That made Jasper laugh. “Well, not everywhere, clearly, if you’ve l-lost track of her.”
Fury sufficient to raise the temperature in the room boiled off the supine man.
Jasper met the millionaire’s hate-filled gaze. “Let me st-st-state it more simply for you, Mr. Vogel. Even if I did know where she was, I wouldn’t t-t-t-tell you.” He allowed his derision and dislike to show on his face just long enough for Vogel to see it. “I c-can’t think of anything more l-loathsome than a man who would brutalize a woman or child.” The sound of feet came from the corridor and two servants—ridiculously over-liveried in burgundy and gold velvet—hustled into the room.
“I shall k-keep hold of this.” Jasper lifted Vogel’s lead-filled cane and then strode from the room.
“I’m not done with you, Lightner!” Vogel’s voice carried into the corridor. “You’re going to be sorry you ever tangled with me.”
Jasper wasn’t personally concerned about the brutal butcher, but he hoped to God that Helen Vogel was somewhere far beyond his reach.
CHAPTER 29
July 6
Hy stared at the young boy who was perched on a stool polishing silver at a long kitchen counter, frowning as he studied the lad’s sharp, almost catlike features. He knew him from someplace, but he couldn’t remember where.
For his part, the boy was studiously avoiding making eye contact, which told Hy that he recognized him too. Chances were good that they’d met on the job.
Did Lightner know he might have employed a criminal?
A body moved to block his view of the boy, startling him. “More coffee?” Mrs. Freedman asked.
“Oh, yeah, please.” Hy smiled up at the cook, who’d been plying him with food and drink for the past forty minutes.
“Thanks,” he said, glancing at his watch after she’d turned away; it was ten after eight o’clock.
It wasn’t like Lightner to be late. Normally Hy wouldn’t mind—the grub in Lightner’s kitchen was better than any food he’d ever eaten—but he’d not slept all night and was having a time of it keeping his eyes open.
“Mr. Paisley is laid up with a hurt ankle,” Mrs. Freedman said as she placed yet another plate of food on the table, this one heaped with the almond cake the Englishman liked so much.
Hy woke up a little at that news. “Oh, what happened?”
An odd smile flickered across her face. “We got caught in some of the fightin’ on the Fourth.”
We? Hy looked at the woman, but she’d already turned back to whatever she was making.
Well, well, well. Mrs. Freedman and Paisley? Hy smothered a grin at the thought of the lordly valet and the spirited cook.
He took a slice of bread and then added a spoonful of sugar to his coffee before asking oh-so-casually, “Where was that?”
“Comin’ back from the Battery.” She hesitated and then said, “Mr. Paisley, John, and me were down at the big display.”
“Ah,” Hy said, too flummoxed by that information to think of anything else.
So Paisley had been out and about with Mrs. Freedman, had he? There was a jaw-dropper. Although he didn’t know why he was so shocked to think of the man being sweet on a woman.
Hy supposed Paisley was only a few years older than Lightner—maybe forty—but there was something about him that made him seem a lot older. Probably that stick up his arse, for one.
Whatever the reason, it was difficult to imagine the man being interested in female companionship. Still, women probably heard that sharp-as-a-cleaver accent of Paisley’s and buzzed around him like bees to honey.
Hy enjoyed a private smirk at the thought.
“Have you met John?” Mrs. Freedman asked, her slight smile telling Hy she had a pretty good idea what he was thinking.
“Er, no. You new?” he asked the boy.
John gave a sharp nod, and then his eyes slid to Mrs. Freedman, who was staring at him with a cocked eyebrow.
John heaved a sigh. “Aye. J-J-J-J-John Sparrow.”
Hy blinked.
The kitchen door opened and Lightner entered, saving Hy from having to come up with a response.
Lightner wore a distracted smile. “Ah, Detective. S-S-So sorry to have kept you waiting. Good morning, Mrs. Freedman, J-John.”
When the Englishman sat down, Hy could see several bloody spots on his chin and one high on his jaw.
Lightner tracked his gaze. “A bit of a sl-sl-slaughter this morning,” he confessed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I heard Mr. Paisley has a sprained ankle,” Hy said, hoping for more information about that interesting development.
Mrs. Freedman brought over the teapot and a cup and saucer.
Lightner nodded to the cook. “Thank you, Mrs. Freedman.” To Hy he said, “Yes, Paisley is not ambulatory. However, he decided to supervise p-p-poor Thomas to assure he did an adequate job of shaving me. I don’t believe his presence helped m-matters.”
Hy laughed. Yeah, he imagined that Paisley staring at a person wouldn’t help their job performance.
“You look exhausted, D-Detective.”
“I had a bit of an evening.” At Lightner’s questioning look, Hy went on, “Last night I learned Powell was at the Adelphia.”
“Ah, interesting.”
“The desk clerk saw him arguing with Fowler. Well,” Hy amended, “the desk clerk described somebody who looked a lot like Powell. The doorman pretty much described him, too, and also heard her call him Stephen. The doorman said he didn’t know if they went anywhere together, but he saw Fowler come out of the building after eleven and she was by herself. Here—” Hy got out his notebook and passed it to the other man. “Take a look at this.”
Lightner sipped his tea and flipped through the pages, stopping on the simple map Hy had drawn.
“Is that really as cl-close as it seems?” Lightner pointed to the Adelphia and then Sanger’s ship.
“Yes, sir—no more than a few hundred yards.”
“That’s rather interesting,”
“I thought so, too. I talked to the ship’s night watchman, or whatever he’s called, who said Sanger went off with some lawyers both days the ship was at anchor, but that he didn’t remember when he came back.” He frowned. “I’m not sure how much I trust the guy since he smelled like a whiskey still.”
Lightner considered his words for a moment before speaking. “The hotel d-d-doorman never saw her return?”
“No. But he admitted to catching some shuteye whenever things got slow, so she might have come back and he missed her. I got her baggage from the hotel—well, at least I got two bags.” He saw Lightner’s confused look. “The maid said there were three bags in her room, but the desk clerk only had the two. I don’t think the guy took anything. I’m wondering if she took one of the bags with her when she went out later.”
“P-Powell said he helped carry her l-luggage. We’re g-going to need to talk to him again, so we can ask him if he recalls how many bags.”
Hy nodded.
“Did you find anything interesting in her l-luggage?”
“Well, there was no money, but I reckon she would have kept that in her purse. There was a bank deposit booklet and the last entry showed that she’d withdrawn all her money—forty-seven dollars and eighty-six cents. I went through everything, even the lining of the bags and her overcoat, looking for something she might have hidden.” He paused and then reached into his pocket. “I found this in a special pocket in the suitcase.” He lifted up a small velvet bag and then emptied the contents onto the table.
Lightner squinted down at four men’s rings and a tiny key, his forehead furrowed. “It seems l-like I’ve seen this before.” He pointed to a gold ring with a huge red stone.
“You probably saw it on Frumkin’s hand in one of his many portraits. Look at the initials inside.”
Lightner examined the ring. “Good Lord—A.C.B.” He gestured to the others.
“The same initials,” Hy confirmed.
; The inspector sat back hard against his chair, looking poleaxed. Hy knew how he felt.
“I’ve seen all these rings in the various pictures,” Hy said. “Sometimes even two of them at one time.”
“Yes, I recall that now that you’ve m-m-mentioned it.”
“What about that key?” Hy asked while the other man stared blankly at the little pile of jewelry.
Lightner picked up the key, examining it closely. “No m-m-markings, too small to be for a door lock.” He shrugged. “Maybe a strongbox of some s-s-sort.”
“If Fowler had Beauchamp’s rings, maybe the key is his, too?”
“I should think that is a g-good guess, Detective.”
“I don’t remember seeing anything it might have fit in, but we could give his house another look. I guess we should check Fowler’s room again since we got interrupted by Miss Brannen.”
“Yes,” Lightner agreed, his gaze distracted. “We’ll have to look again.” He gave a snort of amazement. “I must admit I d-d-did not see this coming.”
“Me neither.” Hy hesitated and then said, “You reckon she killed him? Maybe along with Powell, and they had a falling out and split whatever they took off him?” Hy groaned. “But if that’s true then why would Miss Martello confess to killing him?”
“I’m not so certain she did.”
“If she didn’t kill him, then somebody would have forced her to write the letter. Why would she do it? And if it was Fowler and Powell, why would they have gone to such trouble? Hell, why would anyone have bothered? You think Martello knew something about Fowler or Powell? Or maybe she was at Frumkin’s at some point and saw something?”
“All good qu-questions, Detective,” Lightner said.
Hy squeezed his temples. “It’s giving me a headache.”
Lightner laughed. “Indeed.”
“Anyhow,” Hy said, fighting a yawn. “I went straight from the hotel over to Frumkin’s place and spent the night watching Powell’s apartment. I figured I should keep an eye on him, just in case he tried to do a runner.”
Lightner smiled. “Excellent th-thinking all around, Detective.”
Hy knew his face would be blushing at the praise. “His lights were on, and I saw him moving around in his lodgings until late—around three thirty—but he never went out. Oh, except he went to his stuffer shack for a few minutes around one, but he didn’t take anything with him or bring anything back.” Hy groaned and Lightner gave him a questioning look. “I can’t believe I didn’t mention this yet,” he explained. “While Powell was in his shack, I decided to go up to the third floor—it has windows overlooking both entrances and the driveway so I could still keep watch on him if he left. Anyhow, I had the key for the padlock, and I wanted to give the place a thorough going over. You’ll never believe what I found beneath one of the stacks of crates that are all over the place up there.”
“Salt?”
Hy barked a laugh. “You really know how to take the wind out of a guy’s sails, sir. I also found some smears of blood—not enough to believe he was killed there,” he added before the other man could ask.
“Somebody m-m-murdered him elsewhere, dismembered him, and then brought the body parts up t-two flights of stairs to pack them up?” Lightner’s tone was more than a little skeptical.
Hy scratched his head. “Yeah, I can’t imagine Mrs. Stampler missing all that interesting activity.”
Lightner laughed. “No, me either.”
“Or maybe she didn’t tell us because she’s the killer,” Hy said, chuckling.
But Lightner didn’t laugh. Instead, he said, “Let’s c-consider that.”
“You’re joking with me. Right?” Hy asked.
Lightner shrugged. “Or perhaps her grandson d-d-did it.”
“Now that I could see,” Hy said. “He loves stuffing dead things and isn’t afraid of blood.” Hy frowned. “But why kill him? They’re not on Frumkin’s list.”
Lightner sighed. “No, they aren’t. I suppose we shouldn’t go looking for more suspects when we already have over a hundred.”
Hy nodded, his mind back on the third-floor room. “Why would salt and blood be up there?”
Lightner just shook his head. “I haven’t a cl-clue.”
“Anyways,” Hy continued, “I sent for O’Malley early this morning and he took my place so I could come here. He knows to follow Powell if he goes anywhere—although I’m guessin’ he’s not goin’ into work after how wrecked he looked yesterday.” When Lightner remained quiet, Hy asked, “Think we got enough to bring Powell in, sir?”
“I do, indeed,” Lightner said. “Why don’t you go home and g-get some sleep—you’re dead on your feet. You can meet me at one o’cl-cl-clock—no, you’d b-better make that two as I have a few matters to take care of.”
Hy sighed with relief. “Thank you, sir.” He’d be bloody lucky to make it home; he might have to ask Mrs. Freedman if he could curl up in a corner of her kitchen. “Er, where should we meet?”
Lightner smiled in a way that made the hairs on Hy’s neck raise up. “We can meet at the Eighth. I shall have the g-g-good doctor brought into the station this morning. Perhaps a few hours in a c-c-cell will persuade him to be more truthful.”
CHAPTER 30
Kirby was just heading out as Jasper entered the basement surgery where he performed all the postmortems.
“Ah, there you are, my lord.” The barrel-shaped giant grinned and held up a few sheets of paper. “I was just going to messenger both of these along to the Eighth.”
Jasper grimaced. He didn’t care to have important documents sent to a station where such things had a tendency to get lost. Or worse, published in a newspaper.
“I had my assistant Leonard make two copies of each report,” Kirby said, chuckling. “I can see by your expression that maybe I should make more.”
“Well, things are r-r-rather up in the air with the department at the moment.”
“Aye, you could say that.”
“In future, if you n-need to contact me, you can send word to Sixteen Union Square.”
Kirby raised his eyebrows, which were as dense as hedgerows. “Nice area, that. So,” he said, his tone turning businesslike. “I’ve got some news on Mr. Beauchamp-slash-Frumkin—shall I do him first?”
Jasper nodded.
“You got here just in the nick of time to take a gander at all three of them, actually,” he said as he waddled over to one of three shrouded bodies, at least one of which was badly decomposing based on the smell. “It was lucky that Leonard thought to put the Fowler woman below an ice drip, but that gets expensive fast, so I left off with it after I did my exam.”
“I understand,” Jasper said.
“I’ve got no next of kin for two of these—well,” he said, scratching his head. “I guess I don’t have one for Beauchamp or Frumkin or whatever his name really is either, now that his daughter is dead.”
“I’m afraid it may t-take time to l-locate any, if they exist.”
“Well, time is one thing the two ladies don’t have.”
Jasper nodded.
“I’m going to send the women over to Randall’s or Ward’s—not sure who’s taking what with that circus going on at Forty-Ninth Street. Is that all right with you?”
“I th-think that is best, Doctor.”
Jasper had read about the mass exhumation fiasco in the New-York Daily Times. According to the article, all the bodies once buried in the cemetery at Forty-Ninth Street and Fourth Avenue were being transferred to the two burial islands to make way for progress.
The process had apparently been dragging on for almost a decade and still drew thousands of gawkers every day, people eager for a look at decayed coffins and exposed skeletons.
Kirby lifted the waxed canvas sheet, exposing a torso. “So, my idea about rehydrating the flesh enough to gain some idea of the trauma didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.”
There were several gelatinous-looking patches on Frumkin’s desiccated tor
so.
“I tried oils, an oil and lye mixture, water, a substance used in soap making called glycerin, and even honey.” Kirby pointed to the various sections as he listed the items.
“Honey?” Jasper leaned closer to examine the results.
Kirby scratched his shaggy gray head. “I’d read something about honey being used as a preservative, so I thought I’d see what happened on something already preserved.” Kirby shrugged, his expression a bit sheepish. “I’ll admit I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’.”
“N-N-Nor would anyone else,” Jasper murmured, taking out his magnifying glass to look at the area of the torso covered with glycerin.
“Glycerin yielded the best result,” Kirby said.
Jasper could see that was true, although the best still gave little idea of what sort of saw had been used.
“So, nothing new there,” Kirby said.
“No, but thank you f-f-for making the effort. Will you t-take a look at the back of the skull, Doctor? Anything under his hair?”
Kirby spread the hair, studying the scalp. He paused and squinted. “There is a bit of hair missing here—and this might have been a bruise or a cut,” he pointed to a tiny spot on the desiccated skin right below the curve of the skull. “What are you looking for?” he asked.
“We found blood and hair on a marble c-c-counter—enough blood to have dr-dripped into a drawer.”
“Well, it’s possible that it came from this, but you can see for yourself …” Kirby trailed off.
The other man was correct: the skin was so desiccated and hard it didn’t even resemble skin any longer.
“Thank you,” he said.
Kirby nodded, replaced the skull, and then pointed to a saw on a white cloth on the marble counter. “This is the saw from Miss Martello’s apartment. Your note asked if this could have done the job on Frumkin. As you already know, we can’t be sure what kind of blade was used. However, take a look at what I got off the saw, my lord.”
Jasper squinted at a small pile of dried flakes of blood, bone chips, and—“Good Lord—is that hair?”
“Yep, red hair.” He flipped over a second cloth to expose a small tuft of red and brown hair. “And this came off Frumkin’s head. Use your nifty glass to compare them.”
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