Shelby tried to focus on the doctor.
“A man is here to see you,” The doctor gestured slightly toward Muldoon.
Shelby didn’t respond, just glanced downward towards the doctor’s hand, where it hung in midair.
“He’s very unresponsive,” the doctor said. “I don’t know if he’ll ever get better.”
“Tell me about him.” Muldoon watched the ill man intently.
“He was just transferred a couple of days ago. He was at City Hospital. He’d been there about two weeks.”
“Why was he there?” Muldoon noted the bruises on the man’s face.
“He was beaten, very badly, but he recovered quickly. Not so, in his mind. He couldn’t speak. He still only makes mumbling sounds, and then only when he’s angry. He’s most audible when angry. But he just repeats the same thing over and over again.”
Muldoon raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Three. That’s what it sounds like, anyway.”
“Three?” asked Muldoon, baffled.
Suddenly Shelby’s demeanor changed, his head shifted sharply as he turned to glare at Muldoon. “Three!” he shrieked, leaping from the ground and throwing himself across the small space. “Three!”
Daniel stepped in as Muldoon prepared to receive the blow, and caught Shelby tight around the waist. Something small dropped from the man’s hands, skittered across the floor, and stopped to rest just short of the door. Muldoon stooped over to pick up the object while Daniel struggled to control the violent man. It looked vaguely familiar to him. He held it up and showed it to the doctor as the man ushered him out of the room, leaving Daniel inside. A second man pushed into the room, a straight-jacket in hand.
Martin Shelby struggled madly. “Three,” he yelled again. “Three to one makes four. Three to one makes four. Three to one makes four. My little lamb. My poor little lamb. Three to one makes four.” His words became garbled, until inaudible, just a long, anguished shriek emanated from his mouth.
“He’s making some progress,” the doctor said. “That’s the most he’s been able to say since he arrived.”
Muldoon turned to the doctor. “What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s his lovie. As long as he has it, he’s calm. He holds onto it tightly, like it signifies something important for him.”
Muldoon looked at the short, chunky piece of whittled wood, one end broken. And suddenly he realized what it was. It was the stubby end of a longer piece of wood… and on the missing part would be the initials “A.R.” But this piece lacked the distinctive swirls of the other two. As she inspected it closer he could see the beginnings of the design on the broken end. He looked in again at the struggling man, now howling as if in pain. The new attendant had wrestled Shelby’s arms into the straight-jacket, and was pulling the cord tight. Shelby’s face turned a violent shade of red as he screamed.
Could he have done it? Muldoon wondered. He was a tall man, but thin and elegantly built. He would look handsome opening a carriage door, or serving a tray at dinner. But he didn’t have the build necessary to take on a man with the size and experience of Karl Schneider. No, he realized it couldn’t have been Shelby. He had been hired, certainly. And somewhere, locked away in that horrified mind was the key to this case. Who had paid him to lure the young Margaret Hamm from the safety of her uncle’s home? Had he known that she would be killed? He thought not. His ‘poor little lamb’ was probably Miss Margaret. And if her child was his, then perhaps he had loved her. That might account for his present condition. Then, the third marker, the murderer’s calling card. Was a third victim yet to come? Or did the killer consider the black maid to be the third?
Shelby’s scream had unsettled him, and he thought again of Meg McAllister’s prophecy. She had said six. God, were there really six murders? Shelby said three plus one makes four. The maid could be the third victim he was counting. She had been killed during the kidnap. What had happened he wondered? Had the murderer met them at the train? But three plus one makes four? What the hell? His head began to ache, and the familiar yearning behind his heart began. He pushed away the scent of whiskey that existed only for him. He pushed away Meg’s prophecy. He didn’t believe in it. And then he pushed away the flicker of the oil lamp on the wall as it threatened to grow into flames in Pensacola and the cries of the insane ringing through the halls of the asylum tried to become cries of terror… women and children burning alive. And then he turned away from the soldier passing through the hall, his eyes fixed accusingly on Muldoon.
He slipped the wood piece into his pocket, shaking his head at the doctor. “It’s evidence,” he said. “If you can break into that mind, I’ll find the answers I’m looking for.”
“I don’t think it’ll happen,” the doctor said.
“I didn’t think so. But send for me if it does.”
As Muldoon rode the steamship away from the island, he pondered his case. He had pinned so much hope on Shelby, thought he might be the murderer. Now, he knew, he’d followed the wrong lead. Not wrong, he amended. Shelby had been part of it. But his wasn’t the mind behind the thing. He would have to think on it anew. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out his small pad. He flipped through his entries, wondering what he had missed. If he didn’t find the murderer soon, another person would die… and he still didn’t know the connection between Karl Schneider and Margaret Hamm. Somehow, he thought, it was something larger than either of them. And Saturday was hanging day.
CHAPTER 40
Alva
stepped out of her carriage, lightly taking hold of the footman’s hand as he helped her down. She opened her parasol to protect her pale skin from the early spring sunlight. She knew it was vain, but she knew, too, that her looks were important in order to attract her future husband. Her maid followed close behind her. The footman always seemed to pay the girl special attention. Alva smiled as she realized he probably loved the girl. She ignored the little gestures that passed between the two, pretending she hadn’t seen. The servants would be horrified if they knew she noticed these things. For some reason, they thought they were invisible. Perhaps they were, in other people’s homes. Personally, she rather enjoyed the intricacies of their lives.
She sighed. The footman opened the door to yet another wig-makers’ shop. The servants must wonder what it’s all about, she thought. She could just imagine the whispering in the servants’ quarters that evening. But, she wanted to do what she could to help find her friend’s killer. When Muldoon had suggested she find out if Margaret Hamm’s hair had gone to a wigmaker’s, she had been appalled. Then she realized it made sense. Who would throw away valuable hair? But, would she recognize it? Certainly, she knew the color, but hundreds of women might have the same shade. Still, she had to try.
She entered the little shop with distaste. She had already made the rounds of the better establishments, and was working her way through the less significant shops. The proprietor was a thin, angular woman, with horsey teeth protruding from between her lips as she smiled. She came around the counter as Alva entered—all charm and helpfulness.
“Welcome, welcome!” The woman hurried to her side. “May I show you the best of my wares?”
She indicated a full wig on a stand. The hair was expertly coiffed, though a bit thin, ringlets falling below the shoulders. “This would simply look marvelous,” she coaxed.
“No,” Alva shook her head, her own ringlets bouncing prettily. “I’m not looking for me.”
“Ah! You have a wonderful head of your own hair?” She moved slowly around Alva, surveying the girl’s coiffure. “Perhaps you’d care to see some extensions?”
“Again, I must respond in the negative,” said Alva smoothly. “I’m looking for something special. Something blonde. Not just any shade, but the palest of blondes, with just a touch of honey.”
“You need it for a special occasion? A masquerade, perhaps?”
“It’s a scavenger hunt,” said Alva repeating the tired story she’d rehe
arsed. She smiled with feigned brightness, and twirled the now-closed parasol.
“Oh, I see!” the woman smiled gaily. “It’s a game.”
She strolled slowly about the room, pointing out hair piece after hair piece, but Alva was particular. It had to be just the right shade.
“Curled… or straight?” asked the proprietress suddenly, her wide mouth drooping just a bit as she thought.
“Naturally straight,” answered Alva. “Though you may have curled it. And very, very long.”
Suddenly the woman turned, one hand in the air. “I may have just the piece!” she exclaimed, eyes bright.
Alva smiled back, her heart pattering hopefully. The woman indicated the back door. Her skirts swished as she swayed over to open it.
“My girls are up here,” she said.
Alva carefully ascended the steep staircase, and held her skirt high to avoid stepping on the fabric that was piled along the sides of each step. At the top of the stairs, a small front room held a tall cabinet and a desk. A Chinese man sat there, a long, empty pipe between his lips. He leaped up to open the door for her, bowing several times. The back room was poorly lit, long tables placed near the south-facing windows to gather as much light as they could. At each table sat a Chinese woman, some merely girls, others ancient old women. Carefully, each woman threaded a piece of hair into a needle and stitched it into a thin leather cap. Strand by strand, each hair was knotted securely. Then the process was repeated with yet another natural thread.
The first girl, Alva noticed, was creating tiny wigs with short bits of hair, pieces left over after styling.
“What are these?” She waved her hand toward the tiny wigs.
“Ah Miss,” the woman fawned. “These will be sold to doll makers. Only the best, only the best.”
As she gazed about the room, Alva was horrified to note how many boxes were filled with hair. They were separated by color and quality. Longer hair was much more valuable, she was certain. As she strode through the room, she imagined the dire situation that would force a woman to sell her hair. For a mere pittance, she would be shorn of her locks. Her hand strayed to the edge of a box. Several sections of dark, nearly black hair filled it, much the same color as her own. Each was banded at the top where the ends were neatly cut. A second band held the clump together at its center, and a third held it tight at the base. She pictured tears in some poor woman’s eyes as she left the shop, a paltry sum in her hand, but maybe enough to feed her children that night.
She had never been so close to poverty. She shook her head, trying to clear the unwanted image from her mind.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The proprietress clapped her hands. “Perhaps we could make this up for you? It matches your own hair perfectly.”
A pretty Chinese girl smiled shyly, and bobbed a quick bow, then pulled the thick lock from the box. She draped it across her hands and held it up to the light where it streamed in through the greasy window. Alva shook her head and moved slowly toward the next table. An old woman sat there, her gnarled fingers pulling hair into place. Alva was appalled to think of the amount of work these women put into the hair pieces that she, and others like her, bought and cast aside on a whim. She would bring it up at her next lady’s reform meeting.
The last table held pale blonde hair. She paused a moment, and glanced into the box. Each section was carefully banded, but none was right. They were either too curly, or too short. She shook her head.
As she turned to go, the proprietress opened a cabinet. “Oh, I have one more. I nearly forgot,” she said. “A man brought it in a few days ago. But the color is so unusual, and it’s wonderfully long. I just haven’t decided what to do with it yet.”
Long, honey-blonde hair. Horror-struck, Alva gazed upon the long hair in the woman’s hands. She could see a pale pink ribbon woven into a thin braid. The little decoration hung absurdly from the band wrapped around the top of the lock. She stepped forward, drawn to the image, as if in a dream. She raised one trembling hand, but didn’t touch it. She knew that braid—it was Margaret’s. She’d worn her hair long, pulled back with a ribbon, with just that one thin braid. It was her everyday style. The one she wore when she was at home.
“Is that unusual?” Alva asked quietly. “To have a man bring in a hair piece?”
“Yes, it is rather,” the woman answered. “But the quality is so good. It’s worth top value.”
Alva nodded. She could see the woman was right. She, herself, had bought such hair, though in a much darker shade.
“What did he look like?” asked Alva, her voice a near whisper. Clearing her throat, she continued, stronger now. “For the game, in case they ask.”
Carefully she wrote down the description, and then paid the woman’s price for the mass of hair. A girl wrapped it in a paper parcel, and Alva wrote Muldoon’s name and address on it. She couldn’t bear to carry it with her, except for the thin braid, which was deftly removed by the Chinese girl. That, she would take to Margaret’s parents when they were ready for it. The rest of the hair would be delivered to Muldoon.
CHAPTER 41
No
matter how many times Muldoon flipped through it, nothing he’d written in his notebook drew him any closer to learning the identity of the killer. He had a new sense of urgency, knowing that another person would die soon, perhaps already had. No, he thought. If another person had died, the body would have been dropped at the corner of Cross, where the thoroughfare entered Paradise Park. Or would it? He wondered. The first two bodies were for show, he knew that now. They had been placed on the street as a message for someone. Was it a warning to the next target? Or was there another reason the dead were brought to that spot… perhaps so the killer could watch from a safe distance as he, Muldoon, investigated the scene?
He wanted to talk with Benson, just to go over the elements of the case. But, the detective was busy with the burglaries that the Captain had thrown his way… accompanied by his new assistant. Muldoon wondered if he’d ever looked like that, so young and eager. He doubted it. He couldn’t even remember feeling that way—certainly not since before the war. Maybe that’s how he’d looked when he’d set out for Florida so many years before.
When he got back from Blackwell’s Island, he’d gone down to the crime scene, and looked it over once again. Still, nothing sprang to his mind. He turned the clues over again and again, but they made no sense to him. The connection just wasn’t there. They seemed like two distinct murders. That’s how the Captain would see them. They just happened to be dumped at the same location. The chunky wooden sticks with the initials carved into them? Perhaps he’d simply missed the one under the window the night Schneider was killed. It may have laid there those couple of days, and maybe it wasn’t even related to Margaret Hamm’s murder. But, he couldn’t believe he’d missed it! He backtracked in his mind. Somewhere, somehow, he’d missed something. Finally, he returned to Headquarters, tired and depressed. Detective Benson still wasn’t about.
Muldoon leaned against Foley’s desk, his weight heavy on his elbows. He knew the man couldn’t help him, but he could commiserate a bit. He didn’t go into any details, because too many things were twisted around in his brain.
“Having troubles?” sneered a voice behind him.
Muldoon spun about as Sergeant Collins crossed the room.
“You got one little case, and you can’t figure it out?” Collins lips split apart in a replica of a smile.
“Nothing holding me back.” Muldoon leaned nonchalantly, in what he hoped was a carefree pose, against the desk. “I’ve nearly got it figured out.”
Collins chortled. “Sure, sure. I suppose you’ll be marching upstairs to tell that to the Captain?”
“Aye.” He wasn’t ready, but he’d be damned if he told Collins that.
He caught a motion at the top of the steps, from the direction of Hayle’s office. “I’ll be out, Foley,” Muldoon said quickly and ducked out the front door. Behind him, he could hear the tri
ll of Collins’ laughter.
He walked aimlessly, not knowing where to go next. He’d never felt so helpless in his life. At least he’d had a gun in his hand when he’d been in the war. He thought about Schneider. What had his search of the room told him? Not much. But he’d brought several things out with him. The stick… the killer’s calling card. Some expensive wine. He thought about that for a moment. How had the man afforded such wine? Perhaps from his wrestling earnings? Certainly, that’s how Muldoon purchased luxuries. But, could he afford such items? What about Schneider’s clothing? He had well-tailored suits, and expensive gloves. Not all his clothes were so good. But, as he thought about it, he couldn’t remember Schneider ever wearing the rough broadcloth that Muldoon usually wore. And, his own fights brought in top dollar. Perhaps it was time to look up that sister.
Benson had gone to let her know her brother had been killed. He’d said there was little chance that she’d had a hand in his murder, that she just wasn’t the type. Now, Muldoon stood outside her modest home. It was a thin brownstone, ancient, built before the Revolution. The neighborhood was good, if a bit rundown, with spring flowers blooming in window boxes, and in urns set beside the door. He climbed the steps and knocked lightly, as if afraid to disturb the tranquility of the neighborhood. The curtains pulled to the side just a fraction, and a pretty, blonde-haired woman peeked out the window. Suddenly, the door flew open, and an old woman stepped aggressively out the door.
“You folks should leave her alone!” she exclaimed in a thick German accent. “She knows nothing about it!”
Muldoon stepped back. “Excuse me,” he said, surprised. “I was just coming to show my respect.”
The woman eyed him doubtfully. He glanced down, and realized her glare was directed at his uniform.
“I’m not here on official business. I’m William Muldoon, the wrestler.” One little bend of the truth, he thought, just to get him in the door.
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