Jasper had heard of bowling, of course, but had never done it.
Apparently the pastime originated in New York City, the very first bowling saloon a fashionable place called Knickerbocker Lanes.
The establishment that Captain Sanger had told him about—Diamond Alley—was far less august.
“They get busted for gambling all the time,” Sanger said, after finally admitting to Frumkin’s hold over him. “If you go after six o’clock, on any day, you’ll find Desmond Buckles at Diamond Alley.” He’d snorted, his expression one of self-loathing. “Hell, you’ll probably see me there tonight, too.”
Jasper disembarked from his hackney and paid, taking a moment to examine the exterior of the bowling saloon before entering.
It was past six, but the day was still boiling hot. Even so, the door to Diamond Alley was closed and there were no windows open. If not for the faint lights beyond the frosted glass, he would have believed the establishment was closed.
The saloon was on the border of the Fourteenth and Sixth Wards, the street a mix of cigar makers, vegetable stands, and small service businesses like cobblers and reweavers.
When Jasper pushed open the black-painted door, he was momentarily stunned by the fug of smoke, sweat, and sour beer that engulfed him.
And then there was the noise.
To the left was a bar and to the right were the bowling lanes. Sanger had told him a little about the sport, describing clay lanes and wooden pins and balls made from the hardwood guayacan. But the captain had failed to mention just how loud a bowling alley was.
Jasper went to the left.
The long wooden bar ran the entire length of the wall and had perhaps a dozen barstools, a good three-quarters of which were occupied, even this early in the evening.
Jasper took an empty stool while he waited for the bartender, surveying the customers bellied up to the bar.
It was a mixed crowd. There were men in well-made suits and men wearing neckerchiefs and rough canvas shirts and trousers. There were men quietly chatting in groups of two or three and men all alone, staring blankly at nothing. Sanger had told him the place had the biggest collection of gamblers of any bowling saloon in the city.
“You can get away with any sort of wager there,” he’d said, his eyes bleak. “They get closed down from time to time, but they always come back. It’s a hole, a black hole into which I’ve poured almost every penny I’ve made.” He’d snorted. “Well, what I haven’t paid to Beauchamp.”
The bartender stopped in front of him, wiping his hands on a none-too-clean rag. “What’ll you have?”
“Bourbon.”
“Top shelf?”
Jasper looked at the single shelf behind the bar.
“The best?” the bartender explained with an irritable sigh.
Jasper smiled. “Please.”
“He’s a miserable bastard.”
He turned to his left and found a short man in a loud plaid sack coat smirking at him.
In London a man could sit in a bar for hours and not speak to anyone. It was understood that when one came in alone, one wanted to drink, not talk.
“This your first time here?’ his new friend asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Joe Battaglia.” He extended a hand.
“J-J-Jasper Lightner.”
Joe’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t comment. “Where’dya usually bowl?”
“I’m actually here l-l-looking for somebody.”
The bartender plunked a cloudy-looking glass down on the bar. “Twenty-five cents.”
“Who’re you lookin’ for?” Joe asked.
“Desmond Buckles.”
Both men snorted as Jasper slid the correct coinage across the bar.
“If it’s Desmond you’re lookin’ for, he should be in—”
The bar door opened, casting dirty light over the interior of the saloon.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Joe said, glancing over his shoulder.
Sanger had described Buckles as resembling a stork wearing a coonskin cap.
When Jasper confessed his ignorance of such headgear, Sanger had given his first genuine smile. “It’s a hat made from a racoon—it’s supposedly Iroquois—or maybe some other tribe, I don’t know. Buckles claims he’s part Mohawk.”
Jasper had no opinion on the matter of the man’s heritage, but Buckles did indeed resemble a stork. His legs were long and skinny, his nose a veritable beak on his small, round head. He looked to be near Jasper’s age but moved with the jerky awkwardness of a far younger man.
Buckles loped toward the bar, a thirsty expression on his face. “Hey Danny, hey Joe. Give me a double Kilbeggan, Danny.”
The bartender’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a bit rich. You celebratin’ somethin’, Des?”
Buckles gave a braying laugh. “You’re bloody right I am.”
“This gent’s here to see you,” Joe said, helpfully, as Buckles lowered himself onto the barstool on Joe’s left.
“Oh? Who’re you?” Buckles shot Jasper a suspicious look.
“We have a m-m-mutual acquaintance—Captain Sanger.”
Buckles’s stork-like features tightened, his lids lowering over his already sleepy-looking eyes. “Oh, you know Jeffrey?”
The bartender put a glass down in front of Buckles.
“I’ll g-g-get that,” Jasper said.
Buckles grinned at him. “I appreciate it.”
“Thirty-five cents,” the bartender said.
Joe smacked the bar with the flat of his hand, the loud crack causing customers to startle up and down the bar. “Hey! I know who you are—you’re that English copper, the duke’s son.” Joe laughed delightedly. “I read about you in the paper.”
“That is correct,” Jasper admitted.
Buckles didn’t look nearly so thrilled, and his high forehead furrowed.
“C-Could I have a moment of your time, Mr. Buckles?” Jasper stood and gestured to the cluster of tables that was unfortunately closer to the din of the bowling lanes, but away from the curious bartender and the loquacious Mr. Battaglia.
“Er, um, what’s this about?”
Jasper just stared.
Buckles sighed, snatched up his glass, and stomped toward the closest chair, flinging himself into it. He then had to lick his knuckles to lap up the whiskey he’d spilled.
“What are you celebrating?” Jasper asked, taking the chair beside rather than across from Buckles so he wouldn’t have to shout.
“Why do you wanna talk to me?”
“I want to t-t-talk about Mr. Albert Beauchamp.”
Buckles shuddered, and his eyelids fluttered for a moment before he shook his head. “Look, I know what you’re thinkin’, but …” He grimaced and took another slurp of whiskey.
“What am I thinking, Mr. Buckles?’
“That I killed him.”
“Did you k-kill him?”
“No! Jesus. Of course I didn’t. But if Sanger sent you, then you know what’s been goin’ on.”
“Why don’t you tell m-m-me your version of what has been going on?”
Buckles made a remarkably stork-like noise of frustration. “The man is dead. If Sanger sent you to me, then you know I don’t think him bein’ dead is any tragedy.”
Jasper waited.
“Ah, Christ,” Buckles groaned. “This is gonna cost me my job, isn’t it?’
Jasper hoped so, but now wasn’t a good time to admit that. “What you t-tell me will influence what I say to your superiors.”
Buckles heaved several heavy sighs, plucked off his hat, and fiddled with the animal tail still attached. “It started with Sanger and a boatload from the West Indies. There were three that had yellow fever. Sanger swore they’d put them all up in a room somewhere out of the way and not let them mix with others. But the rest of them—one hundred and nineteen workers—would be punished if the ship had to go into quarantine. You know how long that can take?”
Sanger had said much the same, but Jasper shook his head.
“Six months. Sometimes they just put the ship out at anchor and wait. Everyone suffers—the people on the ship, the owners, the crew. Everyone. Sanger swore they’d take care of it—that they’d just put the sick people up somewhere and make sure they didn’t spread anything, and I believed him. And you know what? He did take care of it,” Buckles said before Jasper could answer. “There was no big outbreak, nobody died because of what we did.”
As far as they knew.
“I mean, people have to eat, right? These quarantine restrictions are just nuts when it comes to the average person. I mean, really—is what we did such a crime?”
Jasper ignored his question. “When was that?”
He flung up his hands. “God, I dunno—maybe a year an’ a half ago, maybe two.” He made a low keening sound that could be heard even over the racket. “What can I say? I took money from people so they didn’t have to go into quarantine. When my boss finds out I won’t just lose my job, I’ll go to jail.”
Jasper thought he was probably correct.
“What did Beauchamp w-want with you?”
“What do you think? He wanted to know who else was paying me to look the other way with shipments—or he’d go to Haggerty. He’s the head of the Health Department,” he said at Jasper’s questioning look.
Buckles shook his head, his expression one of grudging amazement. “God, Beauchamp just latched on and wouldn’t let go, you know? I had to make sure I was always the inspector for whatever he wanted—or else, you know? He musta been makin’ a killing off bringin’ people in. Did he even offer me a dime? No, ’course not. But he made sure to get his cut offa our cargo. The man was a bloodsucking leech.”
“How did he f-f-f-find out about what you and Sanger were doing to begin with?”
“Geez, I dunno. The guy was a snake. No, he was a lower than a snake because they don’t fuck over their own kind, do they?”
For the first time, Jasper had to agree with the other man.
There wasn’t a soul on Sanger’s ship except a guard. Everyone else had either gone home or was spending their pay packet in one of the many bars that littered the waterfront.
The ship’s watchman—a rheumy-eyed old man reeking of whiskey—said he saw the captain accompany a couple of the shipping line’s lawyers back and forth to shore over the past few days, but he didn’t know dates and specific times.
Hy had hoped to rule out at least one suspect, but it wasn’t to be.
As things stood, Sanger had ample opportunity to meet up with Fowler, shank her, and throw her in the river. Although it didn’t seem like he had any reason to kill her.
The Adelphia—less than a five-minute walk from Sanger’s ship—was a nice hotel, but it had a worn feeling to it, the guests mostly merchants and off-duty sailors.
Hy saw only one unattended woman in the lobby, which meant Anita Fowler would have stood out.
Hy waited until the desk clerk finished with his customer before approaching. “I’m Detective Law from the Eighth Precinct.”
The concierge—who looked to be around Hy’s age—perked up at the sight of Hy’s badge. “This must be about the dead woman.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Anthony Zachman,” he said as they shook. “But you can call me Tony.”
Hy took the picture of Fowler from his pocket. “Have you seen this woman, Tony?”
Zachman nodded. “Yeah, I remember her. She was a looker.”
Hy ignored his leer. “You checked her in—when was that?”
“Maybe seven or so.” Tony flipped a few pages of the big register on the desk and then turned the book to face Hy. “That’s her.” He pointed to the name Mrs. Anita Fowler. “She said her husband was going to be joining her.” Tony smirked as he turned the book back around. “She was acting so nervous that I didn’t really believe her, but then I saw her with some guy later, so I guess I was wrong.”
Hy’s pulse sped up. “Did you get a look at him?”
“Oh yeah. He was an older guy—maybe forties. Not very big—just an inch or so taller than me.”
Tony was about five-seven or eight by Hy’s reckoning.
“He had brown hair, a beard but no mustache, and spectacles.”
He’d just described Doctor Powell to a T.
“Did they go up to Fowler’s room?”
“Er, not that I saw. In fact, they were arguing so loudly that I had to send over the doorman to ask them to keep it down.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“I couldn’t hear the actual words.”
“Did they stop arguing?”
Tony shrugged. “I dunno. They went outside.”
“Did you see her again?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t come back. The ship from Providence ran a few hours late that night, so we got real busy and I had my hands full.”
“What time did you see her and the guy?”
“Maybe around nine thirty or closer to ten.”
“When did your shift end?”
Tony pulled a face. “I worked back-to-back shifts ’cause the night clerk didn’t show. I didn’t get out until ten the next morning.”
The bartender from Flannigan’s found the body around seven in the morning, so that meant she was murdered between ten and seven.
“I’d like to see the room she was in.”
“Er, well, that’s going to be difficult.”
Hy sighed. “You rented it to somebody else.”
“Hey, this is a busy week for us. She just paid for the one night. When the maid went up to her room after checkout time she found her stuff still there. The room was booked, so she packed up the bags and brought them down here.”
“Where?”
“They’re in the lockup.”
“I’ll want to take them.”
“Sure, sure.” Tony pulled a heavy ring of keys from his trouser pocket.
“I’d like to speak to whoever cleaned the room,” Hy said, following Tony into a room packed with luggage.
Tony checked a few paper tags before grabbing a valise and a large suitcase from beside the door. “These are the two.”
Hy took the bags and put them aside while Tony relocked the storage door.
“I still want to speak to the maid,” Hy reminded him.
“Ah. Marta cleaned the room, but, well, her English isn’t so good.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Hy said.
“I’ll send somebody for her after I take care of this.”
This was a customer waiting at the desk.
While Tony dealt with the guest, Hy opened the smaller bag, which looked like an overnight bag. It held a hairbrush, tooth powder, and other toiletry items, but nothing of any value.
He put everything back in the bag and then opened the suitcase. A quick investigation showed a pair of dancing slippers, a heavy shawl, four dresses, stockings, and various undergarments. The suitcase itself was well made and looked almost brand new. It was heavy cowhide, the smooth surface barely scuffed.
He ran his hand over the crisp taffeta lining and frowned. It felt like—
“This is Marta, Detective.”
Hy looked up to find Zachman standing beside a terrified-looking young girl.
“She speaks German or Yiddish. Do you speak either?” Zachman asked with a slight smile.
“My knowledge of German is limited,” Hy admitted, not saying what it was limited to, which was mainly words you didn’t speak in mixed company.
“You ask me and I’ll ask her,” Tony said.
“Was there anything unusual about Anita Fowler’s room?”
Zachman spoke rapidly, the language wasn’t German, meaning it must be Yiddish, which Hy had occasionally heard but had no idea what country it came from.
Marta responded in the same language.
When she’d finished, Tony said, “She went in to do the turndown, and the room didn’t look used. The guest had only unpacked one dress and her toiletries, everything else was still inside the three bags.”
“There were three bags?” Hy asked.
Zachman repeated his question and even Hy could understand the answer.
“Three,” Marta enunciated, staring at Hy.
Zachman frowned and said something else to her, and the two went back and forth.
“What are you saying?” Hy asked when he could get a word in.
“I told her she must be wrong—that there were only two bags. But she says there were two bigger bags and a small one,” Tony said.
Hy saw genuine worry in the younger man’s eyes. “I didn’t steal a bag, Detective.”
Hy didn’t think he had, either. That would have been stupid when he could have just opened the bags and removed any valuables, and Anthony didn’t look stupid.
“Ask her what time she turned down the bed,” he said.
“Nine o’clock,” Tony translated.
Hy nodded and made a note.
“If she went out later, maybe she took the third bag with her then,” Tony said.
Hy finished what he was writing before asking Marta, “No signs of a struggle? Nothing broken? No blood?”
Tony hesitated before turning to the maid and speaking.
The girl made a distressed noise, shaking her head before Tony had even finished, tears slipping from her huge brown eyes and sliding down her cheeks.
“No, there was nothing like that,” Tony said.
The maid said something else.
“She’s sorry for crying, but she’s very sad about the woman,” Tony translated, and then shrugged, as if to say Women.
Hy felt like an arse for making her cry. “Tell her that’s all.”
Marta left and Hy asked Tony, “Who was the doorman you called in?”
“Herman—that’s him over there,” he pointed to two doormen. “He’s the taller one.”
Hy took out one of the cards that Lightner had printed up for him. “If you or anyone else thinks of anything—anything—tell them to come by the Eighth Precinct and ask for either me or Detective Inspector Lightner.”
Tony took the card. “Sure thing. You wonder why a pretty girl like that would jump off a pier.”
Hy didn’t set him straight.
Herman and the other doorman were laughing about something when Hy approached.
“I’m Detective Law.” He showed them his badge and they both stood up straighter. “I need to borrow Herman for a few minutes,” Hy said to the smaller bellboy, whose uniform was about three sizes too big.
“Uh, yeah, of course.”
Hy led Herman away from the hotel entrance.
“Er, what’d I do?” Herman asked.
He smiled at the younger man, who was tow-headed, broad-shouldered, and almost as tall as Hy. “Got a guilty conscience, Herman?”
Herman’s eyes bulged. “No.”
“Don’t worry—I’m not here about you. It’s about the argument Tony brought you inside to break up the other night.
Herman frowned and then nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember. The looker and the fellah with glasses.”
“Tell me about them,” Hy said.
“She was really pretty. I mean really pretty. Blond, big blue eyes, and—” Herman made a gesture with both hands to indicate Anita Fowler was shapely.
“And him?”
“He wasn’t nothin’ special—maybe five foot ten or so, brown hair, beard, and thick glasses. Older than her—a lot older, maybe forty or so. Not a big guy. He looked upset—you know, eyes kinda wild, his face red, and he was holding his hat so tight he’d bent the brim pretty bad.”
“Could you hear what they were arguing about?”
“He wanted her to go somewhere with him.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I heard him say to just come back to the house and talk about it. But I dunno what it was,” he added before Hy could ask. “Anyhow, I asked them to go outside if they were gonna yell.”
“What happened?”
“He got all puffed up and told me to mind my own business. I told him keepin’ the lobby quiet and civil-like was my business. She said, ‘Quit it, Stephen.’”
Hy looked up from his notepad. “Stephen?”
“Yeah, that’s what she said.”
“Then what happened?”
“He gave me a dirty look, took her arm, and they went outside.”
“He took her arm? Did she struggle?”
“Naw, I would have said something if she hadn’t wanted to go.”
“Anything else?”
“I didn’t pay them any attention because this old lady checked in with about twenty trunks and she wanted all of ’em up in her room immediately. I had to go in and tell Tony to call Thomas—that was the other guy workin’—back from his break.” He paused, and then said, “But I did notice they were gone when I came back out.”
“Did you see either of them again?”
“Um, not the guy. But she must have gone back up to her room because I saw her come out again—it was just past eleven.”
“She went out at eleven? Was she with anyone?”
“Nope. I was gonna say somethin’ to her—you know, about the piers not bein’ the safest places to go walkin’ at night.”
You could say that again; more suspicious deaths occurred around the waterfront than anywhere else in the city—well, except for the Points.
“You didn’t?” Hy asked.
Herman’s lips wrinkled, his expression guilty. “Naw, I should have. But she was walkin’ fast—determined-like.”
“In what direction?”
“Er, that way.” He pointed toward Sanger’s ship.
“Was she carrying anything?”
Herman squinted, as if searching his memory. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t lookin’ at her hands.”
He had a pretty good idea what Herman had been looking at.
Hy did a quick sketch of the hotel, the nearby piers, and estimated the distance.
“She’s the one they mentioned in the paper—the jumper?”
Hy nodded absently. “Yep.”
“She sure didn’t seem like the sort.”
He looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno, she just seemed so—” His pale cheeks flushed. “This is gonna sound stupid, but she seemed pretty happy—even though she was arguing. I got the feeling she was sorry for the guy who was buggin’ her, you know? Being nice to him before she could give him the brush-off.” He shrugged. “She seemed happy,” he added again, more certainty in his voice. “Like maybe she was lookin’ forward to somethin’.” He amended, “Not like she was lookin’ forward to killin’ herself.”