Cleopatra’s Dagger, page 14
The driver’s face appeared upside down in the window. “Yes, miss?”
“I’d like to change the address, please—can you take me to Hermann Weber’s butcher shop on the Bowery?”
“Yes, miss—I know the place.”
Mr. Weber was doing a brisk lunchtime trade when she arrived. Elizabeth stood on the curb watching people leave his shop with tidily wrapped brown paper packages. She saw an equally busy scene at the Thirsty Crow; she could hear the shouts and laughter of the patrons inside the two-story, ramshackle wooden building.
A young man strutted out of the bar, well lubricated but not yet stumbling. Even under the influence of drink, he had an open, kind face, sunburned and freckled, beneath a swatch of orange hair. He was dressed in typical working-class garb—a woolen cap, a short jacket with broad lapels, a fitted vest over heavy trousers, and work boots. The white cotton stock tied around his neck was the only suggestion of his pretension to a higher social status. Though it was highly unseemly—indeed, unheard of—for a lady of social standing to address a strange man, Elizabeth stepped forward boldly. “Pardon me, sir.”
The young man stopped, a look of surprise on his face. “Yes, miss?” he said politely, tipping his cap.
“I wonder if you visit this establishment often?” she asked, indicating the Thirsty Crow.
He grinned. “I s’pose you could say I’m there more than I am at me own home.”
“Do you happen to know a lady who calls herself Grammy?”
His face widened into a smile. “Oh, sure—Grammy Nagle, is it?”
“Yes. Her name is Mathilde, but—”
“Everyone calls her Grammy. Aye, she’s a good sort, so she is. Taken by drink somethin’ terrible, but a good sort nonetheless.”
“Have you seen her recently?”
Removing his top hat, he scratched his head. “Come t’think on it, it’s been a few days.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Monday, I think it were.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where she lives?”
He smiled. “Nix. I kinda figured she slept hangin’ upside down from a tree branch, like a bat.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate your time.”
“You a friend o’ hers, then?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Well, good luck findin’ her,” he said with a little bow, and was on his way.
Elizabeth turned around to see Hermann Weber step outside his butcher shop to smoke a cigarette. As he raised the lighted match to his face, she caught his eye and waved. He took a step backward, but she crossed the ground between them in a thrice.
“Guten Tag, Herr Weber,” she said, hoping that speaking German might create a bond between them.
But he was having none of it. “Good afternoon,” he said in his heavy Bavarian accent. She knew it was Bavarian because one of her teachers at Vassar had been from Munich. “Vat vould you like today—some bratwurst, perhaps, or a nice Sunday roast?”
“Actually, I was hoping for a few minutes of your time, if you can spare them. But yes,” she agreed, thinking it would soften him up, “a nice bit of beef would be lovely—after you finish your cigarette, of course.”
He squinted at her warily. “Vat did you need to ask me?”
“The young lady who lived on the third floor—”
“I tell you, there is no such person! Wer ist sie, zat you vould be so curious about her?”
For a moment she considered telling him she was a relative of the missing girl, but opted for the truth. “I am Elizabeth van den Broek, crime reporter with the New York Herald.”
“Aber Sie sind nur ein Fräulein,” he said, frowning.
“I may be just a woman, but I can assure you I am a reporter as well. Ich bin eine echte Reporterin.”
He shrugged. “Ihr Deutsch ist nicht so schlecht.”
“Thank you. I wish it were better.”
“Can you promise I remain anonymous?”
“You have my word.”
Looking around to see that no one was listening, he took one last drag of his cigarette before grinding it out beneath the heel of his shoe. “Komm herein,” he said, beckoning her inside.
Elizabeth followed him into the shop, but when he closed and locked the door behind them, her heart thumped in her chest. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of being alone with a man. The sight of his orange cat perched on the windowsill calmed her somewhat. The animal gazed at her languidly through half-closed eyes, which her sister always said was the feline equivalent of a smile.
Herr Weber was clearly nervous himself, which also put her more at ease. Turning the sign around to indicate that the store was closed, he pulled down the window shades. The shop was immaculate, the glass case holding the meat polished to a sheen, but there was something ominous about the aroma of butchered flesh pervading the air.
“Jetzt,” Weber said, loosening his collar. “You must never tell anyone I haf told you zis.” Though the interior of the shop was cool, he was sweating.
“I will never mention your name to anyone.”
“Zere vas a young woman upstairs. I do not know her name. And suddenly she vas gone—disappeared.”
“Who paid you to keep quiet?”
Surprise registered on his face. “How do you—”
“You were seen going to the bank with a large amount of cash after being visited by a well-dressed man.”
“I cannot reveal his identity.”
“You knew him, then?”
“I know who sent him.”
“And you cannot tell me?”
“If I do, my life vill not be worth zat pile of bones,” he said, pointing to a bowl of soup-bones behind the counter.
“What can you tell me, then?”
“The police vill not help you.”
His words hung in the air, echoing in her head. The police will not help you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After meeting with Herr Weber, Elizabeth was seized with a fatigue so profound she could barely summon the energy to board a streetcar home. Once safely inside her apartment, she undressed and stumbled to the bathroom, where she ran a deep, hot bath in the lion-paw tub. The bathtub was one of the amenities that had drawn her to the Stuyvesant when she was searching for a place to live after college. Much to her mother’s disappointment, returning to her family’s town house on Fifth Avenue was out of the question. Though her father had understood, Elizabeth’s mother had felt slighted. But Catharina van den Broek enjoyed drama, and this allowed her to play the long-suffering, unappreciated mother.
Lying in the tub, steam rising around her, Elizabeth slid down until the water was up to her neck. The water siphoned the physical pain from her limbs but could not relieve the ache that had closed itself on her like a vise. Closing her eyes, she tried not to think of anything except the soothing soak. But that only made it worse. She was back in the supply closet, inhaling the aroma of paper and cardboard, of lead pencils and musty metal shelves. There was another odor, though—something familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Her eyes shot open. She recognized the smell.
Pulling herself from the steaming tub, she reached for a towel—Egyptian cotton, courtesy of her mother—and wrapped it around her body. As she did, she saw an image of Sally, swathed all in white, at the bottom of the pit in Central Park. She stared at the water vapor condensing on the bathroom window, forming droplets that slid down the panes, much as the rain had slid down the policemen’s faces as they pulled Sally from her untimely grave.
Unwilling to think of it any longer, Elizabeth turned away as a yawn shuddered through her. Though it was only midafternoon, her body was heavy with fatigue, and after pulling on a flannel nightgown, she dropped onto her bed without turning down the coverlet and succumbed to the pull of sleep.
She awoke to the sound of pigeons cooing outside her window. Most people either ignored pigeons or complained about them, but she had always been fond of the sturdy, resourceful birds. Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, with its graceful circular molding. Apprehension gathered in her stomach as she remembered what had happened earlier. To her relief, she’d had no dreams that she could recall. Yawning, she sat up, slid her feet into a pair of bedroom slippers, and pulled open the top drawer of her dresser. In the back, wrapped in a soft cloth, was her grandfather’s Stormdolk, or assault dagger, a family heirloom her father had given her years ago. Taking it out, she ran her fingers over the leather scabbard, with its nail-studded sheath. It was beautiful, and it was deadly. Closing her hand over the sturdy handle, she pulled out the blade, thin and sharp, with delicate beveling. Holding it, she felt her fear drain away. She felt powerful and dangerous.
As she admired it, there was a loud knocking on her front door. Panic gripped her—annoyed, she shook it off. Clenching her teeth, she resolved to take hold of her emotions. Clutching the dagger, she strode through the parlor to the foyer as the knocking continued. Lifting the peephole cover, she peered out to see Carlotta. Relief swept over her like a wave. There was no sign of Toby.
Elizabeth unlocked the door and let her friend in, bolting it securely once Carlotta was inside. “What time is it?” she asked, yawning. She felt as though she had slept for decades, like Rip van Winkle.
“Seven o’clock in the evening,” Carlotta replied, wiping her feet on the mat. “Have you taken to sleeping during the day now?”
“I just awoke from a nap.”
Carlotta wore her usual outré clothing—a long flowered frock with a loose, flowing skirt, a scarlet scarf wrapped around her head. A silver-and-turquoise necklace hung around her throat; matching bracelets encircled her wrists. “I would kill for some tea. I brought beigels,” she said, handing Elizabeth a brown paper bag.
“How is your mother?” Elizabeth asked as they went through to the parlor.
“Better, thank you—my brother found the Bellevue doctor you recommended.”
“Dr. Jamison?”
“Yes,” Carlotta said, sitting on the yellow-silk settee by the fireplace. “He administered an herbal tincture that he said was an old family remedy, and it relieved her symptoms greatly.”
“Did he believe it to be cholera?”
“He seemed to think she may have ingested a poison of some kind.”
“Poison?”
“That’s not the word he used . . . what was it? Oh, yes—toxin! That’s what he called it. He said it could have been from infected meat or spoiled vegetables, and that it would probably run its course. He said she is not yet out of the woods, but is much improved.”
“I am so glad to hear it. Now I’d better fetch that tea.”
When she returned to the parlor with the tea tray, Carlotta was standing in front of the french windows, gazing onto the street.
“I am always amazed at the variety of the human animal,” she said.
“How so?” Elizabeth asked, setting the tray on the marble coffee table.
“There is the most delightfully plump family walking down the street, and behind them, pushing a stroller, is a woman so thin she appears to be made of sticks.”
“The city is a wonderful canvas,” Elizabeth said, pouring the tea. “As a painter you must appreciate that,” she added, handing her a cup.
“Indeed. And you must feel the same as a writer.”
“I do,” Elizabeth said, taking a sip of tea.
Carlotta helped herself to a beigel smeared with fresh butter. “You know, we eat these with cream cheese. You must try it sometime.”
“I shall.”
“You should write a book someday that I can illustrate. Wouldn’t that be jolly?”
“Very jolly,” Elizabeth replied absently. Setting her teacup on the mantel, she fidgeted with the tie on her dressing gown.
Putting down her own cup, Carlotta studied her. “Are you quite all right? You seem preoccupied.”
Elizabeth related the events of the day, omitting the incident in the supply closet. She intended to tell no one, fearing that if she let it slip to Carlotta, it would eventually reach her parents—or worse, her employer. Moreover, she found herself unable to talk about it. The very thought of it nauseated her.
Carlotta listened carefully and, when Elizabeth had finished, jumped up from her chair. “So in order to discover the identity of the dead girl in the park, we need only go to Harry Hill’s concert saloon!”
“That was my intent.”
“Of course I shall accompany you.”
“I don’t think—”
“Nonsense. It is settled. But first, do you not think we ought to go to the police?”
Elizabeth ran a finger along the rim of her teacup. “Presumably they are doing their own investigation.”
“Yes, but—”
“I do not entirely trust them.”
“Why on earth not?”
“You are aware that even after the death of Boss Tweed, Tammany Hall is corrupt?”
“So my brother tells me ad nauseam.”
“And that the police extort payoffs from merchants as ‘protection’ money.”
“Do you not remember that my parents own a bakery?”
“Then you are familiar with the extent of their venality.”
“But what about that nice Detective Sergeant O’Grady? Do we not owe him—”
“We know little of him, only that he is polite and presents a good front.”
“But did he not make it possible to view the body at the morgue? You told me he gave you his card as an introduction.”
“That is true.”
“It seems to me he has gone out of his way to help you.”
“He is not the one who concerns me. It is his superior officers who are most likely to be corrupt.”
Carlotta peered at Elizabeth, a little smile on her face. “Has your editor instructed you to keep the information exclusive to your newspaper?”
“Not at all,” she answered truthfully, though she knew it would not hurt her career if she were to reveal the girl’s identity in the Herald before the police discovered it. “But I strongly believe there is a link between the mummy and the girl I saw through the window.”
“But murders are committed every day in this city. And people disappear. Sometimes they turn up alive, sometimes dead.”
“And I tell you, I believe this is the same girl I saw being strangled. They both had the same striking hair color.”
“But how will you possibly prove it?”
“I will find a way.”
“You had better not challenge those in power—especially the police.”
“I will if necessary.”
“Take care. The determining factor in human affairs is power—getting it and keeping it,” Carlotta said, twirling her spoon in her teacup.
“I thought your brother was the nihilist.”
“He is an anarchist, not a nihilist.”
“Then you are the nihilist.”
“Far from it. Nihilists believe that life is meaningless; I find it full of meaning.”
“But to believe that all human relations come down to power—that strikes me as dangerously close to nihilism. Surely love also comes into play?”
Carlotta added more sugar to her tea and stirred it. “I think its importance is highly exaggerated.”
“What a sad place your mind must be.”
Carlotta smiled. “Consider the age-old struggle between men and women. Surely you agree that men have the vast majority of power in our society. And,” she continued, “we have but one card to play in a high-stakes game.”
“What is that?”
“We have something they want. That is our sole source of power over them.”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands, tightly clenched in her lap. “Which they can take whenever they choose,” she muttered, her eyes hard.
Carlotta peered at her, then gave an uncertain little laugh. “Well, yes, but unless they are utterly depraved, they need our cooperation.”
“Do not underestimate the number of those who are, as you say, ‘utterly depraved,’” Elizabeth said with an edge of bitterness. Rising abruptly, she gathered the tea things and took them to the kitchen.
“What is wrong?” Carlotta asked, following after her.
Instead of answering, Elizabeth set about tidying the kitchen counter. Her hands shook as she washed out the teapot.
“I sensed earlier something was the matter. Please tell me what it is.”
Elizabeth plunged a fistful of silverware into hot water, nearly scalding her hand. “I would prefer to move on to another topic, if you don’t mind.”
“How shall we grow closer as friends if you insist on keeping from me something that is obviously troubling you?”
Leaning over the kitchen counter, Elizabeth clenched her teeth. “Who said that we must grow closer?”
“Well, I thought—”
She wheeled around to face Carlotta, her face hot. “You inserted yourself into my life, based upon the fact that you occupy a studio upstairs. You knew nothing of me or my background, or whether we had anything in common.”
“Forgive me, but I thought—”
“There is but one person I share a close friendship with, and she languishes in the mental ward at Bellevue Hospital.”
Carlotta stood up. “I believed we shared a mutual regard,” she said coldly, but her lower lip trembled. “You have made it quite obvious that I was mistaken. I shall trouble you no further.” Snatching up her gloves and satchel, she turned and strode from the room.
Moments later, Elizabeth heard the click of the front door closing behind her. She stood perfectly still for some time, the only sound in the room the ticking of the wall clock over the sink. Then her legs crumpled beneath her, and she sank to the floor, her body shaking with deep, shuddering sobs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
New York City in 1880 was a place where it was possible to indulge practically any human desire, holy or unholy. Entertainment of every kind abounded—there were beer halls, dime museums, tattoo parlors and circuses, Punch-and-Judy puppet shows, and theaters offering everything from Shakespeare to burlesque. Vices of every kind were available and plentiful. You could sate your appetite for gambling, drinking, fighting, or whoring in any of the thousands of establishments catering to such pursuits. On the Bowery, it was not uncommon to see half a dozen saloons per block; betting opportunities abounded, from keno and faro parlors to street hustles like three-card monte.
