“The Nolan’s aren’t with us, I see,” said Mr. Biggs suddenly and his wicked smile spread slowly across his face. Mrs. Flannigan almost choked on her eggs.
“They’ve found other rooms,” Mrs. Dunn said. “In an establishment that allows children.”
Muldoon controlled his surprise. He thought they had been turned out because of the fighting. He hadn’t realized it was the child. For a moment, he wondered if she’d have turned them out if they hadn’t been Irish and Catholic. His eyes shifted toward Biggs. That man would have none of them here, not Muldoon, not the Flannigan’s. He was an unabashed Nativist, and had been a Know-Nothing before that party had been swallowed up by the new Republicans. They were called that because of their refusal to speak about the issues… they ‘knew nothing’… they were anti-slavery, anti-alcohol, and anti-immigrant, and brought their prejudices into their new fold. But, mostly, they were anti-Irish.
He took a sip of coffee, then asked Mrs. Dunn, “Have you any prospects?”
“I’m certain we shall have several inquiries. I’ve put a notice in the Times.” Her expression softened as she turned to look at him from her end of the table. “I’m sure you would be interested in who will be on the other side of your wall, Sergeant Muldoon. I shall inform you before I make a decision.”
“I hope you would let me help you with this decision, Mrs. Dunn.” Biggs stared at Muldoon, raw dislike filling his expression. “We must be certain to keep the wrong element out. Too many of them have forgotten their places in society. They scrabble out of their filthy lairs, trying to dislodge us from our rightful places.”
Muldoon barely controlled the snort that rose to his lips, but he knew that dislike sparked in his own eyes.
CHAPTER 8
Muldoon
turned up his collar against the cold rain. He strode quickly toward Police Headquarters, and wondered where Casper Biggs had been the night Schneider had been killed. The wrestler was exactly the type the man railed against. The neighborhood, once all English, had become a mixed district with an ever growing Irish and German population. As a patrolman, he hadn’t made enough to live in a neighborhood like this, but once he made Sergeant, he was able to put aside a bit… just a little at a time. Then he hit pay dirt after he became the city’s wrestling champ, and he could easily afford to live in Mrs. Dunn’s boardinghouse.
Wrestling was the one thing he had left. His only inheritance. With it he improved his lot, and hoped to regain the wealth his family once had.
“Collar-and-elbow,” his father had said. “Now that’s a gentleman’s type of wrestling.” Muldoon had learned to grasp his opponent’s collar with one hand and his elbow with the other, and then try to force the other man off his feet.
Once he’d gotten pretty good, his father decided he was ready for Lancashire style. It was the less skillful of the two techniques, really a rough and tumble affair. Two men wrestled wildly, no holds barred. They tried to break bones, or gouge eyes. They stopped at nothing, intent only to win. There simply weren’t many rules. Muldoon had thought he should have learned this style first, but soon realized his father was right. With collar-and-elbow, he’d developed his muscles, and gained balance and flexibility while learning how to withstand his opponent’s methodical assault. When he got into his first real Lancashire match he thought he was prepared for the violent onslaught, but he lost, with a dislocated shoulder and a deep gash on his cheekbone where his opponent had tried for his eye.
During the war, he continued to wrestle. It was something soldiers did in their free time. It didn’t cost the army anything. All it took was two men with a little time on their hands and someone to referee, so the officers encouraged it. It kept the boys busy. He learned the most formal type of wrestling, Greco-Roman, during the war. But mostly, the troops liked Lancashire. Muldoon won nearly every match, and became his regiment champion. Soon, he was wrestling the champions from other regiments, usually winning, as they moved about the South.
After the war, he wrestled in impromptu back street matches until his prowess drew the attention of Harry Hill, whose saloon on Houston Street was the premier fighting venue. Within a week, his first match had been arranged, a boxing match. Harry Hill and his patrons preferred the danger and excitement of a heavyweight bare-knuckle brawl. Muldoon was good, but he liked the studied science of Greco-Roman wrestling. A few weeks later, his burly size and fighting skills drew the attention of State Representative William Tweed. Muldoon had taken down one of Tweed’s henchmen in a mixed match, wrestling for the first and second falls, and boxing to end the match. He got one of the two falls, and knocked the guy out in the third round.
“Get rid of him,” Tweed had said, waving toward his fallen man. A couple men grabbed the fighter under the arms and dragged him away. The fat politician walked slowly toward Muldoon, tipped his head to the side, and surveyed his physique. “You’re a good fighter. And, it looks like I’m in need of a new man. Show up at police headquarters tomorrow morning. Tell them the Boss sent you.” As head of the Democratic machine, Tweed had influence, and liked to put men in places where he could use them.
As Muldoon climbed the steps to the big building on Mulberry Street, Detective Benson emerged, a look of concern on his face. “Muldoon!” he said, grabbed his arm and pulled him back down the steps. “Come on. I’ve left word you’re working with me today. We’ve got to move quickly, or it’ll be too late.”
Muldoon let the detective lead him down the street. Benson was a tall, slender man… nearly as tall as Muldoon… and rather handsome, with dark hair and flashing eyes. He had a trace of something indefinable about him, something Muldoon attributed to loneliness. Like so many people, he’d lost his family during the war. As a detective, he wore civilian clothing instead of the blue uniform Muldoon had on. His clothes were rumpled, as though he’d slept in them. When they’d gone a short distance, Benson spoke again.
“I heard about your friend. I mean, I didn’t know he was your friend at first. Graham was so smug, acting like the cat that’s caught the rat. All he could talk about back there was how he captured the man who killed Schneider.” He glanced at Muldoon. “And then, I found out you brought him in. He was gloating like it was his collar, and he didn’t have anything to do with it at all.”
“I didn’t want to. I was afraid if I didn’t bring Kelly in first… well, you know.” Muldoon studied the tips of his shoes, then took off his hat and ran a hand through his thick red hair.
“Yes, I do know,” Benson said. “You were afraid he’d be killed. That’s Graham’s way, all right. Bring them in on their feet, or off.”
Muldoon nodded. He’d seen plenty of men, innocent or not, who never got their day in court thanks to Detective Graham. “So, if we’re going to investigate, we’re going to have to do it quickly,” he said.
“That’s about the size of it,” Benson said.
“I want to take a look at Schneider’s stuff. I didn’t have a chance to before. Hayle and Graham jumped so quick on McAllister, I thought I’d better find him first.”
“You did what you needed to do.” Benson patted Muldoon’s shoulder. “Do you know where Schneider lived?”
“Aye. Up in the Village, in the German section.”
The two turned north up Mulberry, and went back past headquarters. The street got increasingly nicer as they headed away. Windows were clean, doors propped open, even in the drizzle, to let fresh spring air into well-tended shops. Karl Schneider had lived in a narrow, three-story building. It was a corner structure with a bakery on the ground floor, which opened out to the street. Big glass panes provided passers-by a glimpse of hearty breads and sugar-powdered cakes. Muldoon breathed in the warm scent of yeasty bread, and for just a moment, he pictured his mother in her bright kitchen, pulling a loaf out of a black cast-iron oven.
As he turned the corner, Muldoon opened a side door and entered the dark stairwell. A door behind the steps led into the baker’s apartment in the back of the storefront
. He climbed the steep stairs, passed a lone door on the second floor and went on up to the room at the top. The building was well kept. Unlike the McAllisters’ tenement, you weren’t likely to find rat droppings on these stairs.
Detective Benson ran lightly up the steps behind him, with a key the baker had given him. Reaching forward, he unlocked the door, and pushed it open. They stepped carefully into the dark room. Tightly-closed curtains blocked the day’s damp light, not the airy open-lace type of the Irish, but a heavy jacquard print. As Muldoon’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realized this was a large outer chamber. Several worn chairs and a settee were arranged by the window, a large desk against the far wall. A door, just to the left, stood slightly ajar. A light noise came from the other room, and Muldoon pulled out his nightstick as he nodded toward the door. Benson returned the motion.
Quietly, he crossed the open space and stood to the side of the door. He didn’t own a gun, and the department didn’t supply them, but Benson did. The detective came up just behind him, pointing the barrel at the door. With a swift motion, Muldoon opened it and looked inside. The room was empty. The furniture was sparse, the bed shoved up under an open window. The curtain billowed inward as it caught the breeze then rattled against the pane as it sucked back against the glass with the retreating wind. A short chest of drawers sat against the opposite wall. At the far end of the room, a single, ladder-back chair stood, turned slightly toward the window as though an unseen figure sat there and watched the street below. Rain ran down the window glass, dripped from the partially open window, and soaked the drab wool blanket a deeper shade of gray.
“You can look around in here,” Benson said. “I’ll look in the other room. But I doubt there’s much here.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Muldoon said. He turned to the chest and slid open the top drawer. He removed each article, and placed them on the dresser top next to a wash basin and pitcher. The drawer held underclothes and socks, a shaving cup and brush, and a straight razor. Its blade gleamed wickedly as Muldoon removed it from the drawer. Had it sheared every hair from Schneider’s body? He pulled the drawer completely out, turned it upside down, and checked to see whether something had been attached to the bottom. Then, he looked inside the now-empty space where the drawer had been. Nothing.
The second drawer held extra shirts and two pair of gloves. Several of the fingers on one set were nearly worn through. The second pair was brand new, of an impeccable cut. Muldoon held them for a moment and imagined them on his own hands. They would probably fit. He replaced them reluctantly.
The bottom drawer was the same, nothing except for several pairs of slacks. They were all exceptional quality. As before, the drawer and space held no hidden surprises. Muldoon stood up slowly, his left foot had gone to sleep while he was kneeling. He shook his leg as he felt around the edges of the mirror, then pulled it off the wall, looked behind then re-hung it. Nothing hid behind the dresser, either.
A peg on the wall held several jackets. Muldoon checked each one thoroughly, and admired their cut. He hadn’t remembered Schneider as particularly well dressed. He must not have noticed, it hadn’t really mattered before. A second peg held the man’s wrestling tights. Again, there was nothing unusual about them. He picked up the chair, turned it over, and then replaced it where it had been. As an afterthought, he pushed it slightly askew, as Schneider had left it—a token superstition—as if the man’s spirit occupied it still.
The only thing left in the room was the bed. He pulled back the blankets and set them on the chair. He felt the stripped mattress, but he couldn’t feel anything through the ticking. He knelt down and looked underneath. At first glance, there was nothing. But just as he started to rise, something caught his attention, a sudden flash of blue as his gaze slid past. He lay down flat on the floor and looked up at the underside of the bed, the horsehair-filled mattress rested on woven straps. Near the head of the bed, he spied the bit of blue. Pulling it from its hiding place, he brought it out from under the bed.
“Now why would anybody want to hide a Bible?” asked Detective Benson from the door.
“I don’t know,” Muldoon said. He flipped through the small book, a King James version. It was printed in English, not in German. Muldoon wondered about that, since German was Schneider’s native tongue.
“Maybe it’s how he learned English,” Benson said.
“Didn’t do him much good,” Muldoon said, remembering the man’s stilted speech.
“Keep it,” Benson said. “We might need it again. And if not, you’ve got a Protestant Bible.”
“Just what I need, I think my Ma would turn over in her grave!” Not a German Bible, he thought, but English. Why would he hide an English Bible?
Benson laughed heartily and wiped tears from his eyes. “I didn’t know you were so religious,” he said at last. “Old ‘Father’ Muldoon… he wrestles with the devil.”
“All right, all right, not funny,” Muldoon said. “Did you find anything? Or am I the only one to win a prize this morning?”
“Nothing out here,” Benson said. “But the man had some expensive taste. That’s good tobacco in the humidor. And he has a couple of bottles of expensive wine under the table over there.” He pointed in the general direction.
“What’s that?” A small piece of wood, about six inches long, lay on the table between settee and chair. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hand. It looked something like a stake and was splintered at each end, as if broken from a larger piece. The initials A.R. were carved on one side.
“I don’t know.”
Muldoon pocketed it, along with the small Bible.
“We should take along those bottles of wine, too,” said Benson.
Muldoon picked up the two glass bottles.
“I’ll take those for now,” Benson said.
Muldoon gazed longingly at the bottles. He wasn’t sure whose problem was worse—his or Benson’s. Both craved the magic elixir to help them forget. But he’d sworn off the stuff and Benson hadn’t.
“Did you find anything else in here?” Muldoon shook off his momentary weakness.
“Just this.” Benson handed Muldoon a small photograph. It was a grainy, sepia-toned picture of a sergeant in the Union Army. Muldoon looked closely at the small face of Karl Schneider. Not that it was unusual, since so many men had taken part in the war. Still, Muldoon slipped the little picture between the pages of the blue Bible.
As they left the building, Muldoon and the detective stopped in at the bakery. “Did you get what you want?” the German baker asked them as he handed a diminutive elderly woman her change.
“Aye, we did. But we’re taking some things, might be evidence. Do you have something I can put them in?” Muldoon showed him the wine bottles.
“Certainly. If you have a nickel, I can give you a flour sack.”
Muldoon dug a five-cent coin out of his pocket and offered it to the man. The fabric was valuable. After washing it, a woman could carefully remove the seams and remake it into a dress, a shirt, or an apron. The baker rummaged through a pile of sacks behind the counter.
“Any particular pattern?” he asked with a grin. “If they wouldn’t stamp their name so big, and maybe use flowers instead of always stripes, or plain, the women would pay even more.”
Muldoon shrugged, it didn’t really matter to him. He wasn’t going to do anything with it besides store Schneider’s paltry belongings.
“Has anyone come by?” Muldoon asked suddenly. “Besides us?”
“Nein. Not a soul.”
“Does Schneider have any relatives? Someone who can claim his things?”
“I believe he has a sister. But I’ve never seen her.”
“Then, pack his stuff up before you rent out the place. Don’t get rid of it. If I find the sister, I’ll send her your way.” Muldoon knew the man would sell the items as easily as store them. Backed by the authority of his uniform, he hoped the baker would do as he said. Still, there wasn’t much
respect for New York City’s finest.
The baker handed Muldoon a gold striped sack. It was relatively clean and neatly folded. He glanced at the policeman with a sheepish expression. “The women pay a few cents more when the sacks look good.”
“Listen,” Muldoon said. “If anybody comes by, or anything strange happens, you let me know, okay? Send someone down to Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street. I work out of there, not one of the precinct houses. Ask for Muldoon.”
“Yah, I’ll do that.” He looked carefully around, and then leaned closer to Muldoon, his voice low. “He said he was haunted by something bad. Because of something he had done. Do you… do you think he was killed by the devil?” Fear marked the man’s voice.
“No, no witches, no devils. Just a man.”
“Then, a strong man—like you,” said the baker. “Nobody else could do that, to kill Schneider without the help of the devil.”
Muldoon shook his head. Here again was the troubling rumor, and it brought the crimson-eyed man back to his thoughts. “Have you… ” He paused. He didn’t want to contribute to the superstitious alarm on the street, but somehow, he thought it important. “Have you seen a man with reddish-colored eyes?”
Fear flickered across the baker’s face. “To see Schneider? Nein.” He turned away. “That’s all I know,” he said. “Nothing more. Please, no more questions.”
Muldoon thanked the man for the bag, and carefully stowed the wine bottles inside. He wasn’t sure why, but he kept the Bible in his pocket. He turned, and went outside, where Detective Benson waited. Curious, he thought. Does the baker know something, or is he afraid a devil actually killed the wrestler? They walked with long strides and swiftly reached Headquarters. “Muldoon! Benson!” roared a voice as they entered the building. Benson glanced over at Muldoon and rolled his eyes. They turned toward the stairs where the Captain stood waiting. “I want to see you both up here, immediately!”
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