Secret of the White Rose (15 page)

He gave me a look of disbelief. “
Any
losing party carries a grudge.”

“True, but not the kind I’m looking for,” I said. “I told you about how Jonathan Strupp’s outrage toward the
Slocum
’s owners had developed into an intense hatred of our capitalist society as a whole. I’m looking for that kind of anger. Maybe it starts small, from some injustice that isn’t fully addressed—but it grows into something larger, perhaps leading to murder. And when we find it, we may see a reference to the name Leroy.”

Mulvaney’s eyes grew wider when I went on to explain the cipher embedded in a musical score sent to Judge Jackson. “But we have no idea who Leroy is—or even whether the name is a real one. It’s possible the case we seek doesn’t mention him at all,” I said.

Mulvaney shook his head. “I still say you’re talking about half the cases in New York City. And it’s got to be asked: How come you’re convinced young Jonathan himself isn’t involved?”

My reply was abrupt. “I’m not. In fact, it’s
likely
that he is involved in some way—and I am worried that I won’t be able to spare the Strupps yet another heartbreak. But right now, I have nothing to tie him—or any other suspect—to Judge Jackson.”

Mulvaney’s eyes finally lit with understanding. “Be careful. Your judgment may be easily clouded by your sympathy for the Strupps.”

“Let’s just see what we find.” I gestured toward the untouched pile of papers in front of him—which after a moment’s hesitation, he began to tackle with a grunt.

*   *   *

As precinct activity swirled around us, we worked for the better part of the next two hours—long past the time Mulvaney promised to help me—making notes of certain cases to look into further. Then I found a case of exactly the sort I’d been searching for.

“I’ve discovered a possible link,” I said, my voice sober. “It seems Judge Jackson is no stranger to controversy where anarchists are involved. He is on record as calling for the deportation of all alien radicals.” I tapped my finger against a folder containing the Bisso case.

Mulvaney was all ears. “When was this?” he asked.

“Three years ago. He was presiding over the case of Louis Bisso, a fishmonger who repeatedly called for the violent overthrow of the government—even in Judge Jackson’s courtroom. Bisso was accused of robbing the payroll department of a shirtwaist factory.”

Mulvaney interrupted me. “Shirtwaist factory? I don’t understand. I thought the anarchists wanted to help the working people at factories, not steal the wages they earned through backbreaking labor.”

I shrugged. “I’d say they wanted to hurt the capitalists who own and manage such factories. Plus, when the anarchist movement needs money, its members aren’t particular about where they get it. From what I can tell, most anarchist trials don’t involve bombs and dynamite; they involve basic robbery charges.”

Mulvaney brought his hands together, thinking. “So the judge made comments during the trial about how Bisso should be deported?”

“Not exactly,” I said, passing him the exact transcript to read. “It looks like he spoke during Bisso’s sentencing phase, when information that had been inadmissible at trial was finally allowed to be presented. To prove that Bisso was a hardened criminal who deserved the stiffest penalty the law would allow, the prosecutor submitted evidence of Bisso’s background. And that’s where I’ve found my link.”

“To the anarchists,” Mulvaney said, his eyes moving rapidly over the lines of the transcript.

“And particularly, to Jonathan Strupp.”

He put down the pages he held and stared at me. “Are you sure?”

I swallowed hard. “Louis Bisso regularly associated with Henry Tractman and Paul Hlad—two anarchists with extensive and troubling criminal records. Tractman, in fact, is spending the next twenty years at Sing Sing because of his role in a mass-poisoning plot. And Paul Hlad has written and dispensed a variety of manuals on bomb-making.”

“I still don’t understand: How do any of these men implicate Hannah’s brother?”

“Paul Hlad is the man responsible for Jonathan joining the movement—and he is now Jonathan’s closest friend.”

“As though that family hasn’t suffered enough. A terrible thing, isn’t it? Sometimes I don’t understand what this world is coming to.” Mulvaney shook his head. “The dawn of the twentieth century and you’d think we’d have gotten beyond all the hating and killing. It’s the same all over the world: the anarchists assassinated President McKinley, just like they did the Austrian empress and Italian king. And back in Ireland, the troubles continue—” He broke off, shaking his head yet again.

I got up, pushing in my chair. “I’d better visit the Strupps again and see if they were able to contact Jonathan. I see now that it’s not just the information he may have—it’s the other anarchists he may lead me to.”

“Assuming he cooperates,” Mulvaney reminded me as I gathered my things. “He’s no doubt changed a good deal since you last saw him.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “I’ll see you out. I’ve got a meeting downtown at noon, or else I’d go with you.”

But neither Mulvaney’s meeting nor my own interview plans were to take place—at least, not that day. As he was about to return to his office, after wishing me luck with an encouraging clap on the shoulder, his secretary’s voice called out to us, rising above the noisy din in the precinct room.

“Hold on a moment,” Mulvaney directed me.

And so I remained by the precinct entrance, watching as Mulvaney’s long stride allowed him to cross the room to his secretary’s desk in only a few steps. They exchanged words—after which Mulvaney looked in my direction, long and hard. Had there been another attack? The young man handed Mulvaney a paper; and this time, donning his own coat and scarf, Mulvaney rejoined me.

He handed me the paper, swearing under his breath. “Your goddamned professor has done it again.”

I glanced at the white scrap he had given me, confused. It read:
“Judge Angus Porter. Breslin Hotel. Twenty-ninth and Broadway.”

“Judge Porter.” I repeated the name with surprise. “That’s the name of Alistair’s friend—the one I met yesterday who decoded the musical cipher.”

Mulvaney had a strange look on his face. “I believe you also mentioned that Alistair intended to spend the evening with him last night. Do you know what they had planned?”

I thought, trying to remember. “Dinner at Alistair’s home, I believe; he asked his housekeeper to prepare something as I was leaving.”

“Let’s walk,” he said abruptly, continuing to mutter under his breath something about “damned meddling.”

I caught his arm instead. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. What does Judge Porter have to do with anything? He’s not part of this case.”

Mulvaney gave me a hard stare. “He is now. They just found him—murdered—at the Breslin Hotel. There was a white rose and a Bible in his room, next to his corpse. And given that your professor was perhaps the last person to see this judge alive, I’m wondering what he knows right now that we don’t.”

“Judge Porter?” I asked, my mind awhirl, unable to take the news in. I had spoken with him just yesterday on matters of codes and ciphers, Bibles and roses. It was unthinkable that he had fallen victim to a similar murder, an identical scenario.

“He was killed late last night,” Mulvaney said. “We’d best get to the crime scene now. Then, I’d say we have some tough questions for Alistair Sinclair.” He looked me full in the eye. “Are you sure he’s helping you as much as you think? That he’s told you all he knows?”

“He brought me into this case, remember?” I retorted. “His friend was murdered. He’s got nothing to gain by keeping me in the dark.”

But Mulvaney’s reply unsettled me more than I’d have expected. “Two friends murdered,” he said flatly. “Sounds like an odd coincidence to me.”

And the moment he said it, I knew it could be no coincidence at all.

PART

TWO

Anarchy is no more an expression of “social discontent” than picking pockets or wife beating.

—President Theodore Roosevelt, State of the Union Message, 1901

The People—the toilers of the world, the

producers—comprise, to me, the universe.

They alone count. The rest are parasites,

who have no right to exist. But to the People

belongs the earth—by right, if not in fact. To

make it so in fact, all means are justifiable;

nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life.

—Alexander Berkman

CHAPTER 10

The Breslin Hotel, Fifth Floor, 1186 Broadway at Twenty-ninth Street. 11
A.M.

The area where the Breslin Hotel stood had once been the center of New York’s theater and entertainment district, but now the area was filled with more ordinary businesses: dressmakers and milliners, dentists and doctors. As a result, the magnificent brick and terra-cotta hotel, built just two years earlier, competed with its more established neighbors—the Grand and the Gilsey—for an ever-dwindling supply of customers.

“They had only fifteen guests last night,” Mulvaney was saying as we crossed a sumptuous lobby of red and gold. “At least we have a limited number of people to interview.”

I caught our reflection in the floor-to-ceiling brass-framed mirror at the back of the lobby. Instinctively, I ran my fingers through my hair and straightened my tie. I expected that I might see the commissioner upstairs, and while I knew it probably wouldn’t make a difference, I wanted to appear at my best.

We approached the iron-cage elevator, and the attendant, a young man with pale skin and hair so blond that it was almost white, closed the door behind us.

“Where to, gentlemen?” he asked. His voice was lilting, with the soft tones and broad vowels that I had come to associate with Scandinavian countries.

“Fifth floor, please,” I said.

He turned the crank and initiated our ascent—all the while staring at the floor, deliberately avoiding our gaze.

“There’s a lot of commotion here this morning,” I said, keeping my voice friendly. “Did anything odd happen during the night shift?”

“I wasn’t there,” he said. “But you can ask the night man yourself. You guys didn’t let him go home. You’ve got him locked in a room upstairs.” His eyes darted back and forth between me and Mulvaney.

I knew that he didn’t truly understand what was going on. It was unlikely that the elevator attendant from the night shift was “locked up” anywhere in this hotel, though it was true that he wouldn’t be permitted to leave until he had been interviewed. But a small army of police had now invaded the Breslin; it was no wonder that this man was unsettled and confused.

We reached the fifth floor, and in response to the operator’s movements, the elevator doors parted with a screech to reveal a hallway lined with police officers. The room nearest the elevator bank had been transformed into a waiting area; hotel employees and last night’s guests alike—some crying, others staring silently—were lined up to be interviewed by the multitude of police officers that had taken charge of the Breslin.

Mulvaney whistled under his breath. “Looks like General Bingham called in the whole city for this one.”

By rights, this case should have been Mulvaney’s to lead, for the Breslin Hotel was solidly within his precinct’s jurisdiction. But because someone recognized that another high-ranking judge had been killed in unusual circumstances, the call had gone directly to the commissioner’s office. I found that fact puzzling in itself; who would have taken it upon himself to notify the commissioner before the precinct captain had arrived on the scene?

The officers in the hallway made way for Mulvaney—a gesture that was an acknowledgment of his rank. A lanky junior officer stepped forward hesitantly. “Excuse me, Captain,” he said, his manner bashful. “You just missed the commissioner, but he left a message for you. When you’re finished here, he’d like to have you report, in person, at his office downtown.”

Mulvaney stared wordlessly at the junior officer, then shook his head in exasperation. “The General wants a report and I haven’t yet laid eyes on the crime scene. He’s got no patience.”

The junior officer gave a sympathetic smile. “You know the commissioner.”

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” The door to room 503 was partly closed, but Mulvaney opened it wide and soldiered into the room. I followed close behind, steeling myself to encounter a scene similar to that at Judge Jackson’s Gramercy town house.

Almost immediately, the sickly-sweet odor of blood filled my nostrils and clung to the air. Two officers near the door, charged with protecting evidence at the scene, were smoking cigars—no doubt in an attempt to camouflage the stench of death that permeated the room. But there was no disguising it; I remained aware of its distinctive smell, and as my stomach lurched in response, I vowed not to be sick. I couldn’t be—especially not in front of so many fellow officers who had been called to this case. But what stemmed the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm me was not my own willpower but rather Mulvaney himself.