Last Stop in Brooklyn Read online

  “That’s fascinating.” Mary would have loved to have told him to skip the tourist rhetoric and just open the door, but the last thing she wanted was to offend him. She would have questions to ask, and she wanted him primed and ready.

  Harrington opened the door. “There have been rumors that Old Shakespeare once had a husband and children, lived a respectable life until demon drink took over. For a full year after the murder, people would request this room, wanting to stay in the place where Carrie Brown had spent her last night.” They stepped inside.

  The room wasn’t any different than what she had expected. It could have been one of any number of rooms in that type of establishment. There was a rickety old bed, a small chipped dresser, and a slightly rusted sink with a threadbare towel hanging on a hook next to it. A door hid a tiny closet on the wall opposite the bed.

  “I understand you found the body.”

  “Yes, it was awful,” said Harrington, playing on the melodrama as if he was reliving it. “There was poor Old Shakespeare. It looked like she had been gutted, disemboweled, body parts everywhere, and her eyes—her eyes wide open as if still in disbelief.”

  “It must have been awful.”

  “ ‘Awful’ would be mild,” he replied with increasing intensity. “It was disastrous, catastrophic, apocalyptic. And then—then I saw the cross etched into her thigh.” He turned toward Mary in true ham actor form. “The sign of the Ripper.”

  The Jack the Ripper controversy was Mary’s main hope in proving Ameer’s innocence. If, in an attempt to make good on his boast about Jack the Ripper, Thomas Byrnes rushed to judgment, then maybe, just maybe, Ameer really was innocent. But she was well aware that so far there was no evidence to prove such an allegation and she needed something very solid in order to go up against Byrnes.

  Mary turned back toward the open door and pointed across the narrow hallway to room 33. “And that was the killer’s room, Ameer Ben Ali?”

  “Yes. If I had known he was capable of such a dastardly deed—”

  “Ameer Ben Ali wasn’t a violent person?”

  “He stayed here a lot and did get into his share of scuffles, but never anything that could suggest a savage murder.”

  “From the carnage you describe, it’s easy to see how there was a blood trail from this room to Mr. Ali’s.”

  “Yes.”

  Harrington’s behavior had changed. Instead of his multiword, expansive answers, this was a mere one word, and said in a clipped tone. There was something he was hiding.

  “You did see the blood, didn’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “It must have been very telling—a thick trail of blood from Miss Brown’s room to Mr. Ali’s, blood on the doorknob of his door—”

  “To be truthful, Miss Handley, I never saw any blood.”

  “But you just said she was disemboweled. How could—”

  “In this room, yes. It was covered in blood, but I saw nothing in the hallway and definitely nothing on Ameer Ben Ali’s doorknob.”

  “But how could that be? All that blood and Ameer Ben Ali didn’t carry any over to his room. I could swear I read that at the trial there were traces—”

  “I didn’t say there wasn’t any blood. I said I didn’t see any. Mr. Byrnes explained that I was obviously at a heightened emotional state and may have missed certain details.”

  “Really, Mr. Byrnes suggested it?”

  “Yes. Makes sense, too,” Harrington replied, nodding his head. “I was down at the police station for hours. I felt like I was going through his famous third degree. Imagine me, a killer. Impossible, I don’t have the stomach for it.” He shuddered.

  “I know exactly what you mean. I don’t either.” Mary paused. “Didn’t Carrie Brown—excuse me, Old Shakespeare—have a visitor that night?”

  “Yes, C. Nick, a blond-haired man with a mustache.”

  “What does the C stand for?”

  “I have no idea. At this establishment, I’m lucky if they sign in at all.”

  Mary was finished with her questions and was soon on her way. No reason to dawdle. A little bit of the East River Hotel went a long way. She did feel better about the possibility of Ameer’s being innocent. Maybe there was no blood trail from Carrie Brown’s room to Ameer’s and either the police investigators had tracked the blood across later or it was planted. She now had something to work on. The problem was, how was she going to prove any of it and how was she ever going to find C. Nick?

  The Home for the Incurables, formerly St. Barnabas Hospital, on Third Avenue and 183rd Street, was established in 1866. Despite being built with the best of intentions, the home was crowded and had fallen into disrepair. Since the bombing in 1891 at Russell Sage’s office, William R. Laidlaw couldn’t work and was in constant pain. For a while, his sisters supported him, but they could no longer foot the bill, which was why he was now residing in the Home for the Incurables and would continue to do so unless he was blessed with a windfall. At that moment, his only possible windfall had Russell Sage’s name on it.

  Laidlaw was wheeled into the crowded activity room in his wheelchair by his nurse Emily. Waiting for them were Choate and Walter. Choate greeted him with a cheery disposition.

  “How are you feeling, William?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Let’s save that for later. We have matters to discuss. Let’s go for a stroll.” He looked at Emily. “We’ll return him to you shortly.”

  “You don’t need to bother. I’ll push him. It’s my job.”

  “Take a break. You’ve earned it.”

  “I’ve just come back from one.”

  “Be my guest. Take another.”

  “I really don’t mind.”

  “But he does, Emily,” Laidlaw interjected. They all looked at him. “I’m just stating the obvious.”

  Emily relented, Choate took over, and Laidlaw, Choate, and Walter headed outside, where there was an absence of plant life or anything green and it was still quite warm even though it was late in the afternoon. Laidlaw was the first to speak.

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “Who said I have bad news?” Choate answered with another question.

  “It’s all over your face. You have that Joseph Hodges Choate glum look.”

  “Okay, is this any better?” Choate smiled broadly.

  “Oh, God no! You look like a circus clown, a very unconvincing one.”

  “Then let’s start at the beginning. William, I want you to meet Walter Cooper.”

  Choate turned the wheelchair so that Laidlaw was facing Walter, who stuck out his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Laidlaw?”

  “How do you think I am? I’m broke, in agony, and living in this dump. Besides that, everything’s just peachy.”

  “All right,” Choate said. “Get it all out, William, all the venom, because until you settle down, we can’t discuss business.”

  Laidlaw paused and took a deep breath. After a few seconds, he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper. With everything that’s happened in the last few years, it sometimes becomes too much. We win, we get reversed, we win again, and we get reversed again. I feel like I’m living on a seesaw.”

  “It’s perfectly understandable, Mr. Laidlaw. You’ve shown amazing fortitude and drive. I doubt whether I would hold up as well under your circumstances.”

  “You would. What other choice is there?”

  Choate began pushing Laidlaw again. “You remember when I told you that there might come a time when I’d have to step back for a bit?”

  “Oh, my God, you’re dropping me!”

  “William—”

  “What am I going to do? This, for the rest of my life. I can’t do it. I just can’t do it!”

  “Stop the dramatics, William, I am not, repeat, am not dropping you and never will.”

  Laidlaw tried to pull himself together. “Okay, then what is going on?”

  “I have been asked to argue a case before the Supreme Cour
t in the hope that I will get them to throw out the income tax act that was passed last month. It’s an important case that will affect a lot of good people and will take considerable preparation.”

  “Okay, so if you’re not dropping me, what does this mean?”

  “It means I have brought Walter on to help out. He is a terrific lawyer with a great record, and I’d trust him with any of my cases.”

  “Well, that’s easy then. Have him do the tax case, and you stay with me.”

  “I am staying with you and will continue to be the lead counsel. Walter will report to me everything that is going on, and I will have my input. I just can’t be present as often as I have been.”

  Laidlaw put his head down. “I understand.”

  “Mr. Laidlaw,” Walter said as he got in front of the wheelchair, stopping its forward progress. “I am a good lawyer, a very good lawyer. Mr. Choate and I have spent days deposing your new witness, and I assure you, once she gets on the stand, I could be the worst lawyer in the world and you’d win this case going away.”

  Laidlaw looked up at Walter. “Are you a racehorse enthusiast?”

  “Huh?”

  “You used the term ‘going away.’ It’s a racehorse expression.”

  “No, I don’t like to gamble, but there’s one thing you should know. I’d bet on your case all day long.”

  Laidlaw turned to Choate. “You should have brought him around sooner. I’d have fired you a long time ago.”

  They all shared a laugh, and Choate guided the wheelchair back toward the building as the conversation turned to the mundane. Walter wasn’t used to boasting, and he knew he shouldn’t have made such a strong proclamation. But he knew he had Sage. He could feel it.

  There were considerable afternoon shadows, but if they had looked they would have seen the outline of Emily standing at a window staring out at them.

  13

  It was midafternoon when Mary entered Lazlo’s Books, seeking the peace and quiet of her office in order to ascertain her next move. The store seemed empty until she heard laughter from what sounded like two people coming from the back. One person was clearly Lazlo, who rarely laughed. When he did, it was open, full throttle, and loud, so there was no mistaking it.

  “Lazlo, you devil, consider putting a cap on your laugh unless you want to awaken every baby in the neighborhood.”

  He emerged from the back still chuckling, but mildly. By his side was the lady browser Mary had met a few days before who clearly had her sights set on him.

  “Can you believe it, Mary? Gerta here has the same fascination as I do with my triumvirate.”

  Mary knew all about Lazlo’s triumvirate. It consisted of Benjamin Franklin, Lord Byron, and Aristotle, three men whom he idolized for their respective brilliance. Her instincts told her that Gerta’s fascination with it, real or not, paled in comparison to her fascination with him. But why put a damper on what she viewed as genuine feelings?

  “Isn’t that lovely? Two peas and so forth. Gerta, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Mary Handley.” Mary stuck out her hand and Gerta shook it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Mary. Lazlo brags about you all the time.”

  “All the time, huh?” Mary responded with a smile on her face. She had been busy with her case and hadn’t realized that Lazlo and Gerta had been spending that much time together.

  “Not all the time,” said Lazlo. “I’m not a gusher.”

  “Don’t worry, Lazlo,” said Mary. “Your reputation as a malcontent is safe with me. My lips are sealed.”

  Gerta joined in. “So are mine.”

  At that point, Sean entered the shop. “Mary, I’m glad you’re here.” He then spotted Lazlo and Gerta. “Hello, Lazlo and…”

  “Gerta,” volunteered Gerta.

  “Nice to meet you. Mary, can you spare a few minutes?”

  When they were alone in Mary’s office, Sean unloaded what was on his mind.

  “I got an unscheduled visit from Clubber Williams.”

  “Because of my request?”

  “He only knows it’s from me, but it wouldn’t take a genius to determine that you might be involved.”

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Sean. Time to cease and desist.”

  “I’ve already done that. Clubber thinks it’s at his request, but in reality it’s because I’ve already gotten all the information I’m able to get from sealed cases. Your instincts were correct. There is a pattern.” Sean handed her a piece of paper with the information. “After Carrie Brown was murdered, there were five more that year in lower Manhattan, five the next in Long Island City, and then five more the following year in upper Manhattan. Meg Parker was the first this year, and I guess that means we’re due for four more.”

  “And all in Coney Island,” Mary added as she studied Sean’s paper. “Your writing is not easy to decipher. Very much like chicken scratchings.”

  “I had to do everything quickly. I could have been caught.”

  She pointed to the paper. “What is this?”

  “A nine.”

  “And this?”

  “Thirty.”

  “One more.”

  “An eight.”

  “Thank you,” Mary said, then studied the sheet one more time. “My goodness, except for Carrie Brown, all of these murders were committed on the same month and day in each successive year.”

  “That’s a problem, sis. It separates Carrie Brown as an isolated murder Ameer Ben Ali could have committed.”

  “I’m not ceding that possibility yet. Anything is possible with a mass murderer running free. I need to find more information.”

  “I already told you—”

  “Not from you, Sean. You’ve done enough.” Mary paused. “Though there is one more thing I would like you to consider.”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t said anything yet.”

  “I can tell from your tone I’m gonna hate it.”

  “What tone?”

  “The same one you’ve always used when you want me to do something I absolutely, positively don’t want to do.”

  “I have a tone like that?”

  Sean nodded.

  “Try to block out the tone and just listen to my words. They’re what’s important.” Mary carefully considered how she was going to phrase what she needed to say, then decided to just blurt it out. “I hate to echo Mom but it’s time you concentrated your energies on courting.”

  “You’re right. The words are worse.”

  “Sean—”

  “Et tu, Mary?”

  “I hope you’re not trying to convince me you’ve actually read Julius Caesar?”

  “I was trying to get through to you in a language you’d understand.”

  “I mean it, Sean,” Mary said, her infamous tone turning very heartfelt and earnest. “It’s time to stop mourning. Find yourself someone to love. I loved Patti, too, but she’s been gone for a long time and I know she’d want you to be happy.”

  “Don’t be so sure. She was a redhead, and you know how jealous redheads get.”

  Sean and Mary shared a wistful smile, then his faded. It was hard to tell if he was sad or lost in deep thought.

  “Well, I said what I needed to say.” With that, she walked out of her office.

  “Where are you going?” Sean followed Mary into the main part of the bookstore.

  Besides having a keen interest in all things intellectual, Lazlo also had a fascination with the abnormal behavior. It wasn’t that he found any enjoyment in such things, but rather that he was curious what caused someone’s mind to become so twisted. It turned him into a bit of a pack rat when it came to newspaper or magazine articles on the behavior of diseased minds. Since Ameer Ben Ali’s sad journey had begun with a Jack the Ripper–style killing, Mary had decided to start there. She found Lazlo reading Lord Byron’s “She Walks in Beauty” to Gerta.

  And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,

  So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,<
br />
  The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

  But tell of days in goodness spent,

  A mind at peace with all below,

  A heart whose love is innocent!

  Gerta was thrilled. “Brilliant! What beauty! And might I add, what a talented reader.”

  “Thank you. Byron lived for passion, and I try to bring that out when I read him.”

  “There’s no question that you do. It’s quite overwhelming. I hear they’re doing a reading of his poetic works at the Columbia Theater on Washington Street next week. We should go.”

  “Most certainly. It’s a date.”

  Gerta was more pleased with the words “It’s a date” than any part of Lord Byron’s poem. Lazlo himself was a bit surprised at his proclamation but definitely not unhappy with it. Mary saw this as a good opportunity to interrupt.

  “I hope I’m not intruding, Lazlo, but I know you had a collection of the Jack the Ripper newspaper and magazine articles. Might I have a look at them?”

  “Would that I could. If you remember, we had a bit of a fire a few years back, and they went up in the proverbial puff of smoke.”

  Lazlo was referring to a fire that was set by a villain Mary was chasing in one of her cases. Luckily, they both survived, but he had to move to a different location and certain things like newspaper clippings were irretrievable.

  “I don’t know how I could have forgotten. I’ve certainly apologized for it ad infinitum.”

  “Unnecessarily so, I might add. You can probably go to the Brooklyn Daily Eagle or the New York Times or any number of newspapers. They all keep archives. It will take longer but—”

  “I’ll help you, Mary,” Sean chimed in.

  “No, Sean, you’ve done plenty. I don’t want you taking any chances with your career. I’ll do it on my own.”

  “Mary—”

  “I mean it. I’m tired of my family and my friends”—she nodded toward Lazlo—“getting hurt simply because they tried to assist me. I will have no more of it.”

  “Then maybe I can assist you with information that will limit your work,” Lazlo said. “The year Jack the Ripper’s Whitechapel murders took place was 1888. That should narrow things down significantly, and it was also a noteworthy year for you.” Mary paused to think. “The year of your first case, Mary. I can’t believe you forgot it. I never will.”