Second Street Station (14 page)

The Bowler Hat sat quietly on a bench in Central Park. He had just been put on indefinite suspension because he had “failed to handle matters in everyone’s best interests.”

He had raped a woman and killed a Chinese labor leader and his wife, but those words would never be spoken. It was business and would be handled with business vernacular. Besides, “publicity” was the dirty word, not “violence.” Several Chinese workers had reported seeing a white man who fit the Bowler Hat’s description by the Chungs’ cabin at the time of the murders. That wasn’t the concern. The word of a few Chinamen would never convict a white man. But should that information get in the hands of a crusading newspaperman, the “wheels of justice” might be forced into motion no matter how well they had been paid to remain still.

The Bowler Hat didn’t take suspension lightly. He viewed it as tantamount to a death sentence. He loved his work and didn’t know what he would do without it.

While he was thinking these thoughts, a strange sensation surged through him. He recognized it as sadness. He had only felt it once before, when he was twelve. He had infuriated his mother, a regular occurrence, and she had cornered him at an abandoned well. She grabbed for him, he stepped aside, and she fell into the well. A month later when she had passed away, after having caught typhoid from the contaminated water in the well, the Bowler Hat went into their barn and there, amid the farm animals, he bawled like a little baby. He despised himself for being so weak, and he swore that it would never happen again. Yet, here it was.

He forced the sadness deep down inside of him, willing it to never come back. Feelings led to mistakes. He had already made too many of those, and he had to deal with his present situation.

Purportedly, his employers had arranged a temporary job for him, so he could earn a living while he was “mending.” But what did it take to make promises? His knowledge of his employers’ activities made him too great a risk to just be cast aside. He knew of others who had been deemed no longer useful and were eliminated. One was removed by his wife while making love, another by an usher at the opera, in the middle of
Don Giovanni,
for God’s sake. Anything was possible.

The Bowler Hat looked around the park. There were couples walking arm in arm, people riding bicycles and high-wheel tricycles, and others seemingly just enjoying the beautiful spring weather. Everything looked innocent enough, but he knew better. It was at times like these, when the subject felt comfortable, that a really good assassin struck. And they would have to send their best to eliminate him.

The Bowler Hat rose. Any number of men could come at him, and he had to be ready. As he walked, he sensed danger all around him. There was a man sitting on a bench with a picnic basket, a basket that could easily contain weapons. Another man was pushing a baby carriage. It was suspicious. Only women did that. Then he saw a portion of a black derby hat through a large bush. Why was it not moving? Was the man lining him up in his sights? The Bowler Hat felt trapped. He suddenly started running, not just running but sprinting.

When he was safely outside the park and had stopped to catch his breath, the Bowler Hat began to realize that maybe his employers were right. Maybe he did need time to mend.

Mary’s first stop after her encounter with Muybridge was Charles Goodrich’s brownstone. She had previously searched it and so had the Brooklyn police. No one had found anything they deemed relevant. She didn’t remember coming across a journal, though if someone had, it might have easily been passed over. Charles Goodrich was a bookkeeper. It was only natural he would have logged numbers and transactions. Muybridge seemed earnest enough, but Mary gave little credence to his claim that those figures would besmirch the pristine reputation of Thomas Edison. Muybridge had an air of desperation about him, of a man grasping at straws. Taking him at his word would be a giant leap of faith. It would also make Edison a suspect, and the whole notion of Thomas Edison’s being a murderer was not only absurd but anathema to her.

Mary did realize there could be many other reasons why such a journal would be in demand. Even if the journal didn’t exist, the rumor that it did was a dangerous one. A man of Edison’s phenomenal success was bound to have business rivals out to ruin him, and if he didn’t, a good old-fashioned blackmailer would view the journal as a money machine. It didn’t matter if Charles Goodrich had such information or not. Any refusal to cooperate could have been considered hostile, and it could have easily hastened his demise.

So far, searching the Goodrich brownstone a second time had turned up nothing new. Mary was in his office, rummaging around in his desk drawers, when the steamer trunk in front of the couch caught her eye. An image of it from her last visit drew her to the trunk. She lifted the lid. It was empty—as it had been before. This time she noticed something odd, though, and she chastised herself for not having detected it before. Searching the steamer, feeling around with her hands, Mary eventually found a small lever camouflaged by a luggage strap. When she turned it, the bottom popped up. Mary removed it, revealing a new bottom containing a lone book pressed against the right side of the trunk wall. She snatched it up and eagerly started leafing through it.

“Good work, Miss Handley. I never would have suspected the steamer trunk.” Mary looked up. The voice belonged to a bony man of medium height. He was smiling, and she immediately pegged it as false bravado. He wasn’t comfortable being there, and his clothes suggested that if he was a criminal, he wasn’t very successful at it. She didn’t think he would provide much trouble, but there was one complication. He was pointing a pistol at her.

“It makes perfect sense,” she coolly and calmly explained. “A man of Mr. Goodrich’s impeccable taste would never have a steamer trunk in his study, unless he had something of value hidden there.” Her eyes fell on an ashtray situated on the end of the desk. She slowly made her way toward it and closer to the bony man.

“Hand over the journal. And leave the ashtray where it is,” he said with a cocky smirk. “That old trick won’t work on me.”

“Really? How about this one?”

Mary tossed the book at the bony man, and he hastily closed his arms to catch it. The pistol was now pointing away from her. She lunged for him, grabbed his hand, and twisted it, causing him to drop the pistol. She then elbowed him in the face. The bony man was both stunned and scared. A woman had tricked and overpowered him. It was too much. Clutching the book, he ran out. Mary didn’t hesitate. She lit out after him.

Out on the street, Mary found herself severely hampered by her clothes. Unencumbered, pant-aided men had a distinct advantage over women in any footrace. The bony man was using that to his full advantage as he put more distance between them with each stride. Mary was frustrated. A lady walking her dog was shocked to see Mary stop, kick off her shoes, and shimmy her petticoat off. The lady protectively picked up her dog, as if Mary’s insanity might be contagious. Feeling freer, Mary scooped up her things and took off again in her stocking feet, able to run much faster and more easily.

Still ahead by a large margin, the bony man slowed as he turned the corner. He knew there was no way she could catch him. It was rather comical the way she had feebly run after him. He smiled, then chuckled and broke into a full-throated laugh. He didn’t notice Samuel until the huge man’s powerful fist landed on his chin, instantly knocking him out.

Samuel despised incompetence. He shook his head at the pathetic thief, then grabbed the book and disappeared.

When Mary rounded the corner, shoes and petticoat in tow, she was tugging at her corset, trying to get some relief as she gasped for air. She saw the bony man on the sidewalk, the book nowhere in sight. As he started to gain consciousness, she leaned over him.

“Who are you?” she demanded, but he was in another world, thinking his grandmother was yelling at him. “I said, who are you?!”

“William Leeds,” he replied before slowly realizing Grandma had been dead for a decade.

“Yes, yes, and?” Mary wasn’t being specific, but Leeds knew what she wanted. He had practice being caught, and he had already capitulated.

“Nikola Tesla hired me to get the journal.”

“I owe you a debt, Mr. Leeds, for allowing me to utter words I’ve wanted to say all my life—you’re under arrest.”

Bringing in her first arrest didn’t earn Mary the respect she needed at Second Street Station. After all, William Leeds was no John Wilkes Booth or even a savvy bunco artist like Hungry Joe Lewis. True, a few eyebrows were raised, but Chief Campbell hardly paused on his way out as Mary entered with Leeds. He did break his stride though. That was something—for him. What Mary had that nobody else knew of was better than her first arrest. She had a new lead.

Her meeting with Nikola Tesla had been set for Monday. It was now Saturday, but it couldn’t wait. She found Tesla at a warehouse on the lower west side of Manhattan, not far from the water. Except for his reputation as a young, eccentric genius, she knew little about him.

She hadn’t met Tesla at Governor Hill’s Salute to Thomas Edison, but she had recognized him from the scientific journals she regularly read. He stood in the middle of the large, almost empty warehouse barking orders at men who were carrying in large crates. He was trying to be patient, but he had the tone of a man who was sure that at any moment some nitwit was going to ruin his day.

“In the corner”—he motioned to one of the men carrying a crate—“and be careful.”

Mary took note of Tesla’s combustible nature and approached him carefully.

“Nikola Tesla?” she asked tentatively.

Tesla was about to respond when a loud crash was heard in the far part of the warehouse. He froze for a moment, as if realizing the expected ineptitude of others had finally struck.

“I said careful!” he shouted as he abruptly spun around in the direction of the crash. He then turned back to Mary. “All I want is for the equipment not to be broken. Is that too much to ask?”

Mary ignored his question. “I’m Mary Handley. I’m working on the Goodrich murder. We were supposed to meet on Monday, but something—”

“That’s right,” he cut her off. “You’re the woman they hired.” He paused briefly, then shook his head. “Catching the killer must be a low priority.”

Trying not to take the bait, Mary showed no reaction.

“You might be interested in whom I did catch—a Mr. William Leeds.”

This stopped Tesla, but another crash soon stole his attention. He turned.

“What in God’s name is your problem?!” When he turned back, he saw Mary patiently waiting for his response. He sighed. “What did Leeds do?”

“For starters, breaking and entering and armed robbery.”

Tesla shook his head. “That’s what happens when you have limited funds. You’re forced to hire imbeciles.”

“So you admit hiring him?” Mary was surprised.

“Yes, but not to steal. Just to locate, only
locate…something.”

“Charles Goodrich’s journal?”

Tesla looked startled. “You know about it?”

“Your plan failed. The book Mr. Leeds stole was taken from him.”

“Damn it! That means they have it!” As if punctuating his explosion, another loud crash was heard at the other end of the warehouse. In a flash, he was heading for it, motioning for Mary to come with him.

“I’m demonstrating my AC system tomorrow,” he explained, then stared daggers at the men carrying his crates. “That is, if everything’s still in one piece!” He turned back to Mary. “I’m sure Thomas Edison and J. P. Morgan are not thrilled about the competition. Billions are at stake. Those two would throw their mothers on the fire for much less, and Charlie was a mere bookkeeper.”

They arrived at the crate that had been dropped. Tesla opened and inspected it as the man who had carried it looked on and Mary responded, her words full of disbelief.

“You’re not suggesting Thomas Edison—”

“I know,” Tesla interrupted. “Not our all-American boy, the brilliant inventor of the lightbulb.” He nodded to the man that the contents were all right, and the man carted it off.

“In spite of your sarcasm, it’s the truth,” she said pointedly.

Tesla laughed. “It’s all a gigantic ruse. Thomas has a unique arrangement. His scientists do the inventing, and he gets the credit.”

“So the journal would soil his image and propel you into the electricity game?”

“All I want is a fair chance to compete. Charlie knew that. He wanted to help me. ‘Correct all the wrongs,’ he said. But none of this matters now. They have the journal, and I’m going to jail.”

Tesla held out his hands for Mary to cuff them. Mary paused as she studied him. He was a strange man, possessing an odd combination of attributes. Emotional and bombastic, he could fit the bill for a murderer without stretching logic. Yet he seemed honest almost to a fault and thoroughly incapable of deception. She couldn’t help being charmed by the little boy in him who didn’t understand the world and railed at its inequities. Still, none of it mattered. Arresting Nikola Tesla at this point was not an option.

“Mr. Leeds admitted stealing the journal was solely his idea,” she said.

“An honest thief,” he replied, surprised that fate was giving him a break. “My God, he’s a bigger imbecile than I thought.”

“The book that was taken was a Bible—an old one, valuable, but not the journal.”

Tesla finally realized she had been toying with him to extract information. Instead of being angry, he applauded.

“Bravo, Miss Handley. The money. Follow it, and you’ll find Charlie’s killer.”

Mary considered Tesla’s words as she left the warehouse. Her list of suspects was expanding instead of narrowing. There was Roscoe, and no matter what her instincts were, the facts showed that Tesla had to be added, along with his business partner George Westinghouse. Also, in spite of her feelings, she now had to include Edison. He had been mentioned twice. And if Edison was a possibility, so was his partner J. P. Morgan. The way things were going, her list would soon include President Grover Cleveland. Actually, some of these men were more powerful than the president. That should have made Mary very cautious, but she was mostly concerned with justice being served. Her concern rang of idealism, and idealists make excellent victims.