Ripper (15 page)

“Tudd will have a field day,” Hawking whispered.

“What do you mean?” Carver asked.

“Unless my eyes fail me, and they’re the only organs yet to disappoint, those wounds are vaguely similar to those found on Elizabeth Rowley in May.
Vaguely
is all Tudd will need to connect them.”

“NOTHING
yet?” Roosevelt bellowed. “What’s taking so long?”

“Amateurs,” Hawking whispered to himself. “It’s obvious she wasn’t killed here; there isn’t enough blood.”

Roosevelt picked up his head and, for an instant, seemed to stare directly at them. Hawking grabbed Carver and pulled them behind a listing carriage. His shoulder hit the side, knocking off a bit of the snow.

If Roosevelt actually saw them, there was no sign of it. He was busy demanding to know how soon they’d be able to get the coroner’s wagon through.

“We can’t bring her into the Tombs. Her husband thinks it would be a scandal!”

“Barks like a dog, but still worried about class,” Hawking mused as they hid behind the carriage. It seemed to Carver that Roosevelt might just be concerned
about the grieving man’s feelings. His mentor’s lips twitched. “We should be fine here; I’m confident no one saw—”

“Carver!” a voice cried.

Hawking leapt a foot. A pink face surrounded by a woolen hood was pressed into the cab’s window.

“Delia!” Carver said, fighting to keep his voice a whisper.

“Do you know
everyone
here, boy?” Hawking growled. “Why not hand out glasses of punch and we’ll have a party?”

“It’s Delia Stephens, my friend from Ellis,” Carver said.

Hawking furrowed his brow. “The one the Echolses purchased to go with their new rug?”

Delia turned up her nose. “Nothing of the sort. I’m here with Mr. Jerrik Ribe of the
New York Times.
”

Saying nothing, Hawking pulled Carver away from the cab.

“You’re not going to run away
again,
are you?” Delia called.

“I… don’t know,” Carver called back. He hoped not. Ever since Hawking had given him an idea what to say to her, he’d wanted to see her and try it out.

His mentor, for his part, seemed antsy. “The
Times
?” he whispered. “You didn’t mention that. Well, it can still work well. Stay and chat, see what you can find out. Make notes. Roosevelt will protect you from any bogeyman still around. If the ferry’s down, they have a cot at Pinkerton headquarters. But obey this—do
not
return to Leonard Street until we’ve had a chance to talk again.”

He touched the rim of his hat toward Delia and then moved down Center Street, managing the snow far better than Carver imagined him able.

“And he was… ?” Delia asked from the window.

“Mr. Albert Hawking,” Carver said. “He’s a retired detective.”

Her face lit instantly. “Oh, how
wonderful
for you!”

She opened the door and waved him in. “It’s awful out there!” she said, scooting over to make space.

Carver didn’t realize just how cold he was until he joined her and felt the stiffness in his bones.

“Why didn’t you just say so last time? And what are you doing
here
of all places?”

Having practiced this conversation many times in his head, Carver said, “I can’t tell you. I promised Mr. Hawking I wouldn’t discuss his work. Last time we met, I was afraid I couldn’t say anything at all, but I got that much straight at least.”

“Not so retired, then, is he?” The little sparkle in her eyes told him how quickly she was thinking. “But, you know, that’s exactly what Jerrik told Anne about a story
he’s
working on. She said to me, don’t worry, I know my husband. He’ll tell me eventually. And he did, and now I know, too. If I were the betting sort, I’m betting you’ll tell me eventually, too.”

Annoyed by her calm self-assurance but relieved there wasn’t going to be an argument, Carver decided to ask some questions himself. “Why are
you
here?”

“I’m to tell you what you can’t tell me?” she said. Then she laughed. “Oh, of course, I’ll tell you. I’m too lonely to hold back! I’ve so few friends my own age.”

She spoke a mile a minute. “I’m working at the paper now, assisting Anne on the fifth floor, where all the women handle the society pages and light features. We spend all day on these silly anagram puzzles, like
titian chemist
for
a stitch in time,
you know? That one’s mine. Anyway, Jerrik’s big secret was that he’d been covering the library killer and trying to convince the editors to do more hard crime reporting. The
Times
is known for
not
being sensational, so it’s an uphill struggle, but they
are
losing money
lately, so they had to consider it. This morning, Anne stayed home because of the storm, and Jerrik and I were just picking up some things at the office when the call came. He was the only reporter there, so they gave him his chance. He couldn’t very well leave me there in the storm, so after I begged and pleaded not to be sent home, here we are. Isn’t it exciting? I mean… terrible, but exciting? So, what are you? Like a detective in training?”

Realizing the conversation had suddenly shifted back to him, Carver answered, “Something like that.”

“What’s it like? Where do you live?”

Before he could deliver his prepared response, she turned back to the window. “Hold on. Another wagon’s pulling up. Come watch.”

She pulled at him to join her. “We can both squeeze in. It’ll be like listening at the vents back at Ellis.”

Soon their faces were pressed against the glass. Her cheek wasn’t all that much warmer in the carriage, feeling icy against his, but he found he enjoyed it.

“See the man in the Stetson hat?” she asked. “That’s Jerrik. And the wagon… must be from the coroner’s office. They’ve got a stretcher. Oh. They’re finally going to move the body.”

A rough blanket was placed over Jane Ingraham. Two men prepared to lift her onto the stretcher. Before they did, Roosevelt barked an order, muffled by the closed cab door. At once, everyone on the steps removed their hats, clasped their hands and bowed their heads for a moment of silence.

Delia, who’d removed her woolen hat, nudged Carver and glanced at his soggy cap. He pulled it off and looked solemnly downward.

The moment over, the two men lifted the stretcher and carried it to a wagon marked
City Morgue.

By now their faces had caused the glass to fog a bit. Delia pulled her sweater sleeve up so it covered the heel of her hand and wiped the window clean.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it? The most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Me too.”

“But I don’t feel it, you know? Maybe I will later when it’s had a chance to sink in. Jerrik was afraid I’d burst into tears or become hysterical, but I didn’t. I guess it would bother me more if she
looked
like a person. But with all the snow and the light, she doesn’t, does she? Do you think that makes me heartless?”

Delia and Carver turned to each other at the same time, finding themselves nose to nose.

“No,” Carver managed. “I don’t think you’re heartless.”

Not heartless at all,
he added in his head.

CARVER
woke to pitch darkness, mind throbbing with the remnants of arc-lit dreams, full of snow and blood. When he’d finally returned to the New Pinkertons’ headquarters, even Beckley was on his way home. The librarian had stayed long enough to help Carver find a cot, folded in the corner of a windowless, box-filled storeroom. Exhausted, Carver collapsed onto it and quickly fell asleep.

He awoke in the morning to a weak septic odor. Hawking mentioned the place was under a sewer. This little room probably shared a wall or floor with it. Sewers reminded him of the alley rat; the rat reminded him of the killer. For a moment he felt as if the caped stalker were hovering over him, seething, dark as the night.

He shook his head and rolled gingerly off the cot, careful not to upset its rickety frame, then fumbled
for his clothes. Hoping he’d put them back on correctly, he found the doorknob and stepped out. In the outer hall, sunlight filtered down from unseen skylights in the high brick ceiling.

Beckley warned that everyone would be at their undercover posts, collecting details about the murder, so Carver wasn’t surprised to find the place empty. He did wish he knew where they kept the food. His stomach was growling. Absently he poked around, checking doors. Most were locked, but that wasn’t really an issue. He still had his set of nails.

And he was alone.

That presented interesting possibilities. He could sneak into Tudd’s office, read all those files on his desk, maybe find out if—and why—they’d been tailing him. He could even unearth the man’s theory about the killer and see why Hawking held it in such disdain.

Passing the laboratory area, Carver couldn’t resist having a look around. All the devices he’d seen there during the day had been locked away. One metal cabinet was easy enough to pick. Heavy with hanging rifles, the door swung open, revealing a stock of weapons.

Some were familiar, but many not. Two shelves held about ten odd pistols, each mounted on even odder metal stands. The stands had six jointed legs, several gears and spring-wound motors. The guns might be loaded, so he decided to leave them alone. But his eyes shortly lighted on something that looked like a folding knife.

Thinking it less dangerous, he picked it up. When he flipped out what he thought would be the blade, instead an intricate set of thin pieces of metal jutted from the top in the shape of a key. As he turned a dial at the bottom of the handle, the “key” changed size and shape.

Was it some sort of lock pick?

Deciding to try it out, he closed the cabinet door, then inserted the weird tool into the lock. He rotated the dial until he heard a click and was thrilled to discover he could lock the door with a simple twist of his hand. Excited, he withdrew the tool and tried again.

This time, the lock didn’t budge. Worse, the device seemed stuck in the door. Carver shook and yanked it, rattling the cabinet before realizing all he had to do was turn the dial back a little. It slipped out easily, pulling the door open again.

What an amazing contraption! Much better than the nails. With this, he could go anywhere. But could he just… take it? It was different from the stun baton. That he’d simply found. Realizing it had saved his life, he was glad he hadn’t returned it. But what about this? It seemed such a small thing among the wonders of the place. Hadn’t Hawking said something about Benjamin Franklin breaking laws and becoming like a thief to be able to catch one? His mentor was a great detective, after all.

He slipped it into his pocket, next to the baton. A guilty pang hit him, and he heard his own voice, full of hatred, calling Finn “Thief!”

But this wasn’t a gold locket, a child’s only possession. Besides, he was only borrowing it long enough to get into Tudd’s office and find out what was going on.

Mind made up, he closed the door to the cabinet a little too hard. Suddenly, there was a loud
crack!
as a bullet flew through the metal. A mechanical whirring followed. As Carver sprang back, the mounted pistols, moving of their own accord, crawled from the shelf, spider-like. As they tumbled to the ground, another shot was fired.

Carver ducked behind a heavy table. As the whirring continued, he stuck his head out and watched in awe and fear as the pistols righted themselves and began crawling around the room. He pulled back, worried that they might somehow be able to see him.

For many breathless moments, the whirring continued, but no more shots were fired. What were they? Some sort of mechanical guns you could send in after the crooks? How would they know when to fire?

Ulp.
He was about to find out. One rounded the table and crawled toward him, its little legs moving in sequence, like an insect. Carver squirmed back but didn’t want to be in sight of the other guns, either. How many were there? Eight?

Closer and closer it crawled… and then stopped.

Soon, the whirring of the other spring-driven motors died down as well. He got behind the one nearest him and examined it. There was a timer on the back, this one set to zero. He reasoned you could set the timer, wind the spring engine, send the gun in to some dangerous spot, and it would fire when the timer reached zero.

At least that meant they couldn’t see. Slowly, he checked them all. None of the timers were set. Jarring the cabinet had probably set off the first shot; the fall to the ground set off the other. Gingerly, he returned them all to the cabinet but left the door ajar. Praying they’d think the gun had gone off on its own (it practically had, hadn’t it?), Carver decided that any further skulking around the headquarters was probably
not
the wisest thing to do.

Unless he wanted to get shot.

OUTSIDE
, the sun made Carver wince. The air was warmer; the colors had returned. The sidewalk had a clear path, though each corner held a huge snow hill. The slick gray of the cobblestones already dominated the white on Broadway. People, wagons, carriages and streetcars all moved about as if there’d been no storm at all.

“Horrid murder!” a pleasant young voice called. “Savage mutilations! Body at the Tombs!”

People crowded around the newsboy. He held up a fresh copy of the
Daily Herald,
its headline reading
TOMBS KILLING
. The happy boy could barely keep up with sales.

Carver checked his money. He had more than enough for something decent to eat and the ferry ride back to Blackwell. He thought about getting a paper but felt he owed Delia some loyalty and should find a copy of the
Times.

First, though, he bought himself a baked potato from one of the vendors lining City Hall Park. As the steam from its white center soothed his face, he listened in on passing conversations. Everyone was talking about the second murder.

Near the marble fountain at the park’s center he found a newsboy selling the
Times.
Reaching an empty bench, he swatted the soggy snow off and sat down to finish breakfast and read the paper.