According to his hackney driver, there were eleven telegraph offices in the city of New York.
Jasper had the man take him to the nearest: Magnetic Telegraph Company on Broadway.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” the young man at a Dutch door said before Jasper could even open his mouth.
“But the sign says—”
“Yeah, I know what it says. But we’re closed.” And then he shut the door.
There were harried-looking men milling around, and Jasper approached one. “Is there s-some sort of problem?”
The younger man—poorly shaven and wearing only shirtsleeves, a vest, and a positively filthy stock—looked annoyed at Jasper’s question. “Yeah, you could say that. Some jackass cut a bunch of the lines going south and west.”
“D-Does that mean there is n-n-no way to send a message to New Orleans?”
The young man glanced at Jasper, as if seeing him for the first time. “Say, where are you from?”
Jasper frowned. “England. Other lines?” he reminded him when the man just stared, as if trying to recall where he’d met Jasper. Jasper already knew they’d never met, but any New York City newsman worth his salt would have heard about him.
“The New York, Albany, and Buffalo, and the Washington National are both on the same block of Wall,” he said. “Those’ll be up. It’ll take a hell of a lot longer to get the message out, but until they do the repairs—which won’t be until late afternoon tomorrow—that’s all there is. Those offices close at seven.”
Which meant Jasper had to hurry. “Thank you.”
“Hey, fellah,” a voice called out as he went to hail a hackney.
Jasper turned to find three men leaning against the telegraph building, looking unhurried, unlike everyone else.
The one who’d called out grinned at him. “Yeah, you. Come’ere.”
Jasper’s curiosity got the better of him and he went closer.
“I got something quicker and more reliable,” he said, his stub of a cigar so short that it was a wonder his mustache wasn’t on fire.
“No problems with cut wires,” one of the other men added, making all three men snicker in a slightly sinister fashion.
“I beg your pardon?” Jasper asked.
“You’ll never make it down to Wall in time,” the smoker said.
Jasper took out his watch; it wasn’t quite six. “I’ve g-got an hour.”
“Not today you don’t—they’re closing early tonight. The streets’ll be jammed even worse when the bonfires start,” he added when Jasper hesitated. “And they’ll be burning a George over at Bowling Green Park tonight.”
Jasper didn’t want to ask, but … “Er, a G-George?”
All three laughed. “Yeah, it’s a tradition—burning an effigy of George III.”
Jasper had never heard of that particular celebration, but it didn’t sound like somewhere an Englishman should go.
“You can’t make it down to Wall, but I’m still open,” the first man said in a wheedling tone just as something beneath his coat emitted a soft cooing sound. He reached inside and brought out a bright-eyed pigeon. “I’ll make you a deal, pal. Lazarus here will deliver faster and safer than a wire. Where to?”
“New Orleans.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I’ve got birds for Boston, Pittsburgh, Newport, and Philly.”
“Elwood does Philly to Baltimore, doesn’t he?” the second man asked, his coat also cooing.
“Nah, he ain’t got birds there no more. His Bessie got sick, all her squabs along with her.”
“What about—”
Jasper left the men to their pigeon discussion and turned back to the street.
He’d heard of men like Paul Reuter using a combination of rail, telegraph, and carrier pigeon. The Prussian newsman had moved to England to put together some sort of consortium a few years back.
He lifted his cane, and one of the small open carriages he was seeing more and more rolled to a stop in front of him.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
For a moment, he was torn as to what address to give, wondering if perhaps the men had been mistaken—or perhaps they were outright lying to drum up business for their pigeons.
He sighed, looked at his watch again, even though he knew the time. The pigeon men, as self-serving as they were, were likely right: the streets were clogged and he’d never make it. But another idea occurred to him.
As much as he wanted to go home, Jasper decided he had two stops to make before he could, in clear conscience, spend an hour cooling in a lukewarm bath and smoking one of his special madak cigars.
“The Eighth Precinct,” he told the waiting driver.
Jasper took off his hat and set it on the seat beside him. The temperature today was causing his skull to ache. He’d noticed the metal plate was uncomfortable when the weather was either too hot or too cold. What he needed to do was go home, cool down, and relax for the evening.
Although relaxation might be elusive this evening, depending on what mischief his newest employee, John, had been up to in his absence.
Jasper sighed; best not to borrow trouble.
He’d given the staff the following day off, although Mrs. Freedman had tried to insist on staying, but Jasper had put his foot down.
As for Paisley actually taking a day off, Jasper couldn’t see it happening. He didn’t recall the older man ever taking a holiday of any sort. Even at Christmas he never went away. He’d valeted Jasper since he was sixteen. In a few days Jasper would be thirty-five, meaning Paisley would have worked for him eighteen years. More than half his life.
It occurred to him, as the hackney paused to allow an omnibus to pass, that he knew about as much about Paisley now as he had all those years ago.
He couldn’t even say that he knew the other man’s age—although he looked no more than ten years older than Jasper. He knew Paisley came from a family that were all in service and expected that was why he’d never seemed particularly bothered with taking holidays off.
Now that they were in America, visiting family was not possible and Jasper somehow doubted the reserved valet made new friends easily. Certainly not among Jasper’s small staff. He knew that being in charge of his household kept Paisley both above and apart from all the other servants.
No, dragging Paisley halfway around the world didn’t leave the man with many options when it came to visiting family or friends.
Nor do you have many options, his snide companion chimed in. Not that you had many in England, either.
That was true. His social circle had always been small, but even more so after coming home from the war.
Social circle.
Jasper ignored the laughter.
The cab rolled to a stop in front of the police station.
“W-Wait for me, I shan’t be more than a minute,” Jasper told the driver. “I want you to take me to the Union Club after this.” He tossed the man a coin.
The driver looked at the money and grinned. “Take your time.”
Billings—who was arguing with two uniformed coppers and a very intoxicated pair of women who looked to have been fighting—nodded at Jasper as he entered the station house.
Jasper took the stairs two at a time, marveling at the lack of activity for a Friday.
He suspected it was the mayor’s recent acceptance of the court decision affirming the legality of the Metropolitan Police Act that accounted for the strange atmosphere: the Municipal Police were officially disbanded.
If things had been at sixes and sevens before, they were now at tens and elevens.
Jasper wasn’t surprised to find Davies’s office dark this late in the day but he was surprised to discover his door unlocked.
He placed the mandatory—and very brief—report for the Frumkin case on Davies’s desk and shut the door.
The desk sergeant was alone when Jasper returned to the ground floor.
“Good evening, Inspector,” Billings said.
“G-G-Good evening, Sergeant. I just l-l-left something in the captain’s office and noticed it was unlocked. Would you—”
“Aye, ’course I’ll lock it. Sometimes I think the captain would forget his head if it weren’t screwed on.”
Jasper smiled. “Th-Thank you. Will you be celebrating t-tomorrow?”
“Aye, I’ll be off misbehavin’. And you, sir? Lookin’ forward to your first Fourth of July?”
“I am,” Jasper lied. He was no big lover of fireworks and gratuitous explosions, which he’d learned were a big part of the celebration. “Where does a person go to enjoy themselves?” he asked, hoping he wouldn’t say the Union Square green in front of Jasper’s house.
“The Battery, if you have to be in the city. ’Course over on Long Island you’d have some of the biggest bonfires and nonstop fireworks.”
So he should thank the stars that he was in Manhattan.
Jasper had just entered the Union Club when someone called out his name.
He turned to see Edward Cooper waving and headed over to a table surrounded by men. They were speaking loudly and raucously and garnering fierce scowls from some of the older members of the club.
Jasper thought he recognized a few of the men, but his memory was so lamentable he didn’t try to greet anyone by name. Besides, Cooper enjoyed introducing him around, like a performing monkey that he’d discovered and had a fondness for.
“Working with New York City’s finest, are you?” a man called Nathan Shank—owner of the Mercantile Bank—asked him with a chortle, the question earning laughter all around.
“Lord, working with the Irish must be like training dogs,” another man, whose name Jasper had already forgotten, added, earning another round of laughter.
“Except dogs are smarter and better behaved.”
The men roared.
Cooper was the only man at the table to look slightly uncomfortable with the anti-Irish jesting that took hold after that.
Jasper had to hide his irritation as he listened to men who were supposedly of his class behave in a manner far more egregious than the people they were mocking.
Paisley was Irish, as was Law—at least partly. Paisley had saved Jasper’s life more than once and Law wouldn’t hesitate to risk his own neck for Jasper.
His temper, which was generally as sluggish as a sleeping bear, was beginning to rouse.
He was just considering being rude and pulling Cooper aside when an effete-looking man with a sneering face said, “Who is for Solange’s tonight?”
His words were greeted by a hail of enthusiastic voices.
The men collected themselves, and several waved for a servant to fetch their hats, canes, and coats.
As the table broke up, Jasper turned to Cooper. “Could I have a qu-qu-quick word?”
“Of course.” Peter stepped away from the table and Jasper followed.
“I know you have a telegraphy machine at your office and I was wondering—”
“Of course, of course,” Cooper said. “The boys are all still up there and will be for some hours,” he added, motioning vaguely in the direction of his business office. “Just tell them who you are and they’ll be glad to help.”
Jasper smiled, genuinely grateful. “Th-Th-Thank you, I’ve had a devil of a time finding an office to take my message.”
“There’s been some appalling vandalism all up and down the lines. Not just here, but in other cities.”
“So I understand. Well, th-thank you.”
Cooper hesitated, and then said, “I say, care to join us over at Solange’s after you’ve sent your message?”
Jasper looked at the other man’s slightly sheepish expression, not wanting to think what it was about that particular brothel the men found so appealing.
“Look,” Cooper said, lowering his voice. “I know you probably heard things about Solange’s during the Dunbarton investigation. But she has some of the cleanest girls around. You could do a lot worse.”
And he could also do a lot better.
“I’m afraid I have a pr-pr-prior engagement,” he lied.
Cooper nodded, his eyes sliding away.
“Coop! You coming?” one of the men yelled from the front door.
An old man with ferocious white muttonchops glared at the yeller. “Here then. Keep your voices down—this is not a bloody bowling alley,” he scolded, his words drawing a muttered apology from Cooper and a derisive hoot from the noisy reveler.
Cooper gave Jasper a last look and then joined his friend and the two men disappeared.
Jasper lingered a moment, waiting for Cooper and his friends to disperse, not wishing to get tangled up in what would likely be a race for hackneys.
Once the coast was clear, he set out on foot to Cooper’s office, which was only a few blocks down from the Union Club.
He found the clerks still beavering away, and left them with his message, address, and plenty of money to cover the telegram, a lengthy return telegram, and a city messenger.
Now he could go home and barricade himself indoors until July fifth.