Ripper (28 page)

“What?” Delia asked.

“Something Hawking, Tudd and Roosevelt all said, and I haven’t heard the three of
them
agree often. They all thought it felt like some kind of game. Poor women, now rich women, the body left at the Tombs, the letter to me and the
Times,
and the names leading me from one place to another.”

“Names?”

“Jay Cusack and Raphael Trone,” Carver said. “I got them trying to find my father, back when I thought that might be a good thing.”

He watched as she wrote them down.

“One
s
in
Cusack,
” he corrected. “And
Trone
is… wait! Can I see that?”

He grabbed the sheet and stared at the first name, the extra
s
neatly slashed out. Jay Cusack. He’d said it to himself often enough, but now he felt as if he was looking at the individual letters for the first time.

“What do you call that puzzle thing you write with the scrambled letters?” he asked.

“An anagram?” Delia said.

“Yes! Look.” Carver began scratching out letters. He’d barely found the word
Jack
when Delia blurted, “Saucy Jack! Jay Cusack is
Saucy Jack
!?”

Carver nodded. “The Ripper called himself that in one of his letters.”

He pulled a newspaper archives from the pile and fanned through to a bookmarked page. “Here. It was a postcard sent to the Central News Agency. It doesn’t show the handwriting, but this is what it said.”

“Saucy Jack, and Boss again,” Delia asked. “Who do you think Boss is?”

Carver shrugged. “He uses the word in the letters Scotland Yard thought might be real. It’s also in both letters here. I thought it was someone he worked for, a real boss.”

As Delia scanned the article, Carver looked at her notes again.
Raphael Trone.
He started crossing out letters again and this time, slumped back in the chair.

“
Raphael Trone.
Leather Apron. That’s the first nickname the London newspapers gave the killer. It
is
a game.”

“Between him and the police?”

Feeling sick, Carver shook his head. “Maybe it was in Whitechapel. Now I think it’s between him and me.”

“What do you mean?”

His voice grew distant. “Why send that first letter to the orphanage? Does he
want
me to know who he is, what he’s done? Does he want to show off? You say I’m not like him, but look what I did to Mr. Tudd.”

“You never killed anyone, Carver,” she said, holding his gaze. She blinked and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, the clock. I’m so sorry, Carver, I have to get back. Do you think this is enough to go to Roosevelt with?”

“Without my father’s letter? Do you think it’s even enough to take to Jerrik Ribe?”

Delia shook her head. “We can go back to it tomorrow. Can
I at least hint something to Jerrik? It will make it easier to get here.”

Carver shrugged. “Do what you think is right. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

“I hate to leave you alone. Will you be all right? Do you have any idea when Mr. Hawking will be back?”

“He didn’t say, but don’t worry. There’s no place safer than a secret headquarters, right?”

A FEW
hours later, for the second time, Hawking shook Carver awake.

Carver blinked, rubbed his head and pulled himself to sitting.

“Did the girl help?”

“Yes, we found…”

“Not with the case, with
you.
”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ve got some time away from Echols and his photographers. Tell me what you’ve learned and then ask your questions.”

If Hawking was impressed with the clues Carver found, he didn’t show it. He simply nodded. When Carver finished, Hawking said, “Your turn. Ask your questions.”

“How long did you know about my father?”

“About as long as you
should
have.”

“Why are you working for Echols?”

“Same reason everyone works. For money.”

Carver narrowed his eyes. “You said he was a lizard. Do you need money so badly?”

Hawking lowered himself into a chair and looked around with an odd expression. “The money’s not for me, you imbecile. It’s for you.”

“I don’t need any money,” Carver said. “I just want—”

“I know what
you
want. I’m talking about what I want
for
you,” Hawking snapped back. “I don’t have many plans left, and these last few days they’ve all come close to unraveling. Echols gave me a substantial retainer, enough to set you up even if the New Pinkertons are gone. Even after I’ve gone.”

“Gone? Are you going somewhere?”

“Where I go and when I go is my business,” Hawking said, looking even grimmer than usual. “But I suppose the rest isn’t. Things have gotten darker than you know, and I’m not talking about your hobgoblin of a father. The
Times
decided to print their letter this evening, alongside the one from Scotland Yard. It came out a few hours ago, in their evening edition.”

“The panic…,” Carver said.

“I told you the nights would get longer,” he said. “Tudd was half-right when he said the game passed me by. It passed us
both
by. We’re relics. Do you know what’s going on out there? I’ve always said the city was a madhouse, and now it’s beginning to show. Vigilante committees are forming.” He eyed Carver. “I’m going to put you at the center of that storm. If it goes well, the winds will lift you above it all. If not, well, at least you’ll have Echols’s money to show for my efforts.”

Carver shook his head. “But I don’t want it,” he said. “I don’t want any of it. All I want is—”

“You’re not being asked.”

The phone rang. His mentor answered and listened intently.

“Of course,” Hawking said. “Thank you, Mr. Echols. I’ll head there immediately.”

He put the speaker back on its cradle and looked at Carver, his face grim. “Do you want to lie down in case you feel faint before I tell you what he said?”

Carver shook his head. “I’m all right. Tell me.”

“Another body’s been found.”

A fruit bowl sat on the desk beside the phone. Hawking grabbed an apple from it, buffed it on his jacket and then, thinking better of it, put it in his pocket for later.

AFTER THEY
hailed a hansom cab clopping along Broadway, Carver asked, “Where was the body found?”

Hawking gave his answer to the driver, “Mulberry Street, number 300.”

“Police headquarters?” Carver said as he helped the hunched man through the door. “You’re taking us to police headquarters?”

Hawking waved off the question, settled back and closed his eyes. “I preferred it when you were more afraid of me, boy. Don’t make me think about smashing something just to earn a respectful tone. I don’t frustrate you without purpose. I simply don’t want you prejudiced by anyone’s half-assed theories, even my own. You’ve got eyes and you can put them to use soon enough.”

Not so much mollified as stymied, Carver quieted.
With the man’s eyes closed, Carver took the opportunity to give his mentor a good look. He noticed it’d been harder to get him into the cab than usual. He was more unsteady. Was it the longer day? The blow to his head? How hard had Tudd’s death hit him? Why was he talking about leaving?

One father at a time. The killer was still out there, more daring than ever. Another body—this one found at Mulberry Street. Had Tudd been right about a beast driving him? No, it was too reasoned, too complicated. It felt like another move in the game. But what was the point? Was his father showing off so Carver would want to be with him? If so, the effect was the opposite. More than ever, Carver wanted to catch him. Aside from stopping the murders, it would prove he wasn’t anything like the man. It also felt like the only way to purge his own guilt, not only about Tudd, but also because he’d been so wrapped up in the killings, he felt somehow responsible.

As they neared their destination, the street was as dark as any other. The cab slowed, progress blocked by carriages jockeying for curb space and a growing crowd. He pressed against the window, looked around and up.

There was a white haze on the roof. The moving shadows told him it was full of activity.

“He left it up there,” Carver said.

Hawking opened one eye. “Left it? You don’t think he killed her there?”

The answer came with frightening ease. “No, he’d have been heard. He must have carried her up there, maybe left her in the snow.”

Hawking rapped his cane on the roof. “Driver! Make a left at Mott and leave us at the Health Department.” He pointed out the
window. “Squint a bit and count the shadows, boy. The rooftops left and right are full of reporters. The Health Department abuts police headquarters from the rear, making it our best bet for a closer look. You’ll have to help me manage the steps.”

After navigating a U-turn, the carriage traveled around the corner, eventually depositing them at a large institutional building, its tan stones gray and black in the night. Finding an open side door, Carver helped Hawking inside. The detective grunted loudly with each step.

His mind was still sharp as ever, though. The darkened rooftop they soon reached gave them a perfect view of the light-washed 300 Mulberry Street. The slightly lower roof seemed again a crowded theater stage. Hidden by a wide brick chimney, they walked closer.

There were ten or so suited detectives at the scene. There were at least twenty uniforms and, of course, center stage, the square pacing figure of Theodore Roosevelt. All attention was focused on the new body. Again drained of color and humanity by the blaring light, it was wrapped in some sort of cloth. An arm and a pleasant round face jutted out at strange angles, the rest half-buried in a pile of snow.

The powder flashes from a police photographer’s camera intensified the bright arc lamps.

“Confound it! Confound it! Right here all along!” Roosevelt cried.

Carver turned to Hawking and whispered, “All along?”

“Echols said they think this woman was killed the same night as Rowena Parker. A double event,” Hawking said softly.

Double event. It sounded familiar. Carver grabbed Hawking’s shoulder. “That was what the papers later called the Whitechapel
murders of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes, both killed on the same night.”

His mentor nodded, either in acknowledgment or approval, then pointed back to the scene.

Roosevelt could barely contain himself. “We’d never have found her without that letter! I told you it was real! A newsboy could have identified that handwriting. A challenge to everything decent. Do we have the woman’s name yet?”

“Another letter?” Carver asked.

“Hush! No need to repeat what you’ve just heard. I want to hear the name if they have it,” Hawking said.

“Petko? Reza? Is it Russian? Locate the poor woman’s relatives immediately,” Roosevelt said. He stepped closer to the body and shook his head.

“Parker and Petko!” he declared, rounding on his detectives. “Both begin with
P.
Does that tell us anything? Eh?”

The detectives lowered their heads in unison. They continued to earn Roosevelt’s expectant stare until he offered, “Could he be going through the social pages? Alphabetically?

“It’s a thought, at least,” Roosevelt said. Raising his head, he spotted the moving shadows on the neighboring roofs. “It seems we’re giving an interview to every paper in the city!” He waved. “Hello, Mr. Ribe! If I can spot a rhino in the brush, I can certainly see you! Go home along with the rest of you! You’ll all have to wait for the official report! I
will
learn to speak softly one day, but when I do, I promise you, I will also be carrying a very big stick!”

He motioned all the detectives toward the rear of the roof, away from the reporters but nearer to where Carver and Hawking hid. He also made good on the promise to lower his voice. As
they huddled, the last few words Carver could make out were, “And no one knows yet that the…”

If only he were a little closer. He stepped on the ledge, braced himself against the chimney and lifted himself. The move would’ve been silent if his shoe hadn’t settled on a loose brick. It flew free and thudded loudly onto the roof less than two yards from Roosevelt.

WITH
surprising force, Hawking yanked Carver behind the chimney and pulled himself up onto the ledge. “Boy!” he hissed. “Stay put!”

When the misshapen man appeared on a roof they thought vacant, twenty or so uniformed officers drew their pistols. Though his balance seemed precarious, Hawking didn’t move.

“Excellent reflexes, men,” Roosevelt said. Carver was close enough to see water vapor coming from his mouth. “But we’ll have to work on your thinking. Guns down and turn a light on him.”

With a metallic creak, an arc lamp spun toward Hawking. “Tilt it up. We don’t want to blind anyone!”

The light dimmed slightly. Roosevelt’s face registered recognition. “You, sir, are my nemesis, aren’t you? Echols’s great detective? Former Pinkerton?”

Hawking nodded, but barely.

The commissioner offered a toothy grin. “I know something of the work. In Medora, North Dakota, more than ten years ago I was a deputy sheriff. I hunted down the three outlaws who stole my boat. Caught them, could have hanged them, according to the law, but I guarded them for forty hours until assistance could arrive. Read Tolstoy to keep myself awake. I did it, because I put my faith in the system, not
vigilantism.
Do I make myself clear?”

“Tolstoy puts me to sleep,” Hawking said, in an equally loud voice. “I prefer Dostoevsky’s
Crime and Punishment,
especially the punishment.”

He put his cane to the slightly lower ground of the Mulberry Street roof and, with difficulty, climbed down. “Oh, but to punish the
guilty,
you’d need to catch the criminal, wouldn’t you? That’s why Echols hired me.”