Secret of the White Rose

by Stefanie Pintoff

  I walked to the board and picked up an eraser and piece of chalk. After I cleaned the space, I wrote at the top:

  VICTIMS

  Judge Hugo Jackson, presiding over Drayson trial

  Killed by knife; throat slit

  White rose and Bible by body; hand posed on Bible as though taking oath

  Judge Angus Porter, expected to take over Drayson trial

  Killed by gunshot, specifically a Browning pistol

  White rose and Bible nearby

  Hands bound

  Professor Allan Hartt

  Killed by gunshot, weapon unknown, no bullet found

  White rose and Bible nearby

  Head covered by pillowcase

  “These are important differences between the victims,” I said, sounding like Alistair. “We’ve spoken before about how most criminals don’t vary their behavior from crime to crime. We’re in agreement on that point, so I’ll only remark that it’s odd that this killer switched from a knife to a gun. And given the likelihood of anarchist involvement, it may simply indicate that more than one person was involved.”

  “In which case, someone who was comfortable with a knife might have killed Jackson, but someone who preferred guns may have killed Porter and Hartt,” Dr. Jennings said. “Makes sense.”

  “There are other differences besides weapon,” Isabella said, studying what I had written. “Each victim was posed—whether with a hand on a Bible, hands bound, or head covered. I believe that has significance, as well.”

  “And we think the Bible and the flowers are a message from the anarchists?” Mulvaney asked.

  “Or something else. It’s the blackmail that makes me think of it, since blackmail implies some wrongdoing,” Isabella said, her voice becoming animated. “Alistair spoke earlier about how the white rose has often been used to signify betrayal. So since Judge Jackson was posed as though taking an oath, with the rose beside him, it could suggest he broke his oath.”

  “From his killer’s point of view, yes,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Judge Porter’s hands were tied. So he may have known about this wrongdoing but done nothing to stop it. So literally, he may have been killed because his hands were tied.”

  I followed her train of thought. “Hartt was involved, as well, but he didn’t—or wouldn’t—see the wrongdoing. So whereas I first thought the covering over his head was the act of a suicidal man, trying to spare his wife the sight of his wound, it was actually a message from the killer.”

  “Sort of like ‘see no evil,’” Mulvaney said. “Maybe our killer has a sense of humor.”

  “Then what was Alistair’s role?” I asked.

  No one could answer me, not even Isabella.

  After some moments, I wrote: “The Killer—what we know.”

  “He likely has anarchist connections,” Mulvaney said. “Certainly the judicial murders suggest it.”

  “Agreed,” I said, continuing to write.

  POSSIBLE ANARCHIST CONNECTIONS

  Timing of Jackson (eve of Drayson jury deliberations)

  Timing of Porter (verge of taking over case)

  Timing of Hartt (day of Drayson escape)

  POSSIBLE SUSPECTS

  The Swede at the Breslin and Funke’s gun shop

  He posed as elevator attendant at the Breslin Hotel

  He bought and returned a nickel Browning at Funke’s

  He was seen with an “exotic-looking” woman, possibly Mei Lin (China Rose)

  Paul Hlad, anarchist leader

  Jonathan Strupp

  Drayson himself, if masterminding it all from jail

  China Rose

  An unknown with anarchist leanings …

  Any combination of the above

  “You’ve mentioned how angry Jonathan was with the directors of the Knickerbocker Company,” Mulvaney said. “Were either Judge Jackson or Porter slated to play any role in future Slocum trials?”

  I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You mean if there are to be additional Slocum trials, which I doubt. And to my knowledge, neither judge played—or was expected to play—any role in Captain Van Schaick’s trial or appeal.”

  “Don’t forget the repeated references to Leroy Sanders,” Isabella instructed me.

  I added to the board:

  “LEROY SANDERS”

  Name referenced in musical cipher

  Name signed in register at Breslin Hotel, where Judge Porter was killed

  Name signed in registry at Funke’s gun shop, when second murder weapon was bought and returned

  PROBLEMS

  What do different weapons and crime scene choices indicate?

  More than one killer at work?

  A message about each victim’s role in some wrongdoing

  No witnesses

  No indication how victims were connected, other than Harvard Law 1877

  Leroy Sanders is unknown. Is he an anarchist or in any way related to their cause? Or is he in some way connected to the three victims? Or both?

  How is Alistair involved?

  “I just thought of something,” Isabella said, suddenly animated. “What if Professor Hartt didn’t turn to history because he preferred it, as Barnard’s dean believed? What if something happened that soured him on the law? Something related to these blackmail ciphers.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Alistair maintained that he and the judges had grown apart in recent years. If there were reasons for that…”

  “It’s a mess,” Mulvaney said, tapping his cane against the floor. “And I’m telling you now: what the commissioner wants is a clean solution that will yield solid convictions. That’s our job. Not this endless speculation.”

  “I realize the commissioner would like an easy solution. But as we know too well, the easy solution isn’t always the right one. Remember the theater murders last spring? You were firmly convinced—”

  Mulvaney cut me off. “I know, I know. You needn’t remind me…”

  Dr. Jennings pushed his chair back and stretched his arms behind his head as he glanced at the chart. “When I autopsied each of these men, I did so with the hope that what I would learn would help us to understand how and why they died. It’s all I can do for them. But my science can take us only so far.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the chart. “Why not let Ziele finish the job?”

  Mulvaney hesitated—and in that moment I knew he would agree.

  “I need you to trust me,” I said, adding with a wry half-smile, “and give my excuses to the commissioner.”

  “I’ll cover for you,” Mulvaney said, grumbling. “But tell me, do you honestly think that this case goes beyond the anarchists and their political goals?”

  “Yes—in ways I don’t yet understand,” I said.

  One possibility came to me in a flash—and when it did, I wondered why I’d not thought of it before. “Maybe it’s the money. Remember what I told you earlier: in recent years, more anarchists have gone to jail because of robbery convictions than dynamite conspiracies. They need money, just like everybody else.”

  Isabella frowned. “That explains the blackmail, Simon—but not the killings. If the blackmail generated a much-needed source of cash, then why put an end to that source?”

  “It’s a good question,” I admitted. “When we know the answer, we may know who the killer is.”

  Mulvaney struggled to his feet with the aid of his cane. The meeting was over. “You’d better make quick progress. Every officer in this city is needed for the Drayson hunt. I won’t be able to justify this for long.”

  “You won’t need to,” Jennings said, chuckling. “Ziele seems within striking distance of a solution.” Then, more soberly, he added, “I’d say the main worry is how well the truth he uncovers will suit the commissioner’s agenda.”

  Mulvaney’s reply was gruff. “The truth rarely does. But we’ll worry about that later.”

  Isabella said a polite good-bye and left the room first.

  Before I followed her, Mulvaney to
ok hold of my left arm. “One word of advice for you: find Alistair and you’ll find your answers. I’d bet money on it. Because one thing’s for certain—I was right about Alistair Sinclair. I never trusted that man.”

  I left, saying nothing.

  But if I were perfectly honest, I’d admit it: I’d never trusted him, either.

  CHAPTER 23

  The Dakota, 1 West Seventy-second Street. 12 P.M.

  Isabella, now blind to everything except her own purposes, rushed us uptown as fast as the hansom cab would take us. Before I knew it, we were inside Alistair’s apartment, and Isabella set to work gaining access to Alistair’s private study. Our first obstacle was Mrs. Mellown—for despite her vociferous complaints about Alistair and his habits, she was fiercely protective of him. That also included his work, as it was the thing he considered most important.

  Isabella forced a smile, saying, “We’ve just had a major development in the case, and we need to reach Alistair. He must have left you a number where we can reach him?”

  Mrs. Mellown, taken aback, made a large frown. “Why, no. It’s not like the professor, of course. But this trip he forgot.”

  Isabella lifted her chin, and her voice was firm when she said, “Then I’ll need to look through his papers to find it. It won’t take but a minute.”

  Mrs. Mellown crossed her arms. “You know how the professor feels about that, Mrs. Sinclair. Even for you—”

  Isabella didn’t let her finish. With a dazzling, confident smile, she added, “It’s his own fault this time, isn’t it? He always leaves a number so we can reach him. But he was in such a rush, he forgot to leave it with either of us. And we must reach him immediately.” She took off her coat and hung it on the massive walnut and brass coat rack in the entry hall, motioning for me to do the same.

  “There’s something important you could do,” she said, turning back to Mrs. Mellown. “You know the usual places Alistair stays when he visits Boston. Would you help us by placing calls to each of them? If you can locate Alistair by telephone, it will save us some time.”

  It was unnecessary as a means of finding Alistair because Isabella had already made those calls. Not a single friend had expected Alistair or even been aware that he was in town. It was a fool’s errand she was proposing.

  But it was a brilliant request all the same, for now Mrs. Mellown had something to do other than worry about her current predicament. As she scurried toward the telephone Alistair kept in his library, Isabella and I made our way to his study at the end of the hall.

  I’d rarely been there, for this room was Alistair’s private space—his inner sanctum, so to speak. Few guests ever made their way in—through heavy oak French doors with double-paned glass into a room filled with the finest of materials. A thick blue-and-gold-patterned carpet covered the floor, the desk was a high-gloss mahogany with leather trim, and luxuriant velvet draperies framed the window—which itself offered sweeping views of Central Park, today a stunning expanse of orange, yellow, and red treetops.

  “I’ll take the desk; you take his file cabinet,” Isabella said, crossing to the oversized burgundy leather chair behind the desk. She pulled open the top drawer and began flipping through papers.

  The file cabinet was near the window. It was locked, so I pulled out the small steel file I carried with me and made short work of picking the lock. The cylinder released within a minute—and I silently thanked my father, a professional con artist, for teaching me this skill. It came in handy more often than I cared to admit.

  “Remember, we’re also looking for anything that might help to clarify the link among these four men,” I said to Isabella. “Yearbooks and newspapers are just as important as letters, datebooks, and calendars.”

  She nodded but didn’t look up from her search. Her every movement was tense as she worked her way through Alistair’s desk, then turned her attention to his bookcases.

  Alistair was not a man who saved things, I soon realized. His most extensive records were financial—but those I barely scanned, so great was my discomfort in viewing such information. I couldn’t justify viewing details I didn’t need; after all, my goal was only to discover his whereabouts and understand his connection to the three murdered men.

  The other file drawers were devoted to individual case studies he had put together on his research subjects—the various criminals he had interviewed over the years in an effort to learn what compelled them to behave in the manner they did. There were murderers and arsonists, most of them repeat offenders. I paid particular attention to the notes of his correspondence and conversations with various judges. But neither Porter nor Jackson was ever mentioned—nor was Leroy Sanders, the other name I hoped to find.

  I moved to the opposite end of the bookcases from Isabella, pulling over a small ladder to allow me to reach the top shelves, where piles of papers and folders were stacked high. I went through them methodically, one by one, until Isabella motioned for me to join her.

  “Look at this, Simon,” she said, gesturing to the contents of a crimson leather book.

  I climbed down and peered over her shoulder at the Harvard Law School classbook from 1877.

  “I marked every page where something connects the four of them together. There are several illustrations and written pieces describing them,” she said, flipping between her bookmarks to show me. “The four were inseparable.”

  “It’s a good find. Keep looking—especially in the signature pages at the back where friends write messages.”

  I returned to my search, pulling down a pile of newspaper articles. I took them to the round table and chair in the corner of the room to review—and flipped through what felt like a news snapshot of Alistair’s life. There was a write-up of Isabella and Teddy’s wedding in the society pages; of Alistair’s joining the faculty at Columbia Law School; and of important trials and criminal cases in which he had played a role. Conspicuously absent were two items.

  Teddy’s obituary.

  And Alistair’s own wedding announcement.

  The latter I could understand, perhaps, in light of his separation from his wife. But the former struck me as odd, and I dared not ask Isabella. Especially not today.

  I had almost made it through the entirety of the stack of papers when I found the item I’d sought. It was from the Tribune in September 1877.

  The District Attorney of New York County, Benjamin K. Phelps, is pleased to announce that six newly minted lawyers have answered the call to public service in this great state of New York.

  I skipped down past the description of one hire from Yale and one from Columbia, until I read:

  The remaining four new hires are Harvard Law men, graduates of this year’s class. Allan Hartt, Hugo Jackson, Angus Porter, and Alistair Sinclair come from New York families of the highest pedigree. It is always a boon to our society when the brightest and most talented of men choose public service over other options they would surely have at their disposal.

  They had begun work together in September 1877—but how long had they continued? I flipped quickly through other papers until I found it: another article detailing Alistair’s departure from the district attorney’s office. Apparently he had gone from there to clerk for a Criminal Court judge in January 1880. He had spent just over two years with the district attorney, at least some portion of that time serving side by side with the three other men who were murdered this past week.

  I made a note of the Yale man and Columbia man who had likewise served in that office. It would be worth a telephone call, at least, to ask whether they had any idea why three men from that office would be brutally murdered almost thirty years later.

  Isabella interrupted my thoughts, saying, “Simon, I found something else in the back notes, as you said. Are you familiar with what a final club is?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, I know from Teddy—” She bit her lip. “I know they’re sort of like secret societies. They’ve got initiations and meetings, and I think their
selection process is fraught with secrecy and drama.”

  “You mean like Yale’s Skull and Bones?” That was one society even I had heard about.

  “Harvard’s groups are different in their focus and scope, but you could think of it that way. The main thing is,” she said with a deep breath, “their membership isn’t secret. They publish it here.” She passed me the classbook.

  Before I could examine it, Mrs. Mellown knocked at the door, then opened it. She cast a suspicious look at the stack of newspaper clippings I’d been reviewing, saying, “I’ve had no success locating the professor. He’s not staying at his usual places.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mellown. I wonder if you would help us with one more favor. Are you familiar with these men?” I passed her the names of the Yale and Columbia men who had served with Alistair at the district attorney’s office.

  “I don’t know them,” she said, offering the paper back to me.

  “While we finish up here,” I said, “would you telephone the central operator and try to get a number or address for them?”

  She gave me a dubious look but agreed. “And just five more minutes in here,” she said as she left us. “I know the professor’s not going to be pleased with this.”

  We ignored her, turning our attention to the membership lists that Isabella had found published in the classbook. We saw the Delphic Club, the Fox Club, and others with Greek-lettered names. But the one under which Alistair’s name appeared—together with the names of Jackson, Porter, and Hartt—was the Bellerophon Club.