Ripper (6 page)

Carver gasped. There were chandeliers, couches, curtains, easy chairs and settees, a piano and, in the center, a working fountain with goldfish swimming in its shallow pool. To the right, beyond a low wall, were the slowly turning gears and shaft of the vast fan in the room above. It would all seem more at home in the Astor family’s finest mansion or a Jules Verne novel than hidden beneath the ground.

But the most exciting part was the shining train car sitting below twin staircases. A tall metallic cylinder with oval windows on either side of a door, it was unlike anything Carver had ever seen or read about. There was just the one car, no locomotive. Beyond it was a round tunnel, an iron tube, a perfect match for the car’s shape, its entrance ringed by colored gas jet flames glowing red, white and blue.

Carver longed to study every inch of this odd and wonderful place, but Hawking pushed him forward. “I’ll explain it when we get into the car. I want to sit down!”

At the stairs, the reason for his testiness became clear. After putting his cane to the first step and twisting his hips to lower his foot, his face registered intense pain. Overcoming his hesitation about touching the grisly man, Carver grabbed Hawking’s arm.
The detective mumbled something that sounded like “good,” then continued grunting until they entered the car.

The dim, eighteen-foot space held two rows of long cushioned seats, broken up by tables with gas lamps. It looked like a luxurious, but narrow, living room.

Hawking dragged himself to one of the lamps and settled into the cushions beside it. After a single exhale, he leaned over and twisted the valve. “The zirconia light,” he said with a sigh. “Two small cylinders, one with oxygen, the other hydrogen, are under the seats, feeding this nozzle, which contains a bit of zirconium.”

Lowering his head to shield his eyes, he struck a match and held it to the lamp. A brilliant pencil-thin flame erupted, casting a powerful brilliance.

Unlike the usual yellow gaslight, this was like sunlight. Carver loved it.

Hawking waved at the light as if it were a mosquito. “It’s toys, boy, all toys. You’ll see more and more contraptions as you get older, but if I teach you anything, you’ll learn that this is
all
decoration. What counts is what’s inside you and what you can see in others. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, you don’t. When our time together is nearly over, you may start to understand.”

He shifted his back to the glow and motioned for Carver to sit beside him.

Using his heel, Hawking kicked a lever at the base of the lamp table. In response, the car moved, but so smoothly, so quietly, it was only because he could see out the windows that Carver realized they were moving at all.

“Back in 1870,” Hawking said, “Alfred Beach worked secretly,
digging this tunnel to demonstrate what he thought would be a more elegant way of traveling than the elevated trains that hiss and fart and stink up the air. People rode his little
subway
as a curiosity, but he never won the contract to expand. It was sealed up, forgotten, until I helped purchase it.”

It was another surprise in a day full of them. “You
own
this?”

“Don’t go picturing any big inheritance. The money wasn’t mine, and it’s nearly all gone. It belonged to Allan Pinkerton. I know you’ve heard of him; otherwise my card wouldn’t have piqued your curiosity.”

Carver nodded. “He was amazing.”

Hawking’s harsh demeanor faded slightly. “You’re right about that. I was there when he foiled an assassination attempt on President Lincoln. I worked undercover for him during the Civil War. After that, I helped him track some of the worst criminals the country’s ever seen. Amazing? He was more a force of nature than a man. Or so I believed. In 1869 he had a stroke. The doctors said he’d be paralyzed permanently. Pinkerton insisted they were wrong. It was painful as rising from the dead, but day by day, inch by inch, he forced himself to stand, to hobble and then to walk. Inside of a year he was back on his feet, slower but still worth ten men half his age.” He paused. “Wish I could say the same for myself.”

“What… happened to you?” Carver asked.

“One life at a time, boy. While Allan Pinkerton recovered, his sons ran the business and never quite gave it back. He spent the rest of his life struggling with his blood over his own company. They saw the future in factory security, not exactly what he saw as his legacy. So, in his will, he left his two most trusted agents, myself and Septimus Tudd, a considerable amount to establish a
new agency, dedicated to fighting criminals. Tudd always loved contraptions, so I let him talk me into using this place as our base.”

“Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

Hawking bristled. “The New York police department has an annual budget of five million dollars. They collect another
ten
million in bribes. Pinkerton stipulated our organization remain secret to avoid corruption, even fight the police if need be.”

The little car slid into a wide, open area. They were still underground, but this place was so airy, it felt as if they were outside again. High above, Carver saw an arched brick ceiling supported by steel girders. The track ended at a small platform at the edge of a plaza. On either side were two three-story structures, buildings of a sort. One was open faced, the other a windowless mass.

In the open building, Carver could see inside many of the rooms. There were offices full of file cabinets, rooms that stocked pistols, rifles and strange devices. A wide space full of wires and tubes looked like a laboratory. Unlike the elegant but abandoned spaces beneath Devlin’s, these were brightly lit and bustling with activity. Of the twenty people he could see, some worked in suits with bowler hats, others in shirtsleeves. There were even several women present. A man and a woman wearing goggles and greasy overalls were hunched over mechanical equipment whose function Carver couldn’t even guess at.

Three men waited at the platform. Two, tall and fairly young, flanked an older, rounder man in a bowler hat. Closer to Hawking’s age, he looked something like a friendly sheepdog.

“It worked well for a while,” Hawking mused. “Until the money started running out.”

“Are you in charge of all this?” Carver said, ecstatic.

The car door opened. The sheepdog man stepped in front of it, blocking the way, hands on his hips. “You gave him the combination, Hawking! We hadn’t agreed on that!” he said.

“No, I’m not in charge,” Hawking said. “He is. That’s Septimus Tudd.”

HAWKING
prepared to rise. “I didn’t ask if I could use the loo, either, Septimus. If he’s to be my apprentice, he’ll need to get in, won’t he?”

“I beg you, Albert, no more surprises,” Tudd responded.

Hawking offered an even smile. “I’ll try, but I won’t make any promises.”

The two younger men tried to hide their chuckles. “Welcome back, Mr. Hawking,” the slighter one said, beaming. “It’s been too long.”

Hawking put his cane to the floor. “Not long enough, Emeril and… hmmm… Jackson, isn’t it?”

The two nodded appreciatively.

Carver moved to help Hawking, but the old detective nudged him off. At the door, the round Tudd hooked a big hand through Hawking’s arm. He pulled him close and whispered, just loud enough for Carver to hear.

“Please don’t demean me in front of the agents. It’s difficult enough when I can’t pay their salaries.”

Hawking gave a noncommittal shrug. As they stepped onto the tile-and-brick platform, Tudd made a show of leading the way, but Hawking clearly knew where they were headed. As they walked, everyone’s eyes were on them. Carver thought they might be looking at him, a stranger, but realized they were much more interested in Hawking.

After a lifetime of being bullied, Carver could only imagine how it must feel to be so respected. Hawking only grimaced and quickened his lopsided stride, as if their admiration were an ordeal.

They entered an open hall that ended in a set of wide mahogany doors. Two plaques hung to the side. The first read
Office of the Director,
the second,
Septimus Tudd.
A faded rectangle along the edges of Tudd’s name meant his predecessor had warranted a bigger plaque. Hawking?

Emeril and Jackson opened the doors but remained outside. Tudd, Hawking and Carver entered a large, wildly cluttered office. It held an enormous desk and three long oak meeting tables stacked with files, photographs and newspaper clippings. The dark-paneled walls were papered with maps marking streets, ferry lines and railroads.

The only decoration Carver noticed was an odd oval mirror. It looked broken, everything reflected in it distorted, as if it were from a house of mirrors. Carver snickered to remember how jealous he’d been when Delia had gotten to see one at Coney Island, having gone along to help watch the younger children.

He couldn’t wait to tell her he’d visited a secret detective facility. But he couldn’t tell her, could he? That was the point of it being secret, why it had such a strange and wonderful lock.

He also realized something else.

“Mr. Tudd?” Carver said, speaking for the first time. “Can I ask how you knew Mr. Hawking gave me the combination?”

The hefty man turned to him with a twinkle in his eye. “Because I saw him.” He pointed to the mirror. “It’s something our research department came up with. Go on, take a look. It’s not as if I get to show off the operation often.”

Carver stepped up. The periphery of the glass remained blurry, but in the center he could see the side of Devlin’s, the elevator door, the brass tubes rising from the concrete, even the bottom half of a hansom cab and horse clicking along down Broadway.

“How… ?”

Tudd indicated a silvery tube rising from the back of the glass. “Mirrors, placed at careful angles in this pipe, leading up to the surface. They call it a periscope.”

“That’s amazing!” Carver said.

“And expensive,” Hawking growled. “And you wonder where all the money’s gone.”

Tudd scowled. “I’ll have you know the army is considering purchasing the patent.”

“
Considering,
as in, they haven’t given you a penny.”

Tudd straightened. He suddenly looked quite formidable despite his girth. “I don’t have to explain myself to someone who hasn’t even been here in months! I’ve molded this place into the cutting-edge crime facility Allan Pinkerton envisioned! You can’t begin to imagine the strides we’ve made. In just a few weeks, we’ll take delivery of our first electric carriages.”

“Electric carriages?” Carver blurted.

“Quiet, boy!” Hawking snapped. “And how much did they cost?”

Tudd stepped behind his desk. “Cost isn’t the issue!”

He went on, but Carver noticed Hawking wasn’t paying attention. His sharp eyes were casting about the desk, studying the photographs and newspapers. When Carver followed his new mentor’s gaze, he realized they were all about the library murder. The photographs showed the crime scene. The rumors were true: the body had been mutilated. Never having seen a real dead body, let alone one so mangled, Carver felt queasy. It was exactly the sort of thing Miss Petty had prevented him from seeing or reading about.

A loud hissing, like a teakettle, erupted from Tudd’s clenched teeth. He motioned Carver away from his desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. Young, but the information the agency collects is not for public consumption.”

“Still chasing ghosts?” Hawking asked. He snorted.

The dismissive gesture clearly angered Tudd. “A pity we don’t all share your fierce instincts!” he said.

Hawking chuckled. “If you had half my instincts, you wouldn’t waste your time.”

“IT’S A
theory,” Tudd said. “The police are stymied. If we solved the murder, it would give us just the right opportunity to bring the New Pinkertons out in the open.”

“If that’s your goal, why not just do it? Why do you need some imaginary victory to hide behind?” Hawking said.

“Aside from the fact it’s against Allan’s explicit wishes,” Tudd said with a shrug, “we have to be in the right position. And I have to admit the thought of catching the world’s most famous murderer is enticing.”

“It’s your ego, then?”

“No! I mean to say…”

As the two men argued, Carver leaned forward for another look at the desk. A police report describing Mrs. Buckley’s attacker as an “impossibly powerful
man” caught his attention, but Tudd snatched it away. He motioned a chagrined Carver into one of two plush chairs facing the desk.

“I could use your help, Albert,” Tudd said. “If only so the men would—”

“My involvement is not open for discussion.”

Tudd sighed. “Damn shame a man of your ability spends all his time among the mad.”

Among the mad?
What did that mean?

“So do you, in a way.”

“Roosevelt?” Tudd said. “I’ve not met a man with his integrity since Allan himself. It’s positively difficult for me to lie to him each morning when I go to work.”

Carver didn’t know what to ask first. “You work for Roosevelt? Is that how you saw my letter?”

“Giving away your own secrets now, eh, Tudd?” Hawking chortled. “
Intercepted
might be a better word, boy. Go on, tell him. You’re Roosevelt’s
clerk.
”

Tudd narrowed his eyes. “I could name some undercover positions
you’ve
held I wouldn’t brag about.” He turned to Carver. “Son, nearly all our agents hold posts among the police, politicians and newspaper offices. I am one of the commissioner’s assistants.”

“Clerk,” Hawking interjected.

“Ahem. Your correspondence… impressed me. Mr. Hawking needed an assistant. I also hoped bringing you here might lure him from retirement. I didn’t realize he planned on giving you
my
job during your first visit.”

Hawking said, “There is only
one
job I’m interested in currently, for the boy.”

“Really?” Carver asked. “What would that be, sir?”

“Finding your father.”

Carver’s heart nearly popped into his throat.