Part 32 (1/2)
Josh nodded, but still did not read the note. Whatever the urgency might be, it would have to wait. Everything about this event had been meticulously planned, and timing was the key to all else. He took his watch from his vest pocket. Three minutes to eight. They'd guessed correctly about how long the governor would speak. He didn't need to draw things out and neither would Edison. He rose and stepped to the podium.
”Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, as those of you who live in the St. Nicholas buildings know, we have been planning for this night since our great upper Park Avenue adventure began. And let me explain for any who don't already know, the reason you see no flicker of light in the windows across the way is because the oil lamps in every apartment have been deliberately extinguished, and by design every sconce connected to electric power and provided with that miracle of our time, an incandescent bulb. Tonight, also by design, those sconces have been switched on and every curtain left undrawn. We await only the golden touch of the remarkable wizard we all know as Mr. Thomas Edison.” He turned to where Edison waited, hand on a large bra.s.s lever.
It was, Joshua knew, an utter fake.
The power would be switched on in the bas.e.m.e.nts of the buildings containing the generators at precisely eight o'clock. Another glance at his watch. Josh raised his hand. ”Count with me, ladies and gentlemen, and Mr. Edison will light up our world when, in ten seconds' time, the clocks of New York strike the hour. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .”
”One!” the crowd at last shouted in a roar of antic.i.p.ation. Edison threw his sham switch.
The St. Nicholas apartments on Park Avenue came to life in a blaze of s.h.i.+ning light that must, Josh thought, resemble the first day of creation.
They had tested the systems repeatedly in each building and on every floor, but until this moment no one could have predicted with certainty that what Mollie called his P. T. Barnum imitation would work.
It had. Josh achieved his moment of triumph. But what he saw in the dazzling illumination of the world he had brought into being was the face of DuVal Jones, standing at the foot of the dais with his back to the newly lighted buildings. He was staring up at Josh with a look of concentration stunning in its intensity.
”You're absolutely certain the house is occupied by Trenton Clifford?” Josh asked. ”I heard he'd returned to the South years ago.”
”He did,” DuVal Jones said. ”Now he's come back.”
”How do you know?”
”I know.”
Even if it were true, it was hard to see why Jones had come to him with the information. ”Your gla.s.s is empty, Mr. Jones. I'll get you another brandy, shall I?”
They'd not come upstairs to his study until after the electrification celebration finally ended, and that had taken a number of hours. Delmonico's had catered a full banquet served in the lobby of each building, then swept it all away to make room for six-piece orchestras that provided music for dancing. He and Mollie had shown up at every party. Nearly two in the morning now. Josh's household had retired, Mollie included. He took Jones's snifter as well as his own and made his way to the decanter on the table across the room. The task gave him a few moments to think.
Jones meanwhile was staring up at the elaborate rococo-style plaster ceiling, all swirls and seash.e.l.ls. ”Outdid yourself here, didn't you, Mr. Turner? Nothing like this down on Sixty-Third Street.”
”Meant for a different market, Mr. Jones. What about this house in Brooklyn where you say Clifford's living. Is it luxurious? I'm told there are some fine homes on what they call the heights.”
Jones took the brandy and murmured his thanks. Josh sat down across from him. ”Clifford's place,” Jones said, ”is at the foot of Water Street. Closer to the docks than to the respectable folk of the Heights. Tucked away you might say. Hard to find. And it's in the bridge's shadow these days. On the other hand, luxury's a matter of debate, isn't it? Take my flat, for instance. Stack it against a rooming house on Bowling Green and that's one thing. Compare it to what you've done up here . . .” He shrugged and tossed back his drink. The clock on Josh's desk chimed twice and cherubs spun around under a gla.s.s dome. ”Like you say, Mr. Turner, it's late. I'd best be going.”
”I'm sorry I couldn't speak with you earlier. But-”
”You had important guests to attend to. I understand.” Jones stood up.
Josh did the same, but paused before showing the other man out. ”Look, do you want to tell me why you've come to report this? And why tonight of all times?”
”I thought you should know. Because of Lupo and your interest in him a few years ago. You mentioned Trenton Clifford's name back then as well.”
”And you said you knew nothing about him.”
”Did I, Mr. Turner? Well, as I said, all that was three years past. I know enough now to know that Lupo and Clifford have some . . . mutual concerns you might call them. They tend to impinge on yours.”
”What the h.e.l.l does that mean?”
Jones appeared to hesitate, then he shrugged. Josh was hard put to decide if it was genuine reluctance or an instance of Thomas Edison's bra.s.s lever.
”The dwarf who got killed in your house,” Jones said, ”back when you were living on Grand Street . . . No reason not to tell you now. Lupo's the one did the big job. The one-eyed b.a.s.t.a.r.d himself, not anyone he sent. The way I hear it, that was a personal favor for Clifford. Because Captain Clifford, he wasn't too happy with the thought the little fellow might tell you things.”
”About what had happened in Kentucky years before,” Josh said, speaking his thoughts aloud as they occurred. ”About Clifford being the one who told Bessemer how to make steel with a converter. Kelly's process. Which mattered because that was back when Clifford thought I was violating Bessemer's patent, and he could use that to shut me down.”
Jones shrugged. ”You'd know more about the details than I, Mr. Turner. But as I said, things that impinge on your interest.”
Josh couldn't let it go, even though the Park Avenue project was a reality and it was hard to see how Clifford and Lupo could hurt him. But given the attempts made in the past, and the way they'd both caused Mollie so much grief, he was more than wary. He summoned Frankie Miller on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. ”Put your ear to the ground, Mr. Miller. And listen very closely. There's no reason I know of for DuVal Jones to give me false information. I want to know whatever you hear about Lupo and whether it's true that Clifford is back in town.”
Miller was back in two days. Josh led the way to the library. ”Clifford?” he asked as soon as he closed the door.
”A sniff here and there,” Miller said. ”Someone mentioned he'd been at Kate Meacham's wh.o.r.ehouse. Someone else said they saw him at Delmonico's. But so far no talk of what business brought him back to the city.”
”After an absence of what . . . three years?”
”Something like that,” Miller agreed. ”But that's not your biggest worry at the moment, Mr. Turner. Leastwise I don't think so.”
Josh was startled. Frankie Miller didn't normally volunteer that sort of opinion. ”What then, Mr. Miller, is my biggest worry?”
”Lupo,” the gunman said. ”He's taking over the business of collecting garbage from buildings like yours. Claims to be organizing the workers.”
”On behalf of the labor movement? Tony Lupo?” Josh couldn't conceal his astonishment.
”That's what he says. What it comes down to . . . he's going from building to building, and each time he winds up with a contract to be the one as takes away their swill. Way I see it, the union organizing's just an excuse. Gets his foot in the door. You ask me, he's planning to put all the other garbagemen out of business, then he'll put the squeeze on the owners of the buildings. Men like yourself. He gets paid extra or the swill won't be collected. How many weeks you think it'll be before the stink will attract every rat in the city? Drive all the tenants out.”
”Not many. So, how come I haven't been approached by Mr. Lupo? I own a fair number of buildings in this city, Mr. Miller. How come he's ignoring me.”
”That's the thing, Mr. Turner. I don't think he is, I think Lupo left you for last because he knew you'd be the toughest nut to crack.”
Josh took a day to think it over, then called Miller back. ”There's a piece of the puzzle still doesn't fit. What's the interest of DuVal Jones?”
Miller looked thoughtful. ”I can't say for sure, Mr. Turner.”
”Try this,” Josh said. ”What if Lupo is trying to take business from Mr. Jones's employer.”
”The mayor of Brooklyn?”
”The man who extorts protection money from the lottery offices, yes,” Josh said. ”Maybe Lupo is trying to-what do you call it?-muscle in.”
”That's very unusual, Mr. Turner. Men like Lupo and the mayor, they usually respect each other's territory. Besides, if DuVal Jones was looking out for his boss's business, he wouldn't come to you for help. I mean no disrespect, sir, but what can you do for him that the mayor's own men can't do better?”
It was a question for which Josh had no answer. ”I still think Clifford's the key,” he said. ”What about the house in Brooklyn supposed to be his?”
”It's nothing much. Right under the bridge these days. And it's empty. I put a man out there right away, but so far he ain't seen Clifford or n.o.body else.”
”Keep watching,” Josh said. ”My guess is he'll show up.” It struck him that the house Frankie Miller described was unlikely to be where Clifford lived. Rather, he suspected, a trysting place.
Monday morning he sent Hamish to the Brooklyn City Hall. ”I expect it may take a bit of time, Hamish, given that it's over in Brooklyn, but I need to know whose name is on the deed.”
”Och, not so much time as all that, Mr. Turner. Not the way it might have done in the past.”
”Before the bridge, you mean? I suppose it will get you across the water faster than the ferry once the novelty wears off, but just now it's so crowded you can't-”