Second Street Station (13 page)

Senator Conkling had finally died, succumbing to the illness he contracted after venturing out during the Great White Hurricane. The former New York senator was a popular figure, and normally his passing would have been headline news, but not that day. What pushed it aside were the dubious adventures of a young female detective.
CASE OVERWHELMS HANDLEY
was the headline of the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle,
among similar headlines in other papers. It was written in big block letters that consumed half of the front page. Underneath was a photograph of Mary passed out in a police officer’s arms as he carried her into the police station. Reproducing photographs in newspapers was in its infancy. It was more expensive than the artists’ drawings normally used, and yet whenever Mary was involved, the newspapers decided the expense was worthwhile. And it was. The evening edition of the
Eagle
sold out in record time.

Mary sat with the
Eagle
at a booth in Longdon’s, a modest restaurant in Brooklyn where people of lesser means could dine reasonably. She held the newspaper high to avoid being ogled. It was to no avail. She could feel stares penetrating through the newspaper. It gave her a modicum of relief that three men at a nearby table were drunk and rowdy, thereby deflecting some attention. She also took some solace in knowing it was Friday, and she was missing the ritual dinner at her parents’ house. She cringed imagining what kind of hell her mother would have put her through.

The last thirty-six hours had been eventful in her young career as a detective, mostly in a negative sense. After failing to find Mortimer, she had tried to see Nikola Tesla, the other name in Goodrich’s date book for that fateful day, but Tesla couldn’t meet with her until Monday. She then proceeded to J. P. Morgan’s mansion, hoping to ask him a few questions. Morgan’s butler informed her that Morgan was having cocktails and would contact her when he was available. He shut the door in her face without giving her a chance to respond. The next day she was due to take yet another trip to West Orange to meet with Edison, though she had no faith he would keep the appointment. She wondered if she was being taken lightly because she was a woman or if the wealthy and influential always got such preferential treatment. She doubted a poor, uneducated person would be able to avoid interrogation. She made a mental note to ask Chief Campbell at the proper time, when he wasn’t disappointed in her.

Mary had no intention of putting the newspaper down. In order to thwart the curiosity seekers, she was determined to read it from beginning to end and then again. In the middle of the first section, around page ten, there was a tiny article in the lower right corner with a small headline that read,
CHINESE LABOR LEADER SLAIN
. She casually glanced at it, and that’s when the name Wei Chung jumped out at her. This couldn’t be her Wei Chung. The Chungs she knew lived in San Francisco. She frantically scanned the article, hoping it was merely a bizarre coincidence. When she read that Xin was also killed and that they had a daughter, Tina, who was a teacher in San Francisco, there was no escaping it. Mary’s heart filled with sadness and despair. What kind of animal would kill such wonderful people? Her thoughts went to Tina. She couldn’t fathom the enormity of what she was feeling. It made her own troubles seem minuscule. She put the newspaper down. Let the gawkers have their day. Three innocent people had been murdered: Goodrich, Wei, and Xin. That’s what mattered. Nothing else.

After a few minutes, Charles entered. She was glad to see him.

“Sorry, delayed at the office,” he said as he slid into the booth next to her.

“You don’t have a job.”

“I would’ve been delayed if I did. I’m a hard worker.”

“And what exactly do you want to do?”

“I’m wavering between becoming a rag man and president of the United States. But since I have no discernible talents, I’m leaning toward the latter.”

Mary shook her head and smiled. Charles was charming and entertaining, but he seemed determined to avoid any discussion relating to his personal ambitions. She saw the pain in his eyes flash ever so briefly before he resumed his evasive tactics.

“Hopefully, my hidden talents will surface as yours have.” He pointed to the headline on the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

“A minor bump in the road,” she said. “I’m fully recovered.” And Mary started to relate her experience. When she got to the point where Samuel grabbed her, Charles interrupted. He looked directly into her eyes. On this topic, he was completely earnest.

“Mary, you’re bold, you’re beautiful, and you’re brash, all qualities that make you extremely attractive. They also make you an easy target. Please be careful.”

Moved by his concern, Mary gently touched his hand. They spent dinner immersed in conversation. Charles was sympathetic and supportive as Mary told him about her heartache over the Chungs and her frustrations with her job. Eventually, she got to a problem she thought she’d never solve: her mother.

“Sometimes I wish I was the person she wants me to be,” Mary confessed, “so that she would accept me, and I could be happy. I’m afraid I’m going to have that feeling the rest of my life, the feeling of falling short.”

“Mary, you’re living your dream now,” Charles responded. “If you concentrate on the naysayers, you might miss precious moments of it.” He gave his father as an example. “He’s still longing for the type of opportunity you already have.”

Mary was grateful for his words. She listened as he talked about his father’s obsessive belief in Coca-Cola. Charles thought his chances for success were minute, but he desperately wanted it to happen for him.

A couple of hours later, when Mary and Charles left Longdon’s, the three drunken men who had been sitting near them in the restaurant were down the block in the middle of a scuffle. Two of the men were restraining the third, but Mary and Charles paid little attention to them. They were engrossed in each other.

“You’ll never pry Coca-Cola’s secret ingredient from my lips,” Charles declared, purposely being overdramatic. “I’ll go to my grave before I ever reveal that it’s cocaine.” He faked a shocked gasp. “Well, now you know.”

“Yes, I do, and I will guard your secret with my life,” said Mary, playing along. “But somehow I think the name betrays its secret.”

“Nonsense. How could you ever get ‘cocaine’ from…? My God, you’re right!”

They both laughed, and their eyes met. Charles was leaning in for their first kiss when, out of the blue, a gunshot rang out and a bullet shattered the window next to Mary’s head. She whirled around to see who it was.

“Mary, get down!” Charles shouted. “Get down!”

Another shot was fired. Charles threw her to the pavement, then jumped on top of her to shield her, and as he did, two more shots hit the building above them.

Mary looked up. By then the three drunks had run off. She saw a man across the street putting his pistol away before ducking into a nearby livery stable. It was Samuel.

“It’s the same ape who attacked me!” she exclaimed, promptly rolling out from under Charles and springing to her feet. Holding her dress up to make moving easier, she charged across the street.

“Don’t be insane, Mary. He has a pistol!”

But Mary paid no attention. She was already fearlessly heading for the stable in pursuit of Samuel. Charles mumbled something about her stubbornness, then followed her.

Just as they were arriving at the stable, the doors flung open, and a horse and buggy galloped out, Samuel at the reins.

“There he is!” Mary screamed, then frantically looked around, trying to decide on her next move. A trolley had just come to a halt across the street, and Mary ran to it.

“Mary, what are—” But Charles stopped. He had already learned not to question.

The trolley was a horse-drawn omnibus, one of the older ones where the driver sat on a perch on top and he could freely guide it through the streets without the assistance of tracks. It had seats for sixteen passengers around its perimeter with poles in the center for those who stood. Mary climbed up next to the driver, a crotchety, heavyset forty-year-old man.

“Follow that buggy!” she commanded, pointing ahead at Samuel.

The surly trolley driver had never taken orders from his wife, his mother-in-law, or his ugly sister. He certainly wasn’t going to take orders from this young woman.

“Says who?” he defiantly replied.

Mary had no time to discuss the matter, especially with someone of his limited understanding. She shoved him off the trolley. As the driver yelled and cursed from the street, Charles caught up with her and alerted the passengers.

“This is an emergency! Everyone out!” No one moved, so he decided to provide the incentive they lacked. “Those who are fascinated by dynamite and enjoy a good explosion are welcome to stay.” At that, they all ran past him, making a mad dash for the exit.

Samuel had put enough distance between himself and his pursuers at the stable. There was no longer any need to press his horse as hard as he had. He was a good, loyal animal who heeded him, certainly much better than any human ever had. Just as he was easing him into a trot, he heard a loud, thundering noise behind him and turned to look.

It was Mary, whip in one hand, reins in the other, standing at the helm of the trolley as it swayed from side to side, guiding the horses pulling it. With the full moon glowing behind her, its light bouncing off the cobblestones, the image she projected rivaled that of Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman.

There would be no rest for Samuel’s horse. He laid his whip into the animal’s hide, urging him to go faster.

Clinging to a pole, Charles felt useless in the empty carriage, and he thought he could be of some help to Mary. The omnibus had paneless windows. He went to the one nearest to the driver and started climbing his way out and up to join Mary on the perch. He was slowly and carefully making progress when the trolley hit a huge hole. The jolt launched him into the air. Mary screamed when she saw him being ejected.

At the last second, he latched on to a small railing on the side of the perch with his left hand. He clung on for dear life, his body flailing about on the side of the trolley as Mary held out the whip.

“Grab it! Come on, grab it!” Mary urged him on.

Charles knew that even if Mary could pull him on board, she would need both hands to do it. That would involve her letting go of the reins, and then the unguided horses might do both of them in. He ignored her plea and carefully inched his fingers up on the railing until he had a firmer grip. Then, using that hand as a base, he threw the rest of his body toward the perch, hoping to also grasp the railing with his right hand. For his efforts, his body slammed against the side of the trolley. The pain was instantaneous, and though his right hand had grabbed the rail, it slipped off.

“You’ve got to hold on!” Mary screamed.

Her advice riled him. Did she really believe he’d let go on purpose? Ignoring the pain, he lunged for the rail with his right hand again. This time he was able to hang on!

With both hands firmly on the rail, he climbed his way onto the perch. There he sat, emotionally and physically drained, clinging to the rail and muttering to himself.

“If you’re praying,” Mary said, “put in a word for me.”

“I’m closer with the opposition,” replied Charles, pointing downward.

The buggy made a last-minute sharp turn down a narrow street. Following it in the huge trolley would be incredibly dangerous, possibly suicidal.

Charles looked at Mary. “No, Mary, you’re not going to—”

But there was never a doubt in her mind. She went for it, pulling hard on the reins. The horses obeyed, barely making the turn, but the trolley didn’t. It slammed against a building and almost tipped over, then slowly righted itself.

“We made it! Maybe there is a God!” was Charles’s jubilant cry. Then he saw Samuel turn down an even narrower street. “And he’s a sadistic shit!”

This time proved too much for the trolley, and it all happened in a matter of seconds. The trolley slammed so violently against a stone building that the loud cracking sound it made was too ominous to ignore. The horses’ hitch broke and they galloped off, leaving Mary and Charles still aboard the trolley, which, still moving forward, was unsteady from the crash and teetering dangerously from side to side. Finally, the trolley completely flipped over, the top smacking into a building before it toppled onto the ground and splintered into pieces.

Charles had been thrown free from the trolley when it tipped over and lay dazed, sprawled out on a pile of garbage that had broken his fall. He soon realized that Mary wasn’t next to him. He jumped to his feet and saw her on the sidewalk, unconscious. Panicked, he quickly ran to her and cradled her limp body in his arms.

“Mary. Can you hear me? Mary!” There was no response. Charles held her closer as he tried to figure out where the nearest doctor or hospital was. Then he felt her begin to move.

“Charles?” Mary said as if she were asking but really knew. Then she snapped back to her old self, exclaiming, “That bastard tried to kill me!”

Thrilled and relieved, Charles hugged her, and they held each other tightly.

Oddly, Mary woke up feeling well rested, as if nothing of significance had happened the night before. There were no ill effects of being shot at, destroying a trolley, and being knocked unconscious. However, Mary did smell a familiar scent. She smiled, put on her robe, and went to Charles, who was standing over the Franklin stove cooking, his shirt hanging out over his pants.

“I hope you like French toast,” he said as he scooped his creation onto plates and put it on the table.

“It had better not be burned. That’s my specialty.”

“Really, French toast?”

“No, burning it.” Mary smiled and Charles looked at her, thinking what a magnificent woman she was. He leaned over and kissed her. She welcomed it. A first kiss is very important. It can either live up to expectations or put a damper on the relationship. Charles’s kiss exceeded what Mary had hoped it would be, and she let it linger. When they broke apart, Mary gently patted his cheek.

“Thank you for last night. Your gallantry was far beyond the pale.”

And he had been gallant. Insisting she was perfectly fine, Mary had refused to go to the hospital, so Charles had taken her home. He had spent the night on two chairs, his feet propped up on one, making sure she was indeed fine. And now he had cooked her breakfast. This was a man she didn’t want to let go.

They were about to sit down to breakfast when there was a knock at her door. Mary froze. Seconds later, there was another knock.

“Aren’t you going to—?” Charles started to say.

“Shhh, male visitors aren’t allowed,” Mary whispered.

“Mary…Mary, I know you’re in there,” called a familiar voice. It was Kate.

Relieved, Mary opened the door, pulled Kate inside, and shut it in a hurry. Before Mary could say a word, Kate unloaded.

“I behaved awfully toward you, Mary. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Mary replied, incredulous. “I never should have asked you those questions at that time. I was being ridiculously insensitive.”

They had just hugged, their spat resolved, when Kate spied Charles over Mary’s shoulder.

“This must be your Charles. My Charlie and I never got this far. He was consumed with being a gentleman.” Kate somehow managed to be both happy and sad at the same time.

“Luckily, that problem has eluded me,” responded Charles. “But even I was not cad enough to take advantage of Mary in her state.” And they told Kate what happened.

Kate reacted with shock. “My father always said a lady should know how to protect herself. You need a weapon, Mary.”

“Maybe in Haddonfield,” Mary responded, trying to make light of her friend’s concern, “where you might encounter a bear on Main Street, but…”

“Actually, Mary,” Charles chimed in, “that’s an excellent suggestion.”

Mary was a perfectionist. Unless she felt proficient in an area, she avoided it. And “proficient” to Mary was tantamount to being an expert. She had studied all aspects of detective work for most of her life. She had practiced jujitsu for even longer, but pistols, knives, and all other weaponry were not part of her repertoire.

“Weapons can be used against you,” she offered as an excuse. “But I’ll have the killer in my sights soon enough.”

It was false bravado. Mary was concerned, and Charles knew it.

John Pemberton was placing a crumpled piece of paper under the leg of a club chair to stop it from wobbling when Charles entered their boardinghouse room.

“Good morning, son,” Pemberton greeted him as he straightened himself. Charles was noticeably on edge, and Pemberton, forever the optimist, thought he could divert his attention and possibly cheer him. “You must be feeling pretty chipper.”

Charles responded with a quizzical look.

“Your young damsel finally succumbed to your charms,” Pemberton explained.

“Not yet. Fact is, she’s quite marvelous.” His words not only expressed his great admiration for Mary but also betrayed his own sense of unworthiness.

Charles took a case off the desk and opened it. Inside were hypodermic needles and a vial of liquid. He held up the vial for inspection.

“You’ve been hitting the morphine rather heavily, Father,” he uttered matter-of-factly. “I guess we have to dismiss your theory about cocaine curing the habit.”

Put on the defensive, Pemberton replied accordingly. “I was wounded in the war, dear son. What’s your excuse?”

Charles filled his needle. “I have no ambition, no confidence, and no shame. I, Father, am the perfect addict.”

He sat down on his bed, injected himself, then leaned back, relieved to know that he’d soon be lost in his escape.

Mary was right. Once again, Edison had canceled at the last minute with no regard for her time. Mrs. Embry tried to mitigate the damage her boss had wrought.

“Mr. Edison had an emergency meeting. I assure you, Miss Handley, it was totally unavoidable.”

“I need to see him as soon as possible.” No matter how strongly Mary uttered those words, she knew it would make no difference. She was powerless in this situation.

“I’ll squeeze you in at the earliest possible spot. I guarantee it.” They both knew her guarantee was of little value.

Before they could say their good-byes, a man burst through the door. Mary recognized him as Eadweard Muybridge, an odd name and an even odder man. She had seen him on a previous visit being forcibly removed by guards. An Englishman in his late fifties with a long gray beard, Muybridge seemed as off-balance now as he had then.

“Where is he?!” he shouted.

The ever-composed Mrs. Embry replied, “Mr. Edison isn’t here, Mr. Muybridge.”

The two guards who had disposed of him before and were now in pursuit rushed in. Muybridge immediately raised his hand to stop them.

“No need for mindless thuggery. I’m leaving.” He turned once more to Mrs. Embry. “Tell that bloody thieving bastard I’ll be back!”

His head held high, trying to salvage whatever dignity he thought he had, Muybridge strutted out with the guards close behind him.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Miss Handley. Geniuses like Mr. Edison seem to attract an equal share of the brilliant and the deluded.”

“You’re being kind, Mrs. Embry. ‘Crackpot’ seems more appropriate.”

Mrs. Embry smiled, tacitly agreeing but knowing full well that verbally acknowledging her accord would give voice to an opinion, something a person of her position was not supposed to have.

As Mary left the complex, she wondered where she fell on Mrs. Embry’s scale. She was a woman attempting to do a man’s job in a man’s world. The “deluded” category seemed likely. Mary spotted Muybridge out of the corner of her eye sitting on the curb, his back propped up against a lamppost. By keeping her eyes ahead of her and quickening her pace, she hoped to avoid contact. But crackpots pay little attention to others’ intentions.

“Be smart,” Muybridge called out to Mary. “Leave now while you still have all your fingers and toes.”

Mary walked faster, trying harder to ignore him, but he would have none of it. He jumped to his feet and jogged over to her, staying by her side.

“Ask yourself,” he shouted, wanting the world to hear. “What kind of fellow steals another man’s life? He requests a joint venture, then poof! My zoopraxiscope becomes his kinetoscope. No regrets, not so much as—”

“Sorry, but I need to go,” she blurted out curtly, trying to discourage any further conversation.

“What you need,” Muybridge declared, matching her step for step, “is to heed my words. Don’t think being a woman will protect you. A scoundrel is a scoundrel.”

“I have nothing that Mr. Edison could possibly want.” She hastened her gait, but he also hastened his.

“Ah, famous last words of the swindled.”

Mary finally stopped and faced him. “Look, I’m just here about Charles Goodrich. Now please let me be.”

Muybridge strangely transformed before her. His demeanor completely calmed. His voice was genuine and devoid of rant. He actually seemed normal.

“You’re the woman working on Charlie’s murder?” he eagerly asked. It was the familiarity and warmth with which he referred to Goodrich that got her attention.

“You knew Mr. Goodrich?” she said. Charles Goodrich was a levelheaded man, not the type who befriended crackpots like Muybridge.

“Charlie had the proof I need. Without it, my accusations are just words.”

“Proof?”

“Charlie was a stickler for detail. He recorded all of Edison’s transactions.”

“You mean a journal exists?” Mary was being drawn in deeper with each word. As Lewis Carroll’s Alice would say, things were getting “curiouser and curiouser.”

Muybridge nodded. “A journal that can expose Thomas Edison for the fraud that he is.”

And curiouser.