These Shallow Graves (20 page)

Jo stared in horror at the dirty rag Eddie was holding. “I'm not wearing
that
!”

They'd just gotten out of a cab. Eddie had asked the driver to drop them at Mulberry and Bayard, but he'd refused to cross Canal Street. “Not at this hour, pal,” he'd said.

“You
are
wearing it or you're not going,” Eddie said, handing the rag to her.

“What
is
it?” she asked, holding it between her thumb and forefinger.

“A workman's apron. I found it as I was leaving the museum. Put it around you, like a shawl.”

“But it stinks of turpentine!”

“Good. It'll block the other smells.”

Jo, grimacing, gingerly draped the apron around her shoulders.

“No. Like this,” Eddie said, pulling it up so it covered her head. “Keep your eyes on the ground. Don't look anyone in the face.” His tone was hard; he was worried. “We're in the Bend now. It's dangerous here.”

“I
know
that. I've read Jacob Riis.”

Eddie snorted. “Riis was a tourist. Let's go,” he said, taking her arm.

“And you're not?” Jo shot back.

He didn't answer her, but set off at such a brisk pace, she had to trot to keep up.
Maybe this wasn't the best idea after all,
Jo thought. But she had no intention of turning back.

Ever since she'd left the museum, nearly two hours ago, time had rushed by in a mad, breathless dash. At the ball, she'd told both Bram and her uncle that she was feeling unwell. Phillip had been concerned; he'd offered to ride home with her, but she refused. She made the same excuse to her mother when she arrived at her house, then hurried to her bedroom. Katie had followed her upstairs to help her undress, and it was she who was in Jo's bed now. Another crisp dollar had bought her cooperation.

As soon as her mother had retired and Theakston had disappeared into his room, Jo—wearing Katie's work clothes—had hurried from the house with five one-dollar notes and two five-dollar notes in her skirt pocket. She'd met Eddie on Irving Place and given him the singles, and then they'd taken a cab downtown. The dark, enclosed cab would have been the perfect place to steal another kiss if either wanted to, but they were too busy talking. Jo had told Eddie all about her visit with Sally Gibson and what she'd learned.

They continued that conversation now as they crossed Canal and started down Mulberry, past darkened shops and gas-lit bars, past overflowing ash cans and empty beer barrels. They avoided stumbling drunks, stray cats, and a wizened old lady selling baked potatoes out of a basket. “Ever since I spoke with Sally, I've been convinced that Kinch is Stephen Smith. He has to be. There are just too many coincidences otherwise,” Jo said, clutching both ends of the nasty rag Eddie had given her under her chin. She was certain she'd never get the smell out of her hair.

“Yeah, but there's one tiny flaw with your theory. … Smith's dead. He drowned. His ship went down in the Indian Ocean, somewhere in the Seychelles,” Eddie said.

“The Seychelles? How do you know that?” Jo asked. She didn't remember telling him.

“I looked it up after I got your letter. The
Standard
did a story on it back in '74. A reporter filed it from Zanzibar. He interviewed your uncle, who told him that in late 1873 Smith sailed out to the Seychelles on a ship called the
Gull
to see if any of the smaller islands were suitable for growing nutmeg. He never came back. Nor did the crew. The ship was never seen again, either. There were storms in the area where Smith was sailing—reported by the crews of other ships in the same waters—and it was thought that one of them destroyed the
Gull.
”

“Smith could have survived,” Jo ventured.

Eddie gave her a skeptical look. “It's a real long shot. No other crew members survived.”

“Maybe they did.”

“Where did they go? They didn't come back to Zanzibar. None of them was seen again. Neither was their ship.”

“They could have made it to one of the islands,” Jo persisted.

“If they made it to a big island, other people would have seen them. The smaller islands are uninhabited. How would they have survived on one?”

“By fishing,” Jo said. “Or … or eating coconuts.”

Eddie snorted. “For seventeen years?”

Jo racked her brain, trying to come up with an answer. There
was
one, she was sure of it. Kinch was Stephen Smith. He
had
to be. She thought back to Van Houten's and the conversation between Kinch and Scully, sifting through every word. And suddenly she had it.

“Pirates, Eddie!” she exclaimed. “He said so himself! Remember? Maybe they found him on an island and took him aboard their ship.”

“Ships can't even get near a lot of those islands.”

“They could've found him after the storm, then, floating on some wreckage. Maybe he floated to an island and sent up smoke signals. Maybe he made a raft and got off the island and the pirates spotted him in the ocean.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Maybe someone's been reading
Robinson Crusoe.
”

“I'm right about this,” Jo insisted. “I just
know
it.”

“Knowing is not enough. We need proof. I can't write my story without it and you can't go to the police without it, and we don't have it.”

“Yet,”
Jo said stubbornly.

She and Eddie were now well down Mulberry Street. Jo, determined to see the infamous slums of the city's Sixth Ward, disregarded Eddie's order to keep her eyes down and looked around.

She saw squat wooden houses, soot-stained tenements, pawnshops, and a one-cent coffee shack. She dodged a small child carrying a jug of beer, a dead dog lying across the sidewalk, and a tramp asleep on a warm grate. Sounds rose all around her—shouts, a baby's wail, the jingling bells on a ragpicker's cart. As they turned onto Bayard, a stench rose, too—a stench so strong, that walking into it was like walking into brick wall.

“Eddie! Oh my
God,
” Jo said, gasping. “What
is
that?” The foul smell was in her nose and throat, gagging her. Her eyes were tearing from it.

“Outhouses. Hold the apron over your face.”

Jo did so. The turpentine smelled like perfume in comparison. She wondered how the poor people who lived here could breathe. They walked another half block, and then Eddie stopped.

“Here we are,” he said, pointing at a steep set of steps that led from the sidewalk to the basement of a pawnshop. They ended at a narrow doorway. A faint yellow glow emanated from it. Snatches of a bawdy song drifted up. “I don't suppose I can convince you to go home
now,
can I?”

Jo shook her head. Eddie started down the steps. She followed him, and a minute later, she found herself inside a room with an earthen floor and a low ceiling blackened by cigar smoke. The air reeked of sweat, mildew, and gin, and the walls oozed dampness. Men, dirty and ragged, smoked and drank, and Jo made out two women sitting on the floor, their backs against the wall. One was passed out with a sleeping baby in her lap. The other stared at her drink as if it were the only thing in the entire world.

Jo understood now why places like this were called dives: because the ruined souls in them had descended to the lowest possible depths.

Rickety tables and chairs were strewn around the room. A plank stretched across two barrels served as a bar. The two men who stood at it eyed Jo boldly as she and Eddie approached. One said something under his breath; his companion laughed. Jo nervously looked around for another way out. Just in case. But there wasn't one that she could see.

The bartender glanced at them. “No rooms for rent here,” he said.

Eddie colored. “We don't want a room, Mick.”

The bartender gave him a closer look and grinned. “Eddie Gallagher, as I live and breathe! It's been ages. How are you, boy?”

“Well. Yourself?”

“Never better. What can I do for you?”

Eddie pushed one of Jo's dollars across the bar. “We're looking for someone,” he said quietly. “Man by the name of Jackie Shaw.”

The bartender pocketed the dollar and nodded at a man hunched over a table in a corner.

Eddie thanked him; then he and Jo crossed the room. Jo wondered how Eddie knew the bartender but didn't have long to dwell on the question as a fight broke out only a few feet away from her. Words were exchanged; then one of the combatants grabbed the other's head, pulled it down, and rammed a knee into his face. Jo heard a sickening crack, and blood gushed from a broken nose. She stifled a cry and clutched Eddie's arm.

Mick picked up a baseball bat, slammed it on the bar, and loudly threatened to bash both men's heads in if they didn't take it outside. His violent threats made Jo feel oddly safe. She doubted any of the dive's patrons would bother her or Eddie after Mick's warning.

“Jackie Shaw?” Eddie said as he and Jo reached the corner table.

The man sitting there picked his head up. “Who wants to know?” he asked blearily. He looked to be in his fifties. One eye was clouded by a cataract. His teeth were rotten.

Eddie pulled up two chairs and sat down in one. Jo took the other. He had a story prepared. “My name's Eddie Gallagher. I'm a reporter. I'm working on a story about the Montforts and New York's shipping industry. And I was wondering if—”

“Piss off,” Shaw said in a surly voice.

“Eddie, I think he's
drunk,
” Jo whispered.

“I might be, sister, but I'm not deaf,” Shaw snarled. “And I'd have to be blind drunk to talk about the Montforts. To you or anyone else.” He gripped his glass tightly as he spoke.

Hearing the man say her family's name made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He knew something, Jo was sure of it. She looked at Eddie and could see by his expression that he felt the same way. They couldn't let this chance get away. She decided to take a risk. “Mr. Shaw, my name is Josie Jones. I'm also a reporter.”

“I don't give a fiddler's fart who you are,” Shaw said.

Jo pressed on. “Allow me to be candid. My colleague and I are not working on a story about shipping. We're investigating the death of Charles Montfort. We think he was murdered. We're trying to find out why,” she said.

“Murdered, eh?” His clear eye took on a haunted look. “If you're going to bury the past, bury it deep, girl. Shallow graves always give up their dead.” He touched the note of his cap. “Good night, all.”

Shaw moved to get up, and Jo traded frantic glances with Eddie. “Mr. Shaw, can I buy you a drink?” Eddie asked.

Shaw shook his head. “It'd take more than one, son,” he said, making to leave once more.

“How about the whole bottle?” Jo offered, desperate to keep him there. “Plus this,” she placed one of her five-dollar notes on the table, keeping it half hidden under her hand. Five dollars would be a small fortune to Shaw—and to everyone else in the room.

Shaw turned and looked at her, and she could tell he was battling with himself. She wasn't sure what would win—his fear or his need for gin. “Where the hell'd you come from, sister? You for real?” he finally said.

“Yes. I am, in fact, very much for real,” Jo said, hoping he'd change his mind and sit back down.

He did. Jo slid the money to him while Eddie quickly went to the bar. He returned a minute later with two more glasses and a dirty brown bottle. After pouring three shots, he held up his glass. “Cheers,” he said, taking a sip—and wincing.

Jo only pretended to sip hers. It smelled like kerosene.

“That mine when we're done talking?” Shaw asked, nodding at the bottle.

Eddie assured him that it was, as long as he answered their questions. “Do you know of a ship called
Bonaventure
?” he asked.

Shaw looked as if Eddie had just doused him with cold water. He downed two more shots, and then, when Eddie threatened to take the bottle away, he started to talk.

“The
Bonaventure
sometimes docked in Zanzibar. She had Portuguese papers and a Portuguese crew. Cutthroats, every one. Kill you as soon as look at you. They were only there for the money, and the
Bonaventure
's cargo brought cash. A lot of it.”

“Tea? Spices?” Eddie said, shooting Jo an excited glance. She could barely hold back an excited smile.

Shaw stared at his glass. It was as if he hadn't even heard Eddie. Jo silently urged him to speak, to tell them what he knew.

“There were rumors about the
Bonaventure.
Some said it wasn't Portuguese at all, but a Van Houten ship. Of course, no one ever proved it. And you'd have to be crazy to try. The Montforts, Charlie and Phillip … they weren't men you wanted to cross,” he said.