Ripper (34 page)

A lone tree grew along the first-story windows. There, they stood and caught their breath.

“It’s impossible,” Delia said. “The police are back here, too. There’s no way we’ll reach a door.”

“But if we can’t get in, neither can the Ripper, right?” Finn said.

Carver shook his head. “If he’s planning to attack tonight, he’s already inside.”

Finn looked up at the nearest window. Parted drapes revealed a wide office full of file cabinets. “That room’s empty. Why don’t we climb in there?”

Delia shook her head. “Nice idea, but I’m sure it’s locked.”

“So?” Finn said.

“You’re a lock picker now, too?” Carver asked.

“Don’t have to be.” He lumbered up, braced himself against the stone and pushed the frame. After a quick, loud metallic snap, the window slid open.

“Easier than that newspaper door,” Finn said, climbing in. “That’s two for me and none for you, Carver.”

“But… never mind.”

With a boost from Carver, Delia went next. Struggling to hold on to the sill, he climbed in himself, annoyed to find Delia tenderly adjusting Finn’s tie and straightening his suit.

Seeing how Carver stared, Delia said, “It’s a party. We have to look presentable. Your turn.”

But when she came over to him, she frowned. “It’s easier with tailored clothes,” she said, tugging at his jacket. “Weren’t these just cleaned?”

“I’ve just been crawling!” he objected. She yanked the deerstalker cap from his head and shoved it into his pocket, brushed his shoulders and ran her fingers through his hair. The last part was the most pleasant.

She stood and stepped back. “Now me, how do I look?”

He leaned in and removed a single black hair that’d been clinging to her cheek. “Perfect.”

She seemed embarrassed. “You’d better be right. And we’d better get going.”

They made their way into the hall and headed for the party. The central pavilion’s rotunda was a soaring space with a grand marble stairway that rose to the second floor. There, ten columns held up a coffered dome. It reminded Carver of the Octagon, only twenty times larger.

The crowd was equally grand. The women wore odd, flamboyant hats, fine jewelry and flowing gowns. The men, dressed in far less colorful variations of black and white, looked as if it were their job to keep things in order. Carver had to wonder if the wealthy
owned
any simpler clothing.

Even Roosevelt was dressed to the nines, sporting a gold-headed walking stick, recently trimmed side-whiskers, a tall silk hat and fashionably tight trousers that flared over his shoes. Standing near the hall’s center, surrounded by a crowd, his booming voice, as usual, was easily heard.

“A sheriff I once worked for in the Dakota Territory had once
been a member of the Bismarck police force. When I asked why he left, he explained it was because he’d hit the mayor on the head with a gun. The mayor forgave him, but the chief of police insisted he resign. That, in short, is politics.”

There was also no shortage of Roosevelt’s detectives, their cheaper suits and bowlers easy to spot. Carver even recognized a few faces from the New Pinkertons.

“Let’s split up,” Carver said. “If they catch one of us, the others can keep trying.”

“What should I say to Roosevelt?” a worried Finn asked.

“Forget Roosevelt,” Carver said. “Try to find Alice.”

“Easy enough,” Delia said. “Look at her dress!”

Carver turned his eyes to where Delia was pointing. There, indeed, standing next to a grand piano, was the girl he’d met at the Ribes’. Her dark hair was freshly curled and had a bow that matched her flowing white and yellow gown.

“Wow,” Carver said. “She looks so… adult.”

Delia’s eyes hardened. “Well, she’s
not,
” she said.

Carver Young, junior detective, completely missed her accusing tone.

ALICE
Roosevelt wore a wicked look on her face as she whispered excitedly to the pianist. He protested, but apparently Alice won, because a new song soon filled the hall. It was a popular tune among the middle and lower class, highly inappropriate for the wealthy crowd. Looking a little nervous, the man sang.

Alice scanned the crowd, amused by the shocked reactions. Her eyes found Carver’s. She smiled and waved him over.

“I’ll go alone,” Carver said to the others.

“And what are
we
supposed to do?” Delia said. “Stand back in admiration?”

As he neared, Alice swayed to the music.

Carver would have to talk fast. While he was trying to remain hidden, she was intent on attracting attention. Her father in particular kept glancing over.

“Girls are supposed to love thieves and liars, you know,” she said pleasantly.

The comment brought Carver up short. “But I’m not a thief or a liar.”

“Pity,” she said. Carver briefly speechless, she patted him on the arm. “Don’t look so serious! I’m just practicing my flirting. Have to start sometime, you know, and you seem like a nice safe person, despite all I’ve heard.”

“Of course… I… knew that… but, Alice… I have to tell you…” He leaned closer to whisper. “I think you’re in danger.”

Her smile had yet to vanish. “From what? Boredom? A consequence of wealth, I’m afraid…”

“No. The killer… it’s a long story… I…”

She stiffened. Her lively eyes revealed a sharp spark that reminded Carver of her father. “Does this have to do with your fantasy about a secret detective agency?”

Before he could explain, a small woman with a brittle smile motioned for the pianist to stop. Forgetting Carver, Alice wheeled on her. “Excuse me, I requested that song!”

“And your
father
requested I stop it,” the woman responded. “And that I bring you to the food table for something to eat.”

The commissioner was right near the food table. Carver wouldn’t have a chance to start, let alone finish his story.

Alice motioned toward Carver. “But this young gentleman was about to tell me something fascinating.”

The woman pulled her away. “Young girls always think young gentlemen have something fascinating to say.”

Alice put on a wide smile, speaking loudly as the woman dragged her away. “Perhaps we should meet again? Say, in about four years?”

Carver winced. People were looking at him. He backed away, trying to hide himself. He’d just about reached one of the columns when a hand grabbed his shoulder.

“Say nothing,” a familiar voice intoned.

Carver turned. “Emeril!”

“Sh! Keep your back to me and I shall do likewise.”

Carver did as asked, positioning himself behind the column.

“Let’s make this quick,” Emeril whispered. “Hawking left a typewritten note under the mat at my apartment this morning that said you’d be here, but it didn’t mention why.”

“Then he’s talking to you more often than he is to me,” Carver whispered back. “Honestly, I think he’s gone crazy.” In hushed tones, Carver explained what had happened and why he’d come.

At first Emeril made a show of nonchalantly scanning the crowd. Halfway through Carver’s story, he was shocked enough to give up on concealing their conversation.

He faced Carver with a grave expression. “The senior detectives explored the initials, of course, but I don’t believe they figured out clues in the victims’ names! A game inside a game. Goes to show why the New Pinkertons were needed. Follow me, quickly.”

Feeling as if he might finally get somewhere, Carver followed Emeril up the winding stairs. On the way, he scanned the crowd for Delia and Finn but couldn’t see them. On the second floor, the junior detective opened the door to the first room and waved Carver inside. He said only, “Wait here,” before hurrying off.

Suddenly alone, Carver paced, too nervous to pay much attention to his surroundings. Impatient, he opened the door to see
what was keeping Emeril. His jaw dropped. Two city detectives stood outside. Had Emeril turned him in?

No. Far from it. Moments later, Commissioner Roosevelt marched in. He closed the door, removed his top hat and gloves and laid them on a side table. This was it. Emeril had given Carver the chance he’d needed to make his case.

“Young men,” Roosevelt said, “are often very good at unexpectedly sneaking into places where they are not welcome. But you appear to have made a profession of it.”

Carver froze, not sure where to begin. Roosevelt closed the distance between them. “You believe the killer will target my Alice.”

“Yes.”

“Why should I put any stock in a fellow who believes in underground detective headquarters?”

“The last names of the victims…”

“Emeril told me about all that. If any man adds two and two and gets four, I don’t doubt his arithmetic. We figured out the same word game this morning. We did not, however, make the key connection with the unfortunate Alice McKenzie, since she is generally not considered a Ripper victim. For that I am deeply in your debt. As we speak, my men are attempting to discreetly remove my daughter from the party. As you’ve met her, you can imagine how difficult that task may be.”

Hearing Alice was being protected, Carver exhaled. Roosevelt pulled a high-back chair from a desk and put it in front of Carver. “Sit.”

As Carver complied, Roosevelt unbuttoned his jacket and put his hands on his hips. “What I am asking you is something different. I want to know why I should believe
in
you. I knew you first as a deluded street waif with a treacherous uncle, then as
protégé to a poser. Today, you’re a valiant rescuer who knows more about this case than my own detectives. That’s a lot of identities for one person. It doesn’t breed trust.”

When Carver said nothing, Roosevelt added, “I’m not unsympathetic. I’ve had many identities myself.”

Carver choked. “I… don’t know how to answer, sir.”

“I see,” Roosevelt said. He pulled out another high-back chair, placed it in front of Carver and sat down in it himself. “Men know each other through their words and deeds. You’ve come to warn me, a fine deed. Now I want words. We’ll start off simple. What do you think of… Mr. Albert Hawking?”

“That’s a simple question?” Carver asked, shaking his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes he seems brilliant, sometimes… insane.”

“The Ripper, the man you believe is your father, what do you make of him?”

Carver reared back in the chair. “He sickens me. My life’s been a nightmare since I found out who he was. And all these clues seem as if they were left to taunt me.”

“Something we have in common. He sickens and taunts me as well,” Roosevelt said. “This threat on Alice, any idea how soon?”

Carver shook his head again.

“Do you think he might strike tonight?”

Carver thought about it, tried to imagine how his father was thinking. “We hurt him on the roof. He’s angry. I don’t think he’ll wait long.”

Roosevelt slapped Carver on the knee. “Bully! That flash in your eyes when you were thinking. I see you in there. You have a storm going on in your head, son, but your gut is good. Your father, my heavens, I’ve no idea how I’d deal with a devil’s blood in my veins.”

Carver looked at him helplessly. “Neither do I.”

Roosevelt nodded. “How could you? A young man needs someone to instill him with ideals, pride and courage. That kind of gap isn’t easily repaired.” He seemed to ponder the question a moment, then said, “I can’t give you a new father, but perhaps I can loan you mine. Hasn’t been a decision I’ve made where I don’t ask myself what he’d have done. My own childhood was often dismal, for very different reasons than yours. I suffered from asthma, dreamt of a werewolf attacking me in my bedroom. Life felt like a nightmare for me then, too. And my father said to me, don’t dwell on the darkness within, reach out and
act.
That’s how I’ve tried to lead my life ever since.”

Carver was stunned. “You’re giving me
advice
?”

“Yes. How do you like it?” Roosevelt said.

“It’s… good,” Carver answered.

Roosevelt gave him a toothy grin. “Of course!”

A knock came at the door. One of the detectives leaned in and nodded.

The commissioner rose. “Alice is ready to be taken home. I have to go.”

Carver was relieved to think his job was done, but Roosevelt waved him along. “I’d like you to join us. Time to stop lurking in the shadows and come out into the light, don’t you think, Young?”

“Yes, sir,” Carver said, rising. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to have
you
sit next to Alice!”

THE EARLIER
drizzle had turned to fog. It was so gray that the great lights of the city, electric and gas, were visible only as blurry patches. It was so thick, it swirled as men strode through it. The world looked enough like a dream to fill Carver with dread.

Alice, terribly nonplussed, sat in a fine carriage at the rear of City Hall. Her ride was flanked by two large police carriages each full of armed detectives and uniformed buttons.

Roosevelt marched toward her, pausing to take in the gloomy scene. “This,” he said, putting his boot on the carriage step, “is what they call
suicide weather.
Mr. Young, get in on the other side.”

“But, Father, I don’t want to…,” a surprisingly meek voice said from within the carriage.

“It’s been decided, Alice. Edith, your brothers and
sisters are already on their way to meet us. You’ll be free to wreak as much havoc as you like at Sagamore Hill.” He climbed in and pulled the door shut.

Carver hurried to the other side, but the seat was made only for two. With Roosevelt a wide man and Alice in a flowing gown, there was much shifting and shuffling to squeeze him in.

Alice blinked and sighed. His shoulders at an odd angle, Roosevelt said in a fatherly tone, “Thank the young man for possibly saving your life, Alice.”

“Thank you for possibly saving my life,” Alice intoned.

“Now, I suggest we all try to enjoy the fog.”

He rapped his hand on the roof and the three carriages rolled onto Broadway. With the party in full swing, the crowd had thinned, and the traffic was moving again. Roosevelt tried to settle but only managed to look more uncomfortable.