Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  He closed the distance between himself and the two men, not stopping until he was within cane’s reach. “You need to leave,” he repeated.

  Both men put up their hands.

  “Hold on there,” the slightly cleaner man said. “We’re with the papers. I’m with the Herald and he’s with the New York Sporting Whip. In this country we have freedom of the press.”

  “Does that include the f-freedom to corner a w-w-woman and bully her outside her own l-lodgings?” Jasper asked, taking another step closer.

  The two men stumbled back, hitting the wall behind them. “Hey, hey, hey. Wait just a sec, there, er, my lord. We just wanted to talk to her,” filthy suit said in a whiny voice that only irked Jasper more.

  He spun the handle of his cane, the motion drawing both men’s eyes. “Your f-freedom doesn’t include coercion and trespass. You are on p-p-private property. Go w-w-wait on the street.”

  Both men looked like they wanted to argue, but knew they were in the wrong legally.

  They moved crabwise until they were clear of him and then made their way down the hall, grumbling loudly enough for him to hear, if he cared to listen.

  He waited until the sound of their footsteps disappeared down the stairwell before knocking on Miss Martello’s door.

  It opened immediately. Miss Martello hadn’t looked happy or particularly healthy the last time he’d visited, and she appeared to have aged a year in only a day. Her large dark eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, the skin beneath them ashen.

  Jasper’s face heated beneath her rightfully accusatory glare. “I’m t-t-terribly sorry, Miss Martello.”

  “You promised,” she said hoarsely.

  The fact that she was right only made him feel worse.

  He nodded, unwilling to give excuses. “I did.”

  “They were here before daylight, and they’ve been knocking at the door and yelling up at my window, throwing stones until I thought they’d break the glass They were harassing the woman across the hall—she’s blind and her sister, who takes care of her, is at work. That’s why I went out—so they’d stop bothering a blind woman.”

  “I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could say; he was sorry. The uncomfortable moment hung between them as thick and unpleasant as a London pea-souper.

  After what felt like hours, she went back inside, leaving the open door for Jasper.

  Her small room was as clean and stultifying as before. Except this time, he saw her work had been carefully stacked and put aside on her wooden tray. Instead, a newspaper and Bible sat on the almost empty table.

  She sank onto one of the only two chairs in the room, and Jasper took the other. The paper was turned to the story below the fold; it was her father’s story.

  Miss Martello gestured to the paper. “Why didn’t you tell me how he died? Because it was so—so gruesome?”

  “Yes, because it is gruesome. But we also wanted to k-keep as many details as possible to ourselves. It c-c-c-can be helpful. Sometimes it allows a d-detective to catch slips—or perhaps people admit to things they sh-sh-shouldn’t know.”

  She nodded absently, her eyes on his left hand, which was turning the handle of his cane.

  Jasper stilled the restless gesture and she looked up. “He was earning his money by extortion—that’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  There was no point in keeping this a secret now—especially as it was not a secret—so he nodded.

  “And now he’s left all that to me?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “Oh God.” She lowered her head into her hands, her shoulders shaking. “I was so relieved that he’d gone and stayed gone. He never did anything for us—for me and my mother. At least nothing good. All I’ve ever felt for him was resentment, maybe even outright hatred at times.” She shook her head but didn’t look up. “I don’t want this—I don’t want anything from him. I just don’t—” She cried quietly.

  Jasper considered what he was about to say; telling her about her inheritance was not his duty. He wasn’t a lawyer and should keep what he knew to himself. But if what he knew could offer her even a little bit of comfort …

  “Miss Martello?”

  She came back to herself quickly, sitting up in her chair, her expression one of mortification. “I’m sorry, that—”

  “No,” Jasper said quietly but firmly. “I’m sorry.”

  She chewed her lip and nodded, the tension leaking from her slender frame.

  “I d-don’t know if this will help, but the will—I’m given to underst-st-stand, is a conditional bequest.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In order to inherit you would n-need to sign a statement, er, well, saying you for-g-g-give your father and regret the estrangement.”

  “What?”

  Jasper nodded.

  She gave a snort of disbelief. “Well, that makes it easy enough.” She shook her head in wonder, a spark of spirit in her eyes. “The nerve of that man. The nerve.”

  Jasper had to agree.

  She inhaled deeply and then forced out a huge sigh. “Thank you for telling me that. I’d sooner choke.”

  He did not think that was hyperbole.

  “Were you aware your f-father owned this building?”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, he bought it l-last December.”

  “I knew it had changed hands because somebody else collected the rent.” She paused for a moment. “I have to admit the other tenants and I were pleased with the new owner’s repairs—especially the new locks on all our doors,” she said, sounding grudging.

  So, perhaps, Frumkin wasn’t entirely a toad; perhaps he’d bought the building to take care of his daughter in ways she wouldn’t reject.

  Or perhaps he had done so to spy on her more easily. If he changed the locks, did that mean he also had a copy of the key? They’d found no key ring among his effects, but Jasper couldn’t believe that Frumkin—a man who’d clearly taken joy from ferreting out other people’s secrets—would have passed up an opportunity to invade his own daughter’s privacy.

  He grimaced at the repellent thought.

  “Is there any way to keep those vultures away from me?” Miss Martello asked, pulling him from his unpleasant musings.

  “I’m afraid I c-can’t keep them from congregating outside. Things will be, er, hectic for a while. Do you have anywhere else to st-st-stay?” he asked. “Perhaps with some friends? Just until this settles d-down a bit.”

  “The few friends I have don’t have room for me. Even if they did, the last thing they need is me bringing a mess to their doorsteps. I’ll be fine here.”

  “I b-believe it will only become worse after this holiday is over and the p-p-papers are looking for more news.”

  “I know … but I just don’t have anywhere to go. Besides, I don’t go out a lot, and I often split the food shopping with the woman across the hall—the blind lady’s sister. I’ll just have to rely a bit more on her for a while.”

  “I’m going to send a p-p-policeman over—no,” he said, when she opened her mouth, her expression suddenly mulish. “He won’t bother you. I’ll p-put him out front of the building. Just to k-keep the newsmen from coming inside.”

  She hesitated, and then sighed. “Thank you. Maybe just for a few days. Until all this dies down.”

  Jasper didn’t tell her what he really thought: that this was only going to get worse before it was over.

  CHAPTER 18

  The rumblings from the various gangs hadn’t stopped since the June sixteenth riot that had rocked the south end of the island. There was a feeling of impending, barely restrained violence in the sultry air as Hy pushed through the crowds on Chatham Street.

  He’d been awake a good part of the night, spending the evening drinking too much with his cousin Ian. Although he lived with Ian, they rarely saw one another, given their work. Ian was a night watchman at the oil and candle factory over near Market Slip and was usually just coming back home when Hy was l
eaving for work.

  As they both had today off, they’d stayed out late, only to be woken early by a deafening racket.

  Or at least it had seemed early after the evening they’d had, but it was actually eleven.

  At first, Hy had believed the noise was inside his head. But it turned out to be the Irish jug band that practiced weekly in his landlady Mrs. Finn’s parlor. They normally practiced in the early evenings but, as they were getting paid to perform somewhere that night, they’d started the day early.

  Ian and Hy shared the room right above the parlor, so it sounded like the music was coming from beneath his pillow.

  He’d tossed and turned for a while but had finally given up on getting more sleep sometime around twelve thirty. Normally he would have gone down to Mrs. Finn’s kitchen and tried to cadge coffee and something to eat for him and Ian—who was still managing to saw logs despite the racket—but he knew she’d gone off to her daughter’s for the day.

  So that’s how he found himself at Mick Taylor’s Saloon, enjoying a very late midday meal of ham, kidneys, coddled eggs, hash, boxty, and even a bit of colcannon.

  He’d just finished his second pint of London Brown Stout—pulled from a keg that was fresh off the ship—and was starting to feel more himself when Ian drifted in.

  They grunted at each other, and Ian dropped a newspaper on the table and then went to talk to a mate standing at the bar.

  Hy glanced down at the paper Ian had brought and blinked when he saw the story just below the fold.

  “What the bloody hell?” He quickly skimmed the article before tossing some money onto the table and heading for the saloon door.

  “Hey! Where you goin’?” Ian yelled.

  “I’ll be back,” Hy called over his shoulder.

  Ian wouldn’t be hard to find later on as Hy knew he’d be at the saloon all day and most of the night, just like everyone else who didn’t feel a stupid responsibility to work on a national holiday.

  Hy didn’t hold much hope that Lightner would be home, but he had to try him first.

  Paisley answered the door even though Hy knew Lightner now employed a houseful of servants.

  “His lordship is not here,” he said before Hy could ask. “He left rather hastily a few hours ago.”

  Hy opened his mouth to ask if he knew where Lightner had gone, but Paisley turned away to pick up a newspaper extra that was sitting on a console table in the foyer.

  He handed the paper to Hy, who glanced at it. “He was not happy about this story.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Hy admitted.

  “He was headed directly to Miss Martello’s,” Paisley volunteered, which surprised Hy as the man was usually about as forthcoming as a rock.

  Hy’s face heated as he realized he didn’t know the Martello woman’s address. “I don’t suppose—”

  “He requested a hackney to take him to the corner of White Street and Elm Street.”

  Hy snapped his fingers; that’s right, he’d seen the deed for the building. “Er, thanks,” he said to the valet, who was watching him with the unreadable expression that always made Hy feel like an idiot.

  “You are welcome, Detective.”

  Hy thought the other man almost smiled.

  He left Union Place—or Union Square they called it now—and headed south on Fourth Avenue rather than Broadway.

  As he walked, he debated his destination. It was already after two, which meant Lightner had been gone a few hours. Surely he wouldn’t still be at the woman’s lodgings?

  Part of him wanted to go to Martello’s, but part of him wanted to go to the station house and find the bastard who had sold out their case for a few bucks.

  Because the station was closer than Martello’s, he turned west when he reached Prince Street.

  There was plenty of foot traffic outside the Eighth Precinct, but the station house itself was eerily quiet inside.

  Nobody was in the bullpen and there wasn’t anyone manning the front desk, so Hy decided to look for the sergeant on duty down in the holding cells.

  Hy grimaced when he saw that it wasn’t Billings, as he’d hoped, but Sergeant Don Mulcahy.

  Mulcahy was in the middle of an argument with one of the patrolmen stationed at the cells.

  “But Sarge, they threw their piss pot at me and—”

  “I don’t give a shit, Burke, get back in there. Next time empty the damned thing before they can throw it. Or take it away from them and let ’em shit their pants.” Mulcahy gestured to the open gate, and Patrolman Burke turned with a grumble, dragging his feet.

  Mulcahy relocked the gate and scowled at Hy. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you and the d-d-d-duke were off today, but here you are, too.”

  Hy didn’t say what he was thinking—that he was stunned to find Mulcahy still on the force after yesterday. But then again, men like Mulcahy didn’t have political leanings so much as instincts for self-preservation. Besides, if the powers that be fired everyone with questionable loyalty there wouldn’t be many people left to work.

  Mulcahy was an ignorant bastard, and Hy knew he needed to ignore the other man’s bullshit; today was not a day for confrontations. Besides, Mulcahy would likely do his stammering routine in front of Lightner at some point, and the Englishman could beat the stuffing out of him with his cane. Hy smiled at the thought.

  “You said too—was Lightner just here?” Hy asked.

  Mulcahy started up the stairs without bothering to answer, breathing heavily as he hauled his bulk. The man was a pig—and not just in looks. He was a pal of Featherstone’s—one of the dirtiest coppers at the Eighth Precinct—and made no bones about where his loyalty lay: with the Munis. Which is why Hy would have guessed he would have been among the first to get the ax.

  Mulcahy didn’t speak until they got to the top of the stairs.

  “Mulcahy,” Hy repeated.

  The other man swung around faster than Hy thought possible. “I don’t answer to you, Law.” He jabbed Hy in the chest with a finger as thick as a summer sausage. For one insane moment, Hy considered grabbing his fat arm and breaking it for him.

  But then he thought about the Tombs and how much he didn’t want to go back there. He’d survived the last eight-week trip to the notorious prison, but only because Lightner had used his authority to get Hy out. Best not to push his luck.

  So, instead of physically assaulting Mulcahy, he did something he’d never done before: he used the law.

  Hy took a step toward the other man and glared down at him. “Don’t touch me again, Mulcahy. The next time you so much as breathe your foul breath in my direction I’ll file charges against you for assault.”

  The older man’s jaw dropped, and for good reason; threatening legal action wasn’t exactly the way of the streets. But it seemed to work like a charm.

  “Now, when was Lightner here?”

  Mulcahy’s jaws worked, and Hy knew he wanted to tell him to go to hell, but nobody quite understood Lightner’s position in the current hierarchy, and Hy worked directly for the Englishman.

  “He wasn’t here. He sent a messenger demanding that I put a patrolman outside Frumkin’s daughter’s house.” He gave an ugly laugh. “As if that’s our job now—to provide protection for the daughters of criminals.”

  “Who did you send?”

  “How do you know I sent anyone?”

  Hy inhaled deeply and then let his breath out slowly. “Who?”

  “I sent Flynn about an hour ago.”

  “Myron or Ed?”

  “Myron.” Mulcahy grinned.

  Myron Flynn was as big as a building and as smart as a hitching post, but not as useful.

  “Jaysus,” Hy muttered.

  The sergeant glared at him. “Look, I sent everyone else over to Abington Square, and he was all I had left, since we’ve dropped to less than thirty-two men in the last twenty-four hours,” Mulcahy said.

  Hy winced; that meant half the station had been sacked—or left.


  Mulcahy nodded at whatever he saw on Hy’s face. “Sending a man to watch a door is the last thing we need to waste manpower on today, but I did it. If you don’t like who I sent, you can fuck off—or go there yourself. If you do, then send Flynn back.”

  “Why are we sending men to the Ninth?”

  “Because they don’t want another riot, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Riot?”

  Hy could see Mulcahy was struggling again with the desire to tell him to fuck off and the desire to spread juicy gossip.

  “You know there’s always something when the Hibernians march. Davies got it into his head that this might be a repeat of ’53.”

  He was talking about the Ancient Hibernian parade that had turned into a set-to when the Short Boys—a right bunch of thugs—showed up at Abingdon Square.

  “Who’s on for tonight?” Hy asked, meaning detectives.

  “Featherstone and Kennedy.” Mulcahy snorted at whatever he saw on Hy’s face. “What, thought he’d be gone?”

  He’d hoped Detective Featherstone had been fired. The fact that he was still here made him Hy’s number one suspect for whoever had sold the Frumkin information to the newspapers. No doubt Lightner would be interested to know Featherstone was still here, since his crooked dealings had caught the Englishman’s attention during Lightner’s first case in New York.

  “Hey, Law, now that you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.” Mulcahy hoisted his fat arse up onto the stool behind the sergeant’s desk.

  “What do you want?” Hy asked, not that he had any intention of doing it.

  “I got a message from Mick Flannigan. He said one of his bartenders found a floater when they were dumpin’ their trash in the river this mornin’. I didn’t have anyone to go get it, and Mick said he’d only hold it in his cold cellar until they got their new shipment of kegs. After that, he’s throwin’ her back in the river.”

  “Her?”

  “Yeah, that’s right—did I st-st-st-stammer?” He gave an ugly laugh. “Oh no, wait—that would be your partner.”

  Now Hy wanted to tell him to go to hell, but he knew that Flannigan—an infamously tight-fisted saloon owner—wouldn’t hesitate to throw a corpse back into the East River if it interfered with his business.