“These two boxes should do it, sir,” Jeremy said, struggling under their weight. “Would you like me to help you look for anything in particular?”
“Thanks,” I said, motioning for him to put them on the floor. I eased myself into a sitting position between the two stacks of bookcases. “I’ll start with this box, and you with the other. Please look for anything that strikes you as unusual.”
“In what way?” A puzzled look crossed his face. “I’m not sure I’d recognize anything unusual about a criminal case.”
“Just use your common sense,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. “The legal background is less important than what the attorneys working on the case discussed.”
For the next hour at least, we read and reviewed dozens of notes about the case—many of them written in Alistair’s precise hand, now so familiar to me. As before, he had orchestrated the legal strategy that Hugo and Angus had presented in court as co-counsel. Alistair and Allan Hartt had served as research counsel—a role they evidently preferred. Both had an instinctive eye for what evidence was most compelling. But I saw nothing untoward. In fact, according to all evidence in the box, Leroy Sanders’s eventual conviction had been entirely justified.
It was Jeremy who brought up the only aspect of the case that might be considered odd.
“Look at the date when Leroy’s partner, Harry Blotsky, surfaced to testify against him: December 1878. The trial was just wrapping up, and they needed the judge’s special permission to allow him to testify so late in the proceedings.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, it seems he had changed his testimony from when the police first interviewed him. That’s always a problem for the prosecution. But attorneys Jackson and Porter presented good reasons as to why the witness’s testimony changed, and so the judge permitted it.”
“What did they argue?”
He flipped back through the pages in his hand. “Based on Alistair Sinclair’s research, they claimed that Harry had been so intimidated by Leroy that he didn’t feel safe telling the truth. Until he was assured that the truth would keep Leroy behind bars for life.”
“That makes sense, doesn’t it?” I thought it did. It was the reason why my own precinct sometimes had difficulty gathering the evidence that would convict our most violent offenders: no one wanted to risk testifying against them.
“Perfect sense,” Jeremy said—but he didn’t sound as though he believed it.
I considered the question again. Leroy was accused and convicted of violating and killing a child. As awful as that was, there was no suggestion anywhere in his file that he posed a threat to other adults. Alistair himself had written a memo concluding that Leroy had a high potential for recidivism—in other words, for repeating his crime. But in Alistair’s own words, the threat Leroy posed was to minors. And in the sketch artist’s rendering, Leroy was a slight man. Harry Blotsky towered over him. Would Harry truly have been afraid of Leroy?
I continued to puzzle over that oddity as I thanked Jeremy for his help.
The records keeper gave us both a satisfied look as I signed out of his registry. “I’ll bet you boys haven’t heard the good news, since you’ve been stuck in the archives all morning.”
“What news?” I set the pen back into its inkwell.
“They captured Drayson. Found him hiding out in the basement of some opium den in Chinatown. Now we’ll have justice and order in this city again,” the records keeper said with a vigorous nod. “The anarchists will pay for what they’ve done.”
Drayson and Jonathan Strupp and the other anarchists would certainly get their due. The commissioner would see to that. But I couldn’t help wonder: Would it come at the expense of the truth?
There was no doubt that the murder of Judge Jackson lay at the center of a hotbed of anarchist conspiracies and political malcontent, but I was now convinced that the murders of Judge Porter and Professor Hartt were connected, as well. Their murders extended this matter far into the past, touching on hidden secrets and issues so deeply personal that vengeance must be sought in blood. And if I didn’t find him soon, not only did I fear that Alistair’s blood would be the next to spill—I somehow knew that we would never uncover the truth.
CHAPTER 25
The New York Times Building, Times Square. 3 P.M.
“Hop to it, boys. We got thirty minutes till press time—and we don’t want to get scooped by the Tribune like last week.” Ira Salzburg, the stout managing editor of the New York Times, swaggered across the room as he barked instructions. Dressed in his trademark yellow and green suit, he stopped to check on first one reporter, then another, before retreating into his office and closing the glass door. There were nearly fifty reporters in the room, punching keys furiously on Hammond typewriters along long rows of tables. But not one reporter looked up.
I had come to see Frank Riley, the crime beat reporter who had been instrumental in helping me to solve a series of murders in the theater district last spring. He’d impressed me then with his tenaciousness as a crime beat reporter—and if anyone had the determination to look for the story that Commissioner Bingham was determined to quash, it was Frank.
I’d just left Mulvaney at precinct headquarters and he’d confirmed what I knew all along: the commissioner planned to charge Drayson and other anarchist leaders, including Jonathan, with the murders of Judge Jackson, Judge Porter, and the guards who were victims at the Tombs bombing. The commissioner’s edict had been to gather proof by any means necessary. And I knew what that meant: scapegoating an anarchist conspiracy would be more important than uncovering the truth.
I soon spotted Frank, a wiry man with dark hair slicked back, working at the first typewriter on the left. No one even gave me a second glance as I made my way toward him.
“Got a minute, Frank?” I asked, my voice quiet.
He looked up, and his expression of annoyance turned to surprise the moment he recognized me. “Your timing’s bad, Ziele. Things are crazy here. We’re printing a special edition. I’ve got half an hour to pull together my piece on Drayson and the Tombs bombing.”
“I don’t have much time, either—and I need your help. If I’m right, you’ll be typing up a whole different story.” I nodded toward his typewriter.
He shoved his chair back. “That important? Then let’s find a quieter place to talk.”
“How about the archive room?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Guys around here call it the newspaper morgue. Follow me.”
He led me out of the City Room to shouts of protest from other reporters. “Helluva time to grab a smoke, Frank,” and, “Tryin’ to get fired, Frank?”
Flashing a grin, he quashed their remarks, saying, “You fellas worry about your own job.”
He led me to the stairwell, where we descended six flights. The morgue itself was a cavernous room, dimly lit, and filled floor to ceiling with file cabinets and bookcases.
“We got everything here. Photographs. News clippings. Everything we’ve done since 1851, with major story clippings from the competition, too.” He gave me a hard stare. “Want to tell me what’s up?”
“There’s a second story here—one that’s far more complicated than just the anarchist conspiracy.” I briefed him on the major evidence I’d found, omitting Alistair’s name for now.
When I finished, Frank only shrugged. “Sounds interesting. But the commissioner won’t be interested in hearing about a more complex plot.”
“Politicians like things simple. I realize that.”
He gave me a curious look. “Then why are you so keen to figure out the truth? It will make no difference to you.”
I thought of Alistair and, more importantly, of Isabella, but I said only, “Because Allan Hartt deserves justice. His murder—because it was murder—should be formally connected to the others. He’s as deserving of justice as Judge Jackson or Judge Porter. There is a deeper motive at work, one that I do not yet understand, but I am confident it connects the m
urders of these three men.”
“So what’s here in the morgue that will help?”
“Any old write-ups you have of People versus Sanders. The trial began in November 1878 and continued until a verdict was reached in January 1879. It was appealed in June of the same year.”
Frank raised another eyebrow as he ran his hand over slicked-back hair. “Forgive me for saying so, but if you’re trying to tell me a modern-day anarchist conspiracy is connected with a thirty-year-old trial, I’m not sure you’re thinking straight.”
“You may be right. I won’t know until I find those files.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll pull them for you. And if there’s anything in them that leads to a story…”
I nodded. “You’ll be the first to know.”
“You always did keep your promises, Ziele. That’s why I’ll help you. But be quick, ’cause I gotta get back to work.”
Frank Riley had kept his word before, too; it was the main reason I had sought his help. Unfortunately, at this point in the investigation, men I could trust were in decidedly short supply.
* * *
Two hours later, I stepped into Artuso’s, an Italian coffee and pastry shop where glass shelves filled with cannoli and colorful cookies competed for customers’ attention with a selection of Italian coffees in hand-painted ceramic canisters. But the crown jewel of the shop was an espresso machine imported from Italy—a shiny silver device that whistled and chugged as the steam pressure forced the hot water through finely ground coffee. I ordered a double espresso and cannoli from the gruff man behind the counter, then settled at a table by the window. Outside, the crowds converged onto Longacre Square—or rather, Times Square as it had been renamed in honor of its major tenant, the New York Times. Salzburg’s reporters had made their deadline, and I watched as newsboys sold papers like hotcakes to passersby.
I downed my espresso, savoring its rich aftertaste, ordered another, and began to go through the files Frank had lent me. Article by article, I soon pieced together the story in more detail than the legal archives had allowed.
By all accounts, Leroy Sanders was an expert carpenter who had found ready work up until the day of his arrest. As a tradesman in the Adams family home, he had almost immediately come under suspicion after young Sally Adams first disappeared, then turned up dead, “discarded like a used doll in an outhouse,” as the paper had said. It was the evidence that Harry Blotsky had provided at the last moment—that Leroy went walking with the girl away from the house—that had convicted him. The final article mentioned that only Mrs. Leroy Sanders had been present at his sentencing; he had been lucky to escape a death sentence in favor of a life term at Auburn Prison. Mrs. Sanders had left the courtroom in tears, insisting that Leroy’s conviction was wrongful. “My Leroy is a peaceful man,” she had said. “He loves his family and his music.”
Reading that, my breath caught and the pit in my stomach grew larger as I thought of the musical ciphers each victim had received. Remember Leroy. A lover of music. They now had added significance in my mind.
I turned my attention to my cannoli, which I’d not touched. I devoured it so fast I barely tasted it. The three murders had to do with the killer’s belief that Leroy had been wrongfully convicted of murder; that motive was now clear. But who cared so deeply about this case from long ago? Who had the means and opportunity to plan and execute these killings? And what connection was there to the anarchists?
I scraped my plate with my fork, watching as an electric cab drove past on the street in front of me.
I sat up—and dropped my fork—for it immediately came to me.
The electric cab at the Dakota.
It had taken Alistair’s luggage to its destination. And while Alistair’s horse-drawn hansom cab had been hailed off the street, the electric motorcar had been ordered in advance. The company no doubt had a record of the fare.
I pushed back my chair, got up, and ran to the counter. “Do you have telephone service here?” I asked the gruff, whiskered man who ran the coffee machines.
He turned his back to me. “Not for customers.”
I pulled out my detective badge. “For official police business.”
“Well, in that case.” He motioned me toward a small back office where a black candlestick telephone sat on the desk.
I picked up the receiver. “New York Transportation, please.”
I drummed my fingers in anticipation, waiting for the operator to make the connection.
The moment she did, my words tumbled out in a rush. “On Wednesday, you picked up a fare at the Dakota—a luggage trunk, billed to Alistair Sinclair. I need to know where that trunk went.”
The woman on the other end must have recognized the urgency in my tone; she didn’t bother to ask for my credentials. She disappeared from the line for several minutes and returned.
“Sir, that cab took the trunk to Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street. The Waldorf Hotel.”
I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. We noted it clearly in our log.”
I thanked her, called Isabella to meet me, and then grabbed my files before sprinting the eight blocks downtown to where Alistair was apparently in hiding.
I had to admit the irony of it: in dire straits, Alistair had turned not to friends or family, or even to one of the seedy hotels downtown where my own father often sought anonymity after a bad night at the tables. Alistair had chosen the Waldorf as his place of refuge. It was an absurd choice. But leave it to Alistair to manage a course of action that was both foolhardy and at the same time brilliant—simply because no one in his right mind would ever think of it.
CHAPTER 26
The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street. 6 P.M.
“There’s no one here by that name, sir.” A young man with tousled brown hair frowned after examining the register. “Definitely no Sinclair registered here. Perhaps you have the wrong hotel?”
“He would have checked in Wednesday,” I said, insistent. “Late afternoon, between four and five o’clock. He may not have used his own name.”
The clerk’s hazel eyes grew wide. “But I can’t possibly check the record of every guest who checked in Wednesday afternoon. We’re the largest hotel in the world; we register over fifteen hundred guests a day.”
I didn’t move.
He scratched his chin. “Of course, I can try. Maybe you’ll recognize one of the names.”
“Try the Astoria section first,” Isabella said, adding for my benefit, “It’s newer and more luxurious.”
He rustled through his register, then began reciting names.
Jacques Rimes.
Anthony Black.
Hugh Stowe.
John Rhys.
We shook our heads. Maybe this just wasn’t going to work. I scrambled to think of other options—from questioning the maid staff to tracking down the specific bellhop who delivered his luggage—as the clerk ran through more choices.
Edward Graham.
James Warble.
Hans Enrico.
Isabella grabbed my arm with excitement. “That’s it.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. The name meant nothing to me.
She nodded. “It’s the perfect alias Alistair would choose. The names of his two criminology mentors.”
“What room is Mr. Enrico in?” I asked the clerk.
“Number sixteen twenty-one. The Astoria section of the hotel. To reach the elevator, you’ll pass through Peacock Alley.” He pointed. “The passageway to the left.”
Isabella thanked him, then rushed with me to the elevator, explaining on the way. “You see, they were two hotels until recently—the Waldorf and the Astoria, owned by two Astor cousins, William and John Jacob. Now they’re connected into one large hotel.”
“By this passageway?” I asked, glancing at the blue and gold decorations around us—no doubt the inspiration for the term “Peacock Alley.”
�
�Exactly. Now, let’s hurry.”
At the elevator bank, an impassive attendant in a stiff blue and gold uniform pressed the buttons that would take us up to the eighteenth floor. The small elevator, stuffy with hot air, seemed to move at a snail’s pace before finally lurching to a stop.
We raced down the hallway until we reached the cream-painted door at the end adorned with number 1621 in brass.
I rapped three times, then called out, “Alistair! Open up.”
No response.
I knocked again, louder this time. “Alistair.”
Two doors down, an elderly lady in a stiff pink satin gown opened her door and stared at us. “Sir, really,” she said with an imperious glance, “the concierge downstairs is available to help you with any problem.” Then she closed her door with a slight snap.
“Let me try,” Isabella said with a nervous glance farther down the hallway. “You’re just going to generate noise complaints.”
She knocked on the door herself: a series of short, brisk raps. “Alistair, it’s me, Isabella. You’ve got to let us in. We know you’re in there; we’re here to help you.”
We were rewarded with only more silence.
“It’s no good,” I said. “We’re going to have to find someone on staff with a key.”
Isabella held up a finger, continuing to talk. “We have information you need to know. About Allan Hartt. About why you and other members of the Bellerophon Club have been targeted.”
We heard heavy footsteps approaching the door.
Alistair swung it open and stared, angry and belligerent. “How the hell did you find me? And what do you know about the Bellerophon Club?”
His words were slurred and he was a disheveled mess—unbathed and unshaven, stinking of liquor, and wearing a stained, untucked shirt. He blocked the doorway, but I pushed my way inside past him. Isabella followed, and I caught her sharp intake of breath when she saw the room itself—for Alistair had managed to transform one of the Waldorf-Astoria’s finest suites into something that resembled a pigsty.
Secret of the White Rose Page 23