A stampede.
By the time Dash registered it, he was caught in the current of people. Police horses stood off to the side. The mounted officers blew their whistles to no avail. Bodies jammed against Dash’s back and front. He was pushed into the small body of a young girl, whose height was perfectly aligned to Dash’s stomach. He felt the wind leave his diaphragm. The pain was sharp, and he couldn’t breathe. Another woman shoved his right shoulder, turning him left. Another shove to his left, turning him right. Something caught his legs and before he could stop it, he went down.
Feet pounded the pavement by his head. He placed his palms on the sidewalk, trying to push himself up, but hard wooden soles stepped on his fingers. He cried out in pain and surprise. He brought his hands underneath his chest to protect them from being broken. He turned his body slightly and looked behind him. Above him was a sea of skirts and dresses. Below him, the mass that had entangled his legs turned out to be a woman who had also fallen.
He shouted, “Stop! Stop! You’ll hurt her!”
A shoe kicked his head. The world slid out of focus. Colors and shapes blurred together. He thought he heard his name being called, but it was hard to tell over the cries of others. He felt hands hook themselves underneath his arms. The sea of legs and shoes changed to that of hats and hair. He turned. Joe was speaking to him, but he couldn’t rightly understand him. Nausea overtook him and the world began to spin. The last thing he remembered seeing was Joe yelling to the crowd around them.
29
Dash’s eyes fluttered open. At first, he didn’t recognize the room. Then he saw it was his bedroom and he was lying on the bed. Joe was sitting in the corner, staring at him with concerned eyes. Finn was in the other chair, blowing smoke rings out the opened window overlooking Commerce Street.
At that moment, a truck blared a horn, and the sound was murder on Dash’s head. He sat up and said, “Close that window, will ya, Finn?”
“Look who’s returned to the land of the living,” Finn said as he shut the window.
“Jury is still out on the living part.”
Dash felt coldness on his head and realized an ice pack had been placed there. He reached up and removed it. He said to Joe, “Don’t tell me the other side of my face is now black and blue.”
Joe shook his head. “Just a nasty bump on your head.”
Finn said, “It was utter chaos out there! I heard it was tens of thousands of people who showed up to see my Valentino.”
Joe rolled his eyes. “Finney, they all tried to kill us.”
Finn placed a hand over his own chest. “Such is the power of the world’s greatest lover.”
Joe shook his head and said to Dash, “How ya feelin’, lassie?”
Dash took a deep breath. “I’ve had better days. What happened after I went down?”
“I picked ya up and carried ya off the street. Wasn’t easy with all them Valentino nuts weeping and shrieking. Never heard such noises in all my life. Once I got us to the cross street, I whistled for a cab. Miracle of miracles, we got one before the coppers started shutting everything down.”
“You carried me?”
Finn replied, “Over his shoulder and everything. I saw him coming into the apartment. Such strength. If he wasn’t with you, I’d have found a way to faint so he could pick me up.”
“Finn,” Dash warned. A question popped into his throbbing head. “Why weren’t you at the viewing?”
“I tried, dearie, honest I did, but the crowds were too much. I heard rumor they would have another viewing tomorrow.”
“I see.” Dash looked to Joe. “Did we lose Paul?”
“Aye. Disappeared without a trace. Called the construction place. He never came back. Went to his apartment while you were sleeping. Marjorie hasn’t seen him neither.”
“Damn.” Dash sat back against the headboard. “What time is it?”
Finn replied, “It’s a little past one.” He turned to Joe. “And I am just about starved. What say you to lunch? I could just about murder some deviled eggs and jam.”
Joe snorted. “I could just about murder you. Dash here is laid up in bed—all because of you and half the city’s obsession with this Val-en-tin-o bloke—and you’re talking ’bout eggs.”
The two men started arguing. Finn wanted to go to the Crystal because of the champagne. Joe wanted to know how Finney could afford champagne, since he knew good and well what he was paid.
Dash couldn’t take it. “Boys! Please continue this conversation elsewhere.”
His whole body felt sore. God knew how many times he was kicked and where. His knuckles ached, his head throbbed, and his ribs were probably bruised. On top of that, his legs felt stiff, and his stomach still smarted from when he ran into that little girl, her head making a perfect fist. He felt like a prizefighter. Only he hadn’t won.
Joe said, “C’mon, Finney. Let’s let the man be.” He looked at Dash, “Get some rest, now. I’ll be back to check on ya.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
Dash drifted in and out of consciousness. His dreams were feverish, often nightmares, and he’d awake startled to find himself alone. Sometimes the dreams would blur into reality, the images staying in the room until he went back to sleep.
As the sun began to set, Dash rolled over to see a figure standing by the dresser, his back towards Dash. “Joe? Joe, I need some water.”
The figure set off to the washroom, but before he could return, Dash fell back into another dream.
A sudden crash of thunder caused Dash to sit up straight in bed. Joe was sitting in the chair by the window, watching the storm batter against the glass.
“There he is. Ya have a nice rest?”
“I believe so. My head certainly hurts less than it did.” Dash looked around the room. “Did you bring me some water?”
“Water? When did ya ask for that?”
“A while ago. At least, I thought I did.”
Joe stood up. “I think you were still dreaming. You haven’t said a word since I’ve been here.”
He left the bedroom and went to the washroom.
Dash eased himself out of the bed and limped towards the window. The glass was streaked with rain. Lightning flashed in the distance. On the street below, people scurried underneath black and gray umbrellas, dodging puddles on the sidewalks and in the streets. He heard a creak behind him and turned to see Joe with a glass of water.
Dash said, “You’re an angel among men.”
“And you’re a silly goose. I’m opening Pinstripes now, though I doubt anyone will be out in this weather. You stay here and keep resting.”
Dash made a salute. “Aye aye, captain.”
Joe rolled his eyes and left the apartment. Dash saw his figure below, joining the throngs of people sloshing through the storm. He sipped the water, grateful the nausea had long since passed.
Another crash of thunder. What a horrible night to be out. It was then Dash realized it was Tuesday night and he owed Walter a name. He groaned. If he missed another deadline, Walter would for certain turn them all in. Pinstripes would be raided, and he, Joe, Finn, and Atty would go to jail. He couldn’t let that happen. Not after all they’d been through.
Dash finished the water and dressed slowly and carefully. He didn’t want to risk pulling a Boone and passing out. Outside in the downpour, he waited a good ten minutes before he could find a cab. Drenched to the bone, he dripped in the backseat as the cab made its way up to Sauerkraut Boulevard.
Out front of Walter’s building, Dash rang the buzzer, hoping he wasn’t too late. He heard someone coming down the stairs, but instead of Walter, it was Mother. She wore a severe black dress with sleeves, the skirt stopping well past the knee. Her long, white pearls were draped low across her neck.
She looked at him with confusion. “Who are you?”
“Good evening, ma’am, I’m a friend of Walter’s. I’m supposed to meet him here.”
She regarded him with suspicion. “Walter doesn’
t invite people over.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it’s important. Another update on the project from last week.”
“So many urgent meetings. He is not here at the moment. He stepped out.”
“I see. May I come in? It’s really coming down out here.”
She pursed her lips, but surprisingly, she acquiesced. He followed her upstairs to their apartment. He hung up his raincoat to drip in the short hall and walked into the parlor.
Mother gestured to a room off to the left of the parlor. “Would you like some tea to warm up?”
“That would be lovely.”
She nodded once and set off to the kitchen. When she was gone, Dash realized what a golden opportunity he had been given. He looked around to see if Mother was anywhere in sight. She wasn’t. Making an educated guess, he went down the other hall and found the bedrooms. There were only two, which meant the brothers had shared a room. Mother’s was easy to identify. It was the master bedroom at the end of the hall. The brothers slept to the right of it.
Dash stepped inside and turned on the lamp. Two small beds were positioned on opposite sides of the room, each having their own nightstand. Two knitting needles and a pile of dark navy yarn laid on the bed to Dash’s right. Mother’s knitting projecting, the one she mentioned the last time Dash was here. A small writing desk was in front of the one window in the space. Dash could picture Walter sitting there, writing his evil blackmail letters. Anger once again filled his frame.
What a horrible, horrible man. Such evil hiding behind such pious morality.
And if that didn’t perfectly define these Prohibition days, Dash didn’t know what would.
The floorboards creaked behind him. Dash turned to see Mother in the doorway holding a cup and saucer. “I see you found his room.”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I get wanderlust if I’m stationary for too long.”
He took the cup and saucer from her hands. A quick sip. It was only hot water. Mother had apparently forgotten to put in the tea bag.
He smiled, murmuring compliments about the tea. He looked around the bedroom, seeing the paintings of the German countryside on each wall in heavy wooden frames. He nodded towards them, saying they were lovely.
Mother didn’t seem to hear what he said. Instead, she said, “That forgetful boy. He left his timepiece here.”
Dash was startled at the non sequitur. “Pardon me?”
“The timepiece. Walter just got it last week, and he sometimes forgets to wear it. You wrap it around your wrist. Look.”
She pointed to the nightstand on the right side of the room. Dash assumed this was Walter’s side. There on the nightstand was a wristwatch.
Dash slowly looked from the nightstand to Mother and back again. “You say Walter got this last week?”
“Why, yes.”
Dash went over to the nightstand and picked it up. He wasn’t well versed in these new inventions, but he could’ve sworn it was the same one Karl had on his wrist. But both Walter and McElroy had said the boy’s pockets were picked clean. Why take all the contents out of his pockets but leave his watch? And if Walter was brandishing this since last week, after Karl was found dead in Central Park, then . . .
Dash slowly turned the timepiece over. There, on the back of the face, were the letters “k m.” Karl Müller’s initials. This was the wristwatch Tyler Smith had engraved.
Dash looked back at Mother. “Mrs. Müller, the Sunday before last, did Karl come home?”
Karl was contemplating a new life. He overhead Leslie Charles promising to turn him over to someone else. He had to run. He must’ve come home to pack.
Mother belatedly answered his question. “Karl?” She thought to herself. “I believe so.”
Dash’s pulse started to climb. “He came back here to this apartment the Sunday before last? You’re absolutely certain?”
She nodded as she stepped forward, the motion causing her to lose a bit of her balance. She steadied herself with a hand on the bedroom doorframe. It was apparent she was not sober. Dash wondered if she ever was.
She said, “He was packing when I found him. Told me he was leaving and said goodbye.”
Dash set the wristwatch back onto the nightstand. “You spoke with him? That night?”
She entered the room and sat on the bed next to the pile of knitting. Her eyes were glassy and wet. They gazed off into the distance. “He said he couldn’t live this way anymore. His heart was broken and there was nothing left for him here. I told him he had his family, but that did not console him. I told him he was being silly for behaving such in a way over a girl. The city is full of them. He’d forget her in time.”
She wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug.
“Then he said it wasn’t a girl. He said a man’s name. And he cried. My son cried like a weakling. He said he missed his lover.”
Her mouth shook.
“Lover. He used the word lover to describe a man. I was so—so—disgusted.”
Her hands reached for the pile of knitting. She placed it in her lap, where she began to pull at the thick woolen threads.
Realization hit Dash just as another crash of thunder pounded outside. “Mrs. Müller, what did you do?”
Her voice took on a dreamlike quality, as if she weren’t talking to anyone other than herself. “I told him he couldn’t be such a thing. It would jeopardize Walter at the Committee. He would bring shame to our family.”
Her voice changed. It became sharp and mean.
“He said he didn’t care. What he wanted was sin. Perversion. Just like his father. My son would not live a life like that. He would not! I wouldn’t allow it.”
A flash of lightning, a boom of thunder.
Her hands continued to pick at the woolen threads in her lap, wrapping them around her fingers. Dash visualized them wrapped around Karl’s neck. Mother holding them there until the boy was subdued. Had she meant to kill him? Or was it an accident?
The time lapse. McElroy had said it, but it didn’t register with Dash at the time. Karl’s body was found Tuesday morning. Yet Monday night, Walter was at Dash’s tailor shop, drunk, claiming he’d caused Karl to be dead.
“Mrs. Müller.”
“Walter came home and helped me take Karl to the Park. Karl loved the Park. He could spend hours upon hours there, never getting bored.”
Dash watched her in horror. A mother who killed her own son.
No wonder she gets blotto every day. She can’t face what she’s done.
She shook herself out of her alcohol-infused trance. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, untangling the threads from her fingers. “I’m not feeling very well. I need to lie down.”
She stood up, the knitting pile falling to the floor. She turned and slowly shuffled her way out of the room and down the hall to the master bedroom. The door closed behind her.
Dash felt the apartment start to spin. He would’ve broken down and cried over the horror right then had he not seen familiar stationary on the writing desk.
He set the cup and saucer down on the nightstand next to Karl’s wristwatch. He walked over to the desk, his head pounding like the rain outside. Illuminated by the strobe of lightning was the letter Z. For Zora Mae. And underneath it was Paul Avery’s address. The same note she had given Dash last week at the Hot Cha. How on earth had Walter gotten this?
The figure in Dash’s room. He had thought it was a dream. What if it was Walter?
Walter had run out of patience. He must’ve followed Dash from somewhere or found out where he lived from that backstabbing rat McElroy. Then he broke into Dash’s apartment, searching the place while Dash was out cold. Walter would’ve found the addresses of Paul Avery and Prudence Meyers stored in his dresser.
“Oh no,” he said aloud.
Dash turned and ran out of the apartment and down the stairs. Outside in the rain, he ran until he found an available cab. Paul’s address came out in a rush.
“And step on it!” he told th
e cabbie.
The rain slowed traffic to a crawl and it took almost an hour to get back down to the Village to Christopher and Waverly. Dash tossed money at the driver and ran to the building. He pressed the buzzer to Paul’s apartment. No answer. He pressed again.
He then pressed Marjorie Norton’s. No answer either. He was about to press all of the tenant buttons until someone let him in when he saw the front door was slightly ajar. He wrenched it open and raced up the stairs. At the top, he knocked on Paul’s closed door. No response. He knocked again. Something told him to try the doorknob. He turned it, finding it unlocked, and the door swung open.
He entered the apartment, saying, “Paul! Paul, are you—”
He stopped. At first, there was incomprehension. Confusion about the scene before him. Then slowly, like floodwater creeping up his ankles to his shoulders, dread filled every inch of Dash’s tall, trim frame.
For that’s when he saw the dead body lying in the center of the floor.
30
Dash had only been face-to-face with death a handful of times, usually those of family members. And it occurred to him, as he stared at the lifeless corpse of poor, innocent Marjorie Norton, that a room has an odd quiet when it hosts death, as if all the sound is taken away along with the person’s soul. The air in this musty, cramped space was certainly still, almost reverent. The electric current, normally humming in the tableside lamps, quieted itself for the first time. Even the shadows seemed to retreat far into the dusty, webbed corners. Death demands such respect. More so than God. God can be praised and cursed in the same breath with the cocky certainty He will forgive the blasphemous words escaping your lips. Death did not forgive. Nor did it forget.
A pool of blood surrounded Marjorie, who lay on her stomach. Her head was a pulpy mess of bone and hair. The smell of copper mixed with the pungent smell of gunpowder. Whatever had happened here, it hadn’t occurred that long ago.
She must’ve heard Walter barging in. She went upstairs to investigate. Maybe he even forced her to open the door. And then he . . .
The Double Vice: The 1st Hidden Gotham Novel Page 27