I was lying on some sort of a divan, which I would have dated as early nineteenth century. Its green and silver covering matched several chairs, as well as a sofa and love seat, that were nearby. On one long, inlaid mahogany dining table stood a silver candelabra, next to which was a Remington typewriter. This incongruity was echoed in the room’s wall hangings: Across from my divan, an ostentatiously framed oil view of Florence hung next to an enormous map of Manhattan that was encrusted with several pins. The pins bore small red flags. On the opposite wall was a large chalkboard, notably blank, and beneath this black patch sat the most substantial of the five clerical desks, which together formed a ring at the outer perimeter of the room. Large fans hung from the ceiling, and two enormous Persian carpets, with elaborate designs against a deep green background, covered the center of the floor.
It wasn’t any sane person’s living quarters, and it certainly wasn’t an office. Hallucination, I began to think—but then I looked out the window directly in front of me and saw two familiar sights: the top of McCreery’s department store, with its elegant mansard roof and cast-iron arched windows, and, to the left, a similar top section of the St. Denis Hotel. The two institutions, I knew, occupied opposite corners of Eleventh Street, on the west side of Broadway.
“Then I must be—across the street,” I mumbled, just as sounds began to reach my ears from outside: the rhythmic clicking of horses’ hooves, and the drag of metal trolley car wheels against track. Then, suddenly, a loud bell tolled. I spun to my left as fast as my condition would allow, and out another arched window I saw what I knew to be the spire of Grace Church, on Tenth Street. It seemed close enough to touch.
Finally, I heard human voices, and used all my strength to sit up on the divan. I had questions at the ready, but was struck silent by the image of half a dozen workmen, none of whom I recognized, rolling first a very ornate carved billiard table and then a baby grand piano into the room atop small, wheeled sleds. As they huffed and cursed at each other, one of them noticed that I was sitting up.
“Hey!” he said with a grin. “Will ya lookit that—Mr. Moore’s awake! How are ya, Mr. Moore?” The other men all smiled and tipped their caps, not seeming to expect an answer.
Talking was more difficult than I’d anticipated, and I could only manage “Where am I? Who are you?”
“Fools is what we are,” the same man said. “Been riding on top of the lift with that damned billiard table—only way to get it up here. A damned crazy stunt, but the doc’s paying, and he says it goes up.”
“Kreizler?” I said.
“The same,” the man answered.
I became distracted by a slight discomfort in my stomach. “I’m hungry,” I said.
“And so you should be,” said a female voice in reply, from somewhere in the back recesses of the enormous room. “Two nights and a day without food will have that effect, John.” From out of the shadows came Sara, dressed in a simple navy dress that did not encumber her movements. She carried a tray, on which sat a steaming bowl. “Try some broth and bread, it’ll give you strength.”
“Sara!” I said with difficulty, as she sat on the divan and placed the tray on my lap. “Where am I?”
But her attention was distracted when the workmen, having seen her sit next to me, began to whisper among themselves and then laughed conspiratorially. Sara spoke quietly without looking at them:
“Mr. Jonas and his men, being unaware of our undertaking and knowing that I’m not a servant, seem to think my status here is something on the order of group mistress.” She began pouring the salty, delicious chicken broth into me. “The amazing thing is that they all have wives…”
I interrupted my happy slurping long enough to say, “But Sara—where are we?”
“We’re at home, John. At least, it’ll have to pass for home for as long as this investigation takes.”
“Next to Grace Church and across the street from McCreery’s—that’s home?”
“Our headquarters,” she answered, and I could see that she very much enjoyed the word. Then her aspect grew concerned. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to get back to Mulberry Street and report to Theodore. The telephone line has been installed, he’s been anxious about that.” She turned toward the back of the room. “Cyrus! Can you come out and help Mr. Moore?”
Cyrus soon joined us, the sleeves of his blue and white striped shirt rolled up and a pair of suspenders strapped over his broad chest. He looked at me with more concern than sympathy, clearly not wanting to assume the task of spoon-feeding.
“That’s all right,” I said, taking the utensil from Sara. “I’m feeling much better, I can manage. But, Sara, you haven’t told me—”
“Cyrus knows everything,” she answered, grabbing a simple coat from an elaborately detailed oak stand that stood by the door. “And I’m late. Finish the broth, John. Mr. Jonas!” She disappeared out the door. “I’ll need the elevator!”
Seeing that I was, in fact, able to feed myself, Cyrus seemed to relax considerably, and pulled up one of the delicate, straight-backed chairs with the silver and green upholstery. “You’re looking much better, sir,” he said.
“I’m alive,” I answered. “And even more remarkably, I’m in New York. I was sure I’d wake up in South America, or on a privateering ship. Tell me, Cyrus—my last memory is of Stevie. Did he…?”
“Yes, sir,” Cyrus answered evenly. “Confidentially, he’s had his share of trouble sleeping since he saw the body on the bridge. He was out roaming the neighborhood that night, when he saw you walking down Broadway. He said you looked—kind of unsteady on your feet, sir, so he followed you. Just to be sure you’d be all right. When he saw you go into Paresis Hall, he figured he’d wait outside. Understandably. But then a policeman caught sight of him, and accused him of the usual activity for that spot. Stevie denied it, and told the cop he was waiting for you. The officer didn’t believe him, and so Stevie bolted into the Hall. He wasn’t trying to rescue you, he was just trying to escape—but the way things worked out, the one was the other. The cop didn’t arrest anybody, of course, but he made sure you got out with your skin.”
“I see. And how did I get to—say, where in the hell are we, Cyrus?”
“Number 808 Broadway, Mr. Moore. Top floor, which would be the sixth. The doctor engaged it as a base of operations for the investigation. Not so close to Mulberry Street as’ll be noticed, but a carriage can have you there in just a few minutes. Or, if traffic’s heavy, the trolley will do the same.”
“And what about all these—furnishings, or whatever they are?”
“The doctor and Miss Howard went looking for furniture yesterday, over in Brooklyn. At an office supplier’s. But the doctor said he couldn’t live with that sort of stuff for a day, much less an extended period of time. So they bought just the desks, and then went to an auction on Fifth Avenue. The furniture of the Marchese Luigi Carcano of Italy was being sold off. They bought quite a bit of it.”
“They certainly did,” I said, as two of the workmen reappeared bearing a large clock, two Chinese vases, and some green draperies.
“As soon as we had most of it, the doctor figured he’d move you from his house to here.”
“That would be the earthquake,” I said.
“Sir?”
“A dream I had. Why here?”
“Said we couldn’t waste any more time nursing you. He gave you a little more chloral, so you’d come out of it easy. Wanted you ready for work when you woke up.”
Then there were more noises outside the door. I heard Kreizler say, “Ah, is he? Good!” and then he burst in, trailed by Stevie Taggert and Lucius Isaacson. “Moore!” he called. “You’re awake at last, eh?” He strode over and grabbed my wrist, checking the pulse. “How do you feel?”
“Not as bad as I expected to.” Stevie had taken a seat on one of the windowsills and was playing with a fairly sizable jackknife. “I understand I’ve got you to thank for that, Stevie,” I called. He just smiled and loo
ked out the window, his hair falling in front of his face. “That’s a debt I won’t forget.” The boy laughed a bit; he never seemed to know what to make of being appreciated.
“It’s a miracle that he happened to follow you, Moore,” Kreizler said, pulling at my eyelids and examining the orbs underneath. “By all rights you should be dead.”
“Thank you, Kreizler,” I said. “In that case I don’t suppose you’d like to know what I discovered.”
“And what might that be?” he answered, probing my mouth with some kind of instrument. “That the Santorelli boy was never seen leaving Paresis Hall? That he was believed still in his chamber, from which there is no secondary exit?”
The thought that I’d endured my ordeal for nothing was truly depressing. “How do you know that?”
“We thought it was delirious rambling at first,” Lucius Isaacson said, going to one of the desks and emptying the contents of a paper sack onto it. “But you kept repeating it, so Marcus and I went down to check the story out with your friend Sally. Very interesting—Marcus is out working on some possible explanations right now.”
Cyrus crossed the room to hand Lucius an envelope. “Commissioner Roosevelt sent this by runner, Detective Sergeant.”
Lucius quickly opened and perused the message. “Well, it’s official,” he said uncertainly. “My brother and I have been ‘temporarily detached from the Division of Detectives, for personal reasons.’ I only hope my mother doesn’t hear about it.”
“Excellent,” Kreizler said to him. “You’ll have access to the resources of headquarters without being required to appear there regularly—an admirable solution. Perhaps now you can spend a little time teaching John here some slightly more sophisticated methods of detection.” Laszlo laughed once, then lowered his voice as he checked my heart. “I don’t mean to belittle your effort, Moore. It was an important bit of work. But do try to remember that this affair is no joke, especially to many of the people we shall be interviewing. Traveling in pairs on such occasions will be more prudent.”
“You’re preaching to the converted,” I answered.
Kreizler poked and prodded me a bit more, then stood away. “How’s your jaw?”
I hadn’t thought of it, but when I put my hand to my mouth there was some tenderness. “That dwarf,” I said. “He hasn’t got much without the razor.”
“Good man!” Kreizler laughed, slapping my back lightly. “Now finish your broth and get dressed. We’ve got an assessment to do at Bellevue, and I want Jonas’s men to finish this place. Our first staff meeting will be at five o’clock.”
“Assessment?” I said, getting to my feet and expecting to swoon again. But the broth really had restored me. “Who?” I asked, noticing that I was wearing a nightshirt.
“Harris Markowitz, of 75 Forsyth Street,” Lucius answered, walking (I’m reluctant to say waddling, though it had that aspect) over to me with a few sheets of typewritten paper. “A haberdasher. A couple of days ago his wife came in to the Tenth Precinct claiming her husband had poisoned their two grandchildren—Samuel and Sophie Rieter, ages twelve and sixteen—by putting what she called ‘a powder’ in their milk.”
“Poison?” I said. “But our man’s not a poisoner.”
“Not that we know of,” Kreizler answered. “But his activities may be more varied than we think—although I don’t actually believe this man Markowitz is any more connected to our case than Henry Wolff was.”
“The children do, however, fit the apparent pattern among the victims,” Lucius said, tactfully but pointedly. And then to me: “The Rieter children were recent immigrants—their father and mother sent them over from Bohemia to stay with Mrs. Rieter’s parents and try to find domestic work.”
“Immigrants, true,” Kreizler answered. “And if this were three years ago I might be impressed. But our quarry’s recent taste for prostitutes seems too significant, as do the current mutilations, to allow us to concentrate solely on the immigrant connection. However, even if this Markowitz isn’t involved with our business, there are other reasons to investigate such cases. By eliminating them, we can gain a clearer picture of what the person we seek is not—a negative image, if you will, that we can eventually print into a positive.”
Cyrus had brought me some clothes, and I began to put them on. “But aren’t we going to raise suspicions by doing so many assessments of child-murderers?”
“We must rely on the Police Department’s lack of imagination,” Laszlo answered. “It’s not unusual for me to be seen doing such work. The explanation for your presence, Moore, will of course be reporting. By the time anyone at headquarters thinks to connect it all to the current string of murders, our work will, I hope, be done.” He turned to Lucius. “Now, then, Detective Sergeant, you might just review the details of the case for our adventurous friend, here.”
“Well, Markowitz was clever enough,” Lucius answered, almost as if he admired the man. “He used a large amount of opium, all residual bodily traces of which, as you may know, vanish within hours of death. He put it in two glasses of milk, which were fed to the grandchildren at bedtime. When they’d slipped into a comatose state, Markowitz turned on the gas jet in their room. The police arrived the next morning, the place stank of gas, and the detective in charge drew the obvious conclusion. His hypothesis seemed confirmed when the coroner—actually a fairly capable man, in this case—had the contents of the stomachs checked and nothing out of the ordinary turned up. But when the wife kept insisting that the poisoning had in fact taken place, an idea occurred to me. I went down to the flat and located the bedclothes that the children had slept on. It was likely that at least one of the victims had vomited sometime during unconsciousness or the death throes. If the sheets and blankets hadn’t been washed yet, there would be stains. Sure enough, I found them. We ran the standard Stas and reagent tests, and that was where we found the opium traces. In the vomit. Faced with that, Markowitz confessed.”
“And he doesn’t drink?” Kreizler asked. “No drug addictions?”
“Apparently not,” Lucius answered with a shrug.
“Nor did he stand to gain materially from the children’s deaths?”
“In no way.”
“Good! Then we have several elements we need: extensive premeditation, a lack of intoxication, and no obvious motive. All would characterize our killer. But if we discover that Markowitz is not in fact our man—as I suspect we will—then our task becomes to determine why he isn’t.” Laszlo picked up a piece of chalk and began to rap on the large blackboard, as if trying to coax information out of it. “What makes him different from Santorelli’s murderer? Why didn’t he mutilate the bodies? When we know that, we can focus our imaginary picture just a bit more. Then, as we build our killer’s list of attributes, more and more candidates can be eliminated at first glance. For the moment, however, we have a wide field.” He pulled on his gloves. “Stevie! You’ll be driving. I want Cyrus to oversee the installation of the piano. Don’t let them butcher it, Cyrus. Detective Sergeant, you will be at the Institute?”
Lucius nodded. “The bodies should arrive by noon.”
“Bodies?” I said.
“The two boys killed earlier this year,” Laszlo answered, moving to the door. “Hurry, Moore, we’ll be late!”
CHAPTER 13
* * *
True to Kreizler’s prediction, Harris Markowitz proved thoroughly unsuitable as a suspect in our case. Aside from being short, stout, and well into his sixties—and thus wholly unlike the physical specimen described by the Isaacsons at Delmonico’s—he was obviously quite out of his mind. He’d killed his grandchildren, he claimed, in order to save them from what he perceived to be a monstrously evil world, whose salient aspects he described in a series of rambling, highly confused outbursts. Such poor systemization of unreasonably fearful thoughts and beliefs, as well as the apparently complete lack of concern for his own fate that Markowitz exhibited, often characterized cases of dementia praecox, Kreizler told me
as we left Bellevue. But while Markowitz clearly had nothing to do with our business, the visit was still valuable, as Laszlo had hoped it would be, in helping us determine aspects of our killer’s personality by way of comparison. Obviously, our man was not murdering children out of any perverse desire to attend to their spiritual well-being. The furious mutilation of the bodies after death made that much plain. Nor, clearly, was he unconcerned with what would happen to him as a result of his acts. But most of all, it was apparent from his open display of his handiwork—a display that was, as Laszlo had explained, an implicit entreaty for apprehension—that the killings did disturb some part of him. In other words, there was evidence in the bodies not of the murderer’s derangement but of his sanity.
I puzzled with that concept all the way back to Number 808 Broadway, but on arrival my attention was distracted by my first really clearheaded perusal of the place that, as Sara had said, would be our home for the foreseeable future. It was a handsome yellow-brick building, which Kreizler told me had been designed by James Renwick, the architect responsible for the Gothic edifice of Grace Church next door, as well as for the more subdued St. Denis Hotel across the street. The southern windows of our headquarters looked directly out onto the churchyard, which lay in a dark shadow cast by Grace’s enormous tapering spire. There was quite a parochial, serene feel about this little stretch of Broadway, despite the fact that we were smack in the center of one of the city’s busiest shopping strips: besides McCreery’s, there were stores selling everything from dry goods to boots to photographs within steps of Number 808. The single greatest monument to all this commerce was an enormous cast-iron building across Tenth Street from the church, formerly A. T. Stewart’s department store, currently operated by Hilton, Hughes and Company, and eventually to gain its greatest fame as Wanamaker’s.