me.”

  Hoping Edison’s guard was down, Mary jumped right to her case. “And what about Charles Goodrich, is there anyone he might have angered?”

  “Goodrich?” Edison shook his head, dismissing him. “I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but the man had no gumption. He was a jellyfish.”

  “Even jellyfish can sting,” she reminded him. “Did you know he kept a journal?” She paused to watch Edison’s reaction and saw a glimmer of interest. “In which he recorded everything during his thirteen years working for you—every transaction, every deal.”

  “First time I heard of it,” Edison said, shrugging.

  “Well, thank you for your time, sir.”

  There was nothing more she could do for now. She shook his hand and turned toward the door. He didn’t let her get far.

  “That journal probably contains important business records,” he said a little too casually. “Edison Electric will gladly pay a reward for its recovery.”

  Mary beamed inwardly. Edison’s interest in the journal confirmed its value, whether the journal was real or not.

  “No need for a reward. If I find it, I’ll return it”—she strategically paused—“after our investigation, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said, his smile forced.

  She waved a friendly good-bye and was off.

  Edison waited a moment after Mary left, then went back to his cabinet, took out another bottle of Vin Mariani, and poured himself a refill.

  What a silly, brash young girl, he thought. Yet the news she had brought him was troubling. He and Batch would discuss it, and they’d come up with a solution, one that he hoped wouldn’t be too radical. He was always under a lot of scrutiny, but with this Tesla and Westinghouse thing, it was more intense than usual. Still, if it called for radical action, so be it.

  22

  “Thomas Edison! Are you insane?” Charles blurted out.

  “Charles.” Mary quickly signaled him to lower his voice. They had met for breakfast that Wednesday at a crowded coffeehouse, and she certainly didn’t want anyone else to hear what they were discussing.

  “Think about what you’re saying,” he whispered. “You can’t go around telling people that Thomas Edison is unstable.”

  “I’m not telling people. I’m telling you,” she said, also speaking in a low voice. “And you weren’t there. It was eerie. The man’s not right.”

  “What if he isn’t? That doesn’t make him a murderer.”

  “I said he was a suspect, just a suspect. Besides, he would never pull the trigger. People like him never do. They hire someone…someone like Roscoe.”

  “Mary, you know you can’t go public with this.”

  “I know that. I would never consider it without having absolute proof.”

  “Absolute proof or not,” he whispered intensely, alarmed that she was not aware of the possible consequences, “these are very powerful men. They can destroy you.”

  “What can they do that hasn’t already been done? The articles in the newspapers have ruined my reputation. If I don’t do my job properly, I’ll certainly return to being an unemployed sweatshop worker. What else—”

  “Mary, people have disappeared for a lot less.”

  Mary looked straight into his eyes. “So you do agree that Thomas Edison could be a murderer?”

  Charles sighed, frustrated by her stubbornness. There was nothing he could say or do to deter her.

  That morning Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs had climbed four floors of the five-floor walk-up in which Lucette Myers lived. Naturally, she lived on the fifth floor. They were both out of shape and winded, but they kept in mind their promised reward: Roscoe. As part of his promise to give them progress reports, Chief Campbell had already informed them that Mary was looking for Roscoe. If she found him before they did, their whole plan would implode.

  “This better be good,” Briggs said as he sucked in more air. “Your little trollop has taken her sweet time arranging this rendezvous.”

  “I warn you, Briggs,” responded Jourdan. “I won’t tolerate such slander. Lucette is a remarkable woman of unassailable moral fiber.”

  It was true, in part. Jourdan and Lucette had not progressed to anything that could be labeled improper. Lucette had made sure they hadn’t. She had been down that path many times before and had intimate knowledge of how rudely a woman’s generosity was treated. They had dinner one night, dinner and the ballet another. There was one innocent kiss good night, but that was it. She was determined it would stay that way until they said their vows before a minister.

  Briggs looked at his love-struck colleague and decided not to pursue it any further. They climbed the remaining stairs, and Jourdan knocked on Lucette’s door.

  “Ah, gentlemen, please come in,” Lucette said, playing the gracious hostess. In the far corner, a woman about forty years old, her black hair pulled back into a bun and wearing a conservative navy blue dress, sat erect and quiet in a wingback chair.

  Lucette’s apartment was only one room, and the furniture was cheap. She tried to camouflage that reality by placing colorful, lacy things everywhere. That meant frilly curtains patterned with large daisies, a lace-edged tablecloth adorned with pictures of fruit, and doilies of all sizes generously distributed, often strategically covering worn fabric or chips in wood.

  “Welcome to my humble abode,” said Lucette.

  “It’s magnificent, Lucette,” cooed Jourdan. “You have a decorator’s eye.”

  Impatient, Briggs got right to the point. “Where’s Roscoe?”

  “Of course, that is why you’re here,” replied Lucette. “Business is business.” She and Jourdan exchanged a flirtatious glance as she led them to the woman in the wingback chair and gestured grandly.

  “Gentlemen, meet Doctress Anna Parkes.”

  The woman solemnly rose. The title of “doctress” was given both to women who were gifted in medicine and to the few female medical doctors who existed. It was also given to women who practiced black magic.

  “Doctress Parkes has graciously consented to help us locate Roscoe,” Lucette informed them, and then added with great excitement, “We’re going to have a séance!”

  Jourdan shared her excitement. “What a brilliant idea!”

  Briggs didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He merely shot Jourdan a look that said it all.

  After breakfast with Charles, Mary had hoped to catch W. W. Goodrich at his office but just missed him. She was told that he had left for a council meeting, and so she entered Brooklyn’s city hall, hoping she’d find him before it started. Luck was on her side. She spotted W. W. Goodrich squashing a cigarette with his foot before heading toward the assembly room. She hurried along as she called to him, but he seemed not to hear.

  “Councilman Goodrich,” she called out once more.

  He stiffened. “Ah, Miss Handley,” he said with his back still to her, betraying that he knew who had been calling to him. He then turned around. “How unfortunate. You came at the wrong time. No reporters, no limelight to grab.”

  It took Mary a moment to process his jibe. “If you�
��re referring to my arrival at the police station the other day, that certainly wasn’t my intention.”

  “And what is your intention, Miss Handley…to ride the crest of my brother’s murder for personal gain?”

  “No. I leave that kind of opportunism to politicians, Councilman.”

  W. W. Goodrich wasn’t insulted. He wasn’t outraged. He was impressed. “Touché,” he said admiringly.

  He gestured toward the door of the assembly and opened it for the two of them to enter. Once inside, Mary eagerly looked around. Government and its workings were another area to which she had never been exposed except in books. What she saw, though, was only a large, empty auditorium. As she was getting a sense of the place, W. W. Goodrich casually sat down.

  “We convene in five minutes. Knowing my political brethren, that gives us twenty to chat.”

  Mary got right to the point. “Did you by any chance find a journal in your brother’s effects?”

  “Don’t tell me Charlie wrote a journal?” He chuckled at the prospect.

  Mary knew his type only too well: a person born into privilege who thought himself exceedingly droll and clever. She needed to keep him on track and not allow him to wander.

  “It was a diary of his time with Edison,” she informed him.

  “Knowing his bent for minutiae, it must be a foolproof cure for insomnia.”

  “It contained very sensitive information.”

  W. W. Goodrich decided it was time to educate this temporary hire on how a Goodrich behaves. “My brother was two things, Miss Handley: fiercely loyal and very private. Both would preclude him from exposing anything untoward that went on at Edison.”

  “And what would you say if I told you that your brother was indeed about to divulge such information to several interested parties?”

  W. W. Goodrich stiffened. “I’d say hogwash—pure, unadulterated hogwash.”

  Mary decided to drop it. He would never entertain a notion that might in some way betray the Goodrich image, or at least what he perceived the Goodrich image to be.

  “Nevertheless, he owned boardinghouses, and I’d like to search them.”

  W. W. Goodrich paused for a moment to consider her request. Whatever damage such a search might uncover could not be worse than the publicity if he failed to cooperate with the police regarding his brother’s murder. So W. W. Goodrich acquiesced, telling her he’d inform his secretary and she could pick up the keys at his office sometime after lunch. Mary thanked him and sat down facing him.

  “From your positioning, I assume we’re not through.”

  “Not yet.” Mary smiled. “Your brother knew a man named Roscoe.”

  “Roscoe,” he said as if searching his brain for any recollection of that name. “Never heard of him.”

  “Really? His fiancée said they had business dealings.”

  There was no mistaking it. This time the glib W. W. Goodrich showed a genuine reaction. “Charlie had a fiancée?” he said.

  “Kate Stoddard. You didn’t know?”

  W. W. Goodrich explained that he and his brother had had a falling-out and hadn’t spoken in four months. Mary wanted to know the cause of their disagreement.

  “He told me he was quitting Edison to manage boardinghouses,” he explained. “Imagine, giving up working with Thomas Edison and…Well, you know the kind who lives in those places.”

  “Yes, my kind,” she replied.

  W. W. Goodrich realized he had firmly placed his foot in it this time. An awkward moment passed that he tried to fill by lighting a cigarette.

  “And associating with your kind,” Mary continued, “probably got him killed.”

  Furniture was moved in Lucette’s apartment to clear a space. The séance had begun and she, Jourdan, Briggs, and Doctress Parkes were sitting on the floor in a circle, holding hands. Doctress Parkes’s skills had been honed on the carnival circuit, then somewhat refined after a wealthy believer financed her move to New York. Still, her expressions and vocal intonations would be considered overdone by any theatrical critic of the day, and histrionics on the stage were entirely acceptable to most of them. She hemmed, hawed, hummed, and swooned, swinging her head back and forth as she called out, “It’s Roscoe we seek, Spirit of the Night.”

  Briggs grunted. He had begrudgingly stayed to support his infatuated partner and to see that Lucette didn’t make even more of a fool out of him. Chief Campbell’s undoing would only come about with a joint effort, so he had to keep Jourdan from going off track.

  “Wait,” cautioned Doctress Parkes in a loud voice. “I’m getting an image.” She froze as if it was being transmitted into her brain at that very moment. “Three hamlets,” she continued. “Yes! Three hamlets in one!”

  “Must be Edwin Booth,” muttered Briggs. But Jourdan gave Briggs a reproachful look for his attempt at humor.

  “Have you seen his Hamlet?” said Briggs in mock defense of his comment.

  Jourdan shushed him as Doctress Parkes deciphered her message from the beyond.

  “It is far from here, in another state,” she proclaimed. “No, New York. But not New York City. Miles away.” She turned her head swiftly to the left and held up her hand to the left ear. “I hear a bell, a big loud one. I see some kind of seal, official. And men, very important men.”

  “Sounds like Albany,” said Jourdan. It didn’t matter whether he really believed this act or if he was blinded by his lust for Lucette. It was probably a little of both. His reaction, though, was enough to convince Doctress Parkes that he was a believer.

  “Albany? I’ll ask.” But Doctress Parkes had already decided the show was over. It was better to leave them wanting more than thinking they’d had enough. “Oh no, she’s fading,” she lamented, appearing devastated as she prepared for the finale. “Don’t go. Stay, Great Spirit! Stay!” She prolonged the “ay” in “stay” until it became a long whining plea. At the same time, she extended her arms, reaching out to the spirit, but alas, her reaction told all that it was not to be. Doctress Parkes hung her head in disappointment, her performance complete.

  Jourdan jumped to his feet. “Official seal, important men—it has to be our state capital!”

  “Or Queen Victoria’s bed,” Briggs sarcastically added.

  Jourdan paid no attention to him. This was his chance to be supportive, brilliant, and, most important, to impress the hell out of Lucette.

  “Three hamlets in one—Albany, Schenectady, and Troy,” he declared, naming the area in New York State known as the Tri-cities. “Roscoe’s in Albany!”

  Lucette stood up and gave Jourdan what he wanted—a big, wet kiss. And Briggs also got what he wanted: permission to leave.

  It was possible Charles Goodrich had hidden his journal in one of his boardinghouses—unlikely but possible—and Mary had to check out every possibility. That was why, after getting the keys from W. W. Goodrich’s secretary, she was down in the dark and dusty basement of his boardinghouse in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. It was a nice neighborhood, and Charles Goodrich had bought the building in observance of the well-accepted real estate belief that buying the least expensive property in an expensive area was a solid investment. The area wasn’t exactly expensive, but the other properties would sell for more than what he’d paid for his. Goodrich had planned to gradually fix it up, to raise the rents, and to eventually sell it for a tidy profit…had he lived to see his plan through.

  The kerosene lamp Mary was holding illuminated the room, revealing that Goodrich hadn’t begun the “fix it up” stage of his plan. There was a pile of old wooden boards full of rusty nails on one side, with another pile of broken-down furniture directly across from it. She also saw what appeared to be fresh mice pellets. And if fresh pellets were present, close by there were bound to be…Well, she had a job to do and really didn’t want to think about that now. She was adhering to the idiom of “Leave no stone unturned.” But having studied Charles Goodrich’s lifestyle and habits, she had concluded the only thing he would p
ut there was a cleaning crew.

  Mary was winding up her search when she was literally blindsided, whacked on the back with what felt like a club. She fell to the ground, and sprawled out there, numb from the blow, she had the presence of mind to count her two saving graces: the kerosene lamp was still whole, and she hadn’t fallen on the mice pellets.

  “State your business or lose your head,” boomed a loud female voice with a cockney accent.

  “I’m Mary Handley,” Mary answered, a little groggy from what had just transpired but not seriously hurt. “I’m investigating the murder of Charles Goodrich.”

  “No doubt, and I’m the Prince of Wales,” the woman loudly proclaimed.

  Mary got to her feet, picked up her kerosene lamp, and held it out to see her attacker. She was a large, wide woman who was wearing an apron. She was also wielding a cricket bat and was moving toward Mary for another strike.

  Mary held the kerosene lamp up to her face. “I am Mary Handley. See?”

  The woman stopped, stared at Mary, and in an instant, her demeanor changed.

  “Well, I’ll be. Cynthia Frump.” She grabbed Mary’s hand and pumped it. “I used to help the late Mr. Goodrich look after this place. Chief cook and bottle washer, I am.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frump,” Mary said as the thought crossed her mind that she had finally discovered one advantage to her notoriety.

  “Please excuse the nasty greetin’. Ya can’t be too careful nowadays, right?” Cynthia Frump patted her cricket bat then laughed. It was a full, hearty laugh and contagious. Mary couldn’t help joining in.

  “Say,” continued Cynthia Frump, “how come you’re down here in the muck and not up in his flat?”

  “Mr. Goodrich had a room here?”

  “Mr. Goodrich ran a tight ship, he did. A real taskmaster, God bless his soul. He’d pop in from time to time. Made sure everything was on the up-’n’-up.” She noticed Mary glancing at the monumental mess that surrounded them. “The poor man hadn’t made it down here yet. It was on his list though.”