Secret of the White Rose (18 page)

I walked the few short blocks to the Spring Street station, my resolve hardening with each step. For all the evidence we’d uncovered, I was missing something important: some crucial fact that would crack the case open. And despite his protestations, I believed that Alistair held the key to the solution. But whether because of grief for friends lost—or by virtue of simply being too close to the case—I could not convince him to cooperate with me. He had brought me into this case; now I’d have to finish it without him.

By the time I descended the stairs to the subway platform, my frustrations with Alistair were replaced by simple determination. I stood amid dozens of fellow passengers until a slight rumble and brilliant beam of light announced the next train. I entered, then watched as the guard threw the lever on the platform, which closed the doors and sent us rumbling uptown. Not fifteen minutes later, I reached my stop—Seventy-second and Broadway. I should have headed home, a block south of the station, but I found myself turning toward the Dakota.

The attendant downstairs, who knew me well by now, motioned for me to go up.

I shook my head instead. “Would you send a message to Mrs. Sinclair?” I briefly penned a note asking if she was free to come down—and waited while the young boy who ran such errands within the building took it up to her.

I paced back and forth between the two gaslight lamps at the building’s entrance, uncomfortably aware that my desire to see Isabella tonight was not a wish but a need. There was no one else I could talk to about Alistair. No one else who could possibly understand.

To my immense relief, she came downstairs within minutes.

Her face filled with concern, she asked, “Simon, is everything all right?”

“If you’re hungry, we could talk over dinner,” I said, forcing a half-smile. I’d not been able to think of food since this morning’s crime scene, but my pounding headache was a reminder that I should eat.

“How about Ma Pickett’s?” She took my arm and we began to walk west toward Broadway.

The popular restaurant she’d just named was one of my favorites, but it would be too loud tonight. It was located in San Juan Hill, the area south of West Sixty-seventh Street that formed the largest African neighborhood in Manhattan, where most restaurants offered entertainment in addition to food. Ma Pickett’s also had a small dance floor, and when the band played the new ragtime music that was popular among the San Juan Hill restaurants, the crowd’s noise was nothing short of deafening.

So, I replied, “I need quiet so we can talk. How about—” I said.

“Not Shi Ling’s,” she interrupted, wrinkling her nose. I knew she disliked the Chinese restaurant near Fifty-ninth and Columbus Avenue, which did not allow Africans inside their dining room. Not unusual in this city, to be sure—but in San Juan Hill, it was an especially poor choice.

“Definitely not. I was thinking of Beau’s.” Beau’s was a small café just off Sixty-sixth that served Caribbean food. Its small size—only eight tables—would mean there would be relative quiet, but there would still be a ragtime player at the piano to ensure that our conversation remained private. Not that I was overly concerned. In San Juan Hill, where African and Irish residents coexisted uneasily in derelict tenements, and ordinary laborers clashed with gang members and drug dealers, my true concern was in finding a restaurant shielded from the tense confrontations typically found in the rowdier establishments.

Isabella agreed with a smile—and we walked the few, short blocks making small talk, before eventually settling in at a table near the window. We ordered codfish and plantains, rice and peas, all the while listening to a piano man playing the syncopated rhythm of “The Black Cat Rag.”

“You wanted to talk,” she said, once we had settled in comfortably.

“I’m not sure what to do about Alistair,” I admitted rather bluntly. I then set about briefing her on the day’s events. With each new fact, Isabella’s eyes got wider and wider, as she tried to absorb the shocking news of Judge Porter’s murder and my subsequent conversation with Alistair. Summing up, I said, “I’m convinced there’s something he’s not telling me—though I can’t say whether that’s because he doesn’t see it or simply because he doesn’t see it as relevant to the investigation. If he would only talk…”

“You know,” she reminded me gently, “usually he’s in your position when he analyzes a crime: outside looking in, with scientific objectivity. This time, it’s his friends who have become victims. And he
did
consider them both friends; Judge Jackson’s death affected him deeply.”

“Though he claimed that he no longer had close ties with either man,” I said, thinking aloud.

Our plantain appetizer arrived, though I only picked at it. I had no appetite tonight, though the hot Jamaican coffee was a godsend. Just one cup took the sharp edge off my mood and alleviated the headache I’d battled all day.

“It’s more than his personal grief,” I said, suddenly convinced. “He’s hiding something; I’m just not sure what.”

She considered this for a moment. “Then you’ve no choice but to proceed without him. For his sake, as well as the success of your own investigation. What do your instincts tell you about this case?”

“It’s possible that we’re dealing with the work of more than one man,” I said, explaining how the different murder weapons likely pointed to multiple killers. I finished explaining as our main courses arrived, saying, “The presence of the Bible and the white rose tells me there is a link—a similarity in message and motive—that supersedes those differences.”

Isabella looked at me thoughtfully. “We talked about how Judge Jackson was likely killed for violating some kind of oath, as signified by his hand on top of the Bible. Judge Porter was also a member of the judiciary, but his killer didn’t position him the same way. Tell me again what he looked like?”

In my mind’s eye I still saw him. And as I began to describe how Judge Porter had lain naked, the answer suddenly came to me—almost too simple to be believed.

“Judge Porter was killed—literally—because his hands were tied. From the murderer’s point of view, this judge’s crime was one of omission.” I watched for Isabella’s reaction, aware that I also yearned to test my theory with Alistair, whose knowledge about crime-scene behavior was unparalleled.

“You know, Simon, I think you may be right,” Isabella replied, after giving my statement careful consideration. “Was there music at the crime scene?”

It was the same question Alistair had asked.

After I assured her there was not—at least, not that Mulvaney and I had seen—she said, “Then perhaps there is something at his home. I’m wondering if there’s another reference to ‘Leroy avenged.’”

“And even if there’s not,” I added, “I forgot to mention that there’s already a reference to Leroy at the crime scene. Whoever registered for the room in which Judge Porter was murdered signed in as ‘Leroy Sanders.’”

Unconsciously, she reached for the strand of hair behind her ear and began to twirl it. “Did the clerk remember anything about who checked in?”

“Other officers were still questioning the night clerk when I left,” I said. “I’ll find out once I review the report in the morning.”

“Meanwhile, why don’t I visit the Jackson and Porter families tomorrow,” Isabella said. Upon seeing my deep breath of protest, she added, “It will be a simple condolence call, as would be expected since Alistair was acquainted with both families. And my goal will be to figure out whether a man named Leroy Sanders means anything to either family.”

I nodded. “I only worry about the danger to you—especially now that someone so close to the investigation has been killed.”

In typical fashion, she brushed aside my concern. “Judge Porter wasn’t killed because he was involved in the investigation,” she said with conviction. “He and Judge Jackson were longtime colleagues. There must be some other connection.”

“You’re thinking of Leroy.”

She nodded.

“Still, please be very careful. Although while you’re there, perhaps you could try to find out whether Alistair may have had closer connections with Hugo Jackson and Angus Porter than he has intimated.”

She almost said something, then hesitated.

“It’s for his own good,” I said. “I’m worried about him—but without understanding the true extent of his involvement in whatever I’m investigating, I can’t help him.”

I would have said more, but Lena, the owner and cook at Beau’s, came over to our table. Tall, strikingly angular, and dressed head to toe in a vibrant yellow dress that reflected the fashion of her native Jamaica rather than of New York, she frowned the moment she saw my plate. “Don’t you like my cookin’ tonight, Simon?”

“Wonderful as always,” I assured her. “It’s my work, not the food.”

“Hmph. You can’t live on coffee alone—though if you could, I guess you’d do it,” she said with a laugh. Then she turned to Isabella. “And where’s your father-in-law tonight? It’s usually the three of you.”

Isabella gave a sad smile. “He’s paying a condolence call.”

For all we knew, it was the truth.

“Well,” Lena said, giving us a wide smile in return, “tell him no excuses next time.” And turning her attention to the next table, she motioned for the piano player to end his break, and soon the sounds of the “Maple Leaf Rag” filled the room.

Out of guilt, I ordered Lena’s dessert special, a sweet potato pudding—and we sat in comfortable silence while listening to the music.

Glancing over at the other diners, I saw a familiar face: that of Mrs. Jackson’s housemaid, Marie, enjoying an evening off. She and her companion—a large man with a wide, infectious smile—were sitting and laughing, appreciating the music. In what was probably her best dress, gazing with obvious affection at the man beside her, Marie was the picture of happiness. And I found myself envying the close camaraderie that was evident between them.

Finally Isabella spoke again. “Are you going home now, Simon?”

I pulled my pocket watch out to check the time. Still an hour before I planned to visit the beer-hall meeting that Mr. Strupp had told me Jonathan would attend. “Not tonight,” I said, clearing my throat. “I’m headed to an anarchist meeting, in hopes of learning something to help with the investigation and appease the General.”

“Let me help you,” she said earnestly. “I can pretend to be your assistant. And two sets of eyes are better than one.”

I shook my head. “Not only are you far too well dressed, but I’m also meeting Jonathan there.” I paused awkwardly, knowing she would recall the name of Hannah’s brother.

“But you’re going undercover, aren’t you?” she asked. And upon seeing my look of confusion, she added, “I mean, you’re not walking into an anarchist meeting and announcing yourself as a policeman.”

“As I’d prefer not to be strung up by a mob tonight, no.”

“Then I can help you to establish your cover,” she said, raising her chin. “I want to be a full partner with you in this case, Simon. And don’t even try to say you don’t need me—especially without Alistair.”

I realized there was going to be no help for it; she’d already determined to accompany me.

“Then we’d better get you home so you can change into your oldest, least fashionable dress,” I said, keeping my voice light. “And even then…”

“I’ll be fine, Simon,” she said with a smile.

I managed to return a weak smile. We walked the few, short blocks uptown, my mind filled with just one thought: I was treading through dangerous territory, indeed.

CHAPTER 13

Charles Ehrhardt’s Beer Hall, 405 West Thirty-fifth Street. 8
P.M.

The fetid stench of Ehrhardt’s Beer Hall was nearly overwhelming: the smell of alcohol mixing with sweaty, unwashed bodies. The room was sweltering; there were simply too many people packed into too small a space. It didn’t help that the windows were closed tight, covered with black ticking, so as not to attract the attention of the police—a naïve practice, for even in my precinct house, we received regular notification of when and where workers’ meetings were being held. Rather than break up these meetings, as had once been our practice, the police had learned it was more productive to infiltrate them and obtain valuable information. At least, that was our practice so long as there was no fugitive anarchist in attendance, whose arrest would be a real coup.

Two men blocked the door to the beer hall, more interested in their own conversation than in those entering the hall—though their job was to screen out uninvited attendees, like Isabella and myself.

“I agree with you on everythin’ but the violence, Savvas,” said a thin man with a scraggly red beard, shaking his head. “If you listen to Emma Goldman herself, she never talks about killing nobody.”

“But how else is revolution going to come about? The capitalist scum don’t care if we’re cold and hungry. They fire us if we get sick. They’re never going to give us better pay and working conditions out of the goodness of their hearts.” Savvas, a short burly man with thick, curly black hair, beat his chest with emotion. “Not in our lifetime, Joe. We’ve got to force them.”

“But now we got the union to force them,” Joe said stubbornly. “The IWW. That gives us real power.”