Ripper (22 page)

Finding a grain of defiance left with him, Carver said, “You don’t still expect an apology, do you?”

Tudd sighed. “No. Likewise, I trust you don’t expect me to let the child of a maniac destroy all I’ve built?”

Carver thought for a second, then said, “No.”

The older man clasped his hands behind his back. “This time,
you forced me to tie more than your hands. Even if you do somehow get out again, the Commissioner won’t believe a word you say. I’ve made it clear that you’re a seriously troubled individual, burdened by morbid curiosity, afflicted by an inability to distinguish reality from dime novels. Your own father threw you out because of your wild delusions, and you’ve since refused my offers to seek professional aid.”

“You won’t get away with it. I have proof,” Carver said.

“The letter you gave me?”

“Delia…,” he began. He was about to announce she’d also seen the letter, but caught himself.

Mistaking his intent, Tudd shook his head. “Her hysterics only helped convince Roosevelt and the Ribes you’d manipulated her.”

Carver shrugged. “My father will strike again. I should be helping.”

“We agree on that much. You can help. That address you were hunting down before you arrived at the Tombs, give it to me.”

Carver couldn’t believe what he was asking. “You expect me to just tell you?”

“You want him caught, don’t you?”

Of course he did, but something told him it would be the wrong move. “What if he sent that letter to Ellis because he wants
me
to find him? What if he’s laying out all these clues
for me
alone? Who better to think like him than his own son?”

Tudd exhaled dismissively. “He’s cunning, but ultimately little more than a tormented beast.”

“No,” Carver answered. “He enjoys what he’s doing, and he’s very good at it.”

“Enjoys it? Good at it?” Tudd said, his face twisting. “That’s repulsive.”

Hawking was right; he couldn’t even accept the possibility.
No one wants to hear good things about the devil.

“Give me the address. If you don’t, the next killing will be on your head.”

“Roosevelt could say the same thing to you if he knew, couldn’t he?”

“The commissioner is not here. You and I are. And much as you are his son, Carver, believe me, you don’t realize the first thing about the killer. Let professionals handle it.”

He didn’t really have a choice, did he? He’d made the argument himself. Keeping the information from Tudd was as bad as Tudd’s keeping it from the police.

“All right, it’s—”

“Tudd!” A familiar voice thundered from the plaza, followed by the crack of a cane against the floor tiles. “Tudd! Come out here! I’ve dragged myself from Blackwell; you can crawl out of whatever rat’s nest you’re hiding in!”

Tudd rubbed his forehead. “Hawking.”

Carver grinned. “You were lying to me about him, too.”

WORDLESS,
Tudd headed for the door. Carver tried to follow, but Jackson blocked his path. The door remained open, allowing Carver to hear the booming voices.

“You’ve something of mine, Septimus. I intend to have it back!” Hawking shouted. “Where’s the boy?”

“He’s fine; he’s safe,” Tudd said.

“I didn’t ask his status, you bloated imbecile!” Though nasal, his voice was loud, commanding, geared to draw attention. He slammed the cane down again. “Bring him out, now!”

Tudd puffed himself up. “You don’t give orders here. Who told you we had him?”

“Now!” Hawking said. The demand echoed up to the arched bricks of the roof.

After a brief silence, Tudd withered. “Jackson, Emeril. Bring him.”

Jackson stepped aside to let Carver into the hall. He shook his head grimly. “How on earth Hawking got wind of this so soon is beyond me. He must have an informer here.”

With Jackson’s back briefly to them, Emeril winked at Carver. “He must.”

Surprised, Carver smiled back. Maybe he did have
one
friend here. Once out of the room, Carver looked around. He’d never seen so many agents. The entirety of the organization had gathered on the plaza to watch.

Seeing Carver, Hawking cried, “Shackles, Tudd? What on earth were you thinking? Didn’t you learn your lesson the first time? You’re lucky the place is still standing.”

“He was going to betray us to Roosevelt,” Tudd answered.

“Betray us?” Hawking said. “We’re not a religious order or a sovereign nation. Let him go at once, Septimus, or
I’ll
go to Roosevelt!” He whirled his cane at the watching agents. “Unless, of course, you plan to order them to take
me
prisoner!”

Tudd blinked. His expression became more pleading. “The boy stole from us. He
assaulted
me.”

Hawking kept screaming. “He was lied to and manipulated! And, really, is being beaten up by a fourteen-year-old something you want to brag about?”

Though they tried to hide it by covering their mouths, a few agents chuckled.

Tudd shot them all a look. “Silence! I am in charge here!”

Everyone except Hawking stiffened as if soldiers, but Carver sensed some damage had been done.

Trying to look in control, Tudd said, “If I release him to you, you’ll swear to keep him in check?”

“This is not a negotiation,” Hawking said flatly. “But what are
you afraid of? You’ve already seen to it no one will believe him.
Morbid curiosity?
Tsk, tsk.”

From Tudd’s reaction, that was something else Hawking wasn’t supposed to know. “The address he was investigating near the Tombs. I want it.”

Hawking surveyed the crowd. “The head of the greatest detective agency in the world can’t get any leads, so he resorts to extortion. Allan Pinkerton would turn over in his grave! You had only to ask me. I was there that night, remember? Number 42 Edgar Street. Satisfied?”

Tudd nodded for Emeril and Jackson to free Carver.

“Am I really the fool here, Albert?” Tudd said. “
You
never believed my theory was possible. Even now, instead of helping, you judge me. You never fully returned from that gun battle. Face it, the game has passed you by.”

“Fine talk coming from someone who’s never
been
to a gun battle. You’ve no idea what I lost that night, Tudd, because you’ve no idea what there
is
to lose!” Hawking snarled.

Rubbing his wrists, Carver straightened in front of Tudd. “Mr. Hawking’s better than you, and you know it.”

“We’ll see who’s better than whom when I catch your daddy,” Tudd said, nearly spitting the words. “Best get back to the asylum, son.”

“We’ll do that, Septimus,” Hawking said. “At least the people there make some sense.”

As Carver pulled the door shut on the subway car, he heard Tudd shouting, “Why are you all standing around like Romans at the gladiator games? We have our lead! Edgar Street! Get to work!”

Carver and Hawking remained silent until they were several blocks away, along Broadway.

“You gave him the wrong address,” Carver said with a smile.

“Of course,” Hawking said. “Not because I didn’t know the right answer. You did mention Leonard Street to me, but the number, 27, was something I learned by rubbing a pencil against the last sheet of paper you were writing on in the athenaeum. It’s a handy trick. Here.”

He tossed the crumpled sheet to Carver. He unfolded it and saw how the rubbing left his notes visible. “Not that Tudd would ever think of anything that didn’t involve a
machine,
” Hawking went on. “The game has passed
me
by? Ha. And try to get that broken gadget out of your coat lining. It must have fallen there a while ago. You might further damage the thing or electrocute yourself.”

Being affronted seemed to have energized him. “
Were
you going to Roosevelt?” Hawking asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t blame you for that, boy. As I’ve said, it’s all baubles. The case is the important thing.”

As he lifted the edge of his coat and pulled out the broken baton, Carver said, “I don’t have to reveal the agency, just about the letter, the evidence. The New Pinkertons can survive. Why don’t you take over? The agents would support you. We could go to Roosevelt together.”

Hawking stopped short. “Not my preference, but if there’s to be an agency left by the time you’re ready to take over, it may be the only solution. The problem is, Tudd would have to be removed first.”

“Removed?”

“His position with Roosevelt is precarious enough; shouldn’t take much to tip things over the edge; maybe even use one of his precious gadgets against him.”

Carver stared at his mentor until Hawking blew some air through his lips. “Well?”

“You’ll take over and we’ll bring the agency out into the open?”

Hawking shrugged. “Just Tudd, for now. You can bring Roosevelt the letter, though, and anything else you like. Any ideas?”

“Me?”

“Consider it a test, to see how much you’ve learned. Are you up to it? You like gadgets, don’t you?” Hawking said mischievously.

ON A
chill and dank Monday, Carver stood behind a pickle vendor in one of the city’s worst tenement districts, staring at number 300 Mulberry Street. Though it housed the Board of Police Commissioners, the detective bureau and all the police captains and inspectors in the city, the marble-fronted four-story building was very plain. It looked more like Ellis Orphanage than, say, the New Pinkertons’ headquarters or the exotic Tombs. The iron bars on the basement windows impressed him, though. The cells beyond were where he’d end up if he failed Mr. Hawking’s “test.”

Twinges of uncertainty and guilt nagged him. Was he interested in the best way to catch his father or out for revenge? And the plan: How much was Hawking’s, how much his and how much remembered from an old
New York Detective’s Weekly
? The
old agent certainly cackled genuinely enough whenever Carver added a thought, and surely his gadget-hating mentor would never have thought to study the
Operating Guide for Your New Western Electric Switchboard.

No looking back now, but there was so much to remember. “Roosevelt is called president, not commissioner,” he reminded himself. There were actually three other commissioners, who’d unanimously elected Roosevelt their head.

He checked the small watch Hawking had loaned him.

It wasn’t the only recent show of his mentor’s largesse. Carver also wore all-new clothes, chestnut pants with a matching jacket and black shoes that actually fit. His haircut, given by a fat-fingered Octagon worker, was sloppy, but the deerstalker cap, like the one Sherlock Holmes wore, covered its flaws.

He didn’t look wealthy, like Finn, but he no longer resembled a street rat, either. He felt, if not good, at least more in control.

It was time.

The package held carefully in front of him, he crossed the cobblestones and entered the building. The desk sergeant was a heavy, balding man, wisps of dark hair combed sideways across his forehead. His jacket was open, his hand shoved beneath, like Napoleon, but Carver doubted the French dictator ever scratched his belly so enthusiastically.

A quick movement of the man’s chin told Carver to state his business.

“Delivery for Mrs. Tabitha Lupton.”

The sergeant sucked at his back teeth. “
Miss
Lupton’s inna telephone room, first floor, last door onna right,” he said in a thick Brooklyn accent. “It her birthday?”

Carver shrugged. “I guess.”

“She didn’t say n’thin’.” He nodded Carver through the gate.

So far, so good, but as he headed for the telephone room, Carver felt as if everyone he passed, police officers and support staff, could hear his racing heart.

The door open, he walked into the room. Only one person was there, seated at the Western Electric switchboard Carver recognized from the manual. She was short, with frizzy golden hair and eyes that had the innocent look of a much younger girl.

He held out the flowers. “Miss Lupton? These are for you.”

“Oh!” she said, staring at them.

The bouquet was big and showy, as per Hawking’s instructions. When the beady-eyed clerk at the florist told him the price, Carver tried not to balk, but he could have lived on it for weeks.

He nearly forgot his next line. “They’re from an… anonymous admirer.”

She smiled broadly, taking them. “Oh! Oh!”

Carver cleared his throat. “I don’t think the outside air is good for them. You should get them into some water right away, to make them last.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Miss Lupton said. She rose and headed for the door.

Carver stuck his head out and watched. As she walked down the hall, a patrolman whistled his admiration. “Get a load of what Tab’s got!”

A blushing Tabitha Lupton was shortly surrounded by her co-workers, insisting she’d no idea who the flowers were from.

He and Hawking had guessed this would give Carver about ten minutes alone in the room. He wouldn’t need all of it if everything went as planned. He gently closed the door and sat at the switchboard. The device was built into an unassuming
wooden table, two feet wide with a high back full of holes arranged in a labeled grid. A bed of likewise labeled plugs lay before him; weighted cables, one connected to each plug, dangled beneath the board.

Most large businesses and government buildings had their own switchboard. Since Alexander Bell’s patent had expired last year, new phone companies had sprung up across the country, all refusing to connect to one another. That forced the police to subscribe to several, to have as wide a reach as possible.

Carver pulled a cable, connected it to the board and turned the handle to ring an outside operator. A female voice crackled from a speaker. “Party, please.”

“Blackwell Island,” Carver said.

“One moment.”

It felt like an eternity before Hawking’s voice floated through the ether. “I’m here, boy.”

“I’ll patch you through.”

“Speak a little higher. You have to sound at least a bit like a woman.”

Carver pulled another plug and turned the handle again.