Secret of the White Rose (29 page)

“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 took 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.

“Bellerophon? I assume it has a meaning?”

“In Greek mythology, he is a hero—a slayer of monsters. He tamed Pegasus and killed the Chimera. Alistair appears to have been a founding member, along with the other murdered men … and there are references to the club as representing Order triumphing over Chaos.”

“Heroes triumphing over monsters,” I said. “But perhaps not in this killer’s view…”

“And you’ll find this even more interesting. Look at the signatures in back. There’s a page where the members of Bellerophon have written notes to one another.”

She flipped the pages to a section at the back.

I took a sharp breath.

I didn’t quite trust what was before my eyes—for the page was entirely covered in musical notations. It was just like the ciphers we’d seen, except that there were real signatures beneath the bars of music so carefully hand-drawn. And they matched the list of names we’d just seen under the Bellerophon Club.

“All musical ciphers?” I asked her.

She confirmed it. “I deciphered the first several bars, as you’ll see here.” She passed me her notebook, explaining, “The ciphers are filled with the usual sentiments: good wishes upon graduation, have a nice summer, and keep in touch. My guess is that to make the club feel more like a secret society, they used the musical ciphers to communicate. So
that
is how they all were able to interpret the blackmail notes they received.”