Winter at Death's Hotel (18 page)

Your loving, lonely, going-mad

Arthur

P.S. Where are the drawers you promised? If they have not reached me by Chicago, send others to St. Louis. A.

She had written Arthur every day, sometimes even twice a day. Now she saw the problem that the great distances of the country created: he replied so long after she had written a letter that she lost all sense of connection, and his letters arrived so much later than that, that she couldn't remember what she had written. It was like playing tennis with the players over the horizon from each other.

She sat down with letter-paper and pen, determined to write him that very moment—but only things that could stand by themselves, that would be timeless, without referrents.
And
that
would
not
cause
him
to
write
terrible
things
about
women.
Her health, Ethel, the murders—no, not those. He had shut himself off from those.
The
murders
were
hers
.

She stared at the wall. What did she mean by that, the murders were hers? It was what Minnie Fitch had said, too. People said “his murder” when they meant somebody had done a murder, or “his death” when somebody had died. They weren't her murders, then—yet she felt proprietary. Should she write that to Arthur?

No, best to write about him, not herself. Should she start with the under-drawers, which had already been sent to Chicago? Or perhaps the shirts. What she wished she could write about were things that made her blush even to think about. How was it that what was the most astonishing and delightful part of being man and wife was the part one couldn't mention?

She looked at the clock. It was only half past ten. Where was Minnie Fitch?

***

Lieutenant Cleary had had the on-duty members of the Murder Squad on the scene of the second Butcher murder as soon as word of it had reached Mulberry Street. The immediate investigation belonged to the precinct, but he knew that the powers that be would kick it up to him as soon as the newspapers got their teeth into it. That was no problem; what was a problem was that if there really was a Bowery Butcher, investigating this new murder might turn up something about the first one, and then there'd be trouble from Roosevelt because of Harding, and just a whole lot of shit he didn't want to think about. He had to put the kibosh on it
now
.

“Get Dunne in here.”

Grady made a motion that might have been a salute, if salutes could have ended at the waist; thirty seconds later, he was back and holding the door open. Dunne, wearing one of his signature hairy suits, came in. Seeing him come through a doorway and sit in a chair was like watching a steamship dock.

“Yeah?”

“What's new on the first Butcher murder?”

“Nothing. Like you wanted.”

“Where's the fucking paperwork?”

“Just coming back from the literary piano.”

Cleary frowned. He didn't like having to figure out what people meant. “Literary piano?” The typewriter, for God's sake! “Jeez, Dunne, how can you take so long on this simple shit? No wonder you're where you're at.”

“I had it typed for your signature—right?”

“Jesus H. Christ, no! For
your
signature, you mullet-head!”

“You were the investigating officer.”

“I wasn't! I was acting in my capacity as commander. I told you, the precinct had it. You wanna get them to sign off on it, do that, but if you been doing the work, sign it yourself.”

“I'll have to send it back to be typewritten again.”

“Well, fuck, how long can that take?”

Dunne sighed. “I'm not a priority for the typewriters, Lieutenant.”

Cleary wiped his hand across his face to show that he thought that Dunne would be the death of him, and he said, “You seen there's a new murdered woman?”

“I read the morning paper.”

“We'll get it. It's at the Eleventh just now, but we'll get it. I want you to take it. You and Cassidy and Finn. And the Wop.”

Dunne blinked but didn't otherwise react.

Cleary didn't have time to fart around while Dunne looked at him. He said, “I don't want it to slop over into the first murder. Get it?”

“Newspapers say it already has. ‘Bowery Butcher Strikes Again.'”

“Fuck the newspapers. You start over with this one and treat it like it's bran' new. Wind up the paperwork on number one and sign it and give it to me. Then work on number two as a completely separate case. I don't wanna hear you're making a connection with the first one—no interviewing witnesses connected with the first murder for this one. Don't make
any
connections. Get me?” He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “This isn't me talking, Dunne, it's upstairs. Teddy's guy.”

“If it's the same killer, then there's the connection.”

“Don't tell me shit like that! Don't think that way! Solve this one, and if by some chance it turns out it's the same loony, then we'll deal with that when we get to it. You see how I want this done or don't you?”

“I see how you want it done; I don't see how I'm gonna do it. But I'll try.” Dunne put on a Buddha face, waited long seconds, and at last said, “I guess you don't want me to ignore the evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“Whatever there is. You don't want me to do bad police work, I mean.”

“Well, of course not! Jesus H. Christ, what do you think we're here for?”

“I just wanted to be clear on that point.” He stared at Cleary.

Cleary said, “Okay, that's all.”

Buddha nodded. He got up and sailed slowly through the door. He continued most of the way across the squad room and came to anchor at a littered desk. He looked at Cassidy, who had followed him. “No connection to the first murder,” he said.

“Cleary's losing his buttons. What's he think we are, loony?”

“No, he thinks we're stupid, because anybody who isn't on the take is stupid. But you're right, he's crazy to think that whatever graft he got on the first killing won't come out.” Dunne puffed out his cheeks and blew out air. “He said that it all came from upstairs. From Teddy. Now, you know Teddy wouldn't be in on a scam. He's a blowhard, but he's straight. On the other hand, Cleary wouldn't say it came from him if Roosevelt hadn't put his oar in somehow.” Dunne tapped a lapel of Cassidy's shiny blue suit. “Tell you what I'd like you to do, Cassidy: how good do you get along with TR's Hahvahd errand boy?”

“Can't hardly say I ever breathed the same air as him.”

“Good. What you do is, you go upstairs and have a talk with him. You ask him if he ever carried a message from the commish down to Cleary, and if he did, what it said. And then ask him what he thinks we ought to do about it.”

“And you think he'll tell me? Now you're the one's loony.”

“No, he will. Because you're gonna be nice to him and tell him there's nobody else we can talk to. He'd give a nut, maybe both, to be a real cop, y'see? And here you come, a real cop, to ask for advice.”

“What he'll say is, ask Cleary.”

“And what you'll say is, between us coppers, Cleary thinks he's protecting the commissioner, and all we want to know is if there's anything he needs to be protected about. Eh?” Dunne lowered his considerable bulk into his desk chair. “Take him out for coffee at Canelli's. He'll love you for it; it's the filthiest cop's nest in New York.”

“It'd be better coming from you.”

“Nope. You have a face that expresses infinite innocence. Mine makes people think of sin and damnation. It's why I didn't last in the seminary.” He smiled. “Go.”

***

Louisa went downstairs again at noon with some thought of having luncheon in the restaurant instead of in her room. Ethel was still out shopping; Louisa could hardly begrudge her that after the spilled tea. Anyway, Ethel would have her evening out at the theater, and perhaps she'd feel less put upon.

She crossed the lobby, avoiding the carpet on which she'd had her fall, and made for the doors. She had no hat on and wasn't dressed for the outdoors; still, one of the boys ran to open the doors for her. “I only want to talk to the doorman. If you'd ask him to step in?” She produced a nickel coin.

“Got it!”

The doorman said straight off that he couldn't stay inside, missus, his job was in the street.

“I shan't keep you. I only wanted to say that I am not pleased to learn that you gossiped about me to my maid.”

“I never!”

“Whom else did you tell I'd arrived in a motorcar yesterday?”

“I didn't. Only that it was an event, and I thought made you, because of your injury, a very, mmm, great—”

“A very great fool, I suppose. If I find you've talked about me to anyone in future, I shall speak to the management.”

“Now, ma'am, just let me—”

“I'll let you do nothing. What I want you to do is answer a question. Five days ago, as you must know, a woman was murdered down in the Bowery. She had been in this hotel—you held the door for her, in fact. She was a very pretty woman, with lovely copper-red hair. Do you remember her?”

“Can't say I do, ma'am.” He had got very stiff.

“Or did Mr. Manion tell you to say that when he shared his bribe with you?”

“Now, now—”

“Do you remember her or don't you?”

“Well, maybe I do.”

“Then I want to know this: when did she leave the hotel?”

“Wouldn't that be gossip, if I told you, madame?” His beefy face, which usually carried a broad smile for hotel guests, had only a smirk.

Louisa flushed. “You are impertinent.” She wanted to say something about the fifty-cent piece she had given him yesterday but couldn't think how to put it without seeming miserly. She also wanted to say something about “if my husband were here,” but of course that was already the point: if Arthur had been there, the man would never have dared say such a thing. She tried to draw herself up, found it impossible on crutches, and said, “See here, Mr.…?”

“Gerrigan.”

“Mr. Gerrigan, I haven't harmed you and I haven't done badly by you. It's you who've done something to me, and you ought to face up to it like the man I think you are. Now, this matter of the woman is important to me, and I'd rather you didn't smirk or dance around it. Did you see when she left the hotel, or didn't you?”

He had his chin out, and he was looking down at her from his great height. He said, “I didn't, then!” as if she'd asked if he'd killed the woman himself.

“You're sure?”

“I seen her come in all right. That wasn't Manion's doing, and I don't know nothing about bribes. But I didn't see her go out. I'm off duty at six, so maybe the night man was on. But
I
didn't see her
!”

“Could you ask the night man?”

“Well, now, there we go with gossip again.”

“Mr. Gerrigan!”

He sighed theatrically. “All right, I'll ast him. But I don't promise he seen her, either!” He was worked up now; he might have said more—and regretted it—but an annoyed man in a silk hat came through the doors and said
would
the doorman of this place please do his job and
would
he please see that his grips were carried in!

“Yes, sir, right, sir, only helping this lady—had an accident, very sad business…”

They were gone. Disgusted, Louisa turned away. She looked for Manion in vain but saw Dr. Strauss in his usual place and smiled. She started for the restaurant but saw a boy start from the desk at Reception and hurry toward her. There was no question but that it was she he wanted: he held up a finger, then a brown envelope in his other hand. He even managed to sound as if he were breathing hard when he reached her. “Packet for you,
special
messenger, just came! Run as fast as I was able. Glad you hadn't gone any farther away, ha-ha-ha-ha.”

She looked at the envelope without taking it. It said only, “Mrs. Doyle.” No room number. It had to be from Minnie Fitch.

She produced a coin; the boy handed over the prize. She tried to open it as she made her way to the restaurant, of course couldn't because of the crutches, finally found herself a chair in the lobby and tore the envelope apart as if it held the secrets of the pyramids.

Inside was a curt note:

Got
these
last
night. Thought you'd want them. George Manion.

“These” were two handwritten pages that looked as if they'd been balled up, pitched into a grate, and fished out again—the draft report of the policeman who'd found the first body. Louisa blinked, looked again at Manion's note, then at the pencilled, much-crossed-out pages.
He
certainly
moved
quickly
after
he
got
McClurg's sketches. Or had he already got them after he and I talked?

She read the draft report:

January 1896

Per standing orders I was walking my beet which is Bowery 5, namely Elizabeth and Mott Streets and the streets alleys and etc. crosswise up to Broome from Divission. I turned into Elizabeth from Broome Street at 1 A.M. per orders of Comm Roseveldt on time and come down Elizabeth heading South. All I seen for two blocks was three gents of the sidewalk wich is to say vaggrents wich I didn't disturb as they was causing no trouble, they was drunk asleep. I checked windows and doors per orders found all locked and etc.

I come to Hester Street and crossed it and proceded forward until I come to the alley by Bickner's Office and Claculating which is a dead end. I flashed my dark lantren into the foresaid alley as per orders and seen something wich was not clear to me, I thought a human legg or arm but thought I hadn't seen it, so I proceeded into the ally with my night-stick drawn and reddy and the lantren in my other hand and I seen it.