Ripper (21 page)

A muffled bellow came from the hallway. “I shall raise an
army
!”

“See? There he is now,” Alice said, pleased with her timing. “Shall we find better seats?”

Delia sighed and moved into the hall. “There’s a floor vent we can use.”

As Carver followed, Delia tried to get ahead of Alice, but the girl seemed unwilling to give up the lead. Finally, Delia pulled her back, saying, “It
is
my house.”

Delia took them down into a large bedroom with a huge four-poster bed and wide, pleasant windows. Alice spun in the center, letting her white coat swirl. “Small for a guest room, isn’t it?”

Pulling a cushioned chair away from the heating vent, Delia answered flatly, “It’s the master bedroom.”

“Oh, Delia,” Alice responded. “I’m only teasing. Don’t hate me for that!”

“I won’t,” Delia said, smiling back. “Not for that.”

The vent exposed, the three gathered near. Alice, about to kneel, put her hand out toward Carver to hold for support. Without thinking, he took it, leaving Delia to let out an exasperated grunt as she picked up the end of her cotton dress and knelt on her own.

The first voice they heard was Jerrik Ribe’s. “Were you in London during the murders, Commissioner?”

“No,” Roosevelt responded. “Two years earlier, 1886, for my wedding. But I’ve certainly read all I can about that fiend since. I tell you, quite plainly, if he is here, there’ll be no place for him to hide. I’ll set out a net and draw it in so tightly, even the shadows will spit him out. Every officer is on alert; our patrols have been doubled. All we lack is a witness.”

From the way he was talking, the killer sounded famous. Carver wondered if he’d ever heard of him.

“Don’t you think,” a female voice put in, “that the public would be more helpful if they knew
exactly
what was going on? That printing the letter would more likely prompt someone to come forward?”

“That’s Anne,” Delia said proudly.

“I like
her,
” Alice said.

But her father apparently did not. “We’ve been through this! To even
suggest
he’s in Manhattan would unleash a circus. Every crank will line up to give false witness or even confess to the crimes! And the panic! Backed into a corner, the poor can riot, but the rich can start a war.” Roosevelt lowered his voice. “I detest subterfuge. The fact someone broke into that office while I was present shows how fragile this situation is.”

“Overton’s convinced it was the
Tribune
or the
Herald,
” Jerrik said.

“If it was, wouldn’t they have printed the contents of the letter by now?” Anne said.

“Let’s stick to the issue at hand. The longer we operate without public attention, the better. Until the situation collapses of its own accord, any who come forward will be more reliable.”

“
If
anyone comes forward, Commissioner,” Anne said.

Delia eyed Carver meaningfully. “You have to tell him.”

“I don’t know,” Carver said. “I’m not sure who to trust.”

Alice scrutinized their faces. When she spoke, her whip-like wit was replaced by an equally well-spoken sincerity. “I don’t know what Father’s done to earn such a low opinion from you, but he is a man of incredible principle. I find it tedious. He’s never, for instance, spoken to me about my own mother, his first wife, whom I never knew, and I’m certain it’s because of some
principle.
But that’s my problem as his daughter. As a confidant, or
a friend, there is no one more reliable. If there is anything you can do to help him catch this murderer, of course you should do it.”

Carver glanced from Alice’s calm assurance to Delia’s concerned face.

Hawking’s words echoed in his head:
It’s your life, not mine. You’ll have to figure out what to do with yourself next.
Was that his way of giving permission? Maybe this was his only chance to prove to Delia, to himself, that he wasn’t his father’s son.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll do it right now.”

DELIA
led Carver to the door. “It’d be better if someone they knew explained who you were.”

“I’ll stay here, then,” Alice said. “But I
am
looking forward to hearing whatever it is you’re going to say.”

At the stairs, Delia slipped her arm into his. “Speak simply and plainly. Keep in mind you don’t sound completely sane when you start talking about a secret detective base.”

“How will I sound when I say I’m the killer’s son?”

She frowned. “Take it from the beginning. Start with finding the letter.”

When they arrived in the foyer, Jerrik came into view first. Fair hair neatly combed, a legal pad on his narrow lap, he was in mid-sentence when he saw them.

“…Delia?”

Roosevelt turned his square head, his eyes zeroing in on Carver. “Tudd! Your nephew has the most disquieting habit of showing up in odd places.”

Tudd? Carver jerked his head around. Alone in a deep cushioned love seat sat Mr. Tudd, a dark bruise on his face. Carver froze.

The fifty-something leader of the New Pinkertons rolled to his feet. “I’m glad he’s here.”

“Why
is
he here, Delia?” Jerrik said. “And who is he?”

“Carver Young,” Anne said. “An old friend of Delia’s from the orphanage.”

“I made it clear this was to be a private interview!” Roosevelt said, rustling in his seat.

By now Tudd was at the entrance, facing Carver. “I have something of grave importance to tell you. It’s about Mr. Hawking,” he whispered.

“What?” Carver said. “Is he all right?”

“No.”

The word hit Carver like a ton of bricks. The depth of his concern for the bristly man surprised him. “Not here,” Tudd whispered. “Let’s take a walk.”

Tudd turned to the adults. “My deepest apologies again, Commissioner, Mr. and Mrs. Ribe. Would you excuse us a moment?”

“If you mean may you leave with your nephew, the answer is yes,” Roosevelt said. “If you’re asking me to forgive a second scene, I’ll withhold judgment until given a full explanation.”

Tudd nodded. “Of course,” he said, then made for the door with Carver.

As Tudd opened the door, Roosevelt looked around. “How did he get in? We’ve been sitting here the whole time, the front
door in view. Is there another entrance?” As he scanned the room, he glanced up at a vent directly above his head. His eyes narrowed and he shouted, “Alice! Move away from the vent at once!”

Whatever he said next to his daughter was muffled by the closing door.

On the stoop, Carver immediately asked, “What’s happened?”

Tudd nodded toward the carriage driver, who was watching them curiously. “Just to the corner. Thanks to you, I no longer enjoy the Commissioner’s complete confidence and I’d rather not have the situation deteriorate further.”

They moved up along Franklin, toward Varick Street.

“What happened to Mr. Hawking?” Carver asked again.

“No apology for pummeling me and leaving me to bleed in a hallway? Do you realize I had to crawl into the street and
pretend
I’d been hit by a cab? Thank heavens your friend said nothing, though I suspect she’s more interested in protecting
you.
”

Part of Carver felt he should apologize, but something held him back, an unease in the air. Tudd looked back over his shoulder. The driver had stepped off the carriage and was now in the middle of the sidewalk, watching them. They were far enough away, though, for Tudd to speak. “Regardless of whether you share Hawking’s attitude toward me and my gadgets, I am not a fool. The only reason for you to step into that parlor would be if you planned to tell Roosevelt everything.”

Carver’s hackles rose. He moved to put some distance between himself and Tudd. “The letter from my father is an important piece of evidence. They
have
to know.”

“Would you have told him about the New Pinkertons as well?” Tudd said.

“I…,” Carver began. He shook his head, only now realizing
it wasn’t necessary. “No, they just have to know about the letter. Tell me about Mr. Hawking!”

They rounded the corner. “I am fully prepared to share everything we know with the police,” he said.

The hairs on the back of Carver’s neck tingled the way they always did when he felt he was being watched. “What about Mr. Hawking?” Carver demanded. “You still haven’t told me…”

But Tudd was no longer looking at him. He was looking over Carver’s shoulder, giving someone a curt nod.

Carver spun, but before he could see who was there, he was yanked forcefully backward. His arms were swiftly pinned. Something coarse and woolen was shoved in his mouth. It balled his tongue toward the back of his throat, making him gag.

He twisted and pulled, trying to fight, until a sudden kick took him off his feet. The world spun. He was on his back, Tudd towering over him. His facial bruise, made black by a streetlight, did not conceal his look of triumph. “I will tell them about you and that letter as soon as
I’ve
caught your father!”

HIS HANDS
and feet bound, the gag fixed in place with a thick cord, Carver was thrown into an open two-seat carriage. An athletic figure with a thick mustache climbed in beside him. He propped Carver up to make room for himself, then pulled a hinged metal cover over their legs. The snug fit forced the figure to lean forward to click it into place, exposing him to the streetlight.

It was Jackson. Outraged, Carver struggled harder against the ropes. He writhed so violently, the little carriage shook.

“Don’t,” Jackson said. “Emeril used two interlocked handcuff knots. The more you pull, the tighter they get. Keep at it and you’ll cut off the blood supply. You could lose a hand or foot.”

He wasn’t lying. The pressure around his wrists was vise-like.

Jackson called to an unseen driver up and behind them. “Let’s get there tonight!”

Carver looked forward. There were no horses. How did they plan to get anywhere?

A steady electric hum erupted from behind him. The carriage lurched, then rolled along the cobblestones, maneuvering into the center of the street. Carver’s eyes went wide.

“That’s right, finally got the electric carriages in from Philly,” Jackson said.

They rode north. As they moved along, pedestrians stopped and gaped to see them roll uphill, as if by magic.

Hudson Street held a crowded streetcar. The passengers nearly pushed each other out, pressing against the doors and windows to stare. One woman screamed, reminding Carver of the woman in Hawking’s tale who saw the fire truck onstage.

Carver writhed and puffed at the gag, trying to draw attention to the fact he was being kidnapped. Jackson tossed a blanket over him.

“Some kidnappers we are,” Jackson muttered. “Why not strap a portable light on the lad’s head for the entire world to see?” He called back to the driver, “Emeril, can’t it go any faster?”

“It can,” the higher pitched voice responded. “Over thirty miles per hour since Tudd tweaked it. When we tried that yesterday, though, every horse we passed reared in panic!”

Jackson sighed. “It’s a wonder the agency’s been secret this long.”

Emeril called again, “Did you tell Carver it’s not us? It’s Tudd’s idea we catch the killer ourselves?”

“Speak for yourself,” Jackson said, sounding uncharacteristically snippy. “I’m fine with it. We’re better than the police, and
it’s about time we got some credit for it. And Carver here was ready to blab and have us all arrested.”

Emeril maneuvered the carriage into a small garage on Warren Street. There, the two removed Carver, covered the vehicle in old horse blankets and escorted him quickly to the side of Devlin’s.

As the elevator descended noiselessly, Emeril pulled the gag out.

Carver spat and coughed a few times. With as much fury as he could muster, he said, “What if someone
dies
because of what you’re doing?”

Jackson shrugged. “What if someone dies because of what
you’re
doing?”

THERE WAS
little left of the friendly feeling Carver once shared with the two agents. They grabbed his arms and pulled him through headquarters. Everyone picked up their heads to watch. Some seemed horrified; others eyed Carver with contempt. Here he was, the son of the killer, the thief who flooded the place. Worst, the boy who attacked Septimus Tudd.

They brought him to an empty room, which Emeril assured him was nowhere near the sewer line. There, they replaced his ropes with handcuffs and ankle braces, then checked his pockets.

“Where is it?” Jackson demanded. “The broken stun baton.”

Carver was surprised. Hadn’t it been in his pocket just hours earlier?

Carver glared at him. “It must have fallen out when you attacked me.”

“Right,” Jackson said. They frisked him again but still couldn’t find it.

Unwilling to repeat their mistakes, he was never left alone. They took turns sitting with him. Emeril busied himself studying files and newspapers. Jackson was content to leaf through magazines.

When Carver asked what they were waiting for, the answer was, “Tudd.”

When he asked for some food, the answer was, “When Tudd gets back.”

When he asked if he could lie down and get some sleep, the answer was, “We’ll see what Tudd says.”

There was nothing for him to do but sit and be ignored. In time his eyes drooped and he slumped forward, nodding off until some stray sound jolted him back awake.

Carver was so tired that Tudd’s arrival was anticlimactic. He stood in the open door, clothes rumpled, his usually clean-shaven sheepdog face a forest of salt-and-pepper stubble.

“What time is it?” Carver asked.

Tudd pulled out his watch fob. “Almost ten in the morning. Roosevelt has us following every lead that comes in, no matter how ridiculous. I’ve barely enough time for a shower and a change of clothes before I’m due back at Mulberry Street. After your appearance at the Ribes’, he made it quite clear that if the situation weren’t so dire, he would have fired me on the spot.”