Page 7 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)
C HAPTER 7
A brAHAM SQUINTED AS HE ENTERED the basement foyer of Central Station. Moving from the glare of the still-bright evening sun into the dim and dank interior left him blind—and his prisoner too. The man hit his hip on a nearby bench and stumbled, freeing a curse and his arguments. Again.
“You’ve got the wrong man. I swear it. It was Dupin! And now you’re letting that murderer get away.”
Abraham ignored the accusation. It didn’t matter what he said. The man was convinced, just like the one Abraham arrested yesterday. And the one on the day before that. Three arrests in as many days for brawling over the identity of E. A. Dupin. It was absurd how quickly people lost their heads when a reward hung in the balance. If they used any logic, they’d realize that anyone with access to a Dupin novel could quote the book. Just because Dupin wrote the original words did not make him guilty. It didn’t make him innocent either, but Abraham would not draw conclusions until the case came to trial.
He handed the brawler off to be processed and claimed an empty desk to write his report on the incident. Then he’d escape this stuffy building and return to patrolling downtown. He’d take the heat of summer and flaring tempers over the monotony of a clerical job any day. Even on the days when it felt like Cincinnati had gone mad with Dupin fever.
Halfway through his report, someone clapped him on the shoulder.
“Brilliant work on the Beadle case.” Talbot Lawson, the most respected detective on the force, stood over him with the gruff appearance of a man who’d missed an appointment or three with his razor. “Both men nabbed and several boys returned to their families. Not every patrolman can claim such success.”
Abraham rose and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“No thanks to it. Good work deserves recognition. When you finish up that report, Superintendent Carson wants you in his office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Abraham finished his detailed report and turned it in before knocking on Carson’s door. When he entered, Eugene Clemens leaned against a wall, and Detective Lawson sat in a chair. The open window behind where Superintendent Carson sat allowed in a wet and sticky breeze from the humid day; however, it did little to cool the sweatbox or dissipate the lingering scent of an extinguished cigar.
“Took you long enough.” Carson gestured to the only empty seat in the room—the punishment chair.
“If it’s all the same, sir, I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself. I assume you know Lawson and Clemens?”
Abraham acknowledged each man, and Clemens returned his nod with firmed lips and a cold stare. Their relationship had always been strained at best. While Abraham understood the necessary role the reporter played for the community, Clemens pushed ethical boundaries in order to get his stories. The man was more ambitious than the snake in the garden of Eden, and Abraham was certain he’d learned his trade from that fateful chapter in the Bible. Clemens asked questions that purposely twisted the truth to create stories that couldn’t outright be declared false but were far more sensational than they were factual. He was exceptionally skilled at unnerving officers and shaking loose information to include in his articles. Abraham looked forward to the day when he could strike his heel to Clemens’s head.
“Let’s get right to the point.” Carson dropped the pen in his hand and leaned back. “I’ve removed you from your beat, effective immediately.”
Abraham regretted not taking that seat. The blow was almost palpable, but he forced himself to remain standing at attention, awaiting whatever might come next.
“I’ve reassigned you to assist Lawson in the Dupin case. You’ll be working the day shift for now.”
Relief washed over him. Officers were often temporarily appointed as assistants. To be delegated partial responsibility for such a public investigation was an honor.
But Carson wasn’t finished. “I’ve been watching your work for several months. You’re observant with a keen mind. We need fresh eyes on this case, and I think you’ll be an asset. If all goes well, you can expect a permanent detective position.”
To become a detective at twenty-six was almost unheard of in the Cincinnati police department. Each detective on the force had well over twenty years of experience. Abraham had a mere three.
Lawson regarded him with fierce appraisal. Abraham must have met his approval, for the man rose and enthusiastically shook Abraham’s hand. “Congratulations. I’m eager to begin your training.”
“Don’t congratulate him yet.” As Lawson returned to his seat, Carson gathered papers on his desk and tapped them into alignment. “The negative publicity has drawn Mayor Jacobs’s attention. He plans to fire the entire department if we don’t bring this case to a swift end. Dupin is our only lead and the driving force behind this madness. Your first priority is to identify the man and bring him in for questioning. Clemens, share what you brought in earlier.”
Clemens retrieved a plain envelope from his coat pocket and extended it toward Abraham. “Dupin left this on my desk while I was away.”
A quick glance at the signature indicated it was Dupin, but anyone could have signed it. However, it was unlikely anyone else would be so adamant and detailed in the defense of his innocence or go so far as to suggest comparing the handwriting to a Dupin manuscript. Abraham frowned as he read the lengthy letter describing the reasons why Dupin couldn’t have committed the murders, including his alibis. Dupin admitted being at home to finish a manuscript was insufficient to persuade anyone of his innocence, but insisted his publisher could verify that he had a deadline the next day. As for the most recent murder, he’d been at the police station when it occurred. A brilliant stroke of luck if they could identify him.
“He was at the station? Which one?”
Lawson shook his head. “He didn’t give enough information. Even if we knew, we don’t know what capacity his presence entailed. Prisoner, officer, clerk, visitor, lawyer. The possibilities are too wide and undocumented for us to identify a specific suspect.”
An unfortunate truth. But it was something to keep in mind. “Did anyone see Dupin when he delivered the letter?”
Clemens shook his head. “I asked around, but no one remembers seeing him. People are always coming and going in our offices.”
Lawson scrubbed his chin. “Unless Dupin is familiar with which desk is yours, he would have had to ask for its location. Did you check with the front clerk to see if they could give a description?”
“Of course I did. You’re not the only one who can conduct an investigation.”
“But why deliver it to you at all?” Abraham asked. “It makes more sense for him to deliver the note to us. We’re the only ones who can dismiss him as a suspect.”
“He’s smart enough to know you’d keep the information to yourselves. He needs me to publish the note and clear him publicly. One hundred dollars is an enticement few men can ignore.”
Abraham frowned. “This sounds like a scheme to sell more papers.”
Clemens stepped away from the wall toward Abraham. “Then why would I come here before publishing it? We might not always see eye to eye, but I believe in justice as much as you. I just go about it in a different way.”
“We have the same aim, gentlemen, and it is in our best interest to work together.” Carson rose from his chair, as if preparing to step in should fists start flying.
He needn’t have worried. Abraham wasn’t given to fighting. Not that he could say the same for Clemens. Rumor had it he was a fierce competitor in the illegal pugilist matches.
“I’ve done nothing but cooperate. I withheld the story about Poe’s connection to Finn’s murder just like you asked, but instead of an arrest, another body turned up. I’m printing Dupin’s letter.”
Carson folded his arms. “At least wait until we have confirmed that this letter is indeed from Dupin. It is too late to go to the publisher today, but we’ll pay them a visit and compare documents tomorrow.” He extended his hand toward Clemens. “Thank you for the information. I appreciate your support.”
Clemens snubbed Carson’s proffered hand. “Just be sure Lawson runs every lead down to the ground. Whether Dupin’s innocent or guilty is yet to be determined, and Lawson’s history doesn’t give me confidence that he’s the right detective for this case. His negligence has allowed a criminal to walk free before.”
He strode from the room without a by-your-leave.
“Don’t let him get to you, Lawson.” Carson relit a half-smoked cigar. “No one has a perfect career. Some people just can’t accept that we’re human and make mistakes.”
“He has good cause to be upset with me over that particular case, but I’ve learned not to allow the man’s bitterness to affect me.”
No specific case stood out in Abraham’s recollection of the detective, but Carson’s words were true enough. Leave it to Clemens to hold being human against someone.
“Good.” Carson sat down. “Familiarize Hall with the details of the case, then put the pressure on O’Dell Publishing to give up Dupin’s identity. They know who he is, and we’re not going to allow them to keep silent any longer.”
Before they examined the files, Lawson provided Abraham a brief tour of the small detectives’ office tucked into the back corner of the City Building’s basement. Like the rest of the station hidden beneath the city’s government offices, small rectangular windows situated at the top edge of the exterior walls provided the only natural light. Of course, that might be for the best. The dimness probably hid the evidence of rodents and grime better, even if it couldn’t disguise the musty air.
“That one is yours.” Lawson pointed to a dilapidated piece of wood that once upon a time might have been considered a desk. Dark mildew spots streaked the bowed and splintered top while one leg appeared rotted through. With it jammed in the corner as it was, Abraham would have to climb over and risk his neck to reach the chair.
By the amused curve to Lawson’s lips, this assignment was part of the usual hazing process.
Lawson relented. “That’s heading to the potbelly stove on the first cold day. You’ll share with me for now.” He pulled the chair free and sat it opposite his. “You’re one of us, Detective Hall.”
“But I’ve not been promoted yet.”
“It won’t be long, so you might as well get used to the title. I’ll train you so you can run circles around Detective Bradford. You’re already capable of running them around Carlisle.”
“I heard that, Lawson.” A long-faced man with more gray than black to his hair—presumably Carlisle—stuck his head inside the room. “Just remember, if I finish my cases before you finish yours, you’re buying drinks for a week.”
“No concerns there. I’ve got an advantage. Meet the boy detective.”
Carlisle looked Abraham over and chortled. “Certainly can’t be a man. How old are you, boy? Thirteen?”
“Twenty-six, sir.”
“Grow some whiskers, or no one will take you seriously. You’re nothing but a pup.”
Abraham never had a problem earning the respect of those on his beat, whether another officer or a citizen. “Perhaps, but pups have youthful vigor that old dogs do not.”
“And brains that don’t know when to keep their yaps shut. Watch that one, Lawson. He’s calling you old.”
“I think we know which of us has the most gray hair, Carlisle. Get on about your business. I’ve got a week’s worth of drinks to earn.”
Once Carlisle left, Lawson laid out four stacks of files. “By the time I’m finished teaching you, you’ll be the second-best detective in the country. If you have questions, ask. If you notice something, speak up. If you think I’m wrong, think again. If you still believe I’m wrong, speak up. No one here knows Dupin better than me, but you’ve been brought in for a fresh perspective. We’re partners on this, and I expect you to not hold back. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, because we have a lot of ground to cover before you take an active role in the investigation. Dupin’s written eight novels. So far, four men are dead.”
“Have you identified the other four potential victims?”
“Yes, and they have been notified of the danger to their lives. The fools insist they can take care of themselves, unlike those other poor saps.” Lawson shook his head. “They don’t know the cunning of the man they’re up against. It’s up to us to ensure they never do.”
They spent hours examining and comparing notes from the murders and the victims’ original crimes. Lawson hadn’t been brought into the investigation until the third murder occurred, and the only original crime he had personal insight on was the Wakefield case a year ago. They had to rely heavily on the reports left behind. Though detailed, nothing pointed to one suspect, outside of Dupin, for all the murders.
As far as Dupin went, the two notes left on the bodies of Billy Poe’s latest victims had distinct handwriting. Handwriting that did not match that of the letter supposedly written by Dupin. That either supported Dupin’s claim he wasn’t Poe or indicated the letter wasn’t from him. Until they met with the publisher tomorrow and compared the notes to a Dupin manuscript—assuming Mr. O’Dell cooperated—there was no knowing for sure.
By the time Lawson called it a night, it was well past the end of their scheduled day. Abraham felt strange, leaving only a few hours into his old shift, but Lawson insisted he’d want to get to bed soon, as morning came early. That might be, but Abraham had no intention of being finished for the night. He walked straight home with the Dupin novels Lawson loaned him, grabbed his dinner plate from the warmer, and retreated to his room to eat while he worked. Miss Pelton’s assertion that he should study his suspect in any possible manner held merit, and he’d begin with skimming the borrowed books. After all, he’d discovered quite a bit about Miss Pelton by reading two of hers.
Before beginning with Dupin’s work, Abraham picked up The Lady’s Terrible Secret —the cover carefully reattached—and flipped through the pages. That woman had as much flair for the dramatic in her writing as in her real life. Whatever man married her was likely to face a lifetime of adventure and headache. The situations in which she placed her characters weren’t scandalous, but they were outlandish. No real man could swim a raging, flooded river to rescue his love from a burning building. If her heroes were any indication of what she desired in a husband, she was doomed to be a spinster. Yes, their qualities reflected the virtues of Christ and a chaste, God-honoring love, but the characters themselves were too perfect. He couldn’t possibly live up to her standards—which was part of the reason he hadn’t paid another visit.
He also didn’t want to admit he’d been wrong in his judgment of her dime novels. They were well written and modeled Christian morals and faith. Actually, not that he would admit it to any of the men on the force, he was finding them more than tolerable and an enjoyable distraction from the grit of his profession. It had nothing to do with the fact that hers was the face of every heroine and his the face of every hero. He just lacked the imagination for anything else.
Suddenly aware of the half grin on his face, he laid the romance novel aside. No time for nonsense now. It was time to see what he could learn about Dupin. He took the top book from the stack and settled in.
Dupin’s writing proved easy to read, but the farther he got into the story, the more he was convinced that his earlier opinion of dime novels was correct. The only redeeming points he found were in how descriptions never crossed the line of the obscene and how the hero, Detective Billy Poe, modeled Christian qualities. Abraham also appreciated the close attention Dupin gave to detail. Otherwise, the man’s obsession with the dark underpinnings of the criminal world was disturbing. How did anyone find the violence, depravation, and greed appropriate for entertainment?
Whoever Dupin was, he must not keep his eyes on the things above as the Bible instructed. He probably wasn’t even a Christian. It was likely, though, that he was an officer or at least connected to the police in some form. The man knew things about investigating crimes that civilians wouldn’t.
Including information withheld from the public about the cases that inspired the books.
Abraham frowned as he compared The Fall of the Philanthropist to his notes on the latest victim.
Joseph Keaton had been convicted of burglarizing the home of beloved philanthropist Russell Vernon, but not of Vernon’s murder. Given Vernon’s known medical condition, which made him prone to stumbling, the defense argued that the cause of his fall could not be determined. He could have been pushed down the stairs or simply have become physically unbalanced with nothing to stabilize him. The fact he’d been beaten beyond what a tumble would cause had been completely ignored.
Dupin’s description of the novel’s murder scene made one wonder if he’d been at Vernon’s house during the investigation. Body positioning, mud on the stairs, the portion of the banister ripped from its foundation as if Vernon had caught himself—all of it was too reflective of the actual case. If Dupin had sat in the gallery during the Keaton trial, he might have gleaned some of the specifics, but not all of them. Either Dupin had personal experience, or he had inside information. Tomorrow they’d find out Dupin’s identity and how one man had so much access to details he shouldn’t.
Far too late for a man who had to be at work by six in the morning, Abraham set Dupin’s book beside Lydia Pelton’s on his nightstand. Maybe he’d reconsider visiting her after tomorrow’s shift. There was much he didn’t understand about the novelist turned circus thief turned repentant yet flirtatious angel. Puzzling the riddle of Miss Pelton’s character might be the perfect distraction from the darker aspects of his job.
But first Abraham needed to uncover Dupin’s identity.