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  Second Street Station

  “A promising series kickoff that presents a morally strong heroine with a mystery that cleverly intertwines fact and fiction.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “What do you do with a young Victorian woman so intelligent, yet so insubordinate that she is sacked from her last position? If you are the Brooklyn Police Department and she happens to be Lawrence H. Levy’s delightful heroine, Mary Handley, the only sensible thing is to make her the city’s first policewoman. A fun setting, a resourceful heroine, and a plot that combines danger, humor, and proper sleuthing… . What more could anyone want?”

  —Will Thomas, author of Some Danger Involved and Fatal Enquiry

  “I love books in which the female sleuth defies stereotype without losing her authenticity. This one is even more impressive because Mary Handley is based on a real person. An added delight is the number of well-known historical figures who are intertwined with the story.”

  —Rhys Bowen, New York Times bestselling author of the Molly Murphy and A Royal Spyness historical mysteries

  “Lawrence H. Levy brings Mary Handley to life with deft hands, giving readers who love strong and capable female sleuths a character bound to be their new favorite. Second Street Station is the perfect combination of wit blended with an engaging and clever plot.”

  —Tasha Alexander, New York Times bestselling author of And Only to Deceive and The Counterfeit Heiress

  “An ingenious story with unforgettable fictional characters, crossing paths with well-known historical ones. I learned a lot from this book, the main thing being that I could never write one.”

  —Larry David

  “Second Street Station is a great read. Following Mary Handley through this Victorian adventure makes you feel like you’ve found some lost Sherlock Holmes story. It’s impressive that the characters, many based on actual historical figures, are always funny, but the greatest delight is the mystery itself.”

  —Matthew Weiner, creator of Mad Men

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Lawrence H. Levy

  Reader’s Guide copyright © 2015 by Penguin Random House LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, B D W Y, are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Levy, Lawrence H.

  Second Street Station : a Mary Handley mystery / Lawrence H. Levy. — First edition.

  pages cm

  1. Women detectives—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Murder investigation—Fiction. 3. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.E9372S43 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014021004

  ISBN 9780553418927

  eBook ISBN 9780553418934

  eBook design adapted from book design by Anna Thompson

  Cover design by Tal Goretsky

  Cover illustration by Scott McKowen

  v4.1_r2

  ep+a

  r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Guide

  To my daughter, Erin, whose belief in me and this story kept me going; to my son, Josh, who inspired me; to my wife, Fran, who is my love; and to my nephew Zachary who I know would be proud.

  PROLOGUE

  The Boston boat was late, and the Frenchman was livid. He should have followed his natural inclination to travel by land from Boston to New York. True, it was 1876, but even in this modern age he knew sea travel was at best unreliable. Yet, those who were au courant in Boston (everyone in that infernal city thought they were au courant) echoed the same sentiment: “Take the boat from Boston to Greenport, Long Island, then the train to Manhattan. That’s the fastest route by far.”

  Well, his journey on this godforsaken boat had not only turned out to be much longer than expected, but the weather was treacherous and the waters of the Long Island Sound were far choppier than when he had crossed the Atlantic.

  As the Frenchman flexed his right hand, cramped from clutching the large suitcase by his side, he looked around, the nostrils of his aquiline nose flaring with disdain for his surroundings. Since it was suicidal to venture up to the deck, most of the passengers were crammed into the saloon, though precious few were in the mood to imbibe. The crew, whose forced smiles and fake good humor were so grotesque they made unctuousness seem genuine, had distributed buckets to those who felt the urge to vomit. Many did, creating a chorus of sounds that bounced off the ship’s walls, amplifying the noise to unbearable levels. If hell had a choir, this was most definitely it.

  So these are the new breed of “Hardy Americans” who would rule the world, the Frenchman thought, allowing himself a small, derisive snicker.

  “Yes, I suspected you might find that little tidbit amusing,” said the fat woman, adding a shrill of a laugh so high-pitched that the Frenchman found a need to shield his eardrums. She was crushed up against him on a bench and had been talking incessantly, completely oblivious to his attempts to ignore her.

  The fat woman had boasted of being from the upper crust of Boston society and of being able to trace her family origins back to the Mayflower and beyond. The Frenchman wasn’t impressed. To him, Boston’s upper crust was at best middle in London and no more than third-rate in Paris. Still, he felt obliged to reply.

  “Oui, Mrs. Campbell. Très drôle.” He hoped this would end it, but he knew it was unlikely.

  “Please, call me Hermione.”

  “If you wish.” And if that will shut you up.

  It didn’t. “I’m so glad you agree.” She nodded toward his suitcase, which had the words “Property of” emblazoned on its side along with the Frenchman’s name. “Ah, your first name is Louis. May I take the liberty of calling you Louie?”

  The Frenchman cringed. He didn’t know what annoyed him more—her unabashed impudence or her ignorance. Since “Louis” is pronounced “Louie” in French, there was no need to ask such a question unless you were an imbecile. It reeked of arrogance that the people of this upstart nation would deem it unimportant to learn the most rudimentary elements of the world’s languages. Of course, it was prec
isely this single-minded arrogance that could lead America to being a world power, but it would most assuredly also lead to its downfall. He gave them no more than a century, a century that would be filled with catastrophic changes. Catastrophic. He turned toward the fat woman and nodded. Once again, she shrilled with glee. He prayed they’d reach port soon, or he too would need to request a bucket, and not because of the rough sea.

  The downpour bordered on torrential as the Boston boat pulled into the Greenport harbor on the northeastern end of Long Island and docked. The passengers scurried off the boat, but the Frenchman was weighed down by the two large suitcases he was carrying. As he plodded along, his thin, spindly arms unable to move, it was impossible to also hold an umbrella. A hat would have to do to shield him from the rain, and it didn’t.

  The fat woman was already ashore and was instructing the carriage driver on the finer points of loading her luggage while a servant held an umbrella over her, keeping her perfectly dry.

  God, how the Frenchman despised her! As he stepped onto shore, she waved.

  “Au revoir, Louie. Perhaps one day I will see you in Paree.”

  With this, the Frenchman lost his footing. It took considerable maneuvering and the luck of finding a railing nearby to prevent his fall. Muttering angrily to himself, he lifted the two large suitcases he had dropped and moved as fast as he could to the nearest available carriage.

  “The Greenport train station, s’il vous plaît, and be quick about it,” he ordered the driver, spraying some water with his words while attempting to load his luggage. The driver slowly hopped down off his perch to help him.

  “Let me get that for ya, guvnor,” the driver said. “Don’t you fret. They always wait for the Boston boat.” The driver secured one suitcase on the outside rear of the carriage and was about to take the other with his name on it when the Frenchman pulled it back possessively. The driver raised both his hands.

  “Have it your way, guvnor. It should fit nicely on your lap,” he said, knowing that it wouldn’t.

  As the Frenchman squeezed inside, the top of his suitcase pressed tightly against his chin, his mind wasn’t on his discomfort. A cockney carriage driver on Long Island? he thought. It makes an interesting combination, rather interesting indeed. He conceded that maybe there was something to be learned from this melting pot. It was this singular thought that occupied his mind as the carriage pulled away from the dock on its way to the train station.

  About five yards away, there was another carriage waiting, lurking in the shadows, hidden by the darkness of the evening and the pouring rain. All that could be perceived of the passenger inside its cabin was the silhouetted outline of a large bowler hat. The Bowler Hat had been given an assignment, and as always, he was fastidious in his devotion to detail. It wasn’t really necessary though. He could tell from first glance that his assignment was soft, beneath his level of expertise and not really worth being out in this weather. He tweaked the brim of his new bowler hat, glad he had spotted it earlier that day in the town store. At least he would net something positive from this job. The Bowler Hat sighed, then knocked twice on the roof with his cane. The carriage lurched forward and, after sliding on a patch of mud, was on its way.

  Boarding the train with his luggage in the downpour was no small feat, but with the driver’s help the Frenchman managed to get everything on. The passenger compartment was neat, clean, and, most important, devoid of any other passengers.

  At least this part of my journey hasn’t been muddled by the Americans, the Frenchman thought.

  He speedily relieved himself of his sopping wet overcoat and hat, carefully hanging them on a rack at the far end of the compartment, hoping they’d dry by the time they arrived in New York. His suit and shirt were manageable, but his shoes and socks were soaked. He removed them, wrung out the socks, and hung them up as well. Barefoot and comfortable, the Frenchman had one final chore to perform before he could relax.

  He picked up the suitcase he had kept at his side the entire trip, the one with his name on it. The Frenchman placed it on the passenger bench across from him and unlocked it. Inside was a large boxlike object. With the delicacy of a munitions expert handling nitroglycerin, he removed it from the suitcase and sat down, ever so gently placing it on his lap. He examined it carefully to see if any damage had been done when he had dropped the suitcase on the dock. None was perceptible, but he would soon see. Reaching inside the suitcase, he pulled out a metal bar with a handle at one end. He inserted the metal bar into a hole in the box and began turning the handle over and over. Finally, a foil cylinder on top of the box started to spin, and a scratchy voice could be heard reciting what sounded like some sort of nursery rhyme in French. Relieved, he sighed. Nothing had been harmed! The Frenchman’s demeanor instantly transformed as he listened attentively to every single sound, nodding his head and tapping his bare feet to the musical cadence of the rhyme. When lightning illuminated the car, he turned to the door without breaking rhythm. He was surprised to see it was ajar.

  Staring at him from the hallway was a twelve-year-old blond girl with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The girl was clearly spellbound by the Frenchman’s amazing toy. Her excitement was so contagious it would easily have melted the most jaded of hearts. Carefully placing the box on the seat next to him, the Frenchman stood up and slammed the door in her face.

  The Bowler Hat sat patiently in his compartment. There was no rush, no worry. Everything was planned out. Jobs like these were nothing if not predictable, emphasizing the paradoxical nature of his work. His employers insisted his implementation be boring and uneventful, whereas he craved a challenge. He doubted whether any would present itself this night. For the moment, his hat rested on the bench next to him. He was of indeterminate age, a plausible thirty, yet forty-five was certainly within the realm of possibility. Besides being thick in the chest, there was really nothing remarkable about his looks. Depending on his dress, he could easily pass for a businessman, a waiter, or a factory worker, and that was fine with him. Anonymity was his ally.

  He checked the pocket watch in his vest. Nineteen minutes had passed since the train left the station. It usually took about twenty minutes for people to find their seats, register any complaints with the conductor, then settle in for the long haul. Restlessness would come later as passengers wondered what kind of time the train was making, young men began to troll through the cars inventing excuses to speak with pretty girls, and husbands were finally able to extract themselves from their families and venture to the bar. Actually, a shot of scotch would be nice, he thought. Afterward. The anticipation of a reward would stave off the boredom and keep him focused. The Bowler Hat figured he now had twenty-two minutes before the train cars began buzzing with people. That was more than sufficient to accomplish his job. He always allowed extra time but rarely needed it. He was that good. No need to look at his watch again. It was time. He stood, straightened his vest, put on his hat, and grabbed his satchel.

  The Frenchman answered the knock at his door thinking the little blond girl had returned to bother him. This time he would shoo her away for good.

  “I don’t appreciate little snoops—”

  Before he could finish, the Bowler Hat was upon him, using his left foot to shut the door. With one hand covering the Frenchman’s mouth and the other at the back of his head, the Bowler Hat broke his victim’s neck with one violent twist. The Frenchman sagged to the floor. The Bowler Hat shook his head in disgust. He was right. Soft. He had hoped for some sort of surprise, a modicum of resistance, something. But it was not to be. He sighed, then promptly switched gears. Any distraction during a job could prove to be costly. The Bowler Hat was his own toughest taskmaster.

  He opened his satchel, removed a rope, and as he tied a noose, he focused on the scotch he’d be savoring sooner than he had anticipated. He could almost taste it.

  As the Bowler Hat left the compartment, the suitcase with the Frenchman’s name on it in one hand and his satchel in the
other, he suddenly felt a presence. The corridor had been empty—he had checked—but now someone was behind him. Careful not to move too hastily, because that would look suspicious and force him to take action, he slowly glanced back, and what he saw almost made him laugh.

  A little blond girl no more than twelve, was coming down the corridor. This couldn’t have been better if he had planned it himself. He had purposely left the compartment door open because he wanted the Frenchman to be found. How perfect it would be for the announcement of his death to come from a hysterical child. It was dark, and even if the girl had seen him, she would be too distraught to remember any details and too young for anyone to pay attention if she did.

  Just as he was about to leave, lightning flashed through the car again, revealing something that concerned him—the little girl’s piercing blue eyes staring right at him. He could read people instantly. It was what he did; it was his job. And her eyes betrayed not only intelligence, but an awareness beyond her years. This was no ordinary little girl. She was different. He stepped toward her, but someone else was already entering the corridor. His moment of opportunity had passed. As he swiftly moved into the next car, his mind already back on his scotch, he looked back and caught a glimpse of the little girl entering the Frenchman’s compartment. He paused, but there was no screaming, no hysterics. He was right. She was different.

  1

  What could Senator Conkling have possibly been thinking? The Blizzard of 1888 struck in March and had brought the entire Eastern Seaboard to a virtual standstill. Telegraph and telephone lines were snapped, public transportation was shut down, and all businesses were closed. Thirty-foot snow drifts piled up against buildings and blocked streets in Brooklyn and New York City, making normal, everyday life almost impossible. Absolutely nothing was untouched by what was dubbed the Great White Hurricane. So, what could have possessed the former New York senator to go for a stroll that had resulted in his falling ill and presently being on his deathbed?