Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “Gangs, then.”

  Paisley nodded, absently lifting his glass and taking a sip. “I heard several people shouting the name Plug Uglies. In any event, they were coming from the direction of Bowery Street, which is where we had been headed, hoping to find an omnibus on that line since those on Broadway had stopped running because the streets were too crowded. The three of us hastily turned about and tried to head back east. Although Broadway was a dreadful crush, it was revelers, not gang members.” He swallowed. “We’d gone a good six blocks when we encountered several police officers surrounded by men dressed in fireman clothing.” He glanced at Jasper. “But they were not behaving like firemen.”

  “No, that’s another g-gang. Er, the Atlantic G-G-Guard—or maybe R-Roach Guard.” Jasper needed to spend some time learning about the various New York gangs when he had a spare moment. “Where is J-John?” Jasper asked.

  Paisley grimaced. “I’m afraid we got separated, my lord. We had just managed to get past the fighting policemen, firemen, and gangs when a clutch of boys stopped us. It appeared they knew John. When Mrs. Freedman and I tried to move along, the boys attacked us.” Paisley’s mild features shifted into an expression of disgust. “They attacked a woman, my lord.”

  “Did they hurt her?”

  Paisley’s thin lips twitched and Jasper stared. Was that a smile?

  “It was the other way round, actually.” Paisley gave a soft snort that almost sounded like a chuckle. “She carries a rather large, er, well, I suppose you’d call it a reticule or purse, which she’d brought food in. She beat the lads holding John while I held back the others. John didn’t want to leave us, and we had to shove the boy—make him run—after he got free.” This time a genuine smile curved his usually stern mouth. “John did his best to lure them off, but I think it was Mrs. Freedman’s bag that really did the trick. She had an empty jug in it. It was rather heavy, but she refused to allow me to carry it,” he added hastily, lest Jasper believe that his gentlemanly servant had not offered to carry a lady’s burden.

  Jasper laughed at the imagery of the small woman beating back street urchins. “How is it that—”

  Paisley pushed himself up and his eyes slid over Jasper’s shoulder.

  Jasper stood, turned, and saw the cook balancing a large tea tray along with a cloth bag tucked beneath one arm.

  He hurried toward her. “Let me,” he said.

  She opened her mouth, doubtless to argue.

  “I insist, Mrs. Freedman. I shall set it down while you look at Mr. Paisley.” He took the tray. “I know how to m-m-make tea,” he assured her when she moved toward the tea service rather than Paisley.

  Truly, the stubborn woman was a fine match for his valet.

  “It’s already steeping, my lord. I know how strong you like it,” she said, a slight emphasis on the word know.

  He smiled and set the tray on a nearby table and then leaned over the back of the chair he’d been sitting in to watch the entertainment.

  Paisley gave him a frantic, pleading look. “But … my lord—you’ve gone to medical school. Surely you could—”

  “You know the only b-b-bodies I’m accustomed to examining are dead ones. Besides, I’m afraid I m-m-missed the week on ankles, old man. I daresay Mrs. Freedman has m-m-more relevant experience.”

  Paisley glared at him while he shoved himself up into a seated position, staring up at the diminutive woman with apprehension.

  “Lay back, Mr. Paisley—as you were,” she ordered. “Put your ankle up here.” She gestured to the cushions Jasper had piled.

  Paisley hesitated. “It’s not necessary. I’m quite—”

  Mrs. Freedman made a soft hissing sound.

  Paisley’s jaw dropped, but he stopped arguing.

  When Mrs. Freedman bent as if to pick up his foot, he hastily lifted it onto the cushion.

  She sat on the sofa beside his knee and Paisley almost levitated off the settee when her hip pressed against his leg.

  Jasper grinned as Mrs. Freedman began to unbutton Paisley’s impeccably polished black leather ankle boot.

  His valet was a slender but wiry man of medium build. Jasper wouldn’t have called him either attractive or unattractive, but rather nondescript. He had light brown hair he kept cut unfashionably short, was clean-shaven—for all his nagging that Jasper needed to sport facial hair—and had a pale, narrow face with small, even features. His most noticeable characteristic was his dignity, which was currently taking a bashing under Mrs. Freedman’s competent hands.

  “It’s swollen,” the woman muttered, removing the boot.

  Paisley grimaced and became even paler.

  “How d-did you injure it?” Jasper asked, hoping to distract him.

  “Er, I—”

  “He jumped on one of the boys who were yankin’ on my satchel,” Mrs. Freedman said. She turned to put Paisley’s boot on the floor and glanced up at Jasper. “The boy had my arm and might have broken it if Mr. Paisley hadn’t stopped him.”

  Stark streaks of red appeared on Paisley’s cheeks. “Er, but—”

  “He rescued me at his own expense in other words.”

  Paisley’s expression was one of utter mortification. “But I did not save your satchel.”

  Mrs. Freedman smirked at Jasper before turning back to the valet’s foot and reaching up his trouser leg to remove his stocking.

  The whites of Paisley’s eyes were visible and he looked like a startled horse. “Oh, I say! That’s not—”

  “Hush, Mr. Paisley,” Mrs. Freedman ordered.

  Jasper snorted but quickly covered it with a cough.

  The narrow-eyed look Paisley gave him told Jasper that his attempt to cover up his laugh was less than successful.

  “I’m afraid John hasn’t r-returned,” Jasper said, once he was sure he could open his mouth without guffawing like a twelve-year-old.

  “That boy will be fine,” Mrs. Freedman said. “He knows the city like the back of his hand, my lord.” She leaned close to Paisley’s ankle, which was fish-belly white and puffy. She carefully rotated his foot, ignoring Paisley’s harsh gasp. “Well, I don’t think any bone is broken, but there are all kinds of things in ankles, and maybe something tore.” She stood and turned from the foot to stare at Paisley. “I do know that you need to stay off it and ice it to bring down the swelling.”

  Paisley began to shift, as if to stand.

  “I’ll get some ice after I fix your tea, Mr. Paisley.” She wasn’t smiling, but her hazel eyes glinted with amusement. Jasper suspected she was enjoying the stiff valet’s mortification. “I’ll bring you blankets and bedding and fetch your night clothes from your room.”

  Paisley gasped, his jaw sagging.

  Mrs. Freedman paid him no mind. “You might as well sleep down here,” she said, putting a strainer over a teacup. “There’s no point in climbin’ up and down three flights of stairs.”

  Paisley’s eyes threatened to roll out of his head. “Oh, but that’s not—”

  “Unless you want his lordship to carry you,” Mrs. Freedman added.

  Paisley glanced at Jasper, who merely raised his eyebrows.

  His valet frowned. “Er, well. I suppose I shall be comfortable enough here.”

  Jasper grinned; watching the woman manage his prickly, awkward valet so easily was far more entertaining than watching a fireworks display.

  “My lord?” The cook gestured to the cup of tea she’d just poured.

  “Er, n-not for me,” Jasper said, straightened up and glancing at the clock. “I’m f-f-for bed.”

  Paisley jolted. “But, my lord—” His eyes darted around the room, as if there might be something he could use to stop Jasper from leaving him. “There is nobody to assist you. Thomas won’t be back until morning, and I—”

  Jasper laughed. “I’m sure I can undress m-m-myself for one night, Paisley.” He smiled down at the obviously agitated man. “You just get some r-r-rest and do what Mrs. Fr-Freedman tells you to do,” he added stern
ly. “If I become c-c-confused or get lost in my dressing room I shall ring for instructions.”

  He heard a suspicious snorting sound come from the direction of the tea tray.

  “Good n-n-night, Mrs. Freedman.”

  “Good night, my lord.”

  Paisley shot him a please don’t leave me alone with her look.

  Jasper ignored it. “I shall leave y-you in Mrs. F-Freedman’s capable hands.”

  As Jasper headed toward the stairs, somebody knocked on the foyer door.

  A wave of relief rolled over him; it could only be John, at this hour.

  Jasper unlocked the door for a second time. “Detective Law,” he said rather stupidly.

  The towering man looked uncomfortable. “Sorry to come by so late, sir.”

  “Come in,” Jasper said.

  Law removed his hat and stepped inside.

  “Mrs. Freedman has just made some tea. Would—”

  “I won’t stay long, sir. I, er, just wanted to let you know that Miss Fowler was found.”

  Found.

  “Dead?” he asked, hoping he was wrong.

  Law nodded. “And it looks like she’s been murdered, sir.”

  CHAPTER 20

  July 5

  “I suppose you find this amusing, my lord.”

  Jasper didn’t think Captain Davies was asking a question.

  “I got this message at my home last night.” He tossed the offending missive onto his desk. “You sent O’Malley to handle the Brinkley matter?”

  “He n-needs to learn investigatory techniques sometime.”

  “Not when there is five hundred dollars at stake.” Davies was squawking loudly enough to be heard three floors down. “What, exactly, was vague about me ordering you to put aside the Frumkin case to handle Brinkley’s request?”

  “I’m here to instruct policemen on the s-subject of investigation. Sometimes that means d-d-delegation,” Jasper said. Not to mention his job description didn’t include dognapping.

  Davies practically vibrated with rage. “Not when I tell you to handle it personally. Today, immediately after you leave this office, you are going over to Brinkley’s. He’s expecting you. You, my lord. Not O’Malley, not Law, not anyone else. You.”

  Davies had sent a message summoning Jasper at five thirty that morning. Jasper had known just from reading Davies’s terse order that the man was livid.

  But then so was Jasper.

  “Did you read the r-r-report I left on your desk on the third?” Jasper asked.

  Davies scowled at him. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of it, my lord, but that evening was a bit chaotic. I’m afraid I had my hands full of more important matters than reports. Where is it?” He glanced around the room as if it might be lurking in a corner.

  “I left it on your desk.” Jasper repeated.

  “Well, I didn’t find anything this morning.”

  Jasper didn’t think he was lying; why would he?

  “Somebody did, sir.”

  Davies eyes narrowed dangerously. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Somebody found my report and sold the information about Jessica Martello and Frumkin’s murder. The only p-p-place they could have gotten their information was from the report you requested.”

  Davies leapt to his feet. “Are you accusing me of selling information to the newspapers?”

  “Somebody here did,” he said again.

  Davies’s face was so red Jasper thought he might be suffering some sort of cardiac episode.

  “I lock my door when I leave,” Davies said, making an obvious effort not to scream at Jasper.

  “It was unl-l-locked when I dropped off the report.” Jasper didn’t mention Billings because he didn’t want to get the man into trouble.

  Davies had no immediate answer, and they stared at each other like a pair of alley cats.

  It was the captain who broke the unpleasant silence. “Detective Law left a message on my desk—which I found—about a second murder in the Frumkin case?”

  “Yes, Miss Anita Fowler.”

  “One of Frumkin’s extortion victims?”

  “We believe so.”

  Davies chewed his lip for a moment, and then said, “I had a message from Sergeant Mulcahy, too, saying that you asked to have a patrolman stationed outside of Frumkin’s daughter’s house. Why?”

  “She was being hounded by n-n-newspapermen after the article.”

  “So? Putting a man outside her house is a bit excessive, isn’t it?”

  “I felt it was the l-l-least we could do as the information was leaked from our st-station.”

  Davies’s jaw clenched until Jasper could see the individual muscle striations. “We aren’t in the business of protecting damsels from newspapermen, Lightner.”

  “So you had the p-p-patrolman taken off the job?” Jasper demanded, his temper spiking.

  “No, I didn’t! And don’t you ever take that tone with me.”

  Jasper ignored the threat. “I just spoke to Detective L-L-Law downstairs. He said that when he went to relieve the patrolman this morning the officer was already gone.”

  “Well, it wasn’t me. Who was the copper?”

  “Myron Fl-Fl-Flynn.”

  Davies rolled his eyes. “Christ. Who the hell gave you Flynn?” He raised a hand before Jasper could speak. “Never mind. Mulcahy.” He sighed.

  When Jasper heard that Flynn had gone missing, he’d sent Law back to check on Miss Martello and drive off any loitering newspapermen, even though the detective hadn’t seen any around when he’d gone to replace the patrolman.

  He felt bad about palming the unpleasant task off on Law, but with Davies all but frothing at the mouth to yell at him, Jasper hadn’t had any choice.

  He would head directly over to Elm Street after this idiocy with Davies and—yet again—apologize to the unfortunate woman for going back on his word. He could only hope she had not spent the evening fending off newspapermen.

  “Detective Inspector?”

  Jasper realized Davies had been speaking. “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “I asked about this new body Law mentioned. He said she was found in the river—that sounds more like a jumper to me.”

  Jasper thought about what Law had said—about the head puncture. But until Jasper had a talk with Kirby himself, he’d keep the details to himself.

  “Er, yes, sir. The b-body was found floating near a saloon called Flannigan’s. Law brought the corpse to Bellevue, but apparently D-D-Doctor Kirby was out of the city l-last night, so w-w-we have no report from him yet.”

  Davies grunted and chewed the inside of his cheek. “It’s damned unfortunate that information about Martello made its way into the papers.”

  Jasper gaped; was that an almost-apology?

  “I’ll talk to Billings today about it. I’ll also have the janitor take a look at my door.” Davies narrowed his eyes, as if daring Jasper to say more on the subject. When he didn’t, the captain continued, “Was this Fowler woman a suspect? Maybe she killed Frumkin and then killed herself because she was afraid of discovery?”

  Jasper didn’t comment on the ridiculous theory. “I believe Fr-Frumkin was extorting money from her, so she was certainly on my l-l-list of people with a reason to want him d-d-dead.”

  Davies perked up. “You have a list—who are the others?”

  Rather than laugh, Jasper said, “Too m-many people had good reason to kill him, sir. Frumkin was extorting dozens of p-p-people”

  Davies shoved a hand through his sparse salt-and-pepper hair and pulled, grimacing at the self-inflicted pain. “How many people?”

  “Over a hundred.”

  “Jesus. H. Christ.”

  “His is one of the f-f-few names not mentioned on the list,” Jasper said drily.

  Davies, who’d still been standing and glowering, slumped into his chair. “The names—these people—are they—”

  “Some are quite well known.”

  Davies groaned.
“Fine,” he said after a pregnant pause. “Keep on this. But, I want you to go over to Brinkley’s house first thing. It won’t take long—he just wants to talk to you.” For the first time ever, Jasper heard a pleading note in the irascible Welshman’s voice. “Just do this, all right? Just—just reassure the man and see if he has anything that might help finding the dog. Then you can put O’Malley to following up on whatever you find.” His cheeks turned a dull shade of red. “Look here, Lightner, I can see that you’re thinking it’s just the reward.”

  Jasper raised an eyebrow.

  “Brinkley is an extremely rich and powerful man. Among his many interests are the leases he holds on four piers over in the Seventh. I received an abrupt message from Tammany Hall about this.” He swallowed with an audible gulp. “Tweed himself.”

  “Tweed? Isn’t he some sort of p-politician?” Jasper should have been ashamed of the disingenuous question, but he wanted to hear what Davies had to say about the man who supposedly controlled a large part of the city.

  “You could call him that, but he’s, well, he’s a good deal more and wields a lot of influence in the city. He runs the Seventh Ward and—let’s just put it this way—Tweed is not a man to ignore. When he asks for something, he’s not really asking.”

  Jasper wanted to laugh. The south end of the island was being consumed by riots, the police were openly associating with gangs, and yet searching for a rich man’s dog was a top priority for one of the city’s most powerful politicians.

  Just think how proud the duke will be when he reads about this case. I can see the headline in the London Times already: Jasper Lightner, Canine Detective.

  Jasper ignored the laughing, mocking voice in his head and pushed himself out of his chair. “Very well, I shall go speak to Brinkley d-directly.”

  For the first time since Jasper met the man, Davies smiled at him.

  CHAPTER 21

  James Brinkley had spared no expense when it came to the construction of his Fifth Avenue mansion.