Second Street Station (26 page)

“Charles…” Mary started to speak but could not continue. No words could fit what they were both feeling. Like a magnetic force, their bodies were drawn together, hugging one another tightly and clinging for what seemed like a long time. Neither had the willpower to let go, because they both knew that meant the end.

Finally, as if the same magnetic force that had drawn them together let them know it was time to part, they both let go. Charles and Mary stared at each other for a moment, sharing a sad but loving smile, and then he left. Mary took several steps toward the door, determined to go after him, then stopped. Deep down, no matter how much it hurt, she had to let him find his own peace, or it wouldn’t be his.

Mary turned back toward the kitchen and the salad she was preparing, briefly glancing at the card Charles had given her. Suddenly, her emotional state changed. She felt a flush of excitement, an excitement that had nothing to do with Charles. It involved Roscoe.

Mary had spent many a night bemoaning the fact that Charles Goodrich’s final entry in his date book read only “Meet Roscoe at his place.” It had always seemed too general for a man who was so exact. The lettering on John Pemberton’s card changed her perspective. What if “his place” was the name of a restaurant or place of business rather than Roscoe’s apartment? Mary did some research and soon discovered there was a tavern called “his place” down on the Bowery.

The Bowery was one of the most dangerous sections of New York. It bordered on an area called Five Points, which was infested with gangs and the bane of New York law enforcement. The Bowery had its own gang, the Bowery Boys, and the darkness, dirt, and noise brought on by the elevated subway, the Third Avenue El, made it a haven for criminals. As Mary trudged through the teeming streets, the sounds of poverty were all too familiar: a bloodied storekeeper screaming for police who never came, prostitutes calling to johns, a pushcart peddler chasing street urchins who regularly pilfered from his cart, husbands and wives battling over the misery of their lives. Every so often, as an exclamation point, the Third Avenue train blanketed the area with its roaring, nerve-wracking clatter, shaking the ground below and any building nearby.

Mary wasn’t scared. She knew how to handle herself in this environment. To her, the privileged world of Edison and Morgan was scarier. On the Bowery, you could spot your enemies, and the probability was that they’d come directly at you. The rich were more deceptive, being unwilling to dirty their own hands.

Mary entered his place and instantly realized it wasn’t just a tavern. It was a full-fledged “resort.” She had heard about resorts, meeting places for homosexuals, but she had never been to one, and his place was doing a booming business. Smoky, mobbed, and lively, the bar was packed with mostly men and some women, as were the tables. There was a dance floor on the far right next to a staircase, which led to a second floor that contained rooms for couples desiring more privacy. A man wearing full makeup and dressed in formal tails sat at the piano playing and singing “I’m Called Little Buttercup” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s
H.M.S. Pinafore.
The waitresses were men dressed in drag who joked and flirted with the customers. There were two hostesses, also men in drag, one a redhead and the other a blonde. They noticed Mary.

“My God, as I live and breathe,” the redhead exclaimed dramatically. “She looks just like that lady detective.”

“If I had those cheekbones, I could look like Mary Handley, too,” declared the blonde, sucking in his cheeks.

“In your dreams, dearie,” the redhead replied, then turned to instruct Mary. “Try more rouge and some wave in your hair.”

“I’m looking for a man,” Mary began to explain.

“Aren’t we all?” the blonde interrupted, sighing.

“His name is Roscoe. Spanish, dark, handsome, late twenties.”

“Oh, Señor Gorgeous,” swooned the redhead, then pointed to the far left corner. “He’s over there. But you’re wasting your time. He’s strictly for men only.”

At that, both the redhead and the blonde ran off, hopping into the laps of two customers, laughing and flirting with them.

Mary walked the length of the floor and turned left at the bar. When she passed, a man at the bar stuck his neck out from the crowd and watched her go. It was Samuel. He had told his employer that Mary Handley would find his place. She was that good. Her presence there was important information, and he promptly left to report it.

Mary stopped before she got to the corner booth and set her eyes on Roscoe for the first time. By all reports, he was a handsome Spaniard. Mary would have added that he was also very masculine and sexy. If she had any doubts that this man was Roscoe, they were erased when she saw that sitting next to him was her old friend Mortimer.

“Roscoe?”

Roscoe rose and smiled charmingly. “Well, it’s about time you found me,” he said with a slight accent and a twinkle in his eye as he suavely took her hand and kissed it. He then nodded toward his companion. “I’m sure you remember Mortimer.”

Mortimer waved and smiled meekly.

“Please join us,” said Roscoe. “We have before us a recent invention by a bartender in San Francisco. It’s called a martini, and it’s quite scrumptious.”

Mary joined them, and Roscoe ordered another pitcher of martinis for the table. They sat and drank and talked and drank some more. Mary had many questions, and Roscoe was not shy about giving answers.

“I couldn’t come forward,” Roscoe explained. “It would’ve been too easy to pin the murder on the homosexual, and then forget about it.”

The fact that opposites often attract was a well-known phenomenon, but one would think Roscoe’s open, debonair personality and Charles Goodrich’s closed, reserved manner wouldn’t have been remotely compatible. The reasons governing human attraction had been a puzzle since people had walked on this earth, and Mary wasn’t going to solve it that evening. It was this factor though that tipped Mary’s tone to the incredulous when she wanted to confirm what was now obvious.

“So you and Charles Goodrich were…?”

“We were lovers. Why is it so hard for the world to understand? It’s just love.”

“We live in intolerant times,” Mary said.

“Yet I suspect the intolerance will end for you before it will for me.”

Mary raised her drink in a toast. “Here’s hoping it ends for all of us, sooner rather than later.”

They clinked glasses and drank. A good-looking man of about thirty came to the table and asked Roscoe to dance. Not in the mood for frivolity, he declined. Mortimer had no problem being second choice and left with the man. Mary was trying to pace herself and was slowly sipping her second martini, which she found to be as delicious as described. By now, Roscoe had imbibed four that Mary had seen, yet the only effect she recognized was that he was much freer in expressing his emotions. His frustration and pain were very visible.

“Poor Charlie struggled so with who he was. That’s the only reason he got involved with that Stoddard woman.”

“He saw you the night he was killed, didn’t he?”

“Charlie begged my forgiveness and asked if I still wanted him. Of course I said yes.”

Trying to suppress his agony, Roscoe downed his drink and poured another one. Mary hated to keep probing into an issue that was clearly painful for him, but she couldn’t stop. There was another piece to the puzzle, and she had to find out about it.

“Did Charlie ever mention a journal, one that contained sensitive information?”

Roscoe nodded. “He gave it to me that night to hold for him. He seemed quite concerned.”

“I’m sure he was. He was about to expose Thomas Edison, opening a box of misdeeds that would make Pandora blush.”

“Well then,” he stated rather cavalierly, “we must finish what he started. Meet me tomorrow. The world will no doubt believe you before it will me.”

He handed Mary his card. Her detective work over, she allowed herself to feel the tragedy of Charles Goodrich.

“Edison said he had no gumption,” she told him. “Yet he was showing more guts than ten men.”

Roscoe could stand no more and finished his drink. He then delighted the man at the next table by asking him to dance. Before they left, Roscoe turned to Mary.

“Tomorrow,” he said, and he was gone.

Mary was gathering herself to leave when she spotted someone at the bar. Samuel had returned, and he was trying to be inconspicuous. He was good at his job, but it was hard for a man his size to blend into the background. Mary grabbed a spoon off a table and stuck it in his back.

“You’re feeling my derringer. It’s small, but it can blow a hole clear through you.”

As Mary guided Samuel to the exit, the piano player returned from his break. He dove right into “When I Was a Lad” from
H.M.S. Pinafore.
The redheaded and blond hostesses mimed the song and played with the customers while Mary pressed the spoon harder into Samuel’s back, and they stepped out into the Bowery night.

Having managed to get Samuel outside, Mary hadn’t figured out yet how she was going to get information from him before he realized she was threatening him with a spoon. Samuel started to fidget.

“Don’t move,” Mary warned him.

At that point, a man popped his head out of the window of a carriage that was parked in front. It was W. W. Goodrich.

“Can I give you a ride home, Miss Handley?” he said in a friendly manner, and then gestured toward Samuel. “Samuel won’t hurt you. He works for me.”

Taken aback, Mary slowly lowered the spoon. When Samuel turned and saw it, he smiled.

“Clever, very clever,” he said, then climbed up onto the empty driver’s perch.

This had been a night of surprises for Mary. Why not one more? She shrugged, joined W. W. Goodrich in the carriage, and sat opposite him.

As the carriage traveled through the Bowery on the way to the Brooklyn Bridge, W. W. Goodrich put in place the last pieces of the puzzle. He explained that Samuel was a military assassin trained in Prussia. He could have easily harmed Mary, but that was never the plan. He had ordered Samuel to keep an eye on Roscoe. His brother’s death was still fresh in his mind, and Roscoe was drinking heavily. In fact, Roscoe had been one of the three drunks outside of Longdon’s restaurant when Samuel shot at her.

“When the poor drunken fellow decided to reveal himself, Samuel had to distract you. So you see, you were never in much danger at all…from Samuel, that is.”

Mary listened to W. W. Goodrich’s entire story. While his words enlightened her, they didn’t offer her relief. Instead, she was overtaken by a strong sense of repulsion.

“You knew about this all along,” she said.

“Charles told me four months ago of
his…inclinations.
I informed him there was no way I would allow him to stain the Goodrich name with a deviant lifestyle. After all, why should I have to give up my life because of him?”

“It works both ways, you know.”

Either her comment went over his head, or he chose to ignore it and to continue.

“I suggested he immediately find a woman and marry her. I suppose I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.” And then W. W. Goodrich sighed, trying his best to approximate human emotion. He failed.

“Your remorse overwhelms me,” Mary said drily.

W. W. Goodrich shrugged off his lack of theatrical talent and got to his real purpose. He took a check out of his coat pocket. “Will this be enough to silence you?”

Just when Mary had thought her opinion of W. W. Goodrich couldn’t get any lower, he managed to drop another notch.

“Your brother’s private life is precisely that. I have no desire to reveal it.”

“Scruples. What a pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed as he stuffed the check back into his coat. He felt that he was on a lucky roll and took a wild guess. “You wouldn’t by any chance also have his journal? It’ll bring a tidy sum for both of us.”

In addition to being despicable, his proposition was also an outright lie. Mary knew how ambitious W. W. Goodrich was, and Edison’s sphere of influence was vast. “You mean you have no intention of using it as political collateral to advance your career?”

“Well, I suppose that is a possibility,” he said, not at all fazed about being caught in a fabrication.

“I thought you were opposed to profiting from your brother’s death.”

“Only opposed to others profiting. It’s perfectly all right if it’s kept within the family.”

They were in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, but she had reached her limit.

“The air has turned quite foul in here. Stop the coach. I’d rather walk.”

If Mary couldn’t provide W. W. Goodrich with his brother’s journal, she could be of no further assistance to him. What she thought of him mattered not at all.

“If you wish,” he said, and then banged the roof with his cane, signaling Samuel to stop.

As soon as Mary stepped onto the bridge, W. W. Goodrich’s carriage took off. He didn’t bother to look back. He stuck his cane out the window and waved it nonchalantly.

“
Au revoir,
Miss Handley.” And he was gone.

Mary turned and looked back at Manhattan. It was a clear starry night, and the moon reflected off the water, highlighting the beauty of the island. It was hard to grasp that beneath the surface of that magnificence lay such greed, intolerance, and brutality. Mary vowed never to give in to it.

Straightening up, she started the long walk toward Brooklyn and home.

Mary met Roscoe the next day at his shop, formerly called Eastside Imports. It was now actually on the east side since their hasty move spurred by Roscoe’s belief that, if found, he would be railroaded for murder. For the same reason, the name had been changed to Oriental Dreams. The visit was much different from her previous one. This time Mortimer was happy to see her, rather than scared, and Roscoe was there.

Roscoe was about to embark on a long buying trip to the Orient. It was necessary not only for business purposes but also for his emotional health. He needed to get away from the places that he and Charles Goodrich had frequented to clear his head. He was still a young man and needed to come at life from a different perspective. He hoped the trip would accomplish that.

“Do what you think is best in the name of Charlie. I don’t know you very well, Mary. Call it instinct, but somehow I have faith in you.”

And he handed her Charles Goodrich’s journal. After all Mary had gone through, it was as simple as that.

She left and spent the next twenty-four hours reading and rereading it over and over again. It was everything she had expected it to be and more. Dates and times of transactions and payments were on almost every page. Eadweard Muybridge was not lying and neither was Tesla. There were many more of whom Edison had taken advantage, beyond the scope of anything Mary had imagined. And, in black and white, there was an entry of the acquisition of a new invention the day after the Frenchman Godard was killed and a check made out to “Cash” for “Detective Services.” That evidence was especially damning, but now she had to decide what to do with it.

Commissioners Jourdan and Briggs had requested a meeting with Mary that day. As the one who had hired and supervised her, Chief Campbell was also going to be there. She stopped at Second Street Station with ample time before the meeting at police headquarters and showed Chief Campbell the journal. He expressed surprise that Mary was still working on the case. Mary told him in no uncertain terms that he needed to read it and read it now. Normally, Chief Campbell would have thrown anyone who spoke to him in that fashion out of his office, but he had learned to respect Mary, so he obliged her.

Mary wandered around the station, saying hello to Sean, Billy, and a few others. An hour later, Chief Campbell emerged from his office, the journal tucked under his arm, and he beckoned to her. She bade the others good-bye and went inside with the chief. He closed the door and gestured with the book.

“This is an amazing treatise,” he said.

“It’s not fiction, Chief.”

“That’s why it’s so amazing and damaging and so incredibly
disappointing.”

“I had the same reaction. It’s completely unforgivable.”

“Completely. That’s why you need to burn it.”

Mary could not believe her ears. “But, Chief, this man has to pay for what he did.”

“It will only bring you heartache and grief, and that’s if you’re lucky. You already know what else can happen.”

Mary and Chief Campbell argued the point for a while, but they both had the same stubborn streak and neither one of them gave an inch. Mary was disappointed in Chief Campbell, who she had always believed was a protector of the weak and a purveyor of fairness. But as he explained to her, his reasoning was simple. He wanted Mary to live. Soon it was time to leave for the meeting with Jourdan and Briggs.

They didn’t talk very much on the ride over to police headquarters. They weren’t angry with each other. It was simply that the journal was too big a subject to avoid, so they decided not to speak at all. When they arrived at Jourdan’s office, they were ushered right in, and Briggs joined them shortly afterward.

Jourdan and Briggs were overly solicitous and accommodating.

“You did such wonderful work in finding the Stoddard woman,” said Jourdan.

“King,” Briggs interrupted, correcting him. Confused, Jourdan looked at Briggs, and he explained further. “King was her name, not Stoddard.”

“Yes,” said Jourdan. “King, Stoddard, let’s just call her the Goodrich killer. You nabbed her. Good job!”

“Yeah,” Briggs muttered. No matter what the circumstances, complimenting Mary made him uneasy.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Mary replied. “I thoroughly enjoyed my work, and Chief Campbell’s brilliant supervision was a great part of that.”

“Really, Mary,” said Chief Campbell, “it was all you.”

“I mean it, Chief. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

By now, Jourdan and Briggs were wondering if they’d ever rid themselves of hearing Chief Campbell’s praises being sung. They had to find a way to pluck this giant thorn out of their sides. But this meeting wasn’t about him. Briggs cleared his throat, and Jourdan smiled through his distaste.

“We’re well aware of Chief Campbell’s significant attributes, but we’re here to discuss you. It has been decided that we are going to hire a handful of matrons, and we want you to be the first.”

“A matron? What does a matron’s job entail?”

“As you may know, female crime is growing, and we’re in need of women to search suspects, guard them, and tend to other female needs.”

“You know,” Briggs said, jumping in, “women things nobody wants a man to do.”

Mary paused to fully take in their words before responding. “Please correct me if I misunderstood you. I solved Brooklyn’s biggest murder case in the last couple of decades, maybe in its entire history, and you want me to be a nursemaid.”

Chief Campbell had to suppress a laugh. Jourdan immediately started backpedaling.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it—”

“Absolutely not.” Mary spared Jourdan his effort.

“Miss Handley, I really think you—”

“She doesn’t want to do it,” Briggs said pointedly to Jourdan, then turned to Mary. “It’s okay. We understand.” His delight in her refusal of their offer was evident, and he lit up a cigar as his exclamation point. “If there’s nothing else…,” he said, puffing away on the cigar, indicating that the meeting was over.

Mary disappointed him. “As a matter of fact, there is.” She took the Goodrich journal out of her pocketbook. “This is Charles Goodrich’s journal. It contains evidence against Thomas Edison on an ethical and criminal level so profound that I dare only start at the top. That is why I’ve come to you.”

“Yes, well, that was very wise of you,” Jourdan said, doing a reasonable job of hiding his joy.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” said Briggs a little too eagerly. “Just leave the book here, and we’ll take care of everything.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” responded Mary. “But what I will do is wait outside while you read it, then tell me what you plan to do. Is that all right?”

“Of course it is, Miss Handley,” Jourdan said as he jumped up to escort Mary and Chief Campbell out the door. “Please have a seat, and we’ll be right with you.” Then he motioned to his secretary. “Miss Whitehead, please come in and bring your book.”

As Miss Whitehead followed Jourdan inside, it occurred to Mary why they might need her, and when they were called back in twenty minutes later, Mary whispered to Chief Campbell, “It appears the inmates are running the asylum, and I won’t allow it.”

“Be careful, Mary,” he cautioned her.

They were barely seated in Jourdan’s office when he started.

“We have a problem, Miss Handley,” he said, and gestured toward the journal that was on his desk. “For all we know this book, or journal as you call it, is a work of fiction. Mr. Goodrich is not around to corroborate it.”

“I’m sure you can verify the handwriting.”

“Even so, the evidence is circumstantial at best. I’m sorry.”

“How much of it did you read?”

“Enough to know that—”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m sure you spent most of the time telephoning Thomas Edison. He has you in his pocket.”

Chief Campbell was smiling inside. He was proud of his pupil. That exact thought had crossed his mind when Miss Whitehead was asked to bring her book with her.

Briggs stepped forward. “Watch your mouth, young lady!” he said, using his bullying tactics to back her down.

But bullying never worked on Mary. She went to collect the journal, and Jourdan pulled it back.

“We better keep it. It’ll be safer here.”

“Why does it need to be safe? You just told me it was worthless.” Mary yanked Goodrich’s journal from his hands. The commissioners’ scheming had backfired on them, and she quickly left, before they could invent another reason to keep the journal.

Mary had reached the exit to police headquarters when she heard Chief Campbell calling to her. “Mary. Mary, where are you going?”

“To the newspapers,” she said as she kept on walking. “Surely they’ll be interested in what I have.”

“You think Edison has no influence there?”

His words stopped her, and she turned to face him.

“He’s too powerful,” Chief Campbell said. “At least turn this into something positive. Secure enough to ensure your future and your family’s. Please, Mary, make a deal with him.”

Mary stood there, considering his plea.

“I can’t, Chief. I wish I could. It may sound archaic, but I believe there’s some justice left in this world.” And with that, she pushed out onto the street.

All Chief Campbell could get out was, “Good luck.” What he meant to say, what he would have said had he had time, was, “May God protect you. You’re going to need it.”