by Bill LeFurgy
“It’s about midnight. Your wounds are looking as good as can be, but don’t plan to sit for a photograph anytime soon. Hope your girl already has your picture.”
“Don’t have a girl.” He winced as she tugged the last bit of bloody bandage stuck to his face.
She began wrapping fresh gauze around his head. “You seem close to Dr. Kennecott—don’t tell me she’s just your physician.”
“Sarah . . . Dr. Kennecott . . . is my . . .” Jack wasn’t sure how to describe the relationship.
“Friend?” asked the nurse with a coy look.
“Yes. She’s a good chum who’s helping me with a business matter.”
“I see. Well, your friend left a while ago. She asked for directions to the Academy Hotel. Funny, I didn’t picture her as the type who would want to go to that part of town. You smell awful. Here, sit up so I can remove your dressing gown and sponge you down.”
Jack sprang upright, ignoring his throbbing skull. “You’re sure she said the Academy Hotel?”
The nurse pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him back down. “You can’t leave bed—don’t even try.” Jack was too weak to do more. “I’ll have to calm you down with morphine if you keep causing trouble.”
Jack wondered why Sarah would go to the Academy Hotel. It was the kind of place where acts stayed when they played nearby stages, such as the Maryland Theater. Or the Academy of Music—the joint where Clara performed her play. But Clara stayed in the ritzy Kernan Hotel. Then he remembered what the Gayety manager had said—performers who wanted privacy could check into the Academy under an assumed name. Jack must have raved about that after he blacked out. Sarah had decided to confront Clara by herself.
“Okay, then. Get ready for the stick.” The nurse loomed over him with another one of those awful needles.
“Don’t need it—I feel jake.” His head now felt like a guy was going at it with a pickaxe.
“Sorry.” She stuck him in the arm.
Sarah was in danger. He managed to toss off the bed covers just before the soothing warmth of the morphine hit him full force, leaving his body feeling like warm jelly. His physical pain faded, but his mind remained a mess, racked with worry and regret.
Chapter 21
Sarah—Thursday, October 14, 1909, 7:00 p.m.
Theatrical performances were unpleasant. All the human behaviors that baffled Sarah were magnified on stage, leaving her with an even greater sense of separation from other people.
Yet here she was, stepping from a hansom at Howard and Franklin Streets, near three of the city’s largest theaters. People moved past her with their boisterous faces, and the mix of shouts and laughter was almost as unbearable as the awful odor of cut-rate perfume, rotting garbage, and unappealing food. She clutched her handbag tightly and began walking, paper wrappers and other trash swirling around her feet.
“Get your pretzels right over here, got your salt, got your mustard, your yap wants it, come on over.” The whiny, nasal voice came from a short, bearded man with pretzels stacked on a stick. He was one of many peddlers lined up on the sidewalk selling snacks and cheap novelties. The competing appeals faded from her awareness when Sarah noticed the rich, earthy smell of autumn and early winter: roasted chestnuts. She spotted the chestnut seller and walked over to him. He was older, with a cloth cap pulled low over a lined, stubbled face.
“I am fond of roasted chestnuts,” Sarah said. “This is the first time I have seen them this season. I do wonder if they smell better than they taste or even if it’s fair to compare them in that way.”
“Want some, miss?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a nickel, miss.” He handed her a small brown bag filled with warm, almost hot nuts. She paid and walked slowly to the hotel while popping one of the cross-cut treats into her mouth. It was cooked just right and tasted delightful. She wanted another but pushed the bag into her purse. The time for indulgence was over.
The lobby of the Academy Hotel was small and smelled of mildew and cigar smoke. The carpet, originally fine, was worn and stained. There was a scattering of armchairs, some of which were leaking stuffing.
Garish posters covered the walls. One picture featured a grotesque, grinning man with lettering that proclaimed, “Do Spirits Return? Houdini says NO and PROVES IT.” Another poster declared, “The High Rollers Extravaganza Co., Nettie Barton!” The prancing woman pictured—presumably Miss Barton—at first glance appeared nude. On closer examination she was revealed to be wearing tan tights and a leotard. Sarah turned her attention to the battered reception desk and approached the woman behind it.
“I am looking for a young woman who is checked into this establishment under an assumed name. She has red hair—”
“Sorry, miss. Against policy to ask for any guest except by name.” The belligerent cast of the woman’s face deepened.
“I have reason to believe that she has registered under a false name.”
“Can’t help you.” The clerk’s attention switched to two young women standing behind Sarah, both snapping gum between bouts of raucous giggles. “Help you, girls?”
“Just a moment.” Sarah stood even stiffer and straighter. “It is urgent that I find this woman. She is an actress who appeared in the recent production of A Doll’s House at the Maryland Academy of Music. I know your establishment has provision to accommodate performers under assumed names.”
The two young women behind Sarah stopped laughing. “Come on, sister, we got two dance shows tonight,” one of them said. “Hit the bricks.”
“Look, hon, forget it.” The desk woman swept her hand inches from Sarah’s face. “Step aside.”
“I refuse to leave until I receive cooperation.”
“Ooh—Miss Vanderbilt’s in a tizzy,” said one of the dancers in a mocking imitation of an upper-class accent. “Indeed,” said the other in the same manner. “The rabble are so unpleasant. I must return to my golden coach and draw my velvet shades.”
Sarah was seconds away from failure. The only thing she could do was give a name and hope it struck home with the reception clerk. “The person I am looking for is Nora Helmer.”
The clerk’s face didn’t change. “Why didn’t you just spit it out in the first place? Like making a scene, do you?”
“I do not.” Sarah held her breath.
“Room thirty-three. Next!”
As Sarah went up the stairs, her sense of good fortune rapidly cooled. The truly hard part was next. Rapping on the door of room thirty-three brought no response. She knocked again, louder and with insistence.
“Who is it?” It was a woman’s voice, muffled behind the door.
“Clara Sullivan. This is Sarah Kennecott. I wish to speak with you.”
“Go away.”
“I will stand here until you admit me.”
After a moment, the door cracked an inch. “You alone?”
“Yes.”
Clara opened the door and quickly closed it once Sarah entered. “How the heck did you find me?” Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol.
“I knew you recently performed the role of Nora Helmer onstage and guessed that as your false name for registration in this hotel.”
“Clever girl. Does anyone else know where I am?” Clara had her hair down and was wearing a long red silk kimono knotted at the waist with a clear view of her neck. There was no sign of any scratches from a struggle.
“Jack nearly died because of your deception. He is now in critical condition at Johns Hopkins Hospital.”
Clara’s hand flittered at her throat. “Gosh, how horrible. What do you want from me?” She walked unsteadily to a small table holding a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket as well as a large plate of raw oysters on the half shell. She took a sloppy gulp from her glass and sat down.
“I am here to demand the truth from you about Lizzie’s death.” Sarah looked directly at the woman, but Clara’s eyes were intense emotional whirlpools. Sarah quickly looked away and grabbed a chair to
steady herself.
“Not great with people, are you?” Clara lit a cigarette and exhaled twin jets of smoke through her nostrils. “Anybody else would try to break the ice a bit. Not little old you. Bet you’re not even human—you’re a mechanical puppet.” Clara laughed harshly as she made a cranking motion with one hand. “They must wind you up with a big key before turning you loose.”
“You may insult me however you wish as long as you reveal the truth.” Sarah gripped the chair harder.
Still smiling, Clara reached under a napkin and pulled out a small handgun identical to the one found with Lizzie’s body. “Hey—look at me, Sarah. See this gun? What’s to stop me from shooting you?” Her hand was so unsteady that it was likely she would miss any target farther away than a foot or two.
“That would cause you undue complication.”
Clara sniggered and tossed the gun on the bed. “Lady, you’re a piece of work. Here, you’re looking a little peaked. Sit down and have some bubbles. Relax. If that’s possible.” She found another glass and poured the rest of the bottle into it with an unsteady hand. “Look. I’m impressed that you care about who killed Lizzie. Lord knows nobody else does. Like I told your boyfriend, Jack, I didn’t do it. She was the only person I loved in the whole world.”
“If you did not kill Lizzie, whom do you suspect committed the crime?” Sarah eyed the chair seat, gave it a quick brush with her palm, and sat.
“I’m guessing it was that loser Nick. He was the type to knock a girl around and shoot her dead body for kicks. May he not rest in peace.”
“Did you have anything to do with Nick’s death?”
“Who do you think I am, Lady Macbeth? I’m not involved in any murder.”
“You told Jack you were leaving today. Yet you remain here. Under an assumed name.”
“So many nosy questions. Hey, I’m starved for conversation, so I’ll play along. Fact is that I’ve got to stick around until this little show’s over. One more visit with the guttersnipes, then it’s time for me to skedaddle off to the big time.”
“Your theatrical engagement ended days ago.”
Clara rolled her eyes. “For a doctor, you can be pretty darn slow. I’m talking about my one-woman performance that’s going to get me the money I need to get set up in moving pictures out in California. It takes big money to do it right. I need a nice place to live, lots of new clothes, and the means to show myself around town. And I aim to get into the directing side of the business. A girl needs cash—a lot of cash. Otherwise, the men treat you like a slab of meat. Not this broad. I’m going to set the place on its ear.” She gave a big, loopy smile.
Sarah’s hands flapped wildly until she abruptly balled her fists and jammed them between her thighs. “You do not care about the harm you cause.”
“It’s a shame about Jack. But I needed to get that cop off my tail.” Clara aimed to snuff out her cigarette in a butt-filled oyster shell but hit the edge and flipped the mess all over the table, causing her to laugh uproariously. “Whoops. Well, all of you will be rid of me soon, cross my heart.” She reached across the table and picked up a railroad ticket for a westbound train leaving at 12:35 p.m. tomorrow on the Baltimore and Ohio St. Louis Express. “It’s bye-bye for real.” She gave a tiny wave.
“You plan to exchange the original Bible documenting Horace Shaw’s mixed heritage for a substantial amount of money.”
“Why should that darn Bible matter to you? Thought you were interested in who killed my sister—keep your eye on the ball. I’m bored with this topic.” Clara pushed the plate of oysters at Sarah. “Long as you’re here, sweetie, have some of these oysters—they’re scrumptious. Only good thing about this lousy dump of a town is the seafood.”
“No. Those oysters appear excessively briny.”
“Suit yourself.”
As Clara noisily gulped down more oysters, Sarah knew her time was running out. “You have many items of clothing. Do you own any items made of cashmere?”
“Oh, yeah, do I!” Clara said. “Let me show you.” She jumped up, staggered to the wardrobe, and came back with the same pink dress she had worn the day before. “Here—stand up.” Sarah stood stiffly as Clara draped the dress over her. “You know, you might not look so bad if you wore something like this.”
While Clara was holding the dress against her, Sarah plucked some of its fibers and stowed them when Clara turned to put the dress away. “Do you own anything else made of cashmere? A skirt? Stockings?” Sarah followed and looked over Clara’s shoulder into the wardrobe. There was no sign of any other cashmere garment.
“Nope. Too expensive. You just wait—when I hit it big, I’m going to have fancy everything. Even cashmere drawers.” Clara giggled as she kept rooting among her clothing in the wardrobe. “Now, here’s a possibility for you.” Clara turned and thrust a silver and black dress with a low neckline against Sarah. “Well—no. You’re just too flat-chested. You’ve got to find yourself a way to show some skin if you want to hook a half-decent man.”
As Clara put the second dress away Sarah grabbed the woman’s empty glass with her gloved hand and stuffed it into her purse. “I must depart,” she said.
“Yeah, sure. Just one more thing.” Clara pointed toward the pistol on her bed. “Don’t want to see you again. I might not be so friendly the next time. And don’t tell anyone about finding me here. Got it?”
Sarah chewed on her lip. She knew the easiest thing to do was just to agree, regardless of her true intent. But she had exhausted her ability to lie. “The only person I will speak to in the immediate future is Jack.”
“Jack.” Clara smiled widely, eyes sparkling. “Of course. He’s some good-looking hunk of man, isn’t he? The kind you just want to”—she bared her teeth and gave a little bite—“eat all up, nice and slow. Am I right?”
“What do you mean by ‘eat’?”
Clara giggled madly. “So cute and innocent. Guess you haven’t slept with him yet, huh? Don’t know how you hold yourself back—that man is sex on a stick. Still, it’s good to wait if you’re playing the long game. Give him just enough to keep him eating out of your hand.” She cocked her head with an off-kilter grin. “Oh, gosh, what am I saying? You couldn’t vamp a man to save your life. Too pushy, too smart, too strange. I’d love to be a fly on the ceiling and see you try to seduce Jack. He’d think you want to play chess.”
Clara let loose a snickering laugh. “Seriously”—the word came out slowly and sounded like “sheerrisshly”—“you’re lucky I know you’re a harmless oddball that nobody pays attention to. And you’re lucky that I know Jack’s too beat up to do anything.” She opened the door. “Nightie-night, Sarah.”
Sarah marched down the stairs quickly. The hotel lobby was crowded full of people. Their harsh laughter echoed in the small space so loudly she was nearly unnerved. Things were slightly quieter on the sidewalk, but there was still too much commotion to think properly. She hailed a cab and told the driver to take her to Johns Hopkins Hospital.
Attending to Jack and confronting Clara Sullivan had kept Sarah from further analyzing the physical evidence. She hurried to her lab workspace and was relieved to see a note from Margaret. After pleading with Sarah to telephone her immediately, the message explained that the glasses from the banquet were in an accompanying bag. A slip of paper in each glass identified which man had held it.
She began with the evidence obtained from Clara Sullivan. Sarah set Clara’s glass on its side on top of a sheet of paper and carefully applied fine powder. She dusted with a brush to reveal many individual prints. Over the course of an hour, she compared the prints on the glass to those in the police photograph of the pistol. At any moment, she expected to find a match. But none of Clara’s prints matched. Using a microscope, Sarah compared the cashmere from Clara’s dress to the fibers found under Lizzie’s nails. The two samples were obviously different.
The clock bonged 10:00 p.m. but Sarah paid no attention to her leaden body as she looked over the
inked prints she had lifted from Nick’s body. They were familiar. A comparison quickly revealed the marks matched those in the pistol photograph, including a partial print on the trigger. Nick had shot Lizzie’s corpse—perhaps Clara was right in assuming that Nick had also caused the fatal head injury.
Sarah dusted the two glasses and the note Jack had found with Nick Monkton’s body. The first glass was a match for Nick. The second glass and the putative suicide note each had different prints that didn’t match any person yet identified.
She turned her attention to the glasses from the banquet. The finger marks for Lipp and Dr. Anson matched nothing. As the clock ticked 2:30 a.m., she was working on the last piece of evidence she had—Lucas Patterson’s glass from the banquet. Hovering over the exposed prints with the magnifying glass, Sarah’s eyes were so bleary she began to question their efficacy. Doubt vanished the instant she saw the match. She checked again, and then one more time.
It was clear that Lucas Patterson had left his fingerprints on the second glass found at Nick Monkton’s murder scene. Sarah sat up straight and stretched her aching back, thinking about what motive Patterson might have. The man admitted to feeling frustration with Nick regarding the direction of their relationship. Perhaps Patterson had gone to collect the Bible to use against Shaw in the mayor’s race. And Patterson could have become even angrier with Nick after learning the book was lost. Angry enough to kill.
Even if Patterson had killed Nick, who’d killed Lizzie? Sarah had found little evidence thus far to confirm Jack’s hunch about the connection between the two murders. But there was still more to learn about Dr. Anson, whose involvement with Nick and Lizzie remained unexplored.
The Pathological Building was empty at this hour. Sarah went upstairs to Dr. Anson’s office, which was unlocked. She stepped inside, switched on the lights, and closed the door. Prowling around her mentor’s office was a terrible transgression. With memories of his appalling behavior toward her at the banquet still fresh, she decided to proceed.