Secret of the White Rose (9 page)

As we drew closer, I was surprised to hear Alistair’s voice, angry and loud.

“There’s no room for error. Too much is at stake!”

Another voice, rough and deep, thundered in reply. “Do you think I’m unaware of that?”

I hesitated—but Mrs. Mellown did not break her step, though her right hand reached down and jangled the key ring tied to her apron to signal her presence.

She stopped next to the open French doors with polished brass handles that led to the music room, turned her head, and gave me a knowing smile. “An old friend of the professor’s stopped by for a visit. It’s good that you’ll be joining them.”

So I was to play peacemaker—but more interesting to me was why Alistair would be exchanging heated words with his guest.

Mrs. Mellown preceded me into the music room and formally announced me, adding, “Will you be needing anything else now, Professor?”

I entered in time to observe Alistair recompose himself, but the placid expression he arranged on his face could not disguise the telltale red flush that burned on his cheeks. He had been arguing with his guest for some time—not just in the moments I overheard.

“Yes, would you bring us another plate of scones, please,” he said, giving Mrs. Mellown a boyish smile. Then he turned his attention to me. “Come in, old boy. Glad you’re here. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Angus Porter. Detective Ziele, Judge Porter.”

I reached to shake the hand of the man who stood to greet me. Judge Porter was a short, portly man with a gut that almost burst out of his buttoned white shirt. His wide chin was covered with gray stubble, and though his general appearance was unkempt, his bloodshot hazel eyes were alert with intelligence.

“Angus was at Harvard Law with me,” Alistair said. “He remained friendly with Hugo Jackson through the years.”

“Hugo was an honorable man and a good friend,” Judge Porter said, sinking once again into a plush green sofa.

“His death is a great loss,” I said.

Alistair indicated that I should come sit beside them, pointing to the small paisley chaise longue across from the judge. I sat, realizing that I had never spent much time in Alistair’s music room before. More so than the other rooms in his expansive eleven-room apartment, this one seemed designed for comfort: we sat at the back of the room, near the floor-to-ceiling window looking into the Dakota’s interior courtyard, in a cozy arrangement of overstuffed sofas and wood-framed chairs. A black Steinway piano dominated the front half of the room, next to a wall of bookshelves filled with musical scores, histories, and biographies of famous musicians. The remaining walls of the room displayed paintings of other musical instruments, from flutes and violins to mandolins and harps.

There was even a new elegant mahogany floor-cabinet Victor-Victrola phonograph, its horn folded down into a cupboard below that Alistair used to control the player’s volume: open for loud music, closed for muted sound. Next to it was a bookshelf containing numerous Victor phonograph records and an extra supply of spear-shaped needles for playing them. I knew no one else with such a machine—but Alistair made a practice of acquiring the latest inventions. Today, the soft baritone of Enrico Caruso was just audible from behind closed doors. I recognized his voice; he was Alistair’s favorite opera singer.

“Join us for a glass of sherry, Ziele?” Alistair asked as I helped myself to a scone. He added ice to their glasses before refilling them with a pale amber liquid. “Harveys Bristol Cream.” He sniffed its aroma with satisfaction. “Unlike other sherries, it’s best enjoyed chilled, on the rocks.”

“No, thanks. I’ve got another late night.” Though I wouldn’t have minded a glass of Alistair’s favorite sherry, I needed to be alert for tonight’s visit to the Strupps.

Alistair took a sip from his glass, then poured me a cup of the hot tea Mrs. Mellown had brought in with the scones. “Then we should get down to business. I asked Angus here today because he knew Hugo Jackson so well. In fact, he was Hugo’s confidant on matters relating to the Drayson trial.”

Following Alistair’s train of thought, I turned to Judge Porter. “Why did Judge Jackson want your advice?”

“To ensure he was being fair.” Judge Porter spread his hands wide. “It was tough with the Drayson case. Hugo bent over backward to be impartial, but he hated Drayson. It wasn’t just what Drayson had done, killing innocent people, especially the child.” He leaned toward us confidentially. “He had nightmares because he believed Drayson was threatening him.”

“
Threatening
him?” I raised an eyebrow.

The judge nodded sagely. “No matter what testimony was presented at trial—no matter who was being questioned—Drayson’s eyes never left Judge Jackson. Hugo found it tremendously unsettling. He’d even begun to dream about those eyes watching him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.”

I could well imagine. I recalled from this morning’s interview how Drayson had a penetrating gaze—the kind that seemed to see through you and past you, all at once.

“Did he have other reasons to believe that Drayson meant him harm?” I asked.

The judge shook his head. “No. Not physical harm, at least. He thought it was a strategy on Drayson’s part to unnerve him.”

“Did Drayson seem to be in communication with anyone in the courtroom?”

The judge shrugged. “Nothing that Drayson initiated. But his sweetheart tried to pass him messages in court. The judge intercepted a number of them: love notes, really—not anything sinister.”

I put down my cup of tea and pulled my small leather-bound journal and pencil out of my breast pocket. “I didn’t know he was sweet on any girl. Do you know her name?”

“Of course.” His eyes flickered with amusement. “China Rose.”

“Not her real name, I presume.”

“No, her real name is Guo Mei Lin.”

“Where can I find her?”

“She works in her parents’ Chinese restaurant on Mott Street.”

“Any idea how long he’s known her?”

The judge’s mouth curved into a wry smile. “You give me too much credit. I’m just repeating what Hugo told me about disruptions in his courtroom.”

“So he mentioned nothing else that was significant?”

“Only the usual crowd who assembled each morning outside. Over half were citizens hoping to tear Drayson limb from limb. The others were anarchists spouting their drivel about reform and workers’ rights. Emotions ran high at court, every day, and if your downtown policemen hadn’t done their part to maintain order, the crowds would’ve torn each other apart.”

I’d heard something similar from within the ranks.

Alistair had been sitting back for this part of the conversation, reviewing his private notes, but now he rejoined us. “What about earlier cases?” he asked. “Are you aware of any other recent case on Hugo’s docket—other than Drayson—that might have led someone to wish the judge harm?”

“Absolutely not.” Judge Porter’s voice was tinged with defiance.

“No other anarchists?” I asked.

“Not that he mentioned to me,” the judge said.

“Nonetheless, we ought to check Judge Jackson’s recent docket.” I looked to Alistair. “I can obtain it through official channels, but it may be faster if you request a list of his recent cases from Mrs. Jackson.”

“Of course,” he said with a nod.

Judge Porter pushed his glass of sherry aside impatiently. “You wanted to talk about the symbols—”

“Yes, we’ll get to that.” Alistair cut him off. “First, let me quickly share with you the results of the autopsy conducted on Judge Jackson.”

“How did you…?” I stopped myself before I finished the question. I had no doubt that Alistair’s connection to Mrs. Jackson was the reason—and he immediately confirmed it.

“Of course, the judge’s widow wanted me to see it right away,” he said, passing a sheaf of papers across the coffee table to me. “It supports what I had thought.”

“Which is?” I raised an eyebrow.

“That Judge Jackson’s killer was supremely organized and capable; his preparation cannot be faulted.”

“And
that
is stated in
this
autopsy report?” I tapped my fingers against it.

Alistair smiled. “Not in so many words. But if you look at the notes made by the coroner’s physician, you’ll see my point: this killer knew exactly what he was about.”

I scanned the report, focusing on the most pertinent sections. Judge Hugo Jackson had died due to exsanguination, bleeding to death after his throat was slit from ear to ear. The incision was nine inches—both long and deep enough to cut both carotid arteries and the jugular vein. Alistair was right: the report noted that the injury had been inflicted in such a way as to ensure almost immediate death. The judge’s head had been pushed forward into his chest, bringing the jugular and carotid arteries together.

An amateur might have leaned his victim’s head back, better exposing the neck to his knife—but, in the process, risking that the knife would miss the major arteries. By sliding his knife under his victim’s forward-leaning neck, the murderer had exhibited confidence and knowledge. But what amount of strength had been needed?

I skipped through additional pages, but there was nothing on that subject. “Either the killer was strong enough to subdue Judge Jackson—or he took him by surprise.”

“That’s my theory, as well,” Alistair said. “Either way, it was carefully planned.”

“And he wanted to kill the judge efficiently; he had no interest in making him suffer by prolonging the process,” I added.

“What does that tell us? This autopsy is no help.” Angus waved away the report that I offered him. “And all your talk of how well this murderer planned his kill doesn’t take you even one step closer to solving this crime.”

“Which is why we need you, Angus.” Alistair then turned to me, saying, “I asked Judge Porter here today because he is an expert symbolist.”

“A
symbolist
?” I gave them both a quizzical look.

“It’s my hobby,” Angus said with a grin, “and has been, since my college days.” He and Alistair exchanged a look before he continued. “It was an outgrowth of my studies in Greek, for Greek letters are often used as symbols. Slowly, I came to appreciate that we have symbols all around us, and my interest spread to all forms of symbolism.” He shrugged. “I suppose I like the challenge of unlocking secret, private meanings.”

“The symbols at the crime scene, I believe, are the key to identifying Judge Jackson’s killer,” Alistair said. “You see, in terms of method, he was the model of expediency: he entered and exited the judge’s home without anyone noticing, and he dispatched his victim quickly, without so much as a sound.” He paused, looking both of us full in the face. “This behavior is entirely at odds with what we see when we consider the symbols he left behind. He risked precious time he might have used to escape by choosing to leave the white rose, and by making the effort to place the judge’s left hand upon the Bible. The question becomes: Why were these symbols important?”

I spread my hands wide. “The Bible could signify any number of things … how can we determine one meaning from among many possibilities?”

“Because only one meaning will make sense in context,” the judge explained. “Hugo’s killer used more than one symbol, which is to our advantage: it means he meant them to work together.”

“Was Judge Jackson religious?” I asked.

“He attended church with his wife most Sundays,” the judge said with a bland smile. “Religious affiliation was important to him.”

“So he liked socializing at church,” I said.

“That’s actually a good way of putting it,” Judge Porter said, nodding. “He was socially religious.”

I helped myself to another scone. “Then it’s unlikely that the Bible is meant to suggest anything about Judge Jackson’s personal religious practice?”

“Highly unlikely.” Judge Porter’s reply was decisive.

“So we are left with my initial thought—that the Bible signifies something about his professional life. Every time he swore in witnesses at trial, he would have instructed them to raise their right hand while placing their left on the Bible. Am I correct?” I looked to both of them for my answer.

“You are,” the judge said.

Alistair added, “And Hugo would have taken his oath of office in exactly that manner, too—affirming his loyalty to the law and his commitment to upholding it.”

“Do you know the oath he would have taken?” I asked.

“I took it myself, just two years after Hugo joined the bench,” Judge Porter said good-naturedly. He recited from memory: “‘I, Angus Jervis Porter, do solemnly swear that I will administer justice without respect to persons, and do equal right to the poor and to the rich, and that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent upon me under the Constitution and the State of New York. So help me God.’”

“And it was the judge’s
left
hand that was placed on the Bible, correct? As though taking an oath?” I did my best to mimic the gesture, trying to copy what I’d seen time and again in courtroom testimony.

Judge Porter jumped and made a move to disagree but was silenced when Alistair gave him a stern look—something I couldn’t let pass.