Cleopatra’s Dagger, page 8
O’Grady chewed on his thumbnail and stared at the floor. “I don’t know if—”
“It’s like this, Detective,” Elizabeth said. “In order to solve the crime, you need to identify your victim. What better way than to put her picture on the front page of the Herald?”
“But—”
“I’d like to remind you it was I who discovered the body and brought it to your attention promptly. I could have contacted my editor first, but I came to you straightaway.” She declared this boldly, though aware of her specious reasoning. By the time she alerted the Herald, someone else might have stumbled upon the body, but she hoped this would not occur to DS O’Grady.
“So you did,” he said. “But as to viewing the body, per’aps I’d best wait for the captain—”
“We have no time to waste. The Herald will go to press in less than two hours. I promise you, Freddy will be tasteful in his photographs . . . won’t you, Freddy?”
He nodded eagerly. “So ’elp me God.”
“You must protect the public from this monster,” Elizabeth continued. “Let us help you, please. The Herald has always cooperated closely with the police department.” This was a bald-faced lie and could not be said of any newspaper in the city. But she hoped its very boldness would help it slip by.
There was a knock on the door. “What is it?” the detective barked. The door opened a crack to admit the smooth, pink face of a tall, very young policeman. “Yes, Jenkins?” O’Grady said impatiently.
“Beggin’ pardon, sir, but I was just wonderin’ if you wanted your tea.”
Elizabeth had heard from her father often enough that the preferred beverages of men on the force were whiskey, beer, tea, and coffee, in that order. They would drink gin, rum, or cider in a pinch—they would even drink grain alcohol, if it came to that. But most policemen earned enough to stay away from the stuff served in blind tigers or flophouses that would rot your gut or actually cause blindness.
“I’ll be out presently, Jenkins,” O’Grady said. “Close the door behind you.”
Elizabeth seized the opportunity to press her point. “Well, Detective?” she said, taking a step closer to him. “What do you say? Will you let us help you bring a murderer to justice?”
The detective ran his hand through his hair again and sighed. “I s’pose it couldn’t hurt.”
“That’s the spirit!” Elizabeth said. “You won’t regret it.”
“I hope you’re right, miss,” he said dubiously. He handed her a business card.
Detective Sergeant William O’Grady
23rd Ward, East 86th Street
New-York City
The old-fashioned spelling of the city caught her eye as she slipped the card into the pocket of her fitted jacket.
“Ask to see Vic Novak—short for Viktor. He’s Polish, but he’s all right. If you’re lucky, he’ll be the morgue attendant on duty. Give him this an’ tell him I sent you.”
“Much obliged, Detective,” Elizabeth said. She hurried from the police station, followed by Freddy Evans, lugging his cumbersome equipment. She did not look back, as if doing so might turn her to stone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The city morgue was located on the grounds of Bellevue Hospital, which Elizabeth was familiar with from her visits to her sister. That did not make her any more eager to visit the rather gruesome place. The rain had stopped, but the streets were sodden. As Freddy was towing his photography equipment, she hailed a cab, promising the cabbie a large tip if he reached Bellevue quickly. He took the challenge, splashing through Second Avenue traffic, skittering through intersections, past streetcars, ragpickers, and trade carts, intimidating pedestrians with a loud whistle. He seemed pleased enough with Elizabeth’s payment, tipping his hat before tapping his long whip, sending his bay gelding into a smart trot up First Avenue.
As Elizabeth stood in front of the main building, with its handsome brick, gabled mansard roofs, and fanciful turrets, it occurred to her, not for the first time, that it resembled a fairy castle more than a hospital. Her eyes strayed to the north wing, where her sister was a resident in the newly established “pavilion for the insane.” She hadn’t visited Laura for a few days, and her sense of duty was even stronger than her affection for her beleaguered sister. But she had not been lying when she told DS O’Grady that the paper would go to press within hours, and she wanted to include a picture of the mysterious mummy in her story.
“Y’know where the morgue is, do you?” Freddy asked as he followed her into the building, tripod on one shoulder, carrying the camera in the other hand.
“I do not, but such information is easily procured.”
A stern-looking matron, whose face appeared to have been starched along with her uniform, regarded them dubiously when Elizabeth made her inquiry. The woman directed them toward a dim, narrow corridor leading to the back of the building. They passed the ambulance bay, where they saw two horse-drawn wagons, similar to the ones the police used to cart away suspects and criminals. “Bellevue Hospital” was stenciled on the side of each vehicle. While visiting her sister, Elizabeth had learned that Bellevue had pioneered the use of hospital ambulances. It was the brainchild of a Civil War staff surgeon who, in 1869, adapted methods of transporting wounded from the battlefield to use in a crowded metropolis.
The morgue, though not large, was well ventilated and lit by a wall of tall windows along one side. Gas wall sconces added to the illumination. Half a dozen metal tables were lined up against one wall, each containing a recently deceased person. A metal water pipe hung over each table, suspended from the ceiling, emitting a constant spray of cold water on the cadavers. Though naked, each one was draped in a long white sheet, for the sake of propriety. What Elizabeth assumed was the deceased’s clothing hung on wall pegs behind them.
Viktor Novak was indeed on duty, but he was not alone. A group of well-dressed people hovered over the pale form of a young woman. A handsome middle-aged woman Elizabeth took to be the deceased’s mother wept inconsolably, wringing her hands, while a young boy stood awkwardly next to a prosperous-looking man with a top hat and muttonchops. His aristocratic face was fixed in an attitude of stoic suffering; it was clear he was the family patriarch. There was something unseemly about witnessing their grief. Elizabeth felt profoundly uncomfortable, and judging by the way he shifted from one foot to the other, so did Freddy.
Viktor Novak seemed to have no such compunctions, however. Though his round face wore an expression of compassion and patience, Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice that he was tapping his left foot while stroking his wispy blond beard. The mourning family lingered for some time, finally turning from their vigil to leave their loved one to Mr. Novak’s ministrations.
The patriarch pressed some coins into the morgue attendant’s hand as he left, and Novak bowed respectfully. Elizabeth dug some money from her purse, thinking it might behoove her to tip before requesting his help.
“Death comes to all, alas,” Mr. Novak said rather cheerfully after the family had gone, pocketing the coins he had just received. “Still, it’s a pity—so young, and so comely. Now then, miss,” he said, turning his attention to Elizabeth, “how may I be of service?” Though he had a hint of a Polish accent, his English was perfect. Of medium height, he was slight of build, with a cheerful, round moon face, unusually pale eyes, and dusty blond hair with matching beard and eyebrows. He was neatly dressed in a mustard-colored sack suit with a matching vest and cravat; a bowler hat perched rakishly on his head.
“I’m Elizabeth van den Broek, and this is Freddy Evans.”
“How d’you do?” Freddy said, tipping his cap.
“Viktor Novak. Good to know you. Welcome to my little kingdom.”
“Kin I ask a question?” said Freddy. “What’s wif the water?” he asked, indicating the spray coming from the suspended ceiling pipes.
“Oh, that’s to keep the bodies as fresh as possible while they’re in here. Most of them are on ice in that room,” Novak said, indicating an entrance to another chamber. “This is where people come to view their recently deceased loved ones, and bodies tend not to do too well once they start to warm up. Hence the cold water—though after a day or two, it does tend to give them a rather bloated appearance. I try not to keep them in here for long. Speaking of which, will you excuse me for a moment?” he said, stepping out into the hallway.
Moments later he returned with another man dressed in a white coat similar to the ones worn by the hospital physicians.
“This is Mr. Benjamin Higgins, hospital orderly and ambulance driver extraordinaire. And, when he has the time, my trusty assistant. This is Miss Van den Broek and Mr. Evans.”
Higgins tipped his hat. Rather taller than average and fair skinned, he was powerfully built, with a broad-shouldered, stocky body. His eyes seemed too small for such a massive head; otherwise his face was pleasant and unremarkable beneath thinning light-brown hair.
“Pleasure t’meet you both.”
“How d’ya do?” said Freddy.
“Have you come to photograph the dead folks?” His voice was higher than Elizabeth would have expected from such a large, strong-looking man. His accent was working class, though with an edge that suggested some education. His face radiated intelligence.
“Not exactly,” Freddy said. “We’re—”
“Pardon me,” Novak interrupted. “But Mr. Higgins’ time is quite valuable.”
Freddy’s freckled face reddened. “S’all right—I understand.”
The morgue attendant turned to his colleague. “Mr. Higgins, if you would be so kind as to remove Miss Wells to the next room, I would be very grateful. I don’t think she is very well at the moment,” he added, almost under his breath. “I know,” he said in response to Elizabeth’s surprised look. “It’s terrible, but I can’t seem to stop myself.”
He sighed as Mr. Higgins gently lifted the dead woman from the table, wrapping the sheet around her so as not to reveal anything unseemly. “Death is a very grave matter—there I go again, you see?” He stepped aside as Higgins passed with Miss Wells in his arms. Now then,” he said, turning to Elizabeth, “how may I help?”
She handed him the card DS O’Grady had given her.
“So Detective O’G sent you, did he?”
“He sent his regards.”
“Did he, then? Well, well. Be sure to return the greeting, won’t you?”
“I shall.”
“Fine fellow. A bit on the serious side, perhaps—but a dobry człowiek. A good man. How do you know him?”
“We are collaborating on a case together.”
“You work for the police?”
“I am a reporter for the New York Herald.”
“A lady reporter—well, strike me dead! No offense,” he said to the bodies on the slabs behind him.
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Freddy. Viktor Novak was an odd duck, but they needed him. She slipped the money into his hand, which was curiously soft and smooth, like a woman’s. “I would greatly appreciate your assistance.”
“Your wish is my command,” he replied with a wink. “Right this way.”
He led them into the second, larger chamber just as Higgins emerged from it. “Thank you kindly,” Novak said with a tip of his hat.
“My pleasure,” Higgins responded. “Good meetin’ you both, an’ good luck with whatever yer lookin’ for.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, following Novak down the steps into the room. It was lined floor to shoulder height with wooden cabinets with metal hinges that appeared to be oversized iceboxes. Each door bore a slot for a label card; some were empty, but most contained a white index card with a name written in neat cursive letters. While waiting for Mr. Novak to find the right drawer, Elizabeth read several of the notecards.
Mr. Theodore Hines
Miss Wynneth Greggs
Infant Boy, Unknown
Though she wondered how Mr. Hines and Miss Greggs had met their demise, it was the unknown infant who tugged at her heart. Had he been abandoned by his mother to die? Or had his mother met the same sad fate, her identity gobbled up by a vast, uncaring metropolis that allowed women and children to starve in the streets? Even Freddy seemed chastened by the dozens of names lining the walls. He leaned against a granite pillar at one end of the room, his heavy camera slung over his shoulder, while Mr. Novak perused the rows of names.
“Ah, here she is!” he exclaimed, examining one of the cards. Seizing the handle of the drawer, he gave it a yank, and it slid smoothly forward on metal rollers.
Elizabeth wasn’t sure what she had expected, but at the sight of the pale white face, her breath caught in her throat. Even in death, it was easy to see the young woman’s beauty—her heart-shaped face and small, pointed chin making her appear even younger than she probably had been in life. But what struck Elizabeth most of all was the curious shade of white-blond hair—the same color as on the woman she had seen from the train. The sight of her lying cold and still removed any doubt. Elizabeth had been a witness—perhaps the only one except her killer—to her death. She said nothing; for now, at least, she thought it was best kept to herself.
A simple white sheet covered the slim form, which appeared even paler than the bodies in the other room. A purple bruise encircled her porcelain throat, but her face was unmarred. Elizabeth turned to see Freddy preparing his photography equipment, setting the camera on the sturdy wooden tripod.
“I understand she has not yet been identified,” Elizabeth said as Viktor Novak gently brushed the long pale locks from her face.
“No, poor thing,” he said, his face expressing sorrow for the first time since they had arrived. “Though, sadly, that’s not so unusual here. You’d be surprised at how many people who turn up here leave unclaimed by relatives or loved ones.”
“’Scuse me,” said Freddy from behind his camera. “I’m ready t’go now, so if you don’ mind steppin’ away for a moment, I’ll get on wiffit.”
“By all means,” Novak said, as he and Elizabeth removed themselves to the side of the room. Novak withdrew a pipe from his jacket pocket. Filling the pipe, he lit and drew on it thoughtfully while Freddy worked, moving the camera to get various angles of the dead girl’s face.
“There is clearly evidence of strangulation, but I understand the coroner has ruled the cause of death to be exsanguination,” Elizabeth remarked.
“It’s most extraordinary,” Novak replied. “There are no obvious gaping wounds, as one might expect—no gunshots or deep knife slashes, but I did find one curious thing.”
“Oh? What’s that?” Elizabeth asked as Freddy waved to them.
“All right, I’m finished,” he said, moving from behind his camera. “I think I got enough shots that at least one of ’em should turn out.”
“Allow me to show you,” Mr. Novak said as they approached the girl on the metal slab. Turning her head gently to one side, he pointed to the left side of her neck. “Here.”
Elizabeth bent over the body, inhaling the faint, slightly sweet aroma of decay. An unusual design had been carved into the side of her neck: three intersecting circles, comprised of swirling lines forming increasingly tight concentric circles.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It seems to be a symbol of some kind.”
Freddy gulped hard. “Was it . . .”
“It appears to be the wound through which her blood was drained. It is positioned right over the jugular vein.”
“Can you take a clear picture of it, Freddy?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, miss,” he said, positioning his camera.
“You seem very knowledgeable on medical matters,” Elizabeth remarked to Novak.
“I studied medicine in hopes of becoming a coroner, but my family’s financial situation . . . Luckily, I found good employment here.”
Elizabeth nodded. “How long would it have taken for her . . . ?”
“It would not take long to die of blood loss. And she may have been unconscious when he . . . well. The really curious thing, though, is that her body was drained of virtually all its blood.”
“What kinda fiend would do somethin’ like that?” asked Freddy.
“A vampire,” said Novak.
Elizabeth looked at him, thinking he was making a dark joke, but he was not smiling.
“Vampires don’t exist,” she said. “They’re just folklore.” But even as she said it, her words sounded as hollow and empty as the poor shell of humanity lying on the cold metal slab in front of her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“That fella was awful cheery, weren’t he?” said Freddy as they bounced along a bad stretch of road in the back of a hansom. Elizabeth had sprung for another cab, though she hoped Kenneth Ferguson would reimburse her after he saw Freddy’s pictures and heard her report.
“Perhaps that’s what allows him to do his job day after day.”
“Kinda odd, though, bein’ so jaunty wif all those dead folk ’round.”
“It’s better than succumbing to melancholia.”
“I s’pose,” he said, hugging the tripod closer to his body. There was barely room for the two of them and all his equipment in the vehicle’s cramped interior. With every bump, the tripod’s wooden legs rapped against his shins.
“Melancholia” was the original diagnosis the doctors at Bellevue had given Laura, a term Elizabeth viewed as woefully inadequate to describe her sister’s torments. They’d soon amended their opinion, after observing her engaged in heated conversations with invisible people, imagining her room was filled with mythical creatures, and believing that the nurses were intent on killing her—although, having met some of the flintier members of the senior nursing staff, Elizabeth could understand her sister’s concern.
“D’you think it’s a vampire what killed ’er?” asked Freddy as the cab jostled over a pothole.
“There is no such thing.”
“What about Ludwig the Bloodsucker?”
“He’s just a myth.”
Ludwig the Bloodsucker was allegedly a short, hirsute German who prowled lower Broadway, preying on the drunks and barroom brawlers who frequented dubious establishments such as Bismark Hall and the House of Commons. He supposedly had “hair growing from every orifice,” according to one supposed eyewitness; according to another, he “quaffed human blood as if it were wine.” Elizabeth had always thought the stories harmless nonsense, the sorts of rumors common in large, dangerous cities such as New York.
