These Shallow Graves (34 page)

“Would you like a seat, miss?” the brisk young woman at the cash register asked as she totaled a patron's bill.

“Actually, I'm looking for a friend. I'll sit with him, if I may,” Jo replied.

The woman nodded. She glanced at Jo, then looked her up and down as Jo made her way through the dense lunchtime crowd at Child's Restaurant on Park Row. Jo looked very different, in her expensive suit, from the other women there in their white cotton blouses and serviceable serge skirts.

Child's was a new sort of restaurant for people who worked. Jo had heard about it but had never been inside. She marveled at the immaculate white tiles on the wall, the sparkling counters with shiny metal stools under them, and the long, marble-topped tables where perfect strangers sat down next to one another and ate bowls of soup or thick sandwiches brought to them by waitresses in starched aprons.

“Eddie Gallagher? He's probably at Child's,” the young woman at the front desk in the
Standard
's receiving area had told her. “He usually eats lunch there. It's just across the street.”

Jo had used the Astor Library and her history of Van Houten as an excuse to leave the house. She said the news of Mr. Beekman's death was upsetting to her and she needed to take her mind off it.

“How
is
that history coming?” her mother had asked. “I should like to read it.”

“Mama, I
never
show my first drafts,” Jo had said. “Let me polish it, and then you can read it.”

Anna had agreed, but she'd cautioned Jo to finish it quickly, for she now had other, more important things to think about than her scribbling.

Finish it?
Jo had thought guiltily.
That's going to be difficult, considering I haven't even started it .

As she moved toward the far end of the restaurant now, past reporters and their editors, clerks and accountants, typists, secretaries, and shopgirls, she finally spotted Eddie. He was seated at a table by a window with Oscar Rubin. All the chairs at their table were taken, except for the one next to Oscar.

“Mr. Gallagher, Mr. Rubin, how delightful to see you both,” she said as she approached them. Eddie, his hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee, looked up and groaned, but he got to his feet as a gentleman should. Oscar did, too.

“Sorry. We were just—”

Leaving,
he was about to say. Jo was sure of it. But Oscar cut him off.

“About to order! Nice to see you again, Jo. Care to join us?”

Eddie looked daggers at him.

“I'd love to,” Jo said. “Thank you.” She sat. Eddie and Oscar did, too.

“What brings you to this fine establishment?” Oscar asked. “The corned beef? The meat loaf?”

“May I take your order?” a waitress asked before Jo could answer him.

Eddie ordered franks and beans, biscuits, and a root beer float.

“Jeez! Glad I'm not sleeping with you tonight,” Oscar said. “Did you know the average human passes over a quart of gas a day? And that's without any beans in the mix.”

“Oscar,”
Eddie said, nodding at Jo.

Jo bit back a smile. Had any other man said such a thing in front of her, she would have been mortified. With Oscar, however, bodily functions were simply part of the conversation.

“Sorry, Jo,” he said. “I forget you're a girl. Bring a couple spoons for the float, will ya?” he asked the waitress. Then he ordered the special. Jo had no idea what to do, so she asked for the special, too.

“Nature calls,” Oscar announced, standing up. “Be right back, kids.”

“That's a compliment, by the way,” Eddie said as soon as he'd left. “What Osk said about forgetting you're a girl. It means he's comfortable around you.”

“I'm flattered,” Jo said, feeling awkward now that they were alone. She looked up at him from under her hat brim. She'd angled it down over the right side of her face so that it hid the marks on her cheek. “Eddie, the reason I came here—”

“Jo, I meant what I said the other day. I can't see you anymore,” he said firmly. “Every time I do, it's like ripping a scab off a wound.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's not easy for me, either, and I wouldn't have come except—”

Eddie's float arrived. As the waitress hurried off again, he excavated a soupy spoonful of ice cream and offered it to her. She shook her head.

“Ever had a float? Try a bite,” he said, his voice softening a little. “It's good.”

He moved the spoon so close to her face, she had no choice. Melted ice cream dribbled down her chin. He wiped it off with his napkin, bumping her hat brim as he did. Jo quickly adjusted it, but not quickly enough.

Eddie's eyes narrowed. “What happened to your face?” he asked.

“I fell.”

She pulled the brim low again, trying to hide the cuts on her cheek, but to her chagrin, Eddie reached over and removed it. She snatched it back from him and placed it on her lap.

“Where?” he demanded.

“In my bathroom. I banged my cheek on the side of my tub.”

“Tub sides are smooth. You'd have a bruise, or a gash, if you'd smacked into one. Not scrapes.”

“Who do you think you are? Oscar Rubin?” Jo joked, trying to deflect further questioning.

“You came here because you want something from me. Tell me what happened, or you won't get it,” Eddie said.

“I told you, I—”

“The truth. Now.”

Jo didn't want to talk about it; talking about it meant reliving it, but she had no choice. “He came after me,” she finally admitted.

Eddie's eyes widened. He pushed his float aside. “Kinch?” he said.

“I don't know. Maybe. Or maybe it was Scarface. I wasn't able to get a look at him.”

“What happened? Did he threaten you?”

Jo didn't answer.

“Jo,”
Eddie said, struggling to keep his voice down.

“He pulled me into an alley. He said he'd come inside my house at night and slice my nose off. With a knife. The one he was holding to my face.”

Eddie got to his feet, his face flushed with anger. “I'll kill him. I'll find whoever did it and I will
kill
him,” he said.

“Sit down!” Jo hissed, embarrassed. “You're making a scene.”

“This has gone way too far. It stops. Right now,” he said, pounding his fist on the table. “You are never,
ever
to go out late at night alone again. You shouldn't even have come here!”

Jo laughed bitterly. “You sound just like my attacker. He'd be happier if I stayed inside, too.”

Eddie shook his head. “I can't
believe
you just said that. That is truly sh—
totally
unfair!”

“So is telling me to stay in the house!” Jo said, furious herself now.

“I only said it because I'm worried about you! What if it's
not
Kinch? What if it's Scarface and he's watching you? He threatened to murder me—”

“Are you going somewhere? Leave cash if you are. Don't even think about trying to stiff me with the bill,” Oscar said to Eddie as he pulled his chair out. He looked from Eddie to Jo and grimaced. “Uh-oh. Lovers' quarrel?”

“Oscar!”
Eddie said.

“Hey, what happened to your face, Jo?” Oscar asked. “Wait. Never mind. I'll probably get yelled at for asking
that,
too.”

He picked up the second spoon the waitress had brought and slid Eddie's float across the table.

“Were you two talking about the shadowy Mr. Kinch? The guy they nabbed for Beekman's murder?” he asked.

“Yes,” Eddie said. He pulled his billfold out of his back pocket and put a dollar on the table. Jo's heart sank as she realized he was leaving.

“Cops are saying he'll get the noose. If he does, they'll be hanging an innocent man,” Oscar said through a mouthful of ice cream. “Innocent of doing Beekman in, at least.”

Eddie shoved his billfold back into his pocket. “How do you figure that?” he asked.

Oscar licked the spoon clean and said, “Because he didn't do it.”

Jo and Eddie both pounced on Oscar at once.

“Oscar, Alvah Beekman is
dead,
” Eddie insisted, sitting back down. “He's in the morgue. You laid out the body yourself.”

“He's dead, all right. Someone cut his throat from ear to ear. Severed the carotids and jugulars, the trachea, esophagus, and even nicked a vertebrae,” Oscar said.

Jo's stomach lurched, but in her heart, she felt the tiny ember—all that was left of the fire that used to burn there—glow a bit brighter. There was light in her eyes again, and animation in her face.

“And Kinch was
there,
” Eddie continued. “The police who arrived on the scene said so.”

“I'm not saying he wasn't there,” Oscar allowed. “I'm saying he didn't do it.”

“But my uncle
saw
him,” Jo pressed. “He was attacked by him.”

“Phillip Montfort isn't exactly a credible witness,” Oscar said. “He took a blow to the head. A cop I talked to who was on the scene said he looked dazed. Montfort may remember the sequence of events incorrectly. He may have confused Kinch with an accomplice. His vision may have blurred. He might even have blacked out.”

Jo frowned, remembering her uncle's account of the attack. “He did say that part of the attack was hazy,” she admitted.

The waitress brought their food. She placed a plate of franks, beans, and biscuits in front of Eddie. Jo and Oscar got grilled cheese and bowls of creamy tomato soup. She left their bill on the table.

“How do you know Kinch didn't do it?” Eddie asked as she left.

Oscar tied his napkin around his neck. “Because Beekman's killer was left-handed and Kinch is right-handed,” he said. “Look at this. …”

He leaned over, dug in his doctor's bag, which was under the table, and pulled out a copy of the
World.
There was a grainy photograph on the front page. Jo shivered as she saw who was in it—Kinch. She was troubled to see that at least one paper already had the story and was splashing it on the front page.

“See Kinch's hand?” Oscar asked.

Jo peered closely at the photo and saw that Kinch was trying to shield himself from the blinding flash by holding up a hand—his right hand. A police officer was at Kinch's left side. At his right side was another man, wearing a white uniform. He must've been moving when the photo had been taken, as his face was badly blurred. A thin, dark shadow ran across it. The caption explained that Police Officer Dennis Hart and Orderly Francis Mallon were leading the prisoner into Darkbriar.

“Francis Mallon,” Jo said. “He was the orderly in charge of Eleanor Owens. How strange.”

“Not really,” Eddie said. “It just means he's worked at the asylum for a while.”

“I suppose you're right,” she allowed. She continued to stare at the blurry image, unable to shake the feeling that there was something familiar about it, but then Oscar said, “Hey, Jo!”

She looked up to see a slice of radish come whizzing at her and batted it away with her right hand. It landed in Eddie's plate.

“See? It's instinctual. We try to protect ourselves with our dominant hand.” Oscar picked up a triangle of grilled cheese. “You can keep the newspaper,” he told Jo.

“All that tells us is that Kinch is right-handed,” Eddie said, picking the radish out of his beans. “Not that Beekman's killer was left-handed.”

Oscar held up a finger. He was chewing a mouthful of sandwich. “True enough,” he said after he'd swallowed. “You'd have to look at Beekman's corpse to know that his killer was left-handed. If you did, you'd see that the killer started the cut on the right side of his neck and pulled the knife across to the left. Allow me to demonstrate.”

He picked up his butter knife with his right hand and moved to stand behind Jo. “You're my victim,” he said. “If I'm left-handed, I come up behind you, grab your hair with my right hand, and cut with my left. I start
here
”—he touched the butter knife to the right side of her throat—“and pull the knife leftward. If you look at the wound closely, you can tell where the blade entered and in which direction it traveled. On Beekman it entered on the right side and moved left. Ergo, his killer is left-handed.”

The way Oscar was holding her sparked a horrible memory. For a split second, Jo wasn't in Child's; she was back in the alley by her home. Her attacker had her pinned. Her right cheek was mashed into the wall. He was holding a knife to her face—with his left hand.

Oscar released Jo and put the knife down. A few diners had stopped eating, looks of concern on their faces. Oscar assured them Jo was perfectly fine and sat down again.

“You tell Dr. Koehler?” Eddie asked.

Oscar snorted. “He said the police saw Kinch holding a knife and that's good enough for them.”

“But if Kinch
didn't
kill Mr. Beekman and attack my uncle, why on earth was he at the murder scene? And who
did
kill Beekman?” Jo asked.

Oscar cleared his throat. “Would you forgive an indelicacy, Jo?” he asked.

“Gee, Osk, why start now?” Eddie asked.

“The building Alvah Beekman was killed in front of sits next to a disorderly house owned by Della McEvoy. The cops say he visited Della's several times a week. There's no way that's ever going to make the papers, but it might be worth checking into. The crime scene building is abandoned; it's empty. So there's no one there who would've seen or heard anything, but maybe Della or one of her girls did.”

Jo colored at this, embarrassed to think of Mr. Beekman visiting Della McEvoy's. How
could
he? He had a wife. And a daughter Jo's age. He went to church every Sunday.

“I already worked that lead,” Eddie said.

“Did you?” Jo asked, curious. “Why?”

She knew that the
Standard
wouldn't run a story suggesting Alvah Beekman frequented a disorderly house, which made her wonder if Eddie was writing up the story for another newspaper, or if he was still investigating her father's death—even though he'd told her he'd quit.

“Because I was bored. Nothing better to do,” Eddie replied offhandedly. “Della left town. She shut the house up tight.”

“So much for that idea,” Oscar said. He pointed his spoon at Jo's bowl. “You going to eat that?”

Jo looked down at the thick, reddish soup and shook her head. All the talk of sliced throats had made her queasy. She pushed it across the table to Oscar. Her sandwich, too.

“Oscar Rubin? Is that you?”

A young woman, her dark hair coiled into a neat bun, had appeared next to their table. She wore glasses, a brown overcoat, and a dress of navy twill, and carried a thick textbook.

“Sarah Stein!” Oscar exclaimed, standing. And grinning. From ear to ear.

Eddie stood, too. “Hey, Sarah, how are you?” he asked.

“Fine! Fine! Finish your lunch,” the young woman said, motioning for the two men to sit. “I just came over to say hello.”

Oscar introduced Sarah to Jo. She clearly already knew Eddie. “Sarah's a medical student, too,” he explained. “She's number one in her class.”

“Oh, Oscar,” Sarah said, flapping a hand at him and blushing.

“I have a new cadaver for you. I'll be sending it over tomorrow,” Oscar said, a little shyly. “Female. Midtwenties.”

Sarah's eyes lit up. She looked at Oscar as if he'd just told her he was giving her the Star of India.

“Cause of death?” she asked excitedly.

“Advanced tertiary syphilis.”

“Neuro?”

“Gummatous.”

“Oscar, I can't thank you enough,” Sarah said. “We've
never
had a cadaver with gumma tumors. Are they suppurating?”

“A bit. You've got a good deal of necrosis. Granulation. Some hyalinization, too. Next time I get an extrapulmonary tuberculosis death, I'll send it your way. Those ulcers can be deceptively similar to syphilitic gummas. It's good to see both, so you can learn to tell the difference.”

“This is a tremendous opportunity,” Sarah gushed. “Thank you again. I can't wait to tell the others!” She smiled at Eddie and Jo. “Oscar's so thoughtful. We don't get many cadavers at the women's college. They mostly go to the men's schools. But he always comes up with something for us. Just like magic.”

“Abracadavra,” Oscar said, waving his soupspoon like a wand.

Sarah burst into laughter. She sounded like a goose honking. Her glasses slipped down her nose. She pushed them up again, said goodbye, and headed for the counter.

Oscar watched her go. “Isn't she wonderful?” he said dreamily.

“Go sit with her, Osk,” Eddie said.

He shook his head glumly. “I can't. Both stools next to her are taken. And anyway, what would I say? I already told her about the cadaver.”

“You could always talk about pus,” Eddie suggested.

Oscar brightened. “You're right. I could.”

“Oh, look!” Jo said. “The man sitting next to her just stood up. He knocked her gloves off the counter. Go return them to her, Oscar!”

“He's crazy about her,” Eddie said as he watched his friend go.

Jo smiled. “I never would have guessed. Is she really a medical student?”

Eddie nodded. “Her father disowned her when she declared she was going to be a doctor. Her grandmother gives her a bit of money, though. Enough to pay her school fees. She works nights at Bellevue Hospital to pay her rent. That's where Oscar met her.”

Jo and Eddie both watched as Oscar picked up Sarah's gloves. Sarah patted the seat next to her, and Oscar, glowing like a lightbulb, sat down. Watching them made Jo feel happy, and sad, too. She looked away and turned the conversation back to Kinch.

“Eddie, the man who attacked me … he was left-handed, too,” she said. “Oscar's demonstration brought the whole thing back to me. Since Kinch is right-handed, he can't be the attacker, which means Scarface probably is. After all, he attacked you, didn't he? If he's unhappy that you're snooping, he'd be unhappy with me for the same reason.” She paused, then said, “Beekman's killer is also left-handed. What if it's Scarface? What if he's behind Scully's murder, and my father's, too?”

Eddie sighed. “You don't give up, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

He looked at her as if he were deciding something, then said, “I went to Darkbriar early this morning.”

Jo banged her hand on the table. “Ha! I knew it!
Who
doesn't give up? You want to know the truth as much as I do.”

Eddie ignored her exultant tone. “I was hoping I could talk to Kinch, but I couldn't get near him,” he said. “No one can. The warden held a press conference. He said Kinch is a danger to himself and everyone else. I tried to find Francis Mallon, but he wasn't around. I even tried to bribe an orderly—but no luck.”

Jo frowned, thwarted. “If only we could find Della McEvoy,” she said. “Maybe
she
knows something.”

“Just for the record, Jo, there is no
we.
There's
you
and there's
me.
And even if one of us found Della, and she knew something, you think she'd share the information? Especially with a reporter? The last thing she wants right now is attention.”

Jo digested this, then said, “What about Esther?”

“Esther who?”

“Madam Esther. She's in the same line of work, isn't she?”

“What's your point?”

Jo thought of all the catty girls she knew. “Della is Esther's competition, right? Her rival. Esther might have heard something. If she has, she might tell us. Just to make things hot for Della.”

Eddie's eyebrows shot up. “You could be right about that.”

“Let's go pay Esther a visit. I still have some time before I'm expected home.”

“No, Jo. Like I said before, you're done. I can't stop
you
taking chances with your life, but
I
refuse to do it.”

“If you won't go with me, then I'll go alone.”

“Are you nuts?” Eddie scoffed. “You can't go to a place like that by yourself.”

Jo's determined gray eyes locked with Eddie's. “I'm going. I started this, and I'm going to finish it.”

Eddie shook his head angrily. He stared out of the window at the traffic on Park Row.

“Tell me something, Eddie,” Jo said softly. “Are you sorry?”

He didn't answer.

“Because
I'm
not sorry,” she said. “I'm not sorry I overhead you at the
Standard.
I'm not sorry I opened my father's diary. I'm not sorry I kissed you. I'm not sorry I fell in—”

“Don't,”
Eddie said brusquely. “You made your choice. You left whatever it was we had behind you the night you accepted Bram. Let me leave it, too.”