by Rhys Bowen
Instead I got up, washed, dressed, and made my way over to Mrs. Goodwin’s house by first light. I wanted to make sure that I got my hands on any letters that came in the morning mail. Seventh Street was quiet and deserted. Unfortunately there was no sign of a policeman as I stood outside the Goodwin home and put my key in the door. Was I being stupid, going into a house where there had recently been a prowler, and maybe a dangerous prowler at that? But I had to have that mail. I opened the front door and stood in the hallway, waiting for my sense of danger to sound out a warning. No alarm went off in my head. I left the door ajar as I went to the back parlor and checked the desk again. Nothing had been moved since last night.
I was just closing the desk when I heard a noise. Someone was coming down the hall. I froze, looked for somewhere to hide, and found nothing. Before I could do anything more sensible than grab the letter opener, a man came into the doorway. He started when he saw me.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
I recognized him then.
“Detective McIver,” I gasped. “You gave me an awful shock.”
“Likewise,” he said. “Now do you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
“Mrs. Goodwin gave me her key,” I said. “She wanted me to come and pick up her mail for her.”
He was still eyeing me suspiciously. “That’s odd because I have Mrs. Goodwin’s key in my possession,” he said. “And why would the mail be anywhere other than on the doormat?”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, I can answer both of those. She told me to collect the key from her neighbor, which I did. But I found her front door open, so I came in and saw that someone had been at her desk. That’s when I alerted the police that someone had broken in and asked the constable to tell you and Detective Quigley. I thought the break-in here might have something to do with the case you’re working on and the reason that Mrs. Goodwin was run down, you see.”
“Yes, I do see.” The scowl eased a little. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I came to check on the place on my way to work this morning and found the front door open. Naturally I suspected…”
“That I was a burglar,” I finished for him.
“And who exactly are you?” he asked. “The last time we met, you were introduced as Dr. Birnbaum’s assistant, but you are clearly not German or Austrian, unless they now speak with an Irish brogue.”
“No, that was a piece of subterfuge, I’m afraid. I’m a friend of Mrs. Goodwin,” I said, deciding not to mention my connection to Daniel, “as well as of Dr. Birnbaum. I was particularly interested in this case; and then, of course, there was Mrs. Goodwin’s tragic accident, so I’m doing what I can to help her.”
“Very commendable,” he said. There was no smile in his eyes. “And who exactly are you?”
“My name is—” What name had I given to Quigley? My real one? Delaney? All the lies were coming back to haunt me. I opted for the truth. “Murphy,” I said. “Molly Murphy. You can ask Mrs. Goodwin to vouch for me.”
“If she’s well enough,” he said. “She took a turn for the worse last night.”
“She did?”
“Yes, she was unconscious again when I stopped by this morning.”
“Oh no, and they said she was doing so well.”
“Head wounds are funny things,” he said. “And broken ribs can penetrate the lung or even damage the heart.”
“I’ll go to see her if they’ll let me,” I said, “after I’ve collected her morning mail.”
He stared at me, went to say something, then realized I wasn’t about to move and he couldn’t throw me out.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Please make sure you lock the door after you when you go. We don’t want any more break-ins, do we?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “And I’m so glad to see you’re taking this seriously. I’m very concerned for Mrs. Goodwin’s welfare. I suspect she may have stumbled upon some connection with the East Side Ripper without knowing it, and he is now trying to get her out of the way.”
“You could be right,” he said. “But if you are, then heed the warning yourself. This is a man who doesn’t play games. Winding up with your face bashed in is not the most pleasant way to exit this life.”
He gave me a long, hard stare before turning on his heel and leaving me alone in the hall. A few minutes later the morning post fell onto the mat. There were four more letters about missing girls. Three of them didn’t seem to have any relevance to the case. One was an emigrant from Germany who was supposed to have come through Ellis Island, then taken the train to her family in Albany but had never arrived. One had clearly run off with a young man her family did not want her to marry. One was from a young man wanting to be reunited with a former sweetheart. But the fourth was from an Italian, a Signor Rosetti. His daughter Rosa had not come home from work in a garment factory last week. He was out of his mind with worry. He had spoken to her friends and all he could establish was that she seemed excited when she left work and hurried off, as if she had somewhere special to go. He had been to the police, but they hadn’t seemed very interested. He enclosed a snapshot. It was of a group of four laughing girls, each with luxurious dark hair around her shoulders, standing at the edge of the ocean. On the back he had written: “My daughters. Rosa is on the right.”
I remembered that impressive dark hair falling out from under the sheet at the morgue. This could well be the victim we had seen. I imagined that poor father, still living in hope, not knowing that his daughter was lying on a marble slab, having died in such horrible circumstances.
I put the letters into my purse, let myself out, and locked the door carefully behind me. Then I made my way straight to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. The same sister I had encountered on the first occasion was on duty today.
“You again.” She gave me that withering stare. “I thought I told you yesterday that she wasn’t allowed visitors yet.”
I leaned closer. “Look, Sister,” I said in a low voice, “this is a police matter of great importance. You know that Mrs. Goodwin is a member of the New York police force, don’t you? And you’ve heard of the East Side Ripper?”
“I should say so,” the nun answered. “That poor girl was brought in here only a few days ago.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Well, Mrs. Goodwin was working on that very case when she was run down. I was helping her, although I’m not officially with the police. I have some letters with me that Mrs. Goodwin must see as soon as possible. So if you don’t let me see her, you’ll just be hindering us in solving this case, and the Ripper will claim more victims. Is that what you want?”
She looked surprised. I remember the nuns in school looking the same way when I sauced them back. Then she nodded. “Very well,” she said. “You can go up, but it’s up to Sister Mercy whether she lets you see her patient or not.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And don’t worry. I want the best for Mrs. Goodwin as much as you do. I’ll not put her in any harm.”
With that I went up the stairs and along the hall to Mercy Ward. There was no constable outside this morning, but I pushed the door open to see Sister Mercy herself sitting at the patient’s bedside like a watchdog. She sprang up instantly.
“I don’t know how you sneaked up here, but there’s no point in it,” she said. “The poor dear is unconscious again.”
I looked down at Mrs. Goodwin’s white, tranquil face on the pillow.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you that. She was doing so well yesterday evening, talking about getting up and trying to walk, she was. And then suddenly we couldn’t rouse her. We called the doctor, and he was mystified too.”
“Is it possible she was drugged?” I asked.
“By whom?” she demanded. “You can see how strict we are about letting in visitors. And the medicines are all kept in a locked cabinet in the orderly room.”
“What about the morphine she was given for her pain? Was any of
that left lying around?”
“Lying around?” she demanded. “We are very strict about the keys to the drug cabinet.”
“But the doctor who examined her couldn’t come up with an explanation for her sudden relapse into unconsciousness?”
“Head wounds are funny things sometimes,” she said, echoing McIver’s sentiments.
I continued to observe the patient. Her breathing was steady and regular. There wasn’t anything I could do until she woke up.
“I’ll come back later,” I said. “Hopefully she’ll have regained consciousness by then. If she wakes, tell her that Molly has some news for her. And in the meantime…” I paused, giving her what I hoped was a meaningful glance, “you’ll keep a good eye on her, won’t you?”
“She won’t be out of my sight,” Sister Mercy said, and I realized that she might have had the same sort of suspicions as myself. I felt better knowing I was leaving Mrs. Goodwin in good hands. I certainly had plenty to occupy me until she awoke, not the least of which was my duty to Daniel. I needed to warn him about Mr. Partridge’s visit and to let him know what I had found. I also just needed to see him again, to make sure he was all right.
THIRTY
I came out of the hospital and boarded the Sixth Avenue El down to the end of the line at Rector Street, then walked back up Broadway a couple of short blocks to where J. P. Atkinson, attorney at law, had his offices. I was determined to force that insipid man to take me to see Daniel, or else. By the time I had climbed those stairs to the fifth floor, I was feeling horribly dizzy and had to lean against the peeling paint of the stairwell before I collected myself sufficiently to go in. I knocked, entered, and found, to my disappointment, that he wasn’t there. The woman secretary looked annoyed at being disturbed, and I got the feeling she might have been taking forty winks.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I really couldn’t say. May I take a message?”
“Do you know where he’s gone? I’d really like to speak to him today.”
“I think he had an appointment with a client at the jail,” she said.
“The Tombs?”
“No, the Plaza Hotel—what do you think?”
“Thank you, you’ve been most helpful,” I said, only half sarcastically. “I’ll see if I can track him down there.”
I came down the stairs and swung aboard a trolley that was going up Broadway. It was only after I had done this that I reminded myself that I probably shouldn’t be behaving in this way, given my current condition. Then I promptly forgot and hopped off again, while the thing was still moving, at City Hall.
More work had been done on The Tombs in my absence. It appeared that the building was being demolished around the inmates.
“I’m here to give a message to Mr. Atkinson, the lawyer,” I said before the constables could stop me from entering and swept past them. I said the same thing to the sergeant at the front desk, stressing that it was vitally important to his client that I speak to him right away. I didn’t know if that client was Daniel or not, but at least it would guarantee that Mr. Atkinson would speak to me.
“Wait here,” the sergeant said and indicated a chair by the desk. I sat and waited, listening to the annoying tap, tapping of the men working outside. At last I heard echoing feet coming down a passageway and the sergeant appeared again, followed by an anxious-looking Mr. Atkinson.
“Miss Murphy!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Tracking you down, Mr. Atkinson. I told you before that I had important information for Captain Sullivan. I’d like to give him that information.”
“And I told you that you could share it with me, and I’d be happy to pass it along if it was relevant.”
“And if you chose not to, he wouldn’t get it,” I said. I was aware of the desk sergeant listening with interest. “I have the strongest feeling, Mr. Atkinson, that you have Daniel Sullivan already tried and convicted in your head. You’re only going to go through the motions of a fair trial.”
“That’s just not fair, Miss Murphy,” he said. “I assure you I am doing my best in a very difficult case.”
“I’d love to know who assigned you to this case,” I said.
‘I told you we have a rotation of defense attorneys,” he said. “My name came to the top of the list. Pure luck.”
“Pure bad luck for Daniel then.”
“I assure you, Miss Murphy, that he could have done far worse. Some court-appointed lawyers have no interest in anything other than collecting their fee.”
“But you have? Can you truly tell me that you are working with all your might to get Daniel Sullivan freed, even though you believe him to be guilty?” I demanded.
He went to say something then broke off as there was a commotion at the front entrance. The doors swung open, the sergeant leaped to attention, and Commissioner John Partridge entered, followed by a retinue of lackeys.
“Welcome, sir. The governor is expecting you. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived,” the sergeant said and scurried off down a corridor.
Partridge looked around in a bored sort of way. I held my breath, just praying that he wouldn’t remember me. Then he said, “Hello, Atkinson. How are you?”
“Well, sir, thank you. And yourself?”
“Can’t complain, although New York is devilish uncomfortable in this heat, isn’t it? I can’t think why you and I stick to duty before pleasure and don’t head off to the seashore like sensible folks.”
“Some of us can’t afford to, sir,” Atkinson said, with a rueful smile.
“And this young lady is already familiar to me,” Mr. Partridge said, his gaze now fastening on me. “A Miss—”
“Murphy, sir,” Atkinson said.
“Murphy? Now that’s interesting,” The police commissioner was frowning. “I seem to remember the last time we met it was Delaney, wasn’t it? You were part of some ladies’ league with Mrs. Astor.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Fascinating.” Partridge’s eyes had narrowed, making him look like a large bird of prey. “I happened to dine with the Astors the very next evening, and she had never heard of you.”
“I didn’t say I was her friend. Just a junior worker in her cause,” I added quickly.
“Or your cause,” he finished. “Never heard of any Ladies Decency League or whatever you call yourselves. So now I’m really curious to know what your true motive was then, and what you’re doing here now. What are you—one of these scandal-mongering newspaper reporters?”
“She’s a friend of Mr. Sullivan,” Atkinson said, before I could answer. He put the kind of stress on the word “friend” that would normally be accompanied with a wink between gentlemen.
I chose to ignore him. “That’s quite correct,” I said. “I am Captain Sullivan’s friend, one of the few who haven’t deserted him or been scared off from helping him. And I am working with all my might to prove his innocence because nobody else seems interested in doing so.”
There, I had said it. I had thrown down the gauntlet, however unwise this was.
Partridge continued to frown. “Then you have set yourself a daunting task, Miss—uh—Murphy, and one that seems doomed to failure. Because, unfortunately, his crime was committed in the presence of witnesses. Myself and two stalwart police officers were on the scene to witness his interaction with a known gang member and to intercept the money changing hands. I don’t see how you intend to prove that we didn’t witness what we did.”
I faced him, looking him straight in the eye. “Oh, I believe you did witness it exactly as you said. But Daniel was meeting this gang member in good faith. He was supposed to be receiving a list of names, not a bribe. He believes, as I do, that the whole scene was orchestrated by somebody intent on his downfall. You were brought to the spot at the right moment. Money was somehow secreted in the envelope.”
The commissioner chuckled. “And how did that happen? Or was it Monk Eastma
n himself who wanted Sullivan out of the way?”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said. “Trust me. I’ve already spoken to Monk about it. Somebody either intimidated the gang member or managed to exchange the envelope somehow.”
“Has this gang member himself been questioned?” Partridge turned to Atkinson, who shook his head. “He seems to have skipped town, sir.”
“Very wise, considering.” Partridge chuckled again.
“Or very useful to somebody,” I said. “Somebody who wants to make sure he keeps his mouth shut. Somebody who wants to make sure there is no witness for the defense.”
“And who might this mythical somebody be?” he asked. “Have you managed to unearth a conspiracy against Mr. Sullivan?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “It would appear that one or two people might have a motive to want him out of the way, but not to want his complete and utter ruin. That would take someone with the most horrible grudge and hatred in his heart.”
At that moment the prison governor appeared. “My dear Commissioner,” he began, opening his arms expansively. “What a singular honor for us. You’ve come to see how the building is progressing? Excellent. You’ll be pleased with the new wing that is almost completed.”
Hands were shaken. Pleasantries were exchanged. I stepped out of the way, thinking it might be prudent to make myself scarce at this moment. The party was about to move off when Partridge turned to Mr. Atkinson. “You’re here to see Sullivan today, are you?”
“No sir, another client, just brought in.”
“And Miss Murphy was here for what reason?”
“She wanted to see Sullivan. I have discouraged these visits. It gives the prisoner false hopes and can even interfere with any case we might be able to present.”
“Quite right,” Partridge said. He turned to me. “My advice to you, little lady, is to go home and leave this to the professionals. Atkinson is doing what he can.”
“If only Sullivan would cooperate, I could work to get him the lightest sentence possible,” Atkinson said. “But he is being stubborn. He still won’t admit to any guilt.”