Ten Days in August (2 page)

 

For nearly a year, Police Commissioner Roosevelt had been trying to cure the city of vice. Standing in the middle of a tawdry ballroom, Hank could see his point. There was something particularly sad about this room. Hank glanced toward Stephens, who he knew thought cleaning up the city was a worthy goal, and maybe it was. Hank did not believe it was an achievable one. The city was too far gone, perhaps. And its residents liked their vices.

Hank imagined this ballroom had once been grand. There were the remnants of a forgotten era everywhere: sculptural touches carved into the ceiling and a series of murals painted on two of the walls. On the other hand, the murals were somewhat vulgar and depicted men in various states of undress lounging about in parks or, in the case of one of them, in the ruins of Ancient Rome. Hank supposed the murals were supposed to be titillating, but there was something strange about them. Hank was no art scholar, but these were not quite right, as if they were a parody of art and not art itself.

Artistry and architecture aside, though, the ballroom inside Club Bulgaria was worn and filthy. The wooden floor was stained and scratched, the stage curtains were threadbare, and the sculptures were chipped or broken.

Stephens stood frowning as he took in the room. They hadn't discussed it on the walk over to the club, but Stephens was no greenhorn. He had to have known to expect a dance hall or brothel at least—the residents of New York did not come to this neighborhood to see Shakespeare—but he might not have known that this was a fairy resort. This was precisely the sort of place that would send him into fits. If Stephens was trying to hide his revulsion, he failed badly.

Hank knelt and took a closer look at the body. There was something vulgar about the dead man, too, something that made him blend in with his sordid surroundings, and not just because he was dead. Hank recorded every visible detail in his notes. The dead man wore a stained shirt and black trousers. A smudge of some kind of grime stained his cheek. His hair was unruly. There was powder on his face and some sort of rouge on his cheeks, which kept the paleness of death at bay.

Not to mention, there was a knife wound in his chest.

Hank turned to Mr. Juel. “Mr. Sharp mentioned seeing this Edward go off with a wealthy-looking man. Did you happen to see this man?”

Juel shook his head. “No, Inspector. I wish I had. Do you know what it will do to my business if word gets out this kind of violence could be perpetrated at my club? If that man is responsible for this, I want him caught! I want—”

“No need for theatrics,” said Hank.

“No need? Why, just three weeks past, a man was killed outside Paresis, and what did the police do? Nothing. One more dead prostitute, eh? The working boys who walk along the Bowery at night are inverted and less than human, are they not? Why should the police bother to investigate?”

Hank leveled his gaze at Juel. “I care not a whit what a corpse did when he lived. It wouldn't matter to me if Edward were a working boy or a banker. Murder is murder, and I intend to find the killer.”

“That is some consolation,” said Juel, looking mollified.

“We should shut this whole place down,” said Stephens.

Juel and Hank both turned to gape at Stephens. Hank shook his head. “It's not worth it. I know you don't like . . . institutions like this one, but for every one you shut down, three more are built. Let it be for now. And keep in mind the occupation of the victim is not evidence he deserved to die.”

“No, that is not how I think,” said Stephens, although Hank suspected he did a little. Hank imagined they'd be having a discussion later about whether police resources were really well spent on dead working boys.

Of course, Stephens also knew Hank had a much looser view of how the police should be regulating human behavior. He'd told Stephens once that if a man wanted to seek out temporary companionship, why should the police intervene? Perhaps Hank operated under a different moral code from many other off icers; he had no wife at home despite being well into his thirties, for example. Not that anyone knew it, but he'd sought out some of that temporary companionship himself. Stephens had likely resigned himself to his lot as far as working with Hank was concerned, but he didn't always agree with Hank's approach to cases.

Hank walked a circle around the body, studying carefully, wondering if he'd missed something obvious. Stephens hovered nearby but didn't speak. There wasn't much enlightening here beyond the body of a man who had probably been killed by a patron. Solving this case would be an uphill climb. If this had been a different day or a different officer called to the scene, perhaps nobody would have bothered to investigate.

However, Hank was here now.

He said, “We will have to send a squad down to transport the body to the morgue.”

“Yes,” said Stephens.

To Juel, Hank said, “Do you have any record of your guests last night?”

“We assure our guests of our complete discretion.”

Hank nodded; he'd suspected this would be the case. “No, then. All right. Who was here last night? Any other employees? Regulars?”

Juel balked. “If I hand over names to the police, I will be out of business in a week.”

Hank grunted. “You want this murder solved or not?” His tone had an edge to it. “Who
can
I speak with?”

“Nicky—Mr. Sharp—can help you in whatever way you require.”

Juel put a hand on Hank's shoulder and steered him back out of the ballroom. Stephens took one last look around and then followed them. As Juel walked through the door, he repeated, “Mr. Sharp can get you any information you need.”

Hank expected Stephens to object and give a lecture on police procedure—Hank and Stephens needed to speak with witnesses directly, Juel could not dictate terms of the investigation, Stephens wasn't interested in the financial fortunes of Club Bulgaria, and so forth—but instead, he stayed quiet. Hank couldn't figure out what that meant.

Not to mention, Hank was pretty sure Nicholas Sharp had exactly what he needed.

T
he meeting room was as stuffy as a mausoleum, and Andrew Ritchley wondered if this would not be his final resting place after all, particularly with all the hot air coming from the mouths of the meeting's attendees.

Commissioner Roosevelt stood now, leaning forward and hopping a little as he spoke. The conversation had shifted from Sunday's troubling tailor's strike in the Lower East Side to the report from the Fourteenth Precinct's captain that some saloons were skirting the Sunday laws by opening rooms above the bars for rent and calling themselves hotels, thus becoming exempt from having to close on Sunday. Roosevelt was furious, his face red as he ranted. Andrew struggled to keep the meeting minutes, scribbling quickly but probably missing every third word. Andrew wondered how Roosevelt could sustain the energy to speak so vigorously in this heat, although sweat poured off the man's body.

Commissioner Parker sat, looking unfazed, but then, he had never been a supporter of the Sunday laws.

Commissioner Grant said, “If it please my distinguished colleagues, might I point out this new development is perhaps a return to old ways, and not in the way we intended. These rooms above saloons, they are not much preferred to the old brothels renting rooms near the taps.”

“Pre-cise-ly!” bellowed Roosevelt, drawing out the first two syllables and putting a staccato emphasis on the third. “This exception to the law is no exception if this is the result.”

Parker leaned back in his chair laconically and held out his hand. “With all due respect,” he said in such a disdainful way Andrew knew he meant no respect at all, “if we were not so intent on closing every saloon on the isle of Manhattan on Sundays, the police department could turn its efforts toward more valiant pursuits. Real crimes, theft and violence, are occurring in the precincts adjacent to this building as we speak but we do not have the officers to curtail it because they're so busy arresting saloonkeepers for the crime of serving a drink to a thirsty man on Sunday.”

“Crimes fueled by drink,” Roosevelt pointed out. “Perhaps if men did not spend their hard-earned coins on spirits at the saloon they wouldn't have to steal more to feed their children.”

Grant let out a long-suffering sigh. “I doubt we'll find any resolution today.” He ran a hand over his beard and glanced around the room. “I wonder if we shouldn't adjourn this meeting until a time at which it is not so hot.”

The captain from the Fourteenth Precinct stood and said, “Thank you, gentlemen. I must return to my precinct. My men have already been called to the scene of three different incidents today of men succumbing to the heat.”

Roosevelt resumed his seat. “Succumbing to the heat?”

Andrew wondered if Roosevelt had even noticed how ghastly hot it was outside. Probably he kept cool through sheer force of will.

“Collapsing, sir, while working on a construction project on Mott Street. And there have been a number of reports of dogs gone mad from the heat. One of my officers shot one just a few hours ago.”

“It may be worth considering some kind of temporary measure to keep men from working while the high temperatures persist,” said Grant.

“Yes, I agree that would be wise,” said Roosevelt. “Ritchley, write up a note on the matter to be distributed to all precinct houses in the city.”

“Yes, sir,” said Andrew.

“We'll adjourn for now,” said Roosevelt, “but I want a solution to the saloon problem.”

The meeting broke, and Andrew gathered his notes, intending to return to his desk to type up the memorandum on restricted work hours. Roosevelt walked over and clapped him on the back.

“Did you finish the paperwork on former officer O'Dwyer?” Roosevelt asked.

“Yes, sir. He packed up his desk on Monday.”

“Let it be known around his precinct exactly why he was terminated. We want to set an example. The police department will not condone corruption. Not on my watch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Andrew's mind dwelled on O'Dwyer on his trip back to his desk. As far as Andrew could tell, O'Dwyer's chief sin was a relationship with the widow who owned the perfume shop on Bleecker Street while also supporting a wife and three children in a cramped apartment near Madison Square. Andrew himself was guilty of much greater crimes than adultery, although he would die a grisly death before disclosing any details to his boss. Commissioner Roosevelt was weeding undesirable officers—morally corrupt officers, according to Roosevelt—from the ranks of the police department, and thus anyone of questionable values was vulnerable.

Andrew spared a thought for his friend Hank Brandt in the Tenth Precinct. At least Hank had always been discreet in his affairs.

Andrew spent the next half hour or so typing up his notes, and then who should come into police headquarters but Hank Brandt himself, a pensive expression on his face when he stopped by Andrew's desk. He wasn't wearing a coat and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, something that probably would have merited a comment from Commissioner Roosevelt on a day when it was not ninety degrees outside. Still, Hank looked even more disreputable than usual, his shirt and trousers wrinkled, the hair of his mustache slightly ruffled.

“Murder on the Bowery,” Hank said by way of greeting, running his hand over his mustache to smooth it down.

Andrew nodded. “Are you sure it is a murder? From what I understand, the weather has become a violent felon this week.”

“The knife wound in the man's chest was the biggest clue.”

Andrew would have laughed if it hadn't been so morbid. “Dear god,” he said instead.

“Club Bulgaria, Andrew,” Hank said under his breath.

“Oh, dear.” Andrew's mind reeled. He knew the nature of the club and suspected there might be a greater story unfolding.

Hank seemed to agree. “Two possibilities as I see them.” He took off his old bowler and wiped his face with a handkerchief as he sat in the chair near Andrew's desk. “Either a wealthy man slumming it at the resorts on the Bowery has taken to killing boys after he finishes with them or the staff at this particular resort has made up an elaborate story to cover up their crime.”

“Which do you think it is?”

Hank frowned. “I do not yet know. My gut says the former, but the men I spoke to today were keeping something from me.”

“Unsavory characters die in New York every day.”

“I know.” Hank pocketed his handkerchief. “An officer shot Jerry the Tramp this morning.”

“Oh, goodness.” Jerry must have been the canine menace the captain of the Fourteenth Precinct had been crowing about. “Why?”

“The dog went mad suddenly, according to the eyewitnesses. I believe he simply suffered from some sickness from the heat, though he was acting wilder than usual. He did not deserve to be shot, but the people seem satisfied the police eradicated a public menace today.”

“Poor Jerry.”

“Anyway, I wanted to file my initial report.” Hank pulled a folded sheaf of paper from his waistcoat pocket and went about smoothing it out on the corner of Andrew's desk. Then he picked it up but seemed reluctant to hand the papers over.

Having a hunch as to the cause of Hank's hesitation, Andrew asked, “Do you think the police department will try to shut down the resort?”

“I hope not, but this would seem to be all the excuse Roosevelt needs.” Hank let out a heavy breath. “I have some theories but not a lot of evidence. I want to wait for the coroner's report before saying what occurred for certain. I mean to further investigate the staff at the club in the meantime.”

“You may be in for a month of Sundays if you wait for the coroner's report before further investigation.”

“What do you mean?”

Andrew gestured at the pile of paper on his desk. “Since yesterday, there have been reports of a significant number of deaths across the city. More than usual. I'm supposing most of these are due to the extreme heat we seem to be experiencing. There were over a hundred reported just yesterday. The coroner has his hands full.”

Hank breathed out an expletive and tapped his fingers on Andrew's desk. “Be that as it may, I intend to get to the bottom of this case.”

“Of course.” Andrew glanced around and, seeing no one near enough to overhear, he said, “If you need any help, please let me know.”

“Thank you.”

“I will file your report in the meantime.”

“Much obliged.”

“I can't promise much haste, I'm afraid, since Mr. Roosevelt also has me processing personnel discharges. Did I tell you about O'Dwyer?”

“The fellow who was fired on Monday? Yes, you did.”

“Be careful, Hank. Especially with this case. Roosevelt is determined to ensure his police force is composed of only the most morally forthright men.”

“I'm always careful.” Hank shook his head. “If Roosevelt carries out this plan, he'll have a police force of five men.”

“I know.” A rather unpleasant thought struck Andrew just then. “Do you think there is any danger toward . . . well, toward inverted men? Any evidence the killer targeted this man in particular because he . . . ?”

“I don't know yet.” The way Hank pressed his lips together indicated to Andrew he'd had the same thought. “If there is a danger, I will do everything I can to put a stop to it.”

All Andrew could do was nod in agreement.

 

Hank hopped off the Third Avenue elevated train at Fifty-Third Street and walked west toward Fifth Avenue. He felt some comfort in the fact that at least New York's wealthiest residents were suffering through the heat as much as its poorest. Well, perhaps not to the same degree; this far uptown, the citizens of New York could afford ice and had running water.

He walked up the steps of the Cooper mansion on Fifth Avenue, mere blocks from the palatial Vanderbilt estate, and knocked on the door. A butler in livery who looked displeased by Hank's presence greeted him at the door.

“Is Mrs. Cooper available to callers?” Hank asked.

The butler, named Graves if Hank's memory served, raised one neatly groomed eyebrow and folded his hands behind his back. “She is to men who are not dressed as pugilists.”

Hank glanced at his bare arms. He grunted, but began to unroll his sleeves. He pulled cuff links from his pockets and buttoned up properly. When he finished, he held up his wrists for inspection. “Better?”

“It would be better if you had a coat, but it will do. Come. Mrs. Cooper is in the library.”

Hank rubbed his sleeves as he followed Graves, trying to smooth out the wrinkles that seemed to be pressed permanently into his shirt. He'd been too hot all day to give a toss whether he was properly attired or not, but now that he was inside the grandiose Cooper manse, he felt self-conscious. The feeling intensified when he laid eyes on Amelia Cooper, resplendent in a bright blue gown that hugged her midsection and seemed to have a lot of flounce and frippery. Her hair was pinned up elaborately atop her head and decorated with pearls that sparkled in the waning daylight pouring in through the open window. When she turned, a gleaming diamond necklace at her throat caught the light and reflected it back toward Hank bright enough to blind him.

“Ah, Mr. Brandt, my old friend. So good to see you on this wretched evening.” She smiled broadly. “Leave us, Graves. Let Mr. Cooper know I will join him and Mr. Knight in the parlor in short order.”

“At your pleasure, madam.” Graves bowed and left the room.

Hank still wasn't used to seeing Amelia this way, decorated so thoroughly in all this expensive finery, even though she'd been married to steel magnate Jonathan Cooper for nearly three years now.

“What brings you here, Hank?” she said when Graves left.

“Caught a case today.”

“Well, naturally. It is a day ending in
y
, is it not? Are you calling on me to discuss it?”

He wanted to talk to her, his closest friend, because this case troubled him far more than any that had been tossed his way in quite some time, and Amelia had been the person with whom he could most easily sort through his thoughts. She'd helped him think through difficult cases in the past, even though discussing cases with civilians was improper. Still, Hank trusted Amelia like no other person in his life. More to the point, a wealthy man slumming as a possible suspect was reason enough to come uptown; perhaps Amelia had heard something. “I am interested in your insights. The last person seen alive with my victim seems to be a man of some means.”

“You believe him to be one of the Four Hundred, then?”

“That remains a leap in logic I do not have the evidence to support, but one of the witnesses implied he'd seen a man who might have gone down to the Bowery for sport.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes. What a jolly good time may be had when the population of Fifth Avenue decides to sojourn downtown to see how the other half lives.”

“For all I know, the description of this man is an elaborate lie made up by the real killer, but you know as well as I do people of your ilk visit the resorts along the Bowery to make themselves feel superior.”

Amelia bristled. “Not of
my
ilk.”

“No, not you, my dear, but not all of your husband's friends are fine, upstanding individuals all the time.”

She shrugged. She pulled an escaped curl away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. “What aren't you telling me? Do you suspect one of Jonathan's friends?”

“I don't have any suspect at all. Perhaps I'm just asking if you knew of anyone who went to the Bowery resorts last night.”