Secret of the White Rose (24 page)

Struggling for breath, I covered my mouth and nose with a cotton handkerchief as I made my way through the chaos: officers and guards shouting as they checked injuries and prisoner locations, smoke and dust obscuring everything. Mulvaney must have been walking toward the cell that housed the anarchists when the bomb exploded. That area, at the rear of the main floor, had received the brunt of the damage. The massive stone wall had crumbled in portions, and several men were pinned underneath the rubble; their moans and curses filled the air, mingling with the cries and shouts of prisoners.

A handful of uninjured guards stood awkwardly, surveying the carnage yet doing nothing. It was the shock of it—they couldn’t conceive what to do. I’d seen it before when the
Slocum
burned: able-bodied men became paralyzed with shock, unable to think or act. Once someone told them what to do, they’d galvanize into action—but not before.

One man, a guard I recognized, was now pinned under a collapsed portion of the wall. He grabbed at the leg of my pants, wailing in pain. “My foot … I’m pinned.”

I called to the man standing nearest me. “Come. If we work together, we can free him.”

The guard I’d spoken to seemed not to have heard.

I reached and touched his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. “Help me,” I said. “The stone’s too heavy for me to move by myself.”

Soon the others joined in, and we freed five or six men before I left them to their task; I’d still not seen Mulvaney.

The men I passed were injured but alive. I continued down the hallway, assuring each one that more assistance was coming.

I’d nearly reached the end when I finally heard Mulvaney: he was unfurling a litany of curses in his thick Irish brogue. He sat in the middle of the corridor, grimacing in pain—with his left leg stuck at an odd angle. When he saw me, he spoke with relief. “About time you got here, Ziele.”

I knelt to examine his leg.

“Don’t bother. It’s broken, and I’ll not be leaving here till a doctor helps me out. I need you to take care of them.” He pointed not to the other injured officers but rather to the cell some ten feet down the hall where the anarchists were being held. The wall to their cell had also been damaged—and a group of them who saw an opportunity were working feverishly to create an opening wide enough to allow their escape. Jonathan Strupp was among them—which at least would allow me to reassure his mother that he had been unhurt in the blast.

“I’ll stop them from the outside,” I said, giving a last anxious look at his limp leg.

“Go,” he said with a grimace of pain. “I’ll be all right so long as none of those damn anarchists get away.”

*   *   *

As I retraced my steps through the Tombs, I recruited a handful of men to help me secure the small opening in the wall where the anarchists were attempting their escape. I knew additional police reinforcements would be on their way—but until they arrived, we needed to pin back the anarchists in their damaged cell. Despite the urgency of our mission, it took us several frustrating minutes to navigate the significant amount of debris that was scattered throughout the grounds.

We finally reached the crater created by the bomb. While it was not deep, its impact was widespread and had charred the stone wall almost up to the roof. Just as we arrived at the crater, two official-looking men began walking its length. To be here so rapidly, they must have been on the move the minute they heard the explosion. In any event, they were not bothered by the extent of the bomb’s destruction, as they coolly exchanged comments without emotion.

“Must have been at least twenty pounds of dynamite.” A short, heavy man wearing a black fedora chomped on a cigar as he surveyed the damage. Beside him, a younger man with wispy blond hair feverishly took notes on a clipboard. “And look,” the short man continued, “they packed the bomb with these heavy metal slugs. They work just like shrapnel.”

He ran his hand across one section of the wall, fingering small pockmarked dents. Then he bent to the ground and picked up one of the metal slugs responsible for the damage. “See? If the bomb itself doesn’t kill you, this thing surely would.”

“Any idea where it went off, boss?” A thin man with a tired expression called out from the far end of the crater.

The cigar-chomping man considered. “I think the bomb was in a bag planted right here by the wall,” he finally said, gesturing to a crumbled area marked by heavy black charring.

“Maybe even garbage,” his assistant added. “Just look at the debris.”

The debris here was even more concentrated than in the area we had just passed through: all manner of trash—food scraps, cigarette butts and newspapers—was strewn throughout the crater and beyond.

“Did they really think they were going to blow up the Tombs?” The thin man gave a half-amused shake of the head.

“Maybe they just wanted to make a point.” The heavyset man dropped his cigar butt and ground it into the dirt with his heel.

“Which precinct are you men with?” I called out.

“None,” the cigar man answered. “Name’s Burt.” He walked over and held out his hand. “This is Sam.” He nodded to the thin, lanky man at his side. “We’re assistants to the General, based at Mulberry Street.”

I introduced myself quickly and indicated that the guards helping me should proceed to the place in the wall where the anarchists were struggling to escape. I would follow, I hoped, with additional reinforcements.

“How did you get here so fast?” I gave them a puzzled look.

“We’re bomb specialists,” Burt said with a grin. “As luck would have it, we were testifying in court when the bomb exploded. Court adjourned—so we walked across the street.”

I’d heard that General Bingham had developed a bomb response team to deal with handling the evidence following a spate of Black Hand bombings. Unbelievable, really, that dynamite was a big enough problem in this city that we needed a special division just to deal with it.

Burt pulled a handful of pink flyers out of his pocket, some of which were half burned. “We found these blowing around. Damn anarchists.” He held one up for us to read.

“
‘
Our acts of destruction will rid the world of your institutions.’
”

“Nothing’s more institutional than jail,” the thin man muttered.

The sound of tumbling rocks interrupted us.

“We’d better get over there. I think the anarchists are making progress,” I said, adding, “The bomb created an opening in their cell wall where they’re trying to escape.”

Burt looked confused for a moment, but then grabbed his Browning pistol out of its holster. “Not if we can help it. You’re all armed?”

The prison guards with me were—but I was not.

“Here, take my Colt.” Sam, Burt’s assistant, handed it to me nervously. “You’ll make better use of it than me.”

I took it and led them toward the broken wall opening where the guards were waiting. My thoughts turned to Jonathan, struggling to escape, and I certainly hoped no guns would be necessary at all. Stepping forward, I placed the gun barrel within the opening and called out in my most authoritative voice. “Move away from this wall now!”

In answer, a barrage of rocks was launched from inside the jail.

I nodded to Burt, who fired his own gun into the air. At the sound of his shot, the rock volley ceased.

“If anyone tries that again, we’ll fire inside your cell. Now, step away from the wall,” I commanded. I motioned for the other men to make a lot of noise as we set our position. It was enough to convince the men inside to cooperate.

And we held that position, keeping the jailed anarchists from making use of their escape route. We were still there—waiting, guarding—when our reinforcements from Mulberry Street arrived.

“We’ll take over here, boys,” a grim-faced man in a black bowler hat said. “You all need to report to your supervisors immediately for alternate instructions.”

“Why?” I asked, my voice filled with suspicion. “It’s an emergency situation here; I doubt we can be spared.”

He shook his head. “We got a worse emergency now.” He fixed me with a sober look. “It’s Drayson. During the chaos, he killed two guards and managed to escape.”

CHAPTER 19

Fifty-seventh Street and Ninth Avenue, Hell’s Kitchen. 11
P.M.

“All that destruction and bloodshed so that one bastard can steal his freedom? There’s no justice in this world, that’s for sure,” Mulvaney said, his voice rough.

We were sitting in the main living area of Mulvaney’s flat, sharing a bottle of Bushmills Irish whiskey. While I sipped the whiskey in hopes of settling my nerves, Mulvaney was using the alcohol to dull the pain in his broken leg, judging from the overfull glass of tawny liquid in front of him. Assured that I would keep watch over her husband, Bridget had left to gather those supplies she felt would be required while Mulvaney was out of commission.

“Which doctor set your leg?” I asked, with a quick glance at his stiff limb, now propped up and surrounded by pillows.

“You think I’d let anyone but Jennings touch me after what happened to you? I intend to have this leg back, good as new,” he said.

“A simple break … will mend good as new.” I’d heard that diagnosis myself, coming from the very doctor whose poor skills had doomed my right arm to a lifetime of pain and partial use.

“So the commissioner believes that the bomb was planted only as a diversion,” I said, wanting to move on.

Mulvaney nodded. “The anarchists surely wouldn’t have minded had more died. Or if any of their jailed comrades had managed to escape. But the point was to free Drayson when he was in transit and not as closely guarded.”

“They say the bomb created even more damage than the anarchists expected. They didn’t think the wall would crumble in parts.”

“And two guards murdered by Drayson’s hand,” Mulvaney said, shaking his head.

“Any leads on who slipped him the gun?”

“Not one. No one even heard gunshots, there was so much noise and confusion from the bomb.”

It was true; I had been just across the street.

“When are you back on duty?” Mulvaney shot me a worried glance.

“Five in the morning.” Because I’d been at the scene of the bombing, I’d been granted a few hours’ leave to rest before joining my fellow police officers in a full-scale manhunt for Drayson.

“Bridget made up the bed where you slept last night,” Mulvaney said. “Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll be all right out here.”

“You sure?” I set my whiskey glass on the table. I was exhausted—and now that Mulvaney mentioned it, sleep seemed like a good idea.

Clapping him on the shoulder, I said good night. And after making my way into the makeshift bedroom that Bridget had created for me the night before, I collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

*   *   *

The entire household was dark when I was awakened by the shrill ring of Mulvaney’s telephone a few hours later.

It was Bridget who answered; I heard her brisk steps, then her voice, husky with sleep, followed by a pause as she waited for the operator to make the connection. When she spoke again, it was clear that something was wrong.

After a series of whispered words and the sound of awkward shuffling, Mulvaney’s own voice spoke into the telephone.

“That’s not even my jurisdiction!”

Another pause.

When he spoke again, he was more agitated—which always made his brogue thicker. “My resources are all going to Commissioner Bingham, as well.”

He stopped, listening. Then he went on to say, “I’m aware that I command one of the largest precincts. I’ve got absolutely no one available. The Drayson hunt takes precedence.”

After more silence, I heard him sigh and agree to send a man up.

I got up and sat on the edge of the bed when it became clear that he was shuffling in the direction of my makeshift sleeping area. Mulvaney’s large, six-foot frame was simply not designed to move with only one good leg—and his walking stick wasn’t tall enough to offer him real support.

“Wait.” I rushed to meet him, and taking his arm, I helped him sit on one of the dining room chairs. “Careful,” I warned, as he nearly knocked his broken leg into the table. “We’ll find you a better walking stick today.”

“There’s got to be someone in this city who makes them for tall men,” he said, grimacing with pain. “Blasted leg.”

I waited, knowing that he would explain the telephone call the moment he could.

“I need you to handle a shooting victim uptown,” he finally said. “Three eleven West 103rd Street—off West End. The victim’s wife found him.”

“Suicide?” His description—“shooting victim,” rather than “crime scene” or “murder case”—made me think so.

Mulvaney shrugged. “I don’t normally take the family’s word for it, but that’s what it sounds like.”

I glanced at my pocket watch. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” Mulvaney said. “There’s no one else. You know I’ve got every man on the search for Drayson.”