Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  He sighed. “If you’re saying that you want me to get the body over to Doc Kirby then I’ll need a wagon.”

  “Too bad; you can’t have one. The Mother’s Heart is already busier than a two-peckered goat, and all three flats are in use over at Fourteenth.”

  Probably loaded with kegs of beer for a celebration over at Tammany Hall. It was days like today when the Democrats liked to lubricate their followers with free-flowing ale and great cauldrons of colcannon.

  It shamed Hy that his people could be bought with a pint and some cabbage.

  As for the multichambered wagon everyone called Mother’s Heart—because there was always room for one more inside it—that would be kept busy all night hauling drunks, belligerents, and the pickpockets that such crowds inevitably drew.

  “Just hire a hackney, Law. If the driver complains, you can say she’s dead drunk. Nobody will think you’re lyin’.” Mulcahy snorted.

  The sad part of it was, Mulcahy was right. You could cart a corpse around the Five Points—hell, probably haul it into a saloon and buy it a pint—and nobody would look sideways on a day like today, when every Irishman on the island was determined to get roaring drunk.

  * * *

  Hy couldn’t stop staring at the corpse.

  Although it was pale, it couldn’t have been in the water too long as it was hardly bloated.

  But that wasn’t why he was staring.

  No, he was staring because—based on the picture Lightner had showed him—the dead woman was undeniably Anita Fowler.

  “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

  Hy startled at the sound of the voice and turned, and then frowned at its owner, a youngish man with thick spectacles.

  “Who’re you?” He pulled the sheet over Miss Fowler’s face.

  The other man smiled at Hy’s rude question. “I’m the lucky fellow in charge of the place today. George Leonard.” He extended a hand.

  “Where’s Doc Kirby?” Hy asked as he shook Leonard’s cold, clammy fingers.

  Just how the hell did a person stay cold in this heat?

  Hy decided he didn’t want to know.

  “Kirby is off today—you know how it is, high man on the totem pole and all.” He gestured to the body on the table. “You must be working today, too.”

  Hy didn’t want to admit that he was too stupid to take a day off when he had one. “Are you a doctor?”

  “Nope, but I’ve assisted on plenty of postmortems. Where’d they find her?”

  “Not far from Pier 37. A man found her around nine o’clock this morning.”

  “Ah, a jumper.”

  “How do you reckon?” Hy asked.

  Leonard shrugged. “It’s a popular way for ladies to commit suicide—not messy like a gun or a knife. Easier than getting a reliable poison. There seem to be more women than men who choose that way.”

  Jaysus. Men and women chose different ways of topping themselves? Who would have thought it?

  He couldn’t resist asking, “What do men choose?”

  “Hanging,” Leonard said without hesitation.

  Hy couldn’t swim, so it would be a quick way for him to go. If you didn’t die by drowning, you’d probably die from all the muck you’d swallow. Or you’d get plowed under or clipped on the bonce by one of the hundreds of skiffs, steamships, ferries, or fishing boats that used the busy water around the piers.

  But something about packing all your belongings—like Miss Fowler had done, if you believed Mrs. Stampler—and then jumping seemed … Well, it just seemed off.

  It had been an incoming tide last night, so she might very well have died elsewhere and drifted past, getting caught in the pier. Or maybe she immediately got caught among the pilings? It would be tough to say.

  “How long has she been dead?”

  Leonard shrugged. “I dunno, that’s the sort of thing Kirby would know.”

  Not if he didn’t see her until tomorrow. It was over ninety and she’d already started to bloat.

  The matter of her baggage bothered him. Where was it? Had she purchased a ticket and then gone for a stroll and fallen to her death? Was her luggage on a ship or at a hotel, waiting for her? Something about being found down by the piers made him think she was leaving, although that wasn’t necessarily true. After all, where else would you go if you were looking to drown yourself but close to the water?

  “So you think she drowned? Can you tell?” Hy asked.

  Leonard opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “Look, I’m not authorized by Doc Kirby to perform postmortems. But there are a few noninvasive ways to examine for drowning.”

  He pulled back the sheet that was covering her, shaking his head. “She was a beauty,” he said with reverence.

  She had been, certainly one of the most beautiful women Hy had ever seen. In death, she was a chalky white, with bruises and abrasions on her face that looked to have come from the barnacles on the pilings. Her gown, a brown cotton with little pink flowers, was torn in a few places on the skirt, and one of the shoulders appeared to have struck something hard enough to rip the fabric and gouge the skin underneath.

  “How was she lying when you picked her up?”

  “Face up. The bartender had laid her out of two planks of wood.“

  Leonard put his hands one on top of the other and compressed her chest; nothing came out of her mouth.

  “Help me turn her on her side,” he said.

  She was stiff, and it was like turning a rubbery board.

  “I’m no expert but, based on her condition, I’d say she probably hasn’t been out there longer than a day,” Leonard said with a grunt as he struggled to angle her head. Barely a trickle of water came from her open mouth. “Was she moved around a lot after being taken from the river?”

  “I don’t know,” Hy said. “But I wouldn’t think so.” He hesitated and then added. “The man who found her put her in the saloon’s icehouse.”

  “How long was she in there?”

  Hy did the rough math in his head. “I guess about six hours.”

  “Ah, that explains why she’s in such good shape.”

  For all Mick Flannigan’s callous threats to throw the body back in if nobody claimed her, he’d locked the icehouse door so people didn’t start treating the corpse as a carnival side show.

  “Well, even if they’d moved her around some I would expect more water to come out of her than this,” Leonard said. He left her face down and looked up at Hy, shrugging. “At least that’s how it usually goes with drowning victims.” He glanced down, did a double-take, and then leaned close to her head and squinted. “Hmm, what do we have here?” He parted the hair to expose an ugly lump with a cut in it. “That’s a big goose egg.”

  “Could that have happened after she died?” Hy asked.

  “I don’t know about post- and antemortem contusions and how to tell the difference.” He saw Hy’s confused expression. “That just means before or after death bruises and how they’re different.” He leaned closer to the lump, spreading the hair. “If you know what you’re doing then—hello, what’s this?” He bent so close that Hy couldn’t see anything but the back of his head.

  “What’s what?” he asked.

  “Take a gander at this, Detective.” Leonard pulled the fine hairs away from the nape of her neck, right where the hairline began.

  It was Hy’s turn to squint, and then grimace when he realized what he was looking at. “Is that a hole? What would make that?”

  Leonard pressed his fingers against the skin beside the hole, and the edges of the wound opened.

  “Jaysus,” Hy whispered, staring. “That looks like something a knife would make.”

  Leonard nodded, his expression grim. “I don’t think this was a suicide, Detective.”

  Hy stared at the wound, knowing what Lightner would say if he were here.

  He turned to the waiting man. “I think you’ll need to disturb Doc Kirby’s holiday celebrations after all, Mr. Leonard.”

>   CHAPTER 19

  By the time Jasper made it back home it was nearing five o’clock.

  He had hoped not to be out and about so late on such a chaotic day, but he’d wanted to wait for a patrolman to arrive at Miss Martello’s before he’d taken his leave.

  After Patrolman Flynn showed up, Jasper had needed to spend longer than he’d liked explaining what it was that he wanted from the younger man, who was obviously a bit simple.

  Once he was back in the safety of his blissfully empty house, Jasper decided to spend what remained of the day going through the names in Frumkin’s book and finding addresses and occupations for the people listed. He was aided in his work by Trow’s City Directory, a veritable treasure trove of information.

  The city directory was compiled annually and boasted that it was the oldest directory of its kind, and also the most thorough.

  It should have taken no time at all to find either work or home addresses for everyone in the book. Unfortunately, he was working more slowly than usual thanks to the periodic booms and blasts that seemed to come from all directions, some so loud they rattled the doors and windows. Thus far the list included a jeweler, a doctor, a dentist, an actor, several socialites, an insurance agent, a lawyer—not Richards or Cranston—a mannequin, a ship captain, an accountant, a milliner, a gas fitter, a city health inspector, a customs agent, and on and on.

  Frumkin had been an equal-opportunity extortionist.

  Jasper had also come across two names that weren’t listed in the thick, red clothbound book.

  According to Mr. H. Wilson—the man who compiled the city directory—the people who didn’t wish to be included in the directories generally had criminal or nefarious motivations for avoiding the yearly city census.

  Jasper had to agree with Mr. Wilson’s rather testy assumption, and moved those two names up to the top of his list of people to investigate after he’d finished with Frumkin’s tenants and Vogel.

  He’d also decided that it would be interesting to talk to some of the oldest names on the list to see if Frumkin ever removed his hooks from any of the people he’d been extorting, or if it was a lifelong leeching.

  Once Jasper finished looking up the last name in the book, he sat back in his chair and rubbed his dry, gritty eyes. He put aside the mind-boggling number of potential murderers and considered the patrolman he’d left at Miss Martello’s earlier today—Myron Flynn.

  Jasper wasn’t concerned that Flynn couldn’t keep newspapermen from bothering the woman—he was as big as a bloody ox—but he was worried Flynn mightn’t stay the course.

  Not only had Flynn appeared a bit slow, but he’d also seemed anxious and edgy. Jasper could easily imagine the man getting frightened by the fireworks booming or all the crowds milling around him and wandering off.

  Flynn’s presence wouldn’t have been necessary if Davies wasn’t insisting on reports that he couldn’t keep secure.

  Jasper scowled at the thought. Doing his job was already hard enough with all the political turmoil, but the need to protect information from one’s own coworkers was beyond maddening.

  This case—with all the names in the black book—was a disaster waiting to happen.

  It was more than a little ironic that, even with all that information, he really had nothing of any use to go on. The truth of the matter was that over a hundred people had good reason to want Frumkin dead.

  He’d never had a case like it before.

  It’s a challenge, Jasper. You like those, don’t you?

  He did enjoy a challenge, but this was something beyond that.

  All he knew was that December seventeenth was the last day Frumkin’s servants had seen him. But the Spirit of Freedom hadn’t set sail until the twentieth. Where had Frumkin spent those three days? Already cut up in a box somewhere?

  Jasper took off his reading spectacles and set them on the table before rubbing his eyes. He was tired, but it was barely ten o’clock, and he was too restless to go to bed.

  He poured himself a drink from the fresh bottle of port Paisley had left for him and took his glass to look out the double French doors that were usually open onto the back terrace, but were closed tonight.

  Even though he was wearing only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, it was still unpleasantly muggy with the doors shut.

  So he opened one just a crack.

  The sounds of explosions and revelry were louder outside, and he could see colorful flashes of light in several directions. His neighbors were quiet, but there was more than enough activity on Fourteenth and Fourth.

  Jasper sighed and pushed the door open enough to step outside. He sat on the small bench that faced his garden. Paisley had hired a gardener when he’d engaged the other servants, but his valet possessed a green thumb and liked to work in the dirt himself. Jasper had seen Paisley pottering around in the early morning, before the heat became too oppressive.

  The night air was surprisingly redolent with the last of the year’s roses, but the floral scent was mixed with the smell of smoke.

  Jasper sniffed and frowned. It wasn’t only the odor of sulfur and bonfires, but the heavier, dirtier smoke that came from a building that was on fire.

  As if on cue, the faint clanging of a fire bell penetrated the night.

  Fire.

  Jasper stepped back inside and closed the door, locking it before depositing his glass on his desk and heading for the foyer. The front of the house looked out over Fourteenth and Fourth, which had been teeming with revelers all day long. Perhaps on the front stoop he’d be able to see if—

  Jasper was just reaching for the door handle when somebody pounded on the door with the bronze knocker.

  He unlocked the door and gawked at the ragged pair on the stoop. “Good Lord! What happened? C-C-Come in,” he added, taking a step back and opening the door wider.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but the servant entrance was locked and I’m afraid I’ve lost my keys.” Paisley—disheveled and hatless—was leaning heavily on Mrs. Freedman’s far smaller frame.

  Jasper slid an arm under Paisley’s free shoulder. “C-Come along to the small sitting room,” he said.

  It was a room Jasper had only been inside once, when he’d inspected the building after moving in. He recalled there was a good-sized settee in the room. Also, it was on the ground floor so they would not need to climb stairs.

  “I’m going to run to the kitchen, my lord,” Mrs. Freedman said, heading toward the narrow doorway and corridor that led to the servant areas. “I want to get my medicine box.”

  “You should lock the door, my lord,” Paisley said, the strain in his voice apparent. “I’ll wait here.” The valet leaned against a wall that was covered with cream silk, something Jasper had heard him scolding servants not to touch. The action told Jasper better than any words just how distracted Paisley must be.

  After locking the door, they limped down the hall together.

  “Are you in much p-pain?” Jasper asked, not that he could imagine Paisley admitting it.

  “No, sir. I think I’ve just sprained my ankle.”

  Jasper opened the door, not bothering to close it as he took Paisley toward the settee.

  Paisley gave a slight grunt as he sat. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Here,” Jasper took some cushions off the other sofa. “Lean back and put your foot up.”

  Now his valet looked in pain. “Really, sir, you needn’t wait on me. I shall be—”

  “Oh, do leave off, Paisley. I’m going to help you b-because there is n-n-nobody else here. Never fear, I am in no great r-r-rush to play n-nurse. N-Now, lie back and feet up,” he ordered. He tucked a cushion under his grumbling employee’s head and another two beneath his injured foot. “There, comfortable?”

  “Yes, my lord, thank you.” He was lying as rigid as a board, wearing an equally stiff expression of displeasure.

  Jasper glanced around the room and saw the ubiquitous tray of decanters. Knowing Paisley, whatever was in them would be
as fresh as what was in the library. While they might not use this sitting room, his valet would never leave it less than well stocked. He poured a glass of brandy—Paisley didn’t seem the sort to appreciate bourbon—and took the glass back to the settee.

  “Here.”

  Paisley frowned at his outstretched hand and opened his mouth as if to argue.

  “Paisley.”

  He sighed and took the glass. “Thank you, my lord.” He sounded as if somebody had squeezed the words from his lungs.

  “If you are in a gr-gr-great deal of p-pain you could try one of my madak cigars?” The opium cigars could ease any discomfort quickly.

  “That won’t be necessary, my lord.”

  Jasper brought a chair closer so his valet wouldn’t have to crane his neck. “So, tell me what happened.”

  Paisley rested the untouched glass on his chest, his face showing more emotion than Jasper had seen in years, mainly anger and irritation.

  “I mentioned that I was escorting Mrs. Freedman and the boy down to the Battery?”

  Jasper nodded, even though he didn’t recall being told any such thing. He had to bite his lower lip; it tickled him to imagine his stuffy valet with the equally starchy freedwoman and a light-fingered street urchin.

  “It was a dreadful crush—both on the journey down to the Battery and back, as well as during the fireworks show. And of course the weather—” He shuddered. “Some of the shops were open when we were coming back, and I saw a sign for Thwaits.” The skin over his razor-sharp cheekbones flushed. “Mrs. Freedman and the boy had never had one, so I stopped to purchase three bottles. The line was long and, just before I got to the clerk, I heard an eerie sound,” he frowned. “It put me in mind of the stories you hear about banshees.”

  Given Paisley’s heritage he’d probably heard such tales at the knee of a grandparent. Although a young Paisley, Jasper had to admit, was all but impossible to conjure.

  “It seemed as if every single person in the shop turned as one—just like the tide—and swept out into the street, bearing me along with them. A veritable horde of men armed with sticks and clubs and rocks had parted the crowd.” His eyes flickered to Jasper. “I believe it might have been some of the same men your lordship encountered last month.”