Second Street Station (17 page)

Furniture was moved in Lucette’s apartment to clear a space. The séance had begun and she, Jourdan, Briggs, and Doctress Parkes were sitting on the floor in a circle, holding hands. Doctress Parkes’s skills had been honed on the carnival circuit, then somewhat refined after a wealthy believer financed her move to New York. Still, her expressions and vocal intonations would be considered overdone by any theatrical critic of the day, and histrionics on the stage were entirely acceptable to most of them. She hemmed, hawed, hummed, and swooned, swinging her head back and forth as she called out, “It’s Roscoe we seek, Spirit of the Night.”

Briggs grunted. He had begrudgingly stayed to support his infatuated partner and to see that Lucette didn’t make even more of a fool out of him. Chief Campbell’s undoing would only come about with a joint effort, so he had to keep Jourdan from going off track.

“Wait,” cautioned Doctress Parkes in a loud voice. “I’m getting an image.” She froze as if it was being transmitted into her brain at that very moment. “Three hamlets,” she continued. “Yes! Three hamlets in one!”

“Must be Edwin Booth,” muttered Briggs. But Jourdan gave Briggs a reproachful look for his attempt at humor.

“Have you seen his Hamlet?” said Briggs in mock defense of his comment.

Jourdan shushed him as Doctress Parkes deciphered her message from the beyond.

“It is far from here, in another state,” she proclaimed. “No, New York. But not New York City. Miles away.” She turned her head swiftly to the left and held up her hand to the left ear. “I hear a bell, a big loud one. I see some kind of seal, official. And men, very important men.”

“Sounds like Albany,” said Jourdan. It didn’t matter whether he really believed this act or if he was blinded by his lust for Lucette. It was probably a little of both. His reaction, though, was enough to convince Doctress Parkes that he was a believer.

“Albany? I’ll ask.” But Doctress Parkes had already decided the show was over. It was better to leave them wanting more than thinking they’d had enough. “Oh no, she’s fading,” she lamented, appearing devastated as she prepared for the finale. “Don’t go. Stay, Great Spirit! Stay!” She prolonged the “ay” in “stay” until it became a long whining plea. At the same time, she extended her arms, reaching out to the spirit, but alas, her reaction told all that it was not to be. Doctress Parkes hung her head in
disappointment,
her performance complete.

Jourdan jumped to his feet. “Official seal, important men—it has to be our state capital!”

“Or Queen Victoria’s bed,” Briggs sarcastically added.

Jourdan paid no attention to him. This was his chance to be supportive, brilliant, and, most important, to impress the hell out of Lucette.

“Three hamlets in one—Albany, Schenectady, and Troy,” he declared, naming the area in New York State known as the Tri-cities. “Roscoe’s in Albany!”

Lucette stood up and gave Jourdan what he wanted—a big, wet kiss. And Briggs also got what he wanted: permission to leave.

It was possible Charles Goodrich had hidden his journal in one of his
boardinghouses—unlikely
but possible—and Mary had to check out every possibility. That was why, after getting the keys from W. W. Goodrich’s secretary, she was down in the dark and dusty basement of his boardinghouse in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn. It was a nice neighborhood, and Charles Goodrich had bought the building in observance of the well-accepted real estate belief that buying the least expensive property in an expensive area was a solid investment. The area wasn’t exactly expensive, but the other properties would sell for more than what he’d paid for his. Goodrich had planned to gradually fix it up, to raise the rents, and to eventually sell it for a tidy profit…had he lived to see his plan through.

The kerosene lamp Mary was holding illuminated the room, revealing that Goodrich hadn’t begun the “fix it up” stage of his plan. There was a pile of old wooden boards full of rusty nails on one side, with another pile of broken-down furniture directly across from it. She also saw what appeared to be fresh mice pellets. And if fresh pellets were present, close by there were bound to be…Well, she had a job to do and really didn’t want to think about that now. She was adhering to the idiom of “Leave no stone unturned.” But having studied Charles Goodrich’s lifestyle and habits, she had concluded the only thing he would put there was a cleaning crew.

Mary was winding up her search when she was literally blindsided, whacked on the back with what felt like a club. She fell to the ground, and sprawled out there, numb from the blow, she had the presence of mind to count her two saving graces: the kerosene lamp was still whole, and she hadn’t fallen on the mice pellets.

“State your business or lose your head,” boomed a loud female voice with a cockney accent.

“I’m Mary Handley,” Mary answered, a little groggy from what had just transpired but not seriously hurt. “I’m investigating the murder of Charles Goodrich.”

“No doubt, and I’m the Prince of Wales,” the woman loudly proclaimed.

Mary got to her feet, picked up her kerosene lamp, and held it out to see her attacker. She was a large, wide woman who was wearing an apron. She was also wielding a cricket bat and was moving toward Mary for another strike.

Mary held the kerosene lamp up to her face. “I
am
Mary Handley. See?”

The woman stopped, stared at Mary, and in an instant, her demeanor changed.

“Well, I’ll be. Cynthia Frump.” She grabbed Mary’s hand and pumped it. “I used to help the late Mr. Goodrich look after this place. Chief cook and bottle washer, I am.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frump,” Mary said as the thought crossed her mind that she had finally discovered one advantage to her notoriety.

“Please excuse the nasty greetin’. Ya can’t be too careful nowadays, right?” Cynthia Frump patted her cricket bat then laughed. It was a full, hearty laugh and contagious. Mary couldn’t help joining in.

“Say,” continued Cynthia Frump, “how come you’re down here in the muck and not up in his flat?”

“Mr. Goodrich had a room here?”

“Mr. Goodrich ran a tight ship, he did. A real taskmaster, God bless his soul. He’d pop in from time to time. Made sure everything was on the up-’n’-up.” She noticed Mary glancing at the monumental mess that surrounded them. “The poor man hadn’t made it down here yet. It was on his list though.”

She showed Mary to Charles Goodrich’s room and was telling her which key on the ring of keys Mary had gotten from W. W. Goodrich would open the door when she noticed the door had been jimmied.

“My Lord, we’ve had a break-in. I better notify the police,” exclaimed Cynthia Frump, then it occurred to her. “What am I sayin’? The police are already here.”

Mary knew that meant her. “Not exactly, but I’ll take care of it.”

Cynthia Frump seemed satisfied, and she returned to her duties in the kitchen, but not before getting Mary’s autograph for her scrapbook.

Mary entered Goodrich’s room to discover it had been completely ransacked. All the cabinets and drawers were opened and their contents spilled onto the floor. Chairs were turned over, the sofa cushions tossed.

If the journal had been there, it no longer was. Yet it was important that she search the place. Something might have been left behind. And no sooner had that thought crossed her mind than Mary spied a small chain protruding from under the couch. When she picked it up, it was attached to a pocket watch. On the back of the watch was an inscription that read,
FOR MY DARLING NIKOLA…KATHERINE
.

So Nikola Tesla had hired a criminal to find the journal, proclaiming it was just to locate it. Yet, the watch indicated that Tesla himself broke into this room to search for it. He hadn’t mentioned that. If W. W. Goodrich was correct in his assertion that it was “hogwash” for anyone to think his brother would betray Edison, what would a desperate Tesla do if Charles Goodrich had agreed to cooperate, then changed his mind? Up until recently she had thought Edison was a calm, logical man of science, and she had been proven wrong. It was possible that Tesla, too, was capable of more than she thought.

It was early evening by the time Mary arrived at Tesla’s warehouse. She didn’t know if he’d still be there, but it was worth a try. The warehouse was markedly different from Mary’s last visit, when there was a flurry of activity. Dark and very quiet, it seemed virtually deserted, and she now saw it for what it was: a vast, hollow building with tall stone pillars and a massive cement floor.

“Mr. Tesla?” Mary called out, her voice echoing off the walls. “Hello, Mr. Tesla?”

There was no response. She stepped further into the darkness, feeling like an intruder. She had the distinct impression that something intensely private was going on. It was just a feeling. Call it intuition, but her speculation was brought to an abrupt halt.

A gunshot rang out, its flash piercing the blackness. Mary instantly dropped to the ground, her body hugging its hard, cold surface. She watched carefully as the bullet ricocheted off the cement floor and stone pillars, flashing again with each hit and making a pinging sound as it bounced her way. At the last minute, she rolled over to avoid it, the bullet striking dangerously close to her before moving on. Another shot was fired, causing more pings and flashes. Mary again trained her eye on the zigzag path of the bullet and moved just in time to elude it. A third bullet eventually ripped the lower part of her dress, but she herself was unharmed. Mary had to get out of there, and just as she was devising an escape plan, a shadowy figure staggered out of the darkness. It was Tesla. He had a pistol in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. And he was drunk, very drunk.

“I just prove scientifically by trial and error,” he said, slurring his words, his accent thicker than usual, “when bullet hits cement, it bounces. Good thing no error, huh?”

Mary rose warily and dusted herself off, all the time keeping her eyes on Tesla and his pistol. “Yes, very good thing, Mr. Tesla.”

“Please, Nikola. And I’ll call you…”

He paused, searching for her name, victim no doubt of an alcohol-induced memory lapse.

“Mary,” she calmly reminded him. She wasn’t feeling calm at all, but she didn’t want to reveal that to him.

“Mary, how could I forget? My mother’s name.”

“Really?”

“No.”

He erupted in laughter, stumbled a few steps, and tripped. Mary caught him, saving him from falling.

“I made joke,” Tesla proclaimed. “People say I’m too serious. Ridiculous.” He waved his pistol hand, dismissing his detractors, and took a big swig of vodka.

“Yes, ridiculous. Now, may I have that?” In his state, Mary figured that simply asking for the pistol could get the job done. It was worth a try anyway.

“Ah,” Tesla said, chastising himself. “Where are my manners?” He held out the bottle, offering her a drink. “Vodka. Can’t get it in United States. Had it sent specially from my homeland.”

“Actually, I meant your pistol.”

Tesla staggered backward as if absorbing a punch.

“No, never pistol.” He petulantly waved it in the air. “Everybody cowboy in America. Nikola wants to be cowboy, too!”

He began shooting again, randomly pointing the pistol at the ground, then in the air, paying no attention to where he was aiming or to the possible consequences. One shot after another wildly ricocheted around the warehouse. Mary carefully followed the pings and flashes, dodging the bullets when necessary. When she spotted one bouncing back at Tesla, she dove and knocked him out of the way just in time. They both wound up on the floor. Tesla found this all terribly amusing.

“Whoops,” he chirped out in a high voice, then broke into a hearty belly laugh.

Mary once again rose and dusted herself off. Dodging bullets was wearing thin. She had to get Tesla’s pistol out of his hand.

“Mr. Tesla, I have a proposition for you. I propose we trade.”

“What could you possibly have that I would want? Can you give me Thomas Edison’s integrity? Oh no, you can’t. He has none.”

Tesla also found this incredibly funny. Ignoring him, Mary opened her pocketbook, slowly took out the watch she had found at the boardinghouse, and dangled it in front of him. Tesla’s mood changed instantly. He silently stumbled toward her and gladly relinquished the pistol for the watch.

“I thought I’d lost it forever!” he said, cradling it as if it were a precious jewel.

Relieved, Mary put the pistol in her pocketbook, then resumed business.

“Who’s Katherine?”

“She’s a no-no. But she’s also an oh-oh.” Judging from his inflection and facial expression, he was most decidedly smitten.

“I found it in one of Mr. Goodrich’s
boardinghouses,”
Mary informed him.

“Yes, I was searching for the journal. No luck.”

“Mr. Tesla…”

“Charlie promised it to me. A promise is a promise. It doesn’t die ’cause he did.” Before Mary could respond, he continued, “Come, I show you something.”

He guided Mary to a workbench and turned on a light, illuminating a cylindrical object with wires leading to it and with what looked like a metal tower on top. Above the tower were two metal rods about three feet apart that were pointing at each other.

“This is work in progress, but it will change world!” He was extremely animated and filled with excitement as he pointed to it and announced, “The Tesla coil!”

He proudly flicked a switch, sending electricity to the rod, and within seconds, lightning bolts were jumping across open space between the two metal rods.

“See how energy jumps from one side to other, no wires guiding it, just air?” he explained.

Mary was truly mesmerized. “That’s amazing. How do you do that?”

Tesla shrugged matter-of-factly. “I’m brilliant. That’s how.” Then his enthusiasm returned. “This energy transport will revolutionize communication! Talk in New York, be heard in Boston. Without wires, none!”

Then suddenly his excitement dissipated, and he became morose.

“Charlie told me Thomas and J. P. Morgan were going to steal my coil technology and finance someone else to develop it.”

“There are laws to protect you. You could—”

“Laws!” an incredulous Tesla blurted out. “You think laws apply to people like Thomas and Morgan?” He stepped away from her, trying unsuccessfully to gain control of his emotions. “After Thomas’s trick with his calves, everyone backed out of my
demonstration.”

“I am so sorry.” Mary meant it. She was beginning to feel his pain.

“It’s not true, you know. My current is safer than his.” Then he turned to her, unable to mask the pain he was experiencing. “Why can’t it be about work? Not who wins, but who produces best product!”

Mary looked at his innocent expression. It was that of a child who had just discovered the world was not fair. She couldn’t help feeling sympathy.

“What happened between you two, Nikola?” she asked gently.

“Thomas promised me fifty thousand dollars if I could improve efficiency of his DC generator by twenty-five percent. I improved it by fifty percent.”

“I assume he welshed on the deal.”

“He laughed. Said I didn’t understand his American sense of humor.”

Suddenly, Mary felt a strong kinship with this man who simply wanted to be judged on the merits of his work. “On second thought, I could use a drink.”

She grabbed the bottle from Tesla, took a big swig, and then handed it back to him. They both sat down on the floor, their backs propped up against a pillar while lightning bolts from Tesla’s coil flew back and forth above them. A few drinks later, he divulged that the Katherine on his watch was the wife of his best friend, and though he desperately loved her, his sense of honor forbade him from taking any action. As they continued to share the bottle and their personal frustrations, Mary decided this was not the type of man who committed murder. He was more likely to be a victim.