Second Street Station

by Lawrence H. Levy

  Having managed to get Samuel outside, Mary hadn’t figured out yet how she was going to get information from him before he realized she was threatening him with a spoon. Samuel started to fidget.

  “Don’t move,” Mary warned him.

  At that point, a man popped his head out of the window of a carriage that was parked in front. It was W. W. Goodrich.

  “Can I give you a ride home, Miss Handley?” he said in a friendly manner, and then gestured toward Samuel. “Samuel won’t hurt you. He works for me.”

  Taken aback, Mary slowly lowered the spoon. When Samuel turned and saw it, he smiled.

  “Clever, very clever,” he said, then climbed up onto the empty driver’s perch.

  This had been a night of surprises for Mary. Why not one more? She shrugged, joined W. W. Goodrich in the carriage, and sat opposite him.

  As the carriage traveled through the Bowery on the way to the Brooklyn Bridge, W. W. Goodrich put in place the last pieces of the puzzle. He explained that Samuel was a military assassin trained in Prussia. He could have easily harmed Mary, but that was never the plan. He had ordered Samuel to keep an eye on Roscoe. His brother’s death was still fresh in his mind, and Roscoe was drinking heavily. In fact, Roscoe had been one of the three drunks outside of Longdon’s restaurant when Samuel shot at her.

  “When the poor drunken fellow decided to reveal himself, Samuel had to distract you. So you see, you were never in much danger at all…from Samuel, that is.”

  Mary listened to W. W. Goodrich’s entire story. While his words enlightened her, they didn’t offer her relief. Instead, she was overtaken by a strong sense of repulsion.

  “You knew about this all along,” she said.

  “Charles told me four months ago of his…inclinations. I informed him there was no way I would allow him to stain the Goodrich name with a deviant lifestyle. After all, why should I have to give up my life because of him?”

  “It works both ways, you know.”

  Either her comment went over his head, or he chose to ignore it and to continue.

  “I suggested he immediately find a woman and marry her. I suppose I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.” And then W. W. Goodrich sighed, trying his best to approximate human emotion. He failed.

  “Your remorse overwhelms me,” Mary said drily.

  W. W. Goodrich shrugged off his lack of theatrical talent and got to his real purpose. He took a check out of his coat pocket. “Will this be enough to silence you?”

  Just when Mary had thought her opinion of W. W. Goodrich couldn’t get any lower, he managed to drop another notch.

  “Your brother’s private life is precisely that. I have no desire to reveal it.”

  “Scruples. What a pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed as he stuffed the check back into his coat. He felt that he was on a lucky roll and took a wild guess. “You wouldn’t by any chance also have his journal? It’ll bring a tidy sum for both of us.”

  In addition to being despicable, his proposition was also an outright lie. Mary knew how ambitious W. W. Goodrich was, and Edison’s sphere of influence was vast. “You mean you have no intention of using it as political collateral to advance your career?”

  “Well, I suppose that is a possibility,” he said, not at all fazed about being caught in a fabrication.

  “I thought you were opposed to profiting from your brother’s death.”

  “Only opposed to others profiting. It’s perfectly all right if it’s kept within the family.”

  They were in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, but she had reached her limit.

  “The air has turned quite foul in here. Stop the coach. I’d rather walk.”

  If Mary couldn’t provide W. W. Goodrich with his brother’s journal, she could be of no further assistance to him. What she thought of him mattered not at all.

  “If you wish,” he said, and then banged the roof with his cane, signaling Samuel to stop.

  As soon as Mary stepped onto the bridge, W. W. Goodrich’s carriage took off. He didn’t bother to look back. He stuck his cane out the window and waved it nonchalantly.

  “Au revoir, Miss Handley.” And he was gone.

  Mary turned and looked back at Manhattan. It was a clear starry night, and the moon reflected off the water, highlighting the beauty of the island. It was hard to grasp that beneath the surface of that magnificence lay such greed, intolerance, and brutality. Mary vowed never to give in to it.

  Straightening up, she started the long walk toward Brooklyn and home.

  35

  Mary met Roscoe the next day at his shop, formerly called Eastside Imports. It was now actually on the east side since their hasty move spurred by Roscoe’s belief that, if found, he would be railroaded for murder. For the same reason, the name had been changed to Oriental Dreams. The visit was much different from her previous one. This time Mortimer was happy to see her, rather than scared, and Roscoe was there.

  Roscoe was about to embark on a long buying trip to the Orient. It was necessary not only for business purposes but also for his emotional health. He needed to get away from the places that he and Charles Goodrich had frequented to clear his head. He was still a young man and needed to come at life from a different perspective. He hoped the trip would accomplish that.

  “Do what you think is best in the name of Charlie. I don’t know you very well, Mary. Call it instinct, but somehow I have faith in you.”

  And he handed her Charles Goodrich’s journal. After all Mary had gone through, it was as simple as that.

  She left and spent the next twenty-four hours reading and rereading it over and over again. It was everything she had expected it to be and more. Dates and times of transactions and payments were on almost every page. Eadweard Muybridge was not lying and neither was Tesla. There were many more of whom Edison had taken advantage, beyond the scope of anything Mary had imagined. And, in black and white, there was an entry of the acquisition of a new invention the day after the Frenchman Godard was killed and a check made out to “Cash” for “Detective Services.” That evidence was especially damning, but now she had to decide what to do with it.

  Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs had requested a meeting with Mary that day. As the one who had hired and supervised her, Chief Campbell was also going to be there. She stopped at Second Street Station with ample time before the meeting at police headquarters and showed Chief Campbell the journal. He expressed surprise that Mary was still working on the case. Mary told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to read it and read it now. Normally, Chief Campbell would have thrown anyone who spoke to him in that fashion out of his office, but he had learned to respect Mary, so he obliged her.

  Mary wandered around the station, saying hello to Sean, Billy, and a few others. An hour later, Chief Campbell emerged from his office, the journal tucked under his arm, and he beckoned to her. She bade the others good-bye and went inside with the chief. He closed the door and gestured with the book.

  “This is an amazing treatise,” he said.

  “It’s not fiction, Chief.”

  “That’s why it’s so amazing and damaging and so incredibly disappointing.”

  “I had the same reaction. It’s completely unforgivable.”

  “Completely. That’s why you need to burn it.”

  Mary could not believe her ears. “But, Chief, this man has to pay for what he did.”

  “It will only bring you heartache and grief, and that’s if you’re lucky. You already know what else can happen.”

  Mary and Chief Campbell argued the point for a while, but they both had the same stubborn streak and neither one of them gave an inch. Mary was disappointed in Chief Campbell, who she had always believed was a protector of the weak and a purveyor of fairness. But as he explained to her, his reasoning was simple. He wanted Mary to live. Soon it was time to leave for the meeting with Jourdan and Briggs.

  They didn’t talk very much on the ride over to police headquarters. They weren�
�t angry with each other. It was simply that the journal was too big a subject to avoid, so they decided not to speak at all. When they arrived at Jourdan’s office, they were ushered right in, and Briggs joined them shortly afterward.

  Jourdan and Briggs were overly solicitous and accommodating.

  “You did such wonderful work in finding the Stoddard woman,” said Jourdan.

  “King,” Briggs interrupted, correcting him. Confused, Jourdan looked at Briggs, and he explained further. “King was her name, not Stoddard.”

  “Yes,” said Jourdan. “King, Stoddard, let’s just call her the Goodrich killer. You nabbed her. Good job!”

  “Yeah,” Briggs muttered. No matter what the circumstances, complimenting Mary made him uneasy.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Mary replied. “I thoroughly enjoyed my work, and Chief Campbell’s brilliant supervision was a great part of that.”

  “Really, Mary,” said Chief Campbell, “it was all you.”

  “I mean it, Chief. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  By now, Jourdan and Briggs were wondering if they’d ever rid themselves of hearing Chief Campbell’s praises being sung. They had to find a way to pluck this giant thorn out of their sides. But this meeting wasn’t about him. Briggs cleared his throat, and Jourdan smiled through his distaste.

  “We’re well aware of Chief Campbell’s significant attributes, but we’re here to discuss you. It has been decided that we are going to hire a handful of matrons, and we want you to be the first.”

  “A matron? What does a matron’s job entail?”

  “As you may know, female crime is growing, and we’re in need of women to search suspects, guard them, and tend to other female needs.”

  “You know,” Briggs said, jumping in, “women things nobody wants a man to do.”

  Mary paused to fully take in their words before responding. “Please correct me if I misunderstood you. I solved Brooklyn’s biggest murder case in the last couple of decades, maybe in its entire history, and you want me to be a nursemaid.”

  Chief Campbell had to suppress a laugh. Jourdan immediately started backpedaling.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it—”

  “Absolutely not.” Mary spared Jourdan his effort.

  “Miss Handley, I really think you—”

  “She doesn’t want to do it,” Briggs said pointedly to Jourdan, then turned to Mary. “It’s okay. We understand.” His delight in her refusal of their offer was evident, and he lit up a cigar as his exclamation point. “If there’s nothing else…,” he said, puffing away on the cigar, indicating that the meeting was over.

  Mary disappointed him. “As a matter of fact, there is.” She took the Goodrich journal out of her pocketbook. “This is Charles Goodrich’s journal. It contains evidence against Thomas Edison on an ethical and criminal level so profound that I dare only start at the top. That is why I’ve come to you.”

  “Yes, well, that was very wise of you,” Jourdan said, doing a reasonable job of hiding his joy.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” said Briggs a little too eagerly. “Just leave the book here, and we’ll take care of everything.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” responded Mary. “But what I will do is wait outside while you read it, then tell me what you plan to do. Is that all right?”

  “Of course it is, Miss Handley,” Jourdan said as he jumped up to escort Mary and Chief Campbell out the door. “Please have a seat, and we’ll be right with you.” Then he motioned to his secretary. “Miss Whitehead, please come in and bring your book.”

  As Miss Whitehead followed Jourdan inside, it occurred to Mary why they might need her, and when they were called back in twenty minutes later, Mary whispered to Chief Campbell, “It appears the inmates are running the asylum, and I won’t allow it.”

  “Be careful, Mary,” he cautioned her.

  They were barely seated in Jourdan’s office when he started.

  “We have a problem, Miss Handley,” he said, and gestured toward the journal that was on his desk. “For all we know this book, or journal as you call it, is a work of fiction. Mr. Goodrich is not around to corroborate it.”

  “I’m sure you can verify the handwriting.”

  “Even so, the evidence is circumstantial at best. I’m sorry.”

  “How much of it did you read?”

  “Enough to know that—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you spent most of the time telephoning Thomas Edison. He has you in his pocket.”

  Chief Campbell was smiling inside. He was proud of his pupil. That exact thought had crossed his mind when Miss Whitehead was asked to bring her book with her.

  Briggs stepped forward. “Watch your mouth, young lady!” he said, using his bullying tactics to back her down.

  But bullying never worked on Mary. She went to collect the journal, and Jourdan pulled it back.

  “We better keep it. It’ll be safer here.”

  “Why does it need to be safe? You just told me it was worthless.” Mary yanked Goodrich’s journal from his hands. The commissioners’ scheming had backfired on them, and she quickly left, before they could invent another reason to keep the journal.

  Mary had reached the exit to police headquarters when she heard Chief Campbell calling to her. “Mary. Mary, where are you going?”

  “To the newspapers,” she said as she kept on walking. “Surely they’ll be interested in what I have.”

  “You think Edison has no influence there?”

  His words stopped her, and she turned to face him.

  “He’s too powerful,” Chief Campbell said. “At least turn this into something positive. Secure enough to ensure your future and your family’s. Please, Mary, make a deal with him.”

  Mary stood there, considering his plea.

  “I can’t, Chief. I wish I could. It may sound archaic, but I believe there’s some justice left in this world.” And with that, she pushed out onto the street.

  All Chief Campbell could get out was, “Good luck.” What he meant to say, what he would have said had he had time, was, “May God protect you. You’re going to need it.”

  36

  Chief Campbell was right. Every newspaper turned Mary down. The mayor refused to see her. Even George Westinghouse, Edison’s competitor, didn’t want any part in it. There seemed to be some bizarre code among these men that allowed them to trick, cheat, and sabotage each other, but tattling was somehow viewed as poor form. Mary considered Tesla, but, partially due to Edison, he already had a reputation as a crackpot, and no one would believe him. There was one option left. It wasn’t a perfect one, but it would have to suffice.

  It was dusk when Mary got home. She opened her apartment door to discover her place was a total mess. Her mattress was flipped, and her things had been tossed every which way. At the far end to the right of the window, cloaked in shadows, a man sat in a chair. The only thing she could definitively make out was the shape of the bowler hat he was wearing.

  “So you were the little girl on the train,” the Bowler Hat began.

  “Get out of here.”

  He paid her no attention. Standing, he indicated her apartment. “And this is how your life turned out. It’s really quite sad.”

  “I said get out!” Mary demanded.

  He stepped toward her. She tried to flip him, but he was expecting it and avoided her grasp. After a quick kick to her stomach, she was the one who wound up crashing to the floor. Mary tried every move she had ever learned, but he had an answer for all of them. The Bowler Hat bounced her around the room. Books and pictures went flying. She crashed into a mirror, cracking it. He had been brushing up on his defense techniques, concentrating on jujitsu. Wei Chung had made him look foolish, and he was determined for that not to happen again. But it didn’t matter. In this case, he was clearly the more skilled fighter.

  Mary’s energy was quickly fading, and the Bowler Hat was through toying with her. He punched her in
the face. It was a crushing blow, and she went down hard.

  “I heard about your jujitsu. I had hoped you’d be more competitive.”

  He kicked Mary, and she groaned. She had never felt this much pain.

  “Give me the journal!” he commanded her.

  “I don’t have it.”

  The Bowler Hat landed another devastating kick. It didn’t matter that she was a woman. He had a job to do. By now she was completely helpless. He grabbed Mary by her hair and dragged her to the cracked mirror. He pulled her head up, so Mary could see the reflection of her bruised and bloodied face.

  “Look,” he said, “a sweatshop girl going nowhere. You think anyone cares if you live or die?”

  He pulled out the dagger he had used to kill Wallenski and put it to her neck.

  “Last time. Give me the journal.”

  Mary was breathless, clinging to consciousness. She barely managed to say, “I don’t have it. I gave it away, you baboon.”

  Through the years, the Bowler Hat had beaten information out of many people. He could easily tell a lie from the truth, and Mary sounded like she was telling the truth. He still needed verification.

  “Who has it?”

  “Your friend J. P. Morgan,” Mary answered.

  The Bowler Hat was frustrated. His job was to get the journal, and this woman was making it impossible. He had been fortunate enough to be trusted with yet another assignment to prove his worth. He couldn’t fail, and Mary stood between him and success. He was ready to end this bitch’s worthless life. Then he stopped and released her hair, letting her head bang to the floor. He needed to think this out thoroughly before acting. He had to decide if killing this woman was good business. He had been slipping lately, and he couldn’t trust his instincts.

  Before long, the Bowler Hat concluded that this killing would not be good business. Her death would not help him complete his mission and would only complicate matters. A dead former heroine creates much more attention than one who was simply beaten up. He would tell his employer who had the journal, and his employer could decide what the next move would be. He sheathed his knife and started to clean up, looking for any clues of his presence that he might have left. The Bowler Hat was proud of himself for making this decision. It would serve him well.