Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  Powell stared at him, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  Jasper pointed to tiny scrolling on the saw handle. “What does that say?”

  Powell stared and leaned over, his chest moving faster. When he sat up, he was pale. “Those are my initials, because that is my saw.”

  Her turned over the other saw, which had identical scrolling.

  Powell goggled. “That’s the saw that Beauchamp—er, Frumkin—took.

  Lightner frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask him.” Powell pointed to Law.

  Jasper saw that his detective’s face was beet red. “Er, he’s right, sir. I’m sorry, but Powell did tell me that Frumkin took a saw from him when he started extorting money.” The younger man looked miserable. “Sorry, sir,” he repeated.

  Jasper didn’t blame the younger man—there were so many maddening details and suspects in this case it was perfectly understandable to forget things.

  “Tell us about the Fourth of J-July?” he asked Powell.

  Powell appeared genuinely confused. “Why are you asking me about the Fourth? I thought Anita died on the night of the third.”

  “Answer the question, p-please.”

  “What time on the Fourth? After the coppers let me out of the tank I went home, cleaned up, and got some sleep. Later on I was out a good part of the day and night. I drank, I ate, I watched the fireworks with Harold and Mrs. Stampler. I worked in my shop—on that cat the detective saw me cleaning.” He scratched his head and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Look, I drank a lot, all right? I don’t remember specific times. It was a holiday and I celebrated. Ask Harold. He’d have seen me out there—hell, he might even have joined me and I just don’t remember. Oh, wait—” Powell snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. Harold heard me yelling at my lock because I couldn’t see well enough to get the key into it. He’d know what time I came home. He always watches me like a hawk when I’m at home. So does the old lady. But why do you care? Wasn’t Anita already dead by then?” His voice broke when he said the woman’s name.

  “Do you know a woman named Jessica Martello?”

  Powell frowned. “Know her? No. I heard about her—like everyone else in the city, when I read the paper on the Fourth. Why?” He sat up straighter, his eyes flickering back and forth. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Are you sure you d-don’t know her?”

  “Yeah, Inspector, I’m sure.”

  Jasper pointed to the older of the two saws. “Where do you think I f-found your saw?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jasper reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, which he opened on the table.

  Powell leaned close to scrutinize it without being asked. He looked up shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your saw was found in Miss Martello’s apartment with blood, bits of bone, and Mr. Albert Frumkin’s hair on the blade.

  This time when Powell got up, Law was beside his chair in a heartbeat. He set a massive hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “Sit down, Doctor,” he said, his expression hard and menacing.

  “This is madness,” Powell said, looking from one of them to the other, his blue eyes flickering frantically between them.

  Law pushed on Powell’s shoulder, and he dropped bonelessly down in his chair. Rather than appear wild, as he’d done earlier, he looked defeated.

  Jasper unrolled the last of the cloth, exposing several far more delicate implements.

  Powell stared at the intaglio tools, and then at Jasper. “What?” he demanded.

  “Where did you g-get these?”

  “Those aren’t mine.”

  “I know that,” Jasper admitted.

  “So why are you asking me?”

  “I found them in your shop.”

  Powell’s eyes bulged. “That’s a bloody lie!”

  Jasper turned over one of the tools and pointed to the initials carved into the wooden handle: J.M. “These tools belonged to Jessica Martello,” he said.

  Powell’s face spasmed: disbelief, shock, horror, and fury among the myriad emotions. “I’ve never seen those in my life. I swear to God.”

  “They were in your shop,” Jasper repeated.

  Powell stared. “Why is this happening to me?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “What the hell does any of this mean?”

  Jasper didn’t tell him that he was asking himself the very same question.

  CHAPTER 33

  Law’s forehead was resting on his desk. “I don’t understand.” The last word was mangled by a giant yawn.

  Jasper chuckled. “Neither do I,” he admitted. “We need to get over to the Ninth and check Powell’s alibi, and we also need to talk to the Stamplers about the time they sp-sp-spent with Powell on the Fourth.”

  Law looked up and nodded somewhat dazedly.

  “If what P-Powell says is true, he couldn’t have killed Miss Fowler if he was in a bar f-f-fight or holding cell when she l-l-left the Adelphia after eleven. Which brings us back to the saw—Powell’s saw—in her lodgings.”

  Law’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t understand. Why do we need to talk to the Stamplers about the Fourth?” Before Jasper could answer him, the younger man’s eyes widened. “Do you think Powell might have gone over there that night and killed Martello? Because her tools were in his stuffer shack?”

  Jasper opened his mouth.

  “So you think Martello did kill her father and then Powell killed her and made it look like a suicide and left a saw with his own initials and Frumkin’s hair there for us to find? But wait—if what Fowler says in her diary is true, then it was Vogel who killed Frumkin.” His forehead wrinkled and he groaned. “If he didn’t kill Frumkin, then why were his gloves there and why would he have paid her any money? Could those diaries be fakes that somebody—maybe Powell—planted? But then why—” Law gave a tortured moan, “Ugh,” and dropped his head onto the table with a dull thunk.

  Jasper couldn’t help chuckling. “Those are good questions.” He took out the 1856 diary and flipped to near the end. “Look here—what do you see?”

  Law lifted his head and squinted at the pages Jasper held open. “Um, December fifteenth.”

  Jasper nodded and flipped the page.

  Law pushed up onto his elbows and pulled the diary toward him, flipping through a few pages before looking up. “December sixteenth through the twenty-first are missing.” He picked up the book and peered at the spine. This time, when he looked up, his eyes were wide. “They’ve been removed.”

  “Yes. I’ve not had a l-lot of time to look, but it’s clear there are pages m-m-missing in this year’s diary, as well. Look at June,” he said. “There are six days missing and it looks like pages were removed again.”

  “You think somebody cut stuff out and then planted the diary?” Hy guessed. “So it would look bad for Vogel?”

  “Or Powell. Or perhaps both. Either w-w-way, I think these books were with her in her hotel r-r-room that n-night.”

  “The third bag.” Law smacked his forehead with his palm. “I feel like an idiot for forgetting that.”

  “The m-maid was correct—and even Powell mentioned three. Why would a p-p-person who wrote in a diary almost every d-d-day leave them behind? And recall that she wrote in it that n-n-night. And then there is Vogel’s glove. If she were t-t-trading the glove for money, why leave the glove behind?”

  “Maybe Vogel left the money one place and had to go to another to find his glove? In this case, her apartment. But why would she leave her diaries with the glo—”

  “Inspector?”

  Law and Jasper looked up to find O’Malley in the office doorway, his posture hesitant.

  Jasper was about to ask the younger man to wait a moment, but then decided it might be wise to give their case—which more and more resembled a game of musical chairs—a rest.

  He smiled. “Ah, come in, P-Patrolman. You’re a m-m-man I wished to see.”
<
br />   The young copper looked pleased by his words and came into the office but remained standing.

  “Have a seat, Patrolman,” Jasper said, gesturing to one of the other two desk chairs. “You l-look like you have something to report?”

  “Er, yes sir. Well, it’s about Mister Waggers.”

  It amused Jasper to hear the young man say the ridiculous name. “Oh? Do continue.”

  O’Malley took out his notebook, cutting a quick glance at Jasper, as if seeking approval.

  Jasper smiled encouragingly. He’d instructed the young man to purchase a notebook and then put it to use. It appeared he had done so. That was more than some of the other so-called detectives at the Eighth did.

  “I was talkin’ to one of the grooms from Mr. Brinkley’s house,” he paused. “Er, that’s a servant who looks after Mr. Brinkley’s horses and carriages—”

  “Good Gawd, O’Malley,” Law said with an embarrassed glance at Jasper. “He knows what a groom is because he’s got one.”

  O’Malley’s face turned crimson, and Jasper felt for the younger man.

  “It’s quite all right, Detective. Patrolman O’Malley is m-m-merely being thorough. D-Do go on, Patrolman.”

  O’Malley turned back to his book. “He has four carriages at his house here and another four at his summer home in the Valley. And he’s got so many horses his groom said he’d lost count.”

  Jasper nodded, and then wished he hadn’t; his head was pounding like a war drum.

  “Er, the groom mentioned that a dog had disappeared from one of the houses across the street.”

  “That sounds promising,” Jasper said, although not for the neighbor’s dog, of course. He paused, and then said, “That is an exceptionally f-f-forthcoming groom you’ve met, Patrolman.” If Clark were so loose-lipped, Paisley would sack him without hesitation.

  O’Malley nodded vigorously, his longish blond hair flopping on his brow. “He’s real nice. And he’s walkin’ out with a maid who works for Mr. Eldon Britton.” The patrolman realized he’d gone off track and cleared his throat. “Anyhow, Mrs. Britton received a note demanding one hundred dollars if they wanted their dog—er, a Pom—er,” he scratched his head. “Well, I don’t know exactly what kind of dog.”

  “Perhaps a Pomeranian?”

  O’Malley looked pleased. “Yeah, that was it.”

  “And did they pay?” he prodded.

  “Mr. Britton wanted to call the police, but the note said they’d kill the dog. The maid said that Mrs. Britton pitched a fit so they didn’t tell the police and they paid.” He flipped a few pages. “The Brittons were told to use one of their servants to deliver the money to a messenger service, which delivered it to another messenger service. Mr. Britton paid some private detectives to follow them, but they lost the second messenger. I went to both messengers and they said they’d been instructed in a letter from a Mr. John Smith.”

  “Reckon that’s the dognapper’s real name?” Law asked, smirking.

  O’Malley’s expression was suddenly uncertain. “Oh, do you think it’s a false name?”

  Law snorted.

  Jasper gave his waggish detective a quelling look and asked O’Malley, “Is it p-possible the servant they sent is somehow connected to the theft?”

  “I don’t think so, sir, because the letter didn’t say who they had to send.”

  “Good point,” Jasper said.

  O’Malley’s face pinkened at the slight praise. “Anyhow, they found the dog tied to a bench in a nearby park.”

  “Which p-park?”

  O’Malley flipped a few pages. “It was Madison Square.”

  “That is where Miss Brinkley said the servants walked their d-dog.”

  O’Malley nodded. “That’s what Bob—er, Mr. Brinkley’s groom—said. He also said he’s heard about five dogs taken around the area in the past six months.”

  “Very g-good work, Patrolman,” Jasper said, genuinely impressed. “What is your n-n-next step?”

  O’Malley looked startled—and pleased—at being asked. “Well, I was thinkin’—if it’s all right with you—that I should broaden the search a little. If I could talk to servants—maybe just on that block and one more—maybe I can find an owner who hasn’t yet paid. Instead of lookin’ for the person getting the money, I could dress in street clothes and wait at the park for whoever brought back the dog?”

  Jasper smiled. “That’s a jolly good idea, Patrolman. I’d say g-get right on it. Let me give you this.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a piece of paper and an envelope. He quickly dashed off a brief message, signed it, and then took out his card case and extracted one of the new cards Paisley had ordered from the printer—under duress—just a week ago. His servant—a rabid adherent of Debrett’s—had been horrified by the breach in etiquette of including both his honorific and police title on the same card. Jasper had been amused by the man’s reaction, only wishing he’d thought to do the same in England so that his father might have seen one and been equally horrified.

  It was a truly vulgar display. However, these particular calling cards were the paper equivalent to the words “open sesame” when it came to gaining entry into just about any house or business in the city. So, vulgarity be damned.

  He tucked both the letter and the card into the envelope and handed them to O’Malley. “That is a signed explanation of your assignment as well as one of my c-c-cards, should anyone wish for verification.” Jasper smiled. “Please k-k-keep me apprised of your situation.”

  O’Malley grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you, sir.” He nodded and backed out of the office, as if Jasper were an eastern potentate, softly closing the frosted glass door behind him.

  Once he’d gone, Law let out the laughter he’d been—rather unsuccessfully—holding back. “Do you really think he’ll find the dog?”

  “I think he has as g-good a chance as anyone,” Jasper said, putting the matter of the dog and the patrolman out of his mind. “Now, where were—”

  The office door swung open and his youngest servant stood in the opening.

  “J-John, is something the—”

  Davies appeared from behind the door frame, his hand clutching John’s collar. “Is he yours?”

  Jasper looked from John to his captain. “Has he d-done something wrong?” If he had, Jasper might kill the boy himself.

  John scowled up at the captain, and Davies sneered right back. “Not today, but your little gentleman here has a list of prior offenses as long—no—longer than his arm.”

  Jasper ignored the Welshman and turned to John, who looked on the verge of venting. The boy was, Jasper suspected, too agitated to speak. John shoved a hand toward him and Jasper saw he held a piece of paper.

  “Thank you,” he said, stepping forward to take the paper. Before he opened it, he looked down at his superior, whose hand was still on John’s collar. “He is employed by m-m-me, Captain,” he said softly. “And is here to deliver a message. To me.” He stared pointedly at the other man’s hand. Davies glared at him for a long moment, then dropped his hand.

  “I don’t care if he works for the bloody Queen. Keep the light-fingered little bastard out of my station.” He stomped off before Jasper could answer.

  “Pecker,” John muttered.

  Law burst out laughing, and John grinned at the big detective, encouraged.

  Jasper sighed. “John?” he prodded.

  “Oh. Er, M-M-Mister P-P-P-P—” John clenched his teeth together and growled, sounding remarkably like a feral cat. “Sent me,” he finally forced out.

  “Let me read this, and then the detective and I will w-w-walk you out of the station.”

  John slouched against the wall and nodded.

  “It’s a t-t-telegram from the N-New Orleans police,” Jasper said to Law. He read it through once, then again, and then read it out loud:

  Gordon Dupuy only living son of Albert and Martha Dupuy. Stop. Badly burned in housefire in New Orleans 1834. Stop. Confine
d to wheelchair. Stop. Albert and Martha’s bodies identified after fire. Stop. Father-in-law James Chenier also died in fire. Stop. Gordon lives at Caton Oaks Plantation outside Baton Rouge. Stop. Property inherited through maternal grandmother. Stop. All other property, bank accounts, money disappeared after fire. Stop. No record of Albert Lemke or Albert Frumkin. Stop. Captain Milo Martin Sowers, NOPD.

  Jasper looked up.

  “Jaysus,” Law said. “So Frumkin was supposed to be dead?” He grimaced. “I mean before he was actually dead?”

  “So it would s-seem.”

  “Who’s Albert Lemke—oh, wait—that was the name on one of the business cards in the safe? Lemke’s something or other in Baton Rouge.”

  “Lemke’s Butchers. Including the name was j-j-just a hunch I had,” Jasper admitted.

  Law grimaced. “Too many butchers in this case already, if you ask me.”

  Jasper stared absently at John, who was fidgeting, clearly anxious to get out of the range of Captain Davies.

  He folded the telegram and tucked it into his pocket before glancing at his watch: it was just before five. He turned to Law, who was already standing, his expression expectant.

  “Walk down with us, D-Detective. Once I’ve sent John on his way we’ll need a hackney.” He smiled. “I’ll shall share what I have in m-mind on the way to the Ninth Precinct.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Sergeant Frohike of the Ninth Precinct was a small, gaunt man with thick spectacles and a harried expression. “Yeah, sure—we picked up a whole bunch of drunks. But I couldn’t tell you who most of ’em were because we didn’t charge none of ’em.” He frowned at Law. “You know how it is.”

  The big detective nodded. “Who was working that night? Maybe they’ll remember the guy.”

  Frohike snorted and gave Law a look of disbelief. “Yeah, sure.” He flicked through a ledger on the desk and said, “Declan Malloy, Pete Grider, and Norm MacLeish. And no, before you ask, none of ’em are here right now. In fact, Malloy won’t be comin’ back, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, if you want to talk to the other two, come back tomorrow morning—they work together.”