Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  After the baseball grounds, she proceeded to the Episcopal Church of St. Thomas, where a black woman pointed out the folly of her mission.

  “You’re looking for a white man? You see anyone white around here?”

  The woman gestured toward the parishioners, who were all filing out of services and all black. Mary was just doing her job, no matter how ridiculous it made her feel.

  It didn’t help that the woman added, “They got you good. Like my kids. They love sending others on wild goose chases.”

  By now, Mary was certain the woman was right. She thanked her for her time and moved on. She spent the rest of the day and into the night chasing down phony leads at the U.S. Mint, up and down Market Street, and Benjamin Franklin’s grave. When she got back to the hotel, she was so tired she lay down on the bed and fell asleep with her clothes on.

  The next morning she woke up, somewhat refreshed, and went out again, expecting more of the same. Her expectations were met. At noon, she was at Independence Hall after suffering a morning of nos and a multitude of looks doubting her sanity. As always, the hall was crowded with patriotic tourists and history buffs who had flocked to the birthplace of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution before ambling across the street to see the Liberty Bell.

  She was interviewing an eighteen-year-old security guard who was trying to impress her. There were eighteen-year-olds who were men, and there were those who were boys. This one was unquestionably a boy, a boy who had fantasies about pretty older women in their twenties.

  “Never saw Roscoe,” he said. “I’d remember. I have a keen eye for detail.”

  “No doubt. I could tell straightaway that you’re a master observer.”

  He mistook Mary’s sardonic response for flirting.

  “Come back later. I’ll provide you with a personal tour, and then we can have dinner. I’ve been told that I’m a wonderful cook.”

  “Really? What a delightful invitation.” Mary’s words dripped with sarcasm, but his adolescent exuberance interpreted it as encouragement.

  “I have the whole house to myself. My parents are out of town in Haddonfield.”

  His comment almost demanded a wink, but even he stopped short of that. Mary had been preparing to let him down gently and wander on to conduct more pointless conversations when his remark stopped her.

  “Did you say Haddonfield?”

  “Yes, Haddonfield, across the river in New Jersey. They’ll be there all week.”

  Mary immediately turned and started heading for the exit. The boy became anxious. He could see that he was losing the woman he’d never really had.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Haddonfield. I’ve had my fill of goose.”

  The boy looked confused. “Goose? I was thinking of hamburger steaks.”

  For over a year Mary had listened to Kate’s stories about Haddonfield. As she traveled across the river on the ferry and took a buggy into town, Mary’s mind was on her. From everything Kate had told her about her family, Mary felt she knew her parents, and they had to be worried. She wanted to assure them that though Kate had been through a traumatic experience, she had withstood it and was doing well. Besides, she needed a respite from this pointless Philadelphia sojourn, and if she could accomplish something positive and good, it would at least give some meaning to this wild goose chase of hers.

  As Mary passed quaint vacation cottages, small farms, and quiet roads, she couldn’t help smiling. Kate had painted a vivid picture of her small-town life where everyone was on a first-name basis and they all knew each other’s business. For a multitude of reasons, people often exaggerate descriptions of their background. As far as Mary could see, Kate hadn’t. It all appeared to be just as she had described it.

  The town of Haddonfield was all of two blocks long and consisted of a bank, a post office, a print shop, a pharmacy, and a general store. The bank and post office took up the first block and the others the second. Mary had always lived in a big city. Though Haddonfield looked charming, she sympathized with Kate’s desire to escape it. The lack of stimulation had to have been maddening.

  The Haddonfield General Store was between the print shop and the pharmacy. It was a little larger than Mary had imagined, but she reasoned that it made sense. A general store had to stock a wide variety of products. When she got out of the buggy, the driver informed her that when she was ready to return to the ferry, she could find him at the pharmacy having an ice-cream soda. Mary nodded and went inside.

  The store was a study in precision and tidiness. All the clothes were neatly folded and the cans evenly stacked. Products in boxes were lined up one behind another, and absolutely nothing was out of place. Evidently, an inordinate amount of care went into maintaining this store, and it was easy to conclude that Kate’s parents took great pride in their business. As Mary browsed, trying to imagine Kate in the center of it, a slightly pudgy middle-aged woman approached her. Her pleasant smile was infinitely more inviting and sincere than that of any Brooklyn shopkeeper.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “I was just admiring your store.”

  “We take great pride in it. Been in my husband’s family for forty years now.”

  Mary studied the woman’s face. This was Kate’s mother, and she could see a resemblance.

  “You must be Mrs. Stoddard.”

  “No, can’t say I am. The name’s King.”

  “King?” Mary wanted to make sure she heard her correctly.

  “Been so for the twenty-seven years Isaac and I have been married.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought the Stoddards owned this store.”

  “Stoddards, huh? Never heard of ’em, and we’re the only general store in Haddonfield.”

  Mary couldn’t understand how she could have gotten her facts so confused. She slowly turned to leave and spotted a photograph. It was a framed photo portrait of the King family hanging on the wall behind the cash register. Besides the parents, there were two girls, one about nineteen, the other sixteen, and the latter was clearly Kate. Mary went to it and stared for a moment to make sure.

  “Charming photograph, huh?” commented Mrs. King.

  “Yes, lovely.”

  “Those are my girls, Franny and Lizzie.”

  “They’re beautiful,” said Mary, encouraging her to continue.

  “Franny, my eldest, lives in Philadelphia now. Married to a very prominent lawyer.” She was bragging, but within the limits of a proud parent. Mary liked that. She knew she’d never catch her mother boasting about her. What was more important, though, was that Mrs. King seemed to be in a talkative mood. Mary had questions.

  “You must be very proud.”

  “Yeah, that Franny is something. Pregnant with her first child.”

  “Oh, wonderful. Congratulations.”

  Mrs. King smiled her thanks. Mary tried to be as nonchalant as possible as she asked, “And what about Lizzie?”

  Mrs. King shook her head. “It’s funny how one child goes one way and the other, well, nothin’ ever goes right.”

  “Lizzie was trouble?”

  “It happened sudden-like. One minute she was perfect, the apple of her daddy’s eye, the next…” Mrs. King stopped. “But you don’t wanna hear…”

  “No, no, go ahead, please.”

  “When Lizzie was seventeen, we sent her to Taunton to straighten her out.”

  “Did boarding school help?”

  “Boarding school?” Mrs. King squinted at Mary. “Honey, Taunton’s a lunatic asylum. Lizzie shot a boy, wounded him really bad, ’cause he broke their date to the school dance.”

  Mary was floored. She was having trouble absorbing this information. “Because he broke their date?” she repeated, trying to make sure she had heard correctly.

  Mrs. King nodded solemnly. Whirling, Mary turned to digest Mrs. King’s words. Everything suddenly took on a new perspective. It was as if she had entered a surrealistic world where formerly benign things were jumpi
ng out at her. For the first time she noticed that a large section of the store was devoted to hunting equipment and firearms. There were many varieties of rifles, including long-range ones that were American-made but also ones of German, French, and English origin. The pistols were displayed in order of size, from the double- and single-action revolvers down to palm pistols like the derringer. There were also bowie knives, hunting knives, brass knuckles, some by themselves and some incorporated into knife-and-gun combinations. If it could kill, this store had it. Statements Kate had made kept flashing through Mary’s mind. “My father always said a lady should know how to protect herself,” “Charlie and I were not everything I made us out to be,” and “They think I’m crazy.” The last one kept repeating and repeating in her brain.

  Mary was finding it hard to breathe. Mrs. King noticed.

  “Are you all right, honey?”

  Mary was quick to cover. “Nothing, just a dizzy spell. Happens all the time. So, whatever happened to Lizzie?”

  “God knows. She escaped from Taunton three years ago. Sure hope she’s found peace.”

  Mary had been wishing for a magic answer that would absolve Kate, but all the magic had been sucked out of the air and she was left with only logic. It was very possible, more than possible, that Charles Goodrich had called off their engagement and that Kate had killed him. Mary chastised herself for her stupidity. Kate was the fiancée. She should always have been a viable suspect, but Mary had completely overlooked the possibility. What was it about her that made her completely miss gaping flaws in the people she liked? First there was Charles and now Kate.

  She tried to maintain an appearance of normalcy while in the store, but once she had said good-bye to Mrs. King and had gone outside, she let go, stumbling a few steps toward a pole and clinging to it. Out of breath, the fresh country air did nothing for her. She forced herself to think, to put a plan together. When she got back to Philadelphia, she would send Chief Campbell a telegram telling him to detain Kate for questioning.

  Mary planned to spend her train ride back to Manhattan trying to figure out how her friend might not be the killer. Having not yet found that rationale, she slowly made her way to the pharmacy to collect her driver, praying to God she’d get to Kate before she could hurt anyone else.

  31

  Jourdan and Briggs stood on the train platform of track nine in Grand Central Depot. The noon train from Albany had just arrived, and as the passengers streamed by, they anxiously peered through the crowd for their man. It didn’t take long.

  A handsome Spaniard in his late twenties was being escorted in handcuffs toward them by two police officers. Roscoe Rodriguez was back in New York. Jourdan slapped his companion on the shoulder, and Briggs smirked. The Goodrich killer was theirs, and so would be all the glory that went with him.

  “We’ll take him from here, boys,” said Jourdan.

  Jourdan and Briggs relieved the officers of Rodriguez and escorted him up the platform toward the main terminal by themselves. They wanted to shout for joy, but instead they put on their most official faces as they led him through the doors.

  A throng of reporters mobbed them as they entered the main lobby area. Briggs and Jourdan acted surprised at the presence of the press, even though they were the ones who had leaked the arrival of Rodriguez. Relishing the moment, they stood tall and preened as flash powder exploded from cameras. The reporters kept firing questions at them until Jourdan raised his right hand to quiet them. He and Briggs had rehearsed this moment and had flipped a coin to see who would go first.

  “Hold on, gentlemen, please,” said Jourdan. He paused for effect. He wanted to make sure everyone could hear him. If he had spoken any louder, he would have been heard on Lexington Avenue. “This poor excuse for a human being is Roscoe Rodriguez, the man responsible for the murder of Charles Goodrich.”

  “I never killed anybody,” Roscoe Rodriguez shouted, protesting his innocence.

  “You’ll have a fair trial, sir,” Jourdan responded calmly, “before you’re hanged.”

  Briggs chimed in, “Or make history…by being the first to be fried in the electric chair.”

  There were some laughs mixed with chatter as more flash powder popped.

  “Commissioner Jourdan and I spearheaded the investigation,” Briggs continued as he returned to their planned speech, “and we are thrilled to finally get this vermin off the streets. Now, if you’ll excuse us, boys, we have a job to do.”

  As they made their way through the crowd with Roscoe Rodriguez, they were barraged with questions. Briggs glanced at Jourdan. Everything was working perfectly.

  On track four, Chief Campbell waited for a different train. He had gotten Mary’s telegram and immediately dispatched officers to the Lowry Hat Factory and to Kate and Mary’s tenement building. Lizzie King, a.k.a. Kate Stoddard, had vanished. Chief Campbell found it perplexing, but he wasn’t aware of how fearful Kate was of getting caught. She was constantly on alert and had taken to carrying an umbrella with her, rain or shine. On her way home, Kate had spotted an officer inside the door of her tenement building. She shielded her face with the umbrella, kept on walking, and never returned.

  Mary stepped off the Philadelphia train and was surprised to see Chief Campbell.

  “Chief, you didn’t have to meet me.”

  “I know.” He took her arm and carefully guided her toward an exit that was in the opposite direction of the main lobby, where Briggs and Jourdan were performing their dog-and-pony show. He cautioned her not to speak, and it wasn’t until they were out on the streets of Manhattan that he informed her of Kate’s disappearance. It was the last piece of damning evidence. Mary was sure her friend was guilty.

  “How could Kate have found out?”

  “Forget about her for now,” said Chief Campbell. He couldn’t think of any good way to phrase it, so he just let it out. “I’ve been ordered to fire you.”

  Mary came to an abrupt halt. The last few days had been full of shocking surprises. She wondered when they were going to end.

  “Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs believe they already have their man,” he explained. “So your job is done.”

  “But we both know—”

  “It doesn’t matter what we know.”

  Mary saw her one chance at achieving her dream ending in utter failure. She couldn’t let that happen.

  “Give me an opportunity to bring her in. I can do it. I know I can. Please.”

  Chief Campbell hated the position the commissioners had put him in. He didn’t resent authority. What he resented was that any authority had been given to those two idiots. He had grown to like Mary. She was smart and had good instincts. She deserved a break. And she was probably right about Kate Stoddard’s being the one they were after.

  “We never talked. You never saw me. And don’t dare show up until you have her.”

  Incredibly grateful, Mary went to hug him. “Thanks, Chief! If you weren’t married…”

  “What?”

  Her hands still in the air, she froze and lowered them. Not a good idea. Chief Campbell was not the hugging type.

  “You…wouldn’t be married. That’s all.”

  Mary waved a self-conscious good-bye, then disappeared around the corner. Chief Campbell watched her as he wondered how long he would be able to keep Briggs and Jourdan at bay with the flimsy excuse that Mary had gotten lost in Philadelphia.

  Jourdan and Briggs couldn’t have been more pleased with their performance for the press at Grand Central Depot. All that was left were a few minor details, and Jourdan was excited that Lucette was at the police station to see the conclusion of the case. He was sure she’d be impressed. They hadn’t progressed beyond spooning, and he hoped she would finally succumb to his unbridled passion.

  Lucette slipped her arm through his as she, Jourdan, and Briggs walked through the halls of the station to the interrogation area.

  “I’m so proud of you, Jordy!” she squealed.

  “Not here, Luc
y,” Jourdan whispered as he disengaged his arm. “This is business.” Briggs snorted. In his opinion, Jourdan had thrown out any sense of decorum the second he took up with Lucette.

  They reached the door to the interrogation room and stopped to savor the moment, Lucette quivering with anticipation. Briggs opened the door, and they went inside.

  Still handcuffed, Rodriguez sat at a table with the two officers who had escorted him off the train. Lucette looked impatiently around the room.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready. Where’s Roscoe?”

  Jourdan realized Lucette might be somewhat jittery. He patiently waited until he caught her eye, then pointed to Rodriguez. “Right there,” he stated with a comforting smile.

  “That’s not Roscoe.”

  Jourdan got closer to Rodriguez and pointed again. “Sure it is. He’s our Roscoe!”

  “Well, he may be your Roscoe, but that certainly isn’t the Roscoe I know.”

  Briggs had been watching this exchange with as much patience as he could muster. He was a time bomb, and the clock had ticked to zero.

  “I knew we were being hornswoggled!”

  Jourdan’s head was swimming. “Wait a minute. There has to be an explanation!”

  “An explanation,” Briggs responded, pretending to consider his suggestion. “Ah, yes, of course. Here’s one.” He looked Jourdan directly in the eye. “Her tits are blocking your vision!”