by Rhys Bowen
“I just told you. It was just supposed to be a list of names, not a bribe. Someone put the money in there.”
“Who?” he asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said, my temper rising with my voice.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t remember things too good these days. They say I got myself clobbered one too many times in the head, and they might just be right. I get these headaches something terrible, and sometimes I see double.”
I had heard the term punch-drunk before, but I had never seen a living example of it in front of me. Jack Brady’s speech was even a trifle slurred and his ugly, misshapen face screwed up in concentration.
“Then why in heaven’s name do you want Daniel to set up another fight for you?” I blurted out before I had time to think. “Haven’t you been battered enough?”
“I need the money, miss,” he said. “I ain’t never been good with money. When I had it, I spent it. Once I had a diamond the size of a nickel in my stickpin. That’s when they used to call me Gentleman Jack. But I haven’t fought in a while and now it’s all gone again.”
“There are other ways to earn money apart from fighting,” I said.
He shook his head. “I ain’t never been smart, miss—what did you say your name was?”
“Murphy,” I reminded him.
“I ain’t never been smart, Miss Murphy. If I hadn’t been good with my fists, I’d have wound up as a laborer, sweating my guts out for a dollar a day. When I fight, I’m somebody.”
Somebody with an addled head, I thought, but didn’t say out loud. Instead I pulled out a chair from Daniel’s dining table for him.
“Well, your first job is to help me get Daniel out of jail. Take a seat and let’s think this through.”
He sat, his big frame too large for the chair, which creaked as he lowered himself onto it. I meanwhile took a dishcloth from Daniel’s kitchen and started mopping up the spilled water. Sometimes physical work helps with thinking, I’ve found.
“Now you and Daniel were planning this fight. How far along in the planning were you?”
“He was getting some guys to put up money and find us a place the police wouldn’t raid.”
“The list in the envelope was of potential backers for the fight,” I said. “So which gang was organizing it?”
He scratched his head, looking like an overgrown monkey at the zoo. “I don’t think he ever told me the name of the gang. He just said some guys he knew were going to get it set up.”
“He never mentioned the Eastmans, for example?”
“He may have done. The name don’t mean nothing to me. I’m not from New York.”
“And had you fixed where the fight was going to take place?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I think they got the place fixed. Out on some island.”
“Some island?” That certainly narrowed it down—anywhere along the Atlantic Coast.
“An island close to New York City?”
“Oh yeah. Just outside the city, Daniel said.”
The only islands I knew about were Blackwell’s in the East River, home of a female prison institution; Ellis, home of the immigration depot; and the small rock on which the Statue of Liberty stood. Hardly suitable sites for an illegal boxing match. “Staten Island?” I asked, remembering another name I had heard.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t that one.”
“Try to think, Jack. You want to get Daniel out of jail, don’t you?”
He screwed up his eyes. “Some animal,” he said at last. Then a beaming smile transformed his ugly face, making me see that he had once been rather handsome. “Coney Island, that was it.”
“Coney Island, of course,” I said. As I said the words, I remembered going there once with Daniel, during those blissful days before I found out the truth about Arabella. I wrenched my mind back from a clear image of riding the roller coaster with Daniel’s arm holding me tightly around my shoulders. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So the fight was going to be on Coney Island. Do you know when?”
He shook his head. “They had to wait until they got enough backers to come up with the money.”
Obviously that had been what Daniel had been working on. I got to my feet and went through to the kitchen again to wring out the rag in the sink. “I wonder whether any of the New York gangs have influence as far away as Coney Island?” I said, thinking out loud rather than talking to Jack. He obviously knew no more than I did. “It might have been a member of an entirely different gang that Daniel was meeting that day. We’ll have to ask him before we do anything.”
“I did meet one guy,” Jack said, as I came back into the room. “Daniel took me to meet him. Funny-looking little thing, he was. Comical, you’d say. Crazy about birds. Had a stupid live pigeon sitting on his shoulder.”
“Monk Eastman!” I said, feeling a chill of fear shoot through me. “He’s not as comical as he looks. He’s the head of the Eastman gang. So you met with Monk. That must mean that the Eastmans are at least involved. Do you remember where this meeting took place?”
Jack frowned with concentration again then shook his head. “I don’t know my way around the city that well. When I came to fight last time, I stayed at the Astoria. I had money then. I was world champ.”
It was like pulling teeth. I was getting more and more tired and frustrated. Suddenly it occurred to me that I hadn’t had lunch yet, and it must be well past lunchtime.
I got up. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” I said. “Does Daniel have any food in the house?”
“He had some but I’ve eaten most of it,” Jack said. He followed me into the kitchen. The pantry shelves were indeed bare. There was a small wedge of cheese under a glass dome, some shriveled onions and carrots, and half a loaf of bread. “It will have to be bread and cheese then,” I said.
It was edible, barely, but it stopped the sick feeling of hunger.
“I’ll tell Mrs. O’Shea, the landlady, that you’re staying here,” I said. “Maybe we can ask her to bring in more supplies when she does her own shopping.”
“I’d be much obliged, miss. I need to keep my strength up right now if I’m going to fight. I usually have a dozen eggs at a time and steaks the size of a dinner plate.”
“I don’t know who would be paying for those,” I said. “I don’t have that kind of money to give you, and I don’t know where Daniel keeps his money.” I put down the glass of water I had been drinking. “It seems to me the first thing for you to do is to talk to Monk Eastman. He knows you. He’s helping set up a fight for you, so you’ll be quite safe with him. He has every reason in the world for wanting you alive and well.”
“You want me to go out and find this Monk person?” A look of alarm shot across his face. “But what if the police are on the lookout for me?”
“You could put on some kind of disguise, if you’re really worried,” I said.
“I don’t think it’s that easy to disguise me,” he said apologetically. Of course I had to agree with him. Stick a beard or false eyebrows on him and he’d be even more conspicuous than he was now. Too bad it wasn’t winter, when he could at least have huddled under a cloak and broad-brimmed hat. In summer shirtsleeves everyone in the world would recognize him.
“You’ll have to take that chance, Jack,” I said. “I can’t go looking for Monk Eastman. I tried that once before, and I’m not sure what might have happened to me if the police hadn’t broken into the Walla Walla.”
“The what?”
“The Walhalla Hall. It’s a social club on Canal Street. Locals call it the Walla Walla. It’s where the Eastmans are often to be found. I expect we could come up with the money for a hansom cab fare between us. Take a cab right to Walhalla Hall and ask to speak to Monk. They’re bound to recognize you, so you won’t come to any harm. When you speak to Monk, tell him about Daniel. Find out, if you can, if it was a member of his gang who met with Daniel and who gave him the envelope. Find out if Monk kno
ws anything about the bribe and exactly where Daniel was arrested. See if he has any suspicions of his own as to who might have planted the money. Have you got that?”
“Not exactly, miss. I’m not sure what envelope we’re talking about.”
“Saints preserve us,” I muttered. “I’ll write it down for you. You can read out the questions.”
“I don’t read and write so good, miss,” he said.
Not the brightest button in the box, Daniel had said. A definite understatement. Wonderful, I thought. Daniel is putting all his hopes on a man who can’t think straight or remember anything for more than a minute. Even if he finds Monk Eastman and asks the right questions, he’d forget the answers by the time he came home. The only alternative was for me to go with him and I was loath to do that.
“I’ll write down the questions and you give the piece of paper to Monk,” I said. “Then have him write down the answers, or, if he doesn’t want to risk doing that, ask him to do what he can to clear Daniel’s name. Maybe he’d be prepared to tell the police that Daniel had never been in the pay of the Eastmans or never taken a bribe from him.”
Even as I said this, I realized that it was a long shot. From the one encounter between Monk and Daniel that I had witnessed, I had detected little love between them. Monk would probably be delighted that there was one senior police officer less to make his life a misery. Our only hope lay in Gentleman Jack and the fight. Monk would want it to take place; and if he needed Daniel to complete the arrangements for it, he might help spring him from jail.
“Tell Monk you’ll not fight unless Daniel is freed,” I said to Jack.
“Very good, miss. I’ll tell him,” Jack said, giving me that strangely ingratiating smile.
I took a piece of notepaper out of Daniel’s desk, dipped the pen in the inkwell, and started to write. “I’m putting down a list of all the questions that Monk could maybe answer,” I said. “Do your best for Daniel, Jack. If you don’t help him now, then nobody else can.”
“I’ll do my best for him, miss,” he said. “I swear it. Should I go now?”
“Better wait until this evening,” I said. “Walhalla Hall is usually deserted during the day. Even if Monk isn’t there tonight, somebody will know where to find him in the neighborhood.” I opened my purse. “Let’s see if we can come up with the cab fare there and back.”
I had about a dollar in change. Daniel’s desk and a jar on his mantelpiece produced another dollar.
“There you are,” I said. “Enough to keep you going. And I’ll leave a note for Mrs. O’Shea about buying you some groceries, although I don’t think you’ll get steaks as big as dinner plates. Maybe you should ask Monk to treat you to one of those.”
He held out his huge red hand for the change. “Much obliged, miss.”
“I have people coming to my house for dinner tonight, or I’d keep you company,” I said. “But I have to get home to cook a chicken. So I’ll come by tomorrow morning, shall I, and see what you’ve found out? I’ll bring you some chicken if there’s any left.”
“Much obliged, miss,” he repeated. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.”
I wrote the note for Mrs. O’Shea, then added a postscript, reminding her to keep Jack’s presence a secret. I felt rather pleased with myself as I let myself out of the house. I had carried out Daniel’s commission. With any luck by tomorrow we’d have Daniel free and out of jail.
SIX
On the way home, sitting on a horse-drawn bus that went painfully slowly along Twenty-third, I wondered what else I should be doing to help Daniel. Did I know anybody who could be of use to him or find out who might have tipped off the police commissioner? I didn’t exactly move in high circles. I knew Senator Flynn, of course, but this was not the time to approach him for anything. From what I’d heard, he’d left the area and set off personally looking for his son. And after his improper advances to me, he’d only be a last resort anyway.
So who else did I know? Sid and Gus had a wide acquaintanceship, but mostly of a bohemian nature. I doubted that anyone who came to their house knew the commissioner of police, or any high-powered members of the force—at least not socially. Then suddenly it hit me—I did know a member of the Four Hundred. Miss Van Woekem! I had briefly been her companion before I learned of Daniel’s engagement and discovered that she was Arabella’s godmother. At the very least I could get Arabella’s address from her. I still had a sneaking suspicion that Arabella’s family could well be behind this whole business.
The more I considered the circumstances, the more I thought that this was likely. On the few occasions I had seen Arabella Norton she had shown herself to be a spoiled darling, used to getting her own way all the time. If she felt that Daniel had humiliated her by breaking off the engagement, then she could definitely have wanted revenge. Daniel thought, somewhat naively, that she wouldn’t go to these lengths, but I wasn’t so sure. He obviously had no idea what evil thoughts we women were capable of concealing beneath those elegant mounds of curls.
But going to all this trouble—the gang member, the bribe, setting up the meeting with the commissioner. If she had wanted his downfall, then why not attack him through the courts? I could answer that one easily enough. She didn’t want to look like a fool. A breach-of-promise suit would expose her to public scrutiny and public pity. And Arabella’s public face was very important to her. I resolved to see her as soon as possible. She may have wanted Daniel to lose his job, his status, everything he had worked for, but surely she wouldn’t have wished for him to lose his life. And that might very well happen if he had to stay much longer in that damp and dreary place.
Did I have time to fit in a visit to Miss Van Woekem this afternoon, before I had to start preparing my dinner? A portly gentleman sitting across from me was wearing a watch chain. I asked him for the time and found it was now only just after three. Plenty of time then. I was in the right area for a visit to Gramercy Park, but in no condition to pay a call on someone as proper as Miss Van Woekem. I was still wearing my muslin, which had become sweaty and crumpled. I was wearing no hat or gloves. Such things mattered to people like Miss Van Woekem, so I had no alternative than to ride the El all the way home. Once there, I took off my muslin, rinsed it out, splashed cold water over my body, and put on the only other summer dress I possessed. In Ireland it would have been called my Sunday dress, worn only to go to church, but I hadn’t done much churchgoing since I arrived in America. No doubt Father O’Reilly at home would say I was going straight to hell. Probably I was.
I combed out my sweaty tangle of curls and tied them back with a white ribbon. A glance in the mirror proved that I was looking halfway respectable as I set out for Miss Van Woekem’s house on Gramercy Park. I’d done a lot of walking already today, and my legs felt like lead. So I looked longingly at the trolley that clanged and groaned its way up Broadway, debated on whether to spend five cents on the fare, then made a mad dash across the traffic to swing myself aboard at the last moment. It wouldn’t help my cause to arrive at Miss Van Woekem’s drenched in perspiration. As I had heard many times when I was sampling the upper-class life on the Hudson, ladies simply don’t sweat. It isn’t done.
Gramercy Park looked as delightful as I remembered it, cool and countrified, with its leafy park enclosed in a tall, iron railing and its elegant brick homes. I paused to adjust my hat before I mounted the steps to the front door and rang the bell. I was admitted by the same crisply starched maid, who looked at me with the same disapproving stare as the first time she’d admitted me. The look said clearly that I was really of her class and should be entering via the back door if she had her way.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll see if the mistress is receiving visitors.”
With that she disappeared into the sitting room. I heard the sharp voice boom out, “Of course I want to see Miss Murphy. You should know that, Matilda. Bring her in.”
I passed Matilda with a smile on my face.
“Miss Murphy,
what a delightful surprise.” The old lady reached out her hand to me. In the year since I’d seen her she had shrunk a little, her face becoming more birdlike with that fierce, prominent beak and those sharp, black eyes. I took the fragile hand.
“How are you, Miss Van Woekem?”
“Bored, as usual, but otherwise well enough. And yourself? When I heard nothing more from you, I began to wonder whether you had returned home to Ireland or left town.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“Take a seat, please, do. And Matilda, we’ll take coffee and some of Cook’s gingerbread.”
Matilda shot me another hostile stare as she curtseyed and left the room.
“Now do tell me, Miss Murphy—” Miss Van Woekem had not let go of my hand. For all its apparent fragility she had a grip like a talon—“are you still pursuing your career as a lady investigator?”
“I am.”
“And how is it going? Any juicy cases to report on?”
“I’m afraid not at the moment. I’ve just returned from a case on the Hudson River.”
“So I heard,” she said dryly. Well, of course she would have heard. I waited to sense her reaction.
“So Daniel Sullivan finally showed that he has some spunk after all,” she said at last. “I was wondering how long he’d allow himself to be led around on a leash by my goddaughter. Quite an unsuitable match. I said so from the very first. But she wouldn’t listen, of course. Always been head-strong.” She eyed me, head tilted to one side, making her look even more birdlike. “No, you’re a far better choice for him, even if you don’t have Arabella’s money. You’re both Irish for one thing. Like should marry like.”
“I’m not intending to marry Captain Sullivan,” I said.
“You’re not? But I thought…”
The coffee and cake arrived. The maid placed the tray on the table between us. “Do you want me to stay and pour, madam?” she asked.
“That’s all right. Miss Murphy can take care of me,” Miss Van Woekem said.
The maid departed with a rustle of starched skirts.