14

Four days after the Edison tribute, Mary arrived at his West Orange complex to, once again, be informed of a last-minute cancellation of their meeting. This time, though, her reception was somewhat different. Edison had given the officious Mrs. Embry permission for Mary to inspect Charles Goodrich’s office. A touch matronly, Mrs. Embry was in her midfifties and a widow. Mr. Embry, her childhood sweetheart, had been killed in the last throes of the Civil War, and she’d never remarried. She had been Edison’s secretary for fourteen years, and she possessed all the qualities he needed: she was competent, efficient, and most of all, extremely protective of her boss. Mary remembered having joked with Chief Campbell about her and was sorry she had. Mrs. Embry was one of those people whose work had become her family, and she was just trying to do a very difficult job as well as she could. Everyone wanted to see Thomas Edison, and it was up to her to keep them in check.

Mrs. Embry ushered Mary down a long hallway at the end of the second floor in the main building to Charles Goodrich’s office.

“Help yourself,” she said while letting her in. “I’ll return later.”

Goodrich’s office was small and utilitarian. There was a desk, a chair, a tall wooden filing cabinet, and a lamp. He had some antiques scattered around, including a few vases and a music box. Most of them were from the East.

Mary started going through everything. The files took the longest. From what she could glean, there was nothing unusual. He seemed like a typical bookkeeper: organized, routine oriented, most probably a quiet, innocuous man. It was the same conclusion she had drawn when she searched his brownstone. A couple of hours had gone by, and Mary was just about finished, albeit somewhat frustrated at not finding anything, when Mrs. Embry appeared in the doorway. Somehow she instinctively knew how long it would take Mary to complete her business. It was one of the many mysterious powers that really good secretaries possessed.

“It’s terrible what happened to Mr. Goodrich,” Mrs. Embry said, showing genuine sympathy. “No one is safe anymore.”

“Yes, terrible,” Mary replied as she opened the music box. It played a light and airy baroque-style tune, but there was nothing inside pertinent to her case.

“I’m very fond of music boxes,” said Mrs. Embry, then she hummed along.

“It’s a musical snuffbox,” Mary responded. “It appears to be very old and, judging from the music, probably of French origin.”

“Mr. Goodrich adored his antiques, especially those from the Orient.”

“Really, where did he get them?” Mary was just making conversation. Her mind was elsewhere as she looked around the room again.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Mrs. Embry. “Every so often a handsome Spaniard would appear with yet another one he had purchased.”

Now Mrs. Embry had Mary’s full attention. “Was his name Roscoe?” Mary asked. “The Spaniard,” she said, eagerly awaiting an answer.

Mrs. Embry didn’t know. Mary started examining the antiques in the room. On the bottom of one of the vases that looked Japanese in origin, she saw a company name, “Eastside Imports, New York.” She felt a surge of excitement. It was her first real lead.

Lucette Myers was at police headquarters on a fishing expedition. She insisted she had information so vital she refused to impart it to a lowly police officer, but her real purpose was to hook a man, any man, who could rescue her from her meager existence. She didn’t often get to fish in these waters, and she had made sure to emphasize her most enticing attributes. Her extra-tight corset trimmed her waist perfectly and allowed her ample breasts to stand out. She wore a bustle, and she celebrated it. Along with her bosom, it represented one of the two areas that most stirred men’s fantasies. She had spent hours making sure her bright red hair was curled perfectly in front. Her makeup was overdone, but she was still unattached in her thirties. That fact had to be hidden by whatever means.

Commissioner Jourdan’s secretary, a Miss Whitehead, approached Lucette but stopped about ten feet from her, as if getting close would taint her. “The commissioner will see you now, Miss Myers.”

It was painfully noticeable to Lucette that this drab and uninspired-looking woman felt threatened by her mere presence. She hoped Miss Whitehead would escort her to the commissioner and introduce them. She felt the contrast between them would benefit her greatly and set the meeting off on the right foot.

Jourdan was going over reports. He felt the only activity that could surpass it in boredom was to speak with a lady who insisted she had vital information. Such information was never vital, and he normally relegated these people to an underling. But Lucette Myers had been so persistent, so unrelenting in her pursuit of him, that he finally agreed. After all, he was a servant of the people, and no matter how distasteful it might be, once in a while he had to actually deal with one of them.

When Miss Whitehead opened his door, he was almost struck speechless. The lady standing next to her embodied everything he desired in a woman. His eyes devoured her. Lucette wanted to write Miss Whitehead a thank-you note for her assistance.

“Commissioner Jourdan, this is Lucette Myers,” Miss Whitehead announced, barely concealing her disdain.

Jourdan immediately rose. Adrenaline shot through his body. His mouth opened but no words emerged. Miss Whitehead left, shaking her head.

Jourdan finally managed to blurt out, “How do you do, Miss Myers?”

A feeling of self-satisfaction filled Lucette. The fish was on the hook. All she had to do was to keep stroking his ego as she slowly reeled him in.

“Whoever thought a man in such a powerful position could also be so handsome?” Lucette said, adding a coquettish smile.

Jourdan beamed, then he smiled, then beamed some more. That was about all he could manage until he resorted to his annoying habit of nervously twirling his mustache.

“Please sit down, Miss Myers,” he offered politely.

“Only if you call me Lucette,” she replied.

She made sure their eyes connected for a moment. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he knew a proper lady like Lucette would take umbrage at that.

“So, Lucette, I’m told you have some information on the Goodrich murder.”

“Indeed,” she said. “I know who killed the poor man.”

This was shocking news, but not shocking enough to stop Commissioner Jourdan from picturing Lucette naked.

The name “Roscoe” kept appearing. Mary hoped she would find him at Eastside Imports, which was on the West Side. Such are the vagaries of business names, she thought. Maybe it was once on the east side and moved, or maybe its name reflects that it specializes in antiques from the East. The name also gave the impression that it was a large business, but it turned out to be a small antique shop amid similar small shops and bars on lower Broadway.

As Mary entered Eastside Imports, a bell attached to the door announced her arrival. Space was limited. Antiques were strategically placed to show them off, but one couldn’t avoid a sense of clutter. They ranged greatly, from sculptures to vases to opium pipe bowls and everything in between.

It didn’t take long for Mary to realize she was the only “customer” in the store. There was a blond-haired, mousy-looking little man with glasses who was studiously dusting antiques in a section of the shop and would occasionally sneak quick, nervous glances at her. As Mary perused the inventory, she slowly inched closer to him.

“Lovely shop you have here. A lot of beautiful pieces, mostly from the Orient, aren’t they?” Trying to avoid her, he kept dusting. She spoke louder and more pointedly. “Aren’t they?”

He could ignore her no longer. His eyes on his dusting, he hastily mumbled, “Yes, the Orient, mostly.”

She was now close to the man. She knew he was hiding something, and he wasn’t good at it. She waited, watching the tension mounting in him.

“How often do you get shipments in?”

“Why, are you a collector, Miss Handley?” The second he uttered her name he looked stricken, as if he wanted to take those words back.

Mary faced him straight on. “I’m at a disadvantage. Have we met?”

“No, no,” he said, avoiding her stare, then somewhat frantically making his way behind the main counter by the cash register. “But everyone in New York knows you, Miss Handley. Everyone.” Bending down, he disappeared behind the counter briefly. Mary readied herself. He could reappear with anything, including a weapon. But when he straightened, he was holding a newspaper in his hand. He pointed to the headline: LADY SEEKS GOODRICH KILLER. Underneath it, there was a photograph of Mary.

“Hmm.” Mary nodded. “Makes discretion difficult.”

With a cheery “Quite so, quite so, indeed,” he returned the newspaper to its place, relieved that he had deflected her suspicion. But Mary was persistent.

“In that case, are you Roscoe?” She knew he wasn’t. This man didn’t come close to fitting any of the descriptions she had heard. She just wanted to see what the mention of the name would do to him. And it did plenty. A simple no would have sufficed, but he nervously began chattering on.

“Me? Do I look like a Roscoe? Clarence, maybe, possibly a Gerard, but no Roscoe, never…My name is Mortimer.”

“But you do know Roscoe, don’t you?”

“Roscoe, hmm, Roscoe,” Mortimer babbled on, feigning to search his mind. “I know a Richard, a Roger, a Randall…Rodrigo. But no, no Roscoe.”

“Think harder.” Mary leaned on the counter, trying to rattle him even more. “Somewhere amidst all those acquaintances, there must be a Roscoe.”

“I have a facility with names, Miss Handley. I’m certain I don’t know a Roscoe.”

“Speaking of names, Mortimer, do you know what I know for certain? It’s what they call a person who hinders the police in a murder investigation—an accomplice.” For effect, she stared at him in silence for a moment. Then Mary opened the door, the bell rang, and she was gone.

Had Mortimer been a flower, he would have wilted.

Commissioner Briggs sat back in his desk chair, puffing on his cigar. Moments earlier, Jourdan had rushed into his office with some redheaded tart claiming it was urgent. Jourdan had made a habit of involving him in his pathetic attempts at romantic liaisons. Still, Jourdan was his colleague, so Briggs summoned as pleasant an expression as he could stomach and tried to be cordial.

“What does this lovely lady have to say that could possibly be so urgent?”

Lucette blurted out her answer. “A man named Roscoe killed Mr. Goodrich.”

“What?!” Briggs exclaimed as he sat up in a flash. “Roscoe! You saw it?”

“Oh no, thank God. If I had, I’d have been too traumatized to speak.” Lucette looked over at Jourdan, assuring him that she was but a helpless female.

She explained that she lived on Degraw Street, across from Mr. Goodrich. A few days before his murder, she had witnessed a heated row between him and a man she knew only as Roscoe. She didn’t know exactly why they were fighting, but it was shortly after she had seen him flirting with Mr. Goodrich’s fiancée right in front of Mr. Goodrich, visibly upsetting him.

“Roscoe is a swarthy Latin, the kind who compromises innocent young women,” Lucette explained. “With these men, there’s always a wealthy father, husband, or fiancé involved from whom he extorts a tidy sum to disappear.”

Jourdan decided it was time to reassure Lucette that he himself was a complete gentleman. He pounded on the desk, expressing his outrage.

“The scoundrel!” he shouted.

Lucette knew the game much better than he did and took it one step further.

“He tried his charms on me, but I prefer refined, educated gentlemen.” Her eyes landed on Jourdan, who lost all powers of speech and twirled his mustache again.

Briggs was annoyed. This was important business, and Jourdan was behaving like a dog in heat. It was enough. They could make puppies later.

“Where can we find this Roscoe?” Briggs interrupted with a sense of urgency.

Lucette turned toward him. The blank look on her face told him she didn’t know.

“Think,” he pressed her. “It’s very important.”

After a moment, her face brightened. “It might take some time, but I’m certain I can furnish you with his whereabouts.”

“Excellent,” he said, commending her. “But for now, let’s keep this between us.”

Now part of the same conspiracy, they all smiled. Underneath his smile, Briggs was hoping Lucette and Jourdan’s relationship would last long enough for her to lead them to Roscoe. If not, he was sure this trollop would blab everything she knew all over Brooklyn.

Mary didn’t stray far from Eastside Imports. She had no doubt Mortimer was hiding something. He most probably knew Roscoe, maybe also knew where he was and might even be involved himself. She had frightened him, and she hoped it was enough to send him running to Roscoe. Hiding in a storefront doorway across the street, waiting to see if her strategy worked, she didn’t have to wait long.

About fifteen minutes after she had left him, Mortimer exited the shop, put up the CLOSED sign, and locked the door. He looked around uneasily and then headed up the street.

Mary smiled. Mortimer couldn’t have behaved more suspiciously. He was actually rather comical. She followed him from across the street at a distance. He stopped periodically and looked around, obviously trying to see if he was being followed. Mary would duck into a doorway or behind a carriage, and he detected nothing. Then a trolley passed him, and he started to run for it. Mary quickened her pace, too.

Waiting in an alley, watching the cat-and-mouse game, was Samuel. It wasn’t easy for a man his size to be invisible, but he’d had practice. Just like he had been given orders earlier to follow Goodrich, he had been instructed to keep an eye on this situation. As always, he was given the freedom to act if necessary. It was time.

Samuel emerged from the alley and collided with Mary.

“Excuse me, madam,” he apologized in his thick German accent.

Mary needed to catch up with Mortimer and couldn’t stop for pleasantries. As she hurried her way around him, Samuel extended his massive arms and grabbed her. She struggled to get free but to no avail. With one hand over her mouth, he dragged her into the alley while whispering an edict in her ear.

“The Goodrich case is over for you. Now!”

With that Samuel squeezed her, cutting off her air supply until she lost consciousness. When he let go, Mary’s limp body fell to the ground like a rag doll.