“Dead?” Gideon Richards asked for the third time.
Lightner nodded, his expression unreadable. At least it was unreadable to Hy.
Hy’s expression, he was pretty sure, was shining as brightly as the New Dorp beacon on Staten Island.
Gideon Richards was everything he hated about lawyers: arrogant, condescending, and obnoxious. Well, Hy supposed that was more like one thing called by three different words.
Anyhow, Richards was also overfed, soft, and had the sort of pinky-white flesh that rarely saw sunlight. Hy’s fingers twitched to squeeze his fat throat.
The dismissive way he’d looked at Hy compared to the almost worshipful way he’d looked at the Englishman said everything there was to say: Richards was a boot-licking prick and a shameless tuft hunter.
He was also a masher, dressed in his showy gray suit with heavy gold cufflinks and a glittery pin sticking out of his striped silk stock.
Hy struggled to mask his dislike as he took in the wealthy lawyer, who looked like he’d forgotten that Hy existed in his rush to impress Lightner.
Richards sat behind a desk that even Hy could see was expensive. And gaudy, too, with touches of gold paint on the legs. His office took up the entire corner of the building—unlike the glorified closet that his harried-looking clerk was stuffed into.
The walls were covered with expensive-looking books, and there was a painting on the wall of a man dressed in a white wig and old-fashioned clothing from the last century. Hy supposed he was Richards’s ancestor; he looked like a pompous arse, too.
“Do you know if Mr. B-Beauchamp has an agent or f-f-factor?”
Richards’s bulbous dirt-brown eyes widened slightly and his lips twitched, as if he were struggling with a smile. Hy figured he’d finally noticed Lightner’s stammer. Hope leapt in Hy’s chest that Richards would say something stupid and Lightner would have to administer a bit of rough justice with his cane.
Even though Hy had only worked with the Englishman for a few weeks he already knew that Lightner didn’t tolerate rudeness. Hy had seen him chastise more than one man—at least one of whom had been a hardened killer—with his cane, which he wielded with impressive, and lethal, skill.
Unfortunately, Richards seemed to rein in his humor. The man might be a dude, but he wasn’t a complete fool.
“Er, not that I know of,” the lawyer finally said. “Indeed, my firm takes care of all his monthlies and quarterlies. Why?”
Hy snorted at the word firm. As if it wasn’t just Richards and his downtrodden clerk.
“How l-l-long have you been acquainted with Mr. Beauchamp?”
Richards lifted his nose, as if he were sniffing the air and had noticed something … off. He pushed himself up straighter in his chair. “Wait a minute, here. Why are you asking me these questions?”
Hy snorted; some lawyer. You’d have thought the man would have asked that question right up front.
“That is our j-job,” Lightner said in that soft tone of voice that somehow made his listeners do what he wanted.
Hy needed to work on a tone like that instead of using his size or brute strength to get answers. Although he’d have been plenty happy to get some answers out of Richards with his fists.
Richards’s forehead was creased with suspicion, but he answered, just as Hy knew he would. “About three years.”
“How did you m-meet?”
“I don’t really remember.”
For a rich lawyer, Richards wasn’t the best liar in the world. His name wasn’t in Frumkin’s book, so whatever he was hiding, he wasn’t being extorted.
“Did you know him by any other n-n-names?”
Richards’s expression was shuttered, but whatever he saw on the Englishman’s face made him sigh.
“Fine. I knew he was Frumkin, he told me when he hired me. He said he couldn’t use that name without dragging his past up all over again.” He hesitated and then added, “He seemed to regret what he’d done and was trying to turn a new leaf. Besides, it’s not my affair what my clients want to call themselves.”
That might have been true, but that didn’t mean Richards needed to accept work from a man like Frumkin. To Hy’s way of thinking it showed just what sort of lawyer he was: the immoral kind who could be bought.
“What other business do you m-manage for him?”
“Business?”
Lightner briefly showed his teeth; it was the sort of smile that made Hy’s neck hairs stand up—even though he wasn’t the target. “Why d-do I feel you are being less than forthcoming, Mr. R-R-Richards?”
Richards swallowed loudly enough for Hy to hear him. “My clerk collects rents for him, makes deposits, that sort of thing.”
Lightner remained quiet.
“Every month, on the eighth, people come in and pay.” Richards volunteered.
“For?”
Richards shrugged. “I don’t know—various things.”
Lightner sighed.
Richards raised his hands. “Fine, fine. I got the feeling people owed him money.”
“For?” Lightner said again.
“I don’t know,” he insisted.
Hy thought he was a lying turd, and not even a convincing one.
“When was the l-last time you spoke to Mr. Beauchamp?”
“You mean in person?”
Lightner nodded.
“Beakman!”
Both Hy and Lightner startled at the sudden yell, which was followed by the scrape of a chair and rapidly moving footsteps. The spindly clerk who’d let them into the office poked his head around the doorframe.
“Yes, sir?”
“When did I last see Mr. Beauchamp?”
“That would be December fourth, sir. He came here to sign the papers on the Elm Street building.”
Richards snapped his fingers. “Ah, that’s right. It’s a small property he just bought—a hen roost.”
Lightner had already shown Hy the deed for that building—the same building Frumkin’s daughter now lived in. Neither of them figured that was a coincidence.
“You’re sure of the d-date?” Lightner asked the clerk.
Before the clerk could speak, Richards gave a smug laugh that made Hy want to punch him. “Beakman remembers everything he’s ever seen—he’s like a walking ledger.”
The clerk’s pale cheeks darkened at the other man’s proprietary boasting, as if Beakman was a dog who had performed a nifty trick.
“He takes care of all Frumkin’s business.” Richards grinned self-importantly. “We offer full-service agency.”
Lightner ignored the lawyer, instead swiveling around in his chair until he was facing the hovering clerk. “Is that the l-last communication you had with him?”
“No, sir. I received another letter right before the end of the year.” His eyes flickered, as if he were searching for something inside his head. “It was a letter that mentioned he was going to New Orleans.”
“Did he say why?”
“Er, to visit family.”
“Do you know who, sp-specifically?”
Beakman’s eyes slid from Lightner to Richards back to Lightner. “No, sir. He’d never mentioned family before.”
“Did he leave a way to contact him?”
“He said to send anything care of general delivery and that he’d let me know when he was sure of his plans.”
“Did he m-mention when he might return?”
“He indicated it was a stay of unspecified duration and said I should continue paying for the upkeep of both his household and all the other properties. He said to keep the bills for service and that he’d go over everything when he returned, which is what we normally did at quarter’s end. He didn’t know when he’d return but mentioned he’d be out of contact for a while. Said he’d booked passage on a boat to New Orleans and planned to lay about, do nothing, and enjoy a relaxing journey.”
Hy saw Lightner’s lips twitch and knew he was thinking the same thing as Hy: that Frumkin had enjoyed one hell of a relaxing journey.
“Oh, there is one other thing that might be important,” Beakman hesitated and glanced at his employer, as if seeking permission to speak without being spoken to first.
Richards churned his hand in the air in a hurry up with it gesture.
“Um, did you say that Mr. Beauchamp was, er, dead, Detective Inspector?”
“Have you been eavesdropping, Beakman?” Richards demanded, puffing up like an angry hen.
“Yes, Mr. Beakman. What w-was it you had to s-s-say?” Lightner asked quietly, before Richards could launch into a harangue.
Beakman’s eyes slid to his boss and then to Lightner. “Well, sir, it’s about the letter that I received in December—from Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Yes?”
“The handwriting seems … well, I noticed at the time that it didn’t look like his.”
Hy sat up in his chair and saw Lightner perk up as well.
“Do you have the letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you pl-please bring it to me—along with something else wr-wr-wr-written by Mr. Frumkin?”
Beakman nodded and disappeared.
“Are you thinking the letter might be forged?” Richards asked.
Lightner merely smiled and jotted something in his notebook.
Hy bit back a laugh at the flash of irritation on the lawyer’s face; watching Lightner snub the arrogant man was almost as good as watching him give Richards a proper drubbing.
He put the lawyer out of his mind and tried to wrap his mind around the bizarre collection of details they seemed to be accumulating. So far, nothing about this case was normal.
Hy looked at Richards, but the man avoided his eyes. He was sweating. A lot. It was true the day was hot, but his office was on the northeast side of the building, and it was probably cooler inside than out.
Richards’s eyes flickered to Hy and then quickly away when he saw he was looking at him.
“What the hell is taking you so damned long?” Richards bellowed.
Lightner glanced up from his writing and frowned at the lawyer before raising one eyebrow at Hy.
Hy shrugged. Who knew why the lawyer was getting so wound up.
“Coming, sir.” The sound of fast-moving shoes came from the hallway, and Beakman hurried into the room, clutching a fistful of papers.
“Here you are, my lord.” Beakman gave him the documents on the top of the file. “Here are two letters he wrote last year—the December seventeenth letter and one from the summer.”
Hy leaned over and looked as Lightner held the two letters next to each other. “What do you think, Detective?”
“They don’t look anything alike.”
Lightner nodded.
“Do you know if Frumkin had a secretary?” Hy asked. “Maybe that’s who wrote the earlier letter?”
Beakman shook his head. “It’s common practice for a secretary to leave either their initials or mark at the bottom of the page. Look at the signatures on both letters—although they’re very close, the ‘B’ is slightly different.”
Beakman came near enough to point at the two letters. .
“The ‘B’ looks to be written in Spencerian script—which is what the entire December letter is written in.” Beakman bounced slightly on his heels, as if he were excited.
“I b-beg your pardon?” Lightner asked, sparing Hy from having to do so. “But what do you mean by Spencerian?”
Beakman handed Lightner the remaining item in his hand, a slim, soft-cover booklet titled Platt Rogers Spencer: Theory of Penmanship.
The clerk opened the book and showed them a page full of fancy letters. “This is Mr. Spencer’s new method. Mr. Frumkin was an older gentleman—in his late fifties or early sixties, I should think. He wouldn’t have been taught his letters this way when he was young because it’s only been around about thirty years. I’ve learned the method by correspondence course,” he added proudly as Hy and Lightner looked from the book to the two documents. “I suppose it’s possible that Mr. Beauchamp—er, Frumkin—recently took Mr. Spencer’s course,” Beakman added. “Somebody new to the penmanship might not use it consistently and that would explain the difference between the two letters.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Lighter smiled, the expression genuine. “Thank you, Mr. Beakman. What an excellent ob-ob-observation.”
Beakman’s ears turned pink, and he dropped his gaze under the probably unprecedented praise.
“So what are you saying?” Richards demanded. “You think somebody forged a letter based on a few different looking letters and a slightly different signature? My handwriting changes if I’m tired, if the lighting is poor—for a dozen different reasons.” He glared at his employee, clearly unhappy at the implications: that he might have been acting on instructions from a forged letter.
Hy didn’t envy poor Beakman after they left.
“I’d like to keep these,” Lightner said, as if Richards had never spoken.
Richards pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. “Just a minute, sir. Those are original legal documents—and also private and confidential communications between me and a client. You can’t just—”
“You may go to the Eighth Precinct and ask Sergeant Billings for a receipt for the papers. I will return them unharmed when I am finished.” Lightner smiled and stood, nodding once to Beakman and leaving Richards gaping.
As Hy shut the lawyer’s door behind them, he marveled at Lightner’s high-handed behavior with Richards. That wasn’t like Lightner at all, in Hy’s limited experience.
As if he’d spoken out loud, Lightner glanced up at him, a glint in his eyes. “I b-believe Mr. Richards is as cr-cr-crooked as a corkscrew.”
Hy laughed. “My thought too, sir. You reckon he knew about the extortion racket?”
“I find it difficult to believe he wouldn’t. And I’m certain that he w-w-would have pr-pr-profited from it if he were collecting the money at his pl-pl-place of business.”
Hy thought so too. “What do you reckon about the handwriting? You think somebody else wrote that letter in December?”
“Beakman made a g-g-good case for it.”
“If Frumkin didn’t write it, then he probably didn’t book that ticket to New Orleans—the killer must have. So, you reckon he was murdered here, in the city?”
“It seems likely.”
“We could show this to Keen and see if he can remember what the letter he got looked like,” Hy said, doubtful the man would recall after so long.
“It c-can’t hurt to show him.”
“So, you think the killer wrote it?”
“I think that is a f-f-fair guess.”
“I don’t get it, sir,” Hy said. “What’s the point of the letter? I mean, if it was the killer who wrote it, why?”
“It seems as though we are being st-steered.”
“Steered? You mean toward New Orleans?”
Lightner nodded.
Hy shook his head. “That takes some brass balls, if you know what I mean.”
Lightner chuckled. “Indeed, Detective. But then the entire m-m-murder takes brass b-balls.”
Hy couldn’t argue with that. “Where to next, sir?”
“I’m going to p-p-pay a visit to a telegraph office.”
Hy frowned. “Sir?”
Lightner smiled at Hy’s confusion. “I can’t help thinking about the body ending up in New Orleans. And now we have these t-t-two letters—one of which we suspect is f-f-forged—that mention the deceased having family in New Orleans. Why?”
“The New Orleans wharf agent’s letter said the police didn’t have anything on an Albert Beauchamp—that’s why they sent the body back. You thinkin’ maybe they’d know him under Frumkin?”
“Or m-maybe under Albert Dupuy.”
“Ah,” Hy said, taking his meaning. “Or one of the other names he used.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, the only telegraph office I know of is way down on Wall.” Hy looked at the street, which was already jammed with holiday traffic. “It’s gonna be hell getting down there today, sir.”
“I shall go,” Lightner said. “It doesn’t need both of us.”
Hy brightened. “Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” the older man said, raising his walking stick to hail a hackney. Although the street was hectic and crowded, the Englishman’s well-dressed person was still enough to attract immediate attention.
“I understand there w-w-will be festivities tonight,” Lightner said as a battered carriage slid to a stop beside them.
Hy chuckled. “There are already festivities.”
As if to punctuate his words, a series of loud pops came from somewhere nearby.
Lightner jolted and Hy couldn’t help noticing he looked rather grim as he opened the door to the hackney.
“Well, I shall see you the day after t-t-tomorrow, Det-Detective.”
Hy had to work a bit harder to wave down another hackney. As he waited, he thought back on the odd glint in Lightner’s eyes when he’d asked about the holiday festivities: it had been dread.