The Alienist - Caleb Carr [225]
“We should have thought of it right away,” she whispered, before saying out loud: “Mr. Harper was engaged by Mr. Lanford Stern of Washington Street in February, to attend to some outstanding debts.” Recognizing that this didn’t jog my memory one bit, Sara added confidentially, “Mr. Stern, you will recall, owns a number of buildings in the Washington Market area. One of his tenants is a Mr. Ghazi.”
“Oh,” I said simply. “Oh, of course. Why didn’t you just say that—”
Sara stopped me with a touch, obviously not wanting Mr. Harper to learn the real nature of our business. “I saw Mr. Stern this morning,” she said pointedly, and finally I realized why we should have thought of going back to Mr. Stern at the beginning of this phase of our search: the elder Ghazi had been months behind in his rent at the time of his son’s death. “I told him,” Sara continued, “about the man we’re anxious to find—the man who we believed worked as a collector, and whose brother has died, leaving him a great deal of money?”
I nodded and smiled, recognizing that Sara was developing her own talent for impromptu falsehoods. “Oh, yes,” I said quickly.
“Mr. Stern said that he referred all his back rent accounts to Mr. Harper,” Sara continued. “And—”
“And as I told Miss Howard, here,” Harper cut in, “if there’s estate money to be had, I want to know what my cut’ll be before I reveal anything.”
I nodded and faced the man fully—this was going to be child’s play. “Mr. Harper,” I said, with a broad flourish, “I feel confident in saying that if you can provide us with the whereabouts of Mr. Beecham, you can expect a very generous percentage. A finder’s fee, as it were. Say, five percent?”
Harper’s saliva-soaked cigar almost fell out of his mouth. “Five per—why, that is generous, sir. Generous, indeed! Five percent!”
“Five percent of all there is,” I repeated. “You have my word. But tell me—do you know Mr. Beecham’s whereabouts?”
The man looked momentarily unsure of himself. “Well—that is, I know them approximately, Mr. Moore. I know of where he’s likely to be, anyway—at least when he gets thirsty.” I gave the man a hard stare. “I can take you there, myself, honest to God! It’s a little stale-beer dive down in the Mulberry Bend, that’s where I first met him. I would tell you to wait for him here, but—the fact is that about two weeks ago I had to let him go.”
“Let him go?” I queried. “Why?”
“I’m a respectable man,” Harper answered. “And this is a respectable business. But—well, sir, the fact is you occasionally have to use a little muscle. Do some convincing. Who’s going to pay their bills without a little convincing? I originally hired Beecham because he was a big man, and strong. Said he could handle himself in a fight. So what does he do? Talks to them. Chats it up, that’s what he does. Well, shit, sir—oh. My apologies, Miss. But you’re not going to get any money out of anybody by talking to them. Especially not the immigrants. Hell, you give them the chance, they’ll talk you into the grave! That Ghazi character was a good example—I sent Beecham to his place three times and he never got one nickel out of the man.”
Harper had more he wanted to tell us, but we didn’t need to hear it. After asking him to write down the address of the stale-beer dive he’d mentioned, Sara and I told him that we were going to check his lead out that very night, and that if it led to Beecham he could expect his money very soon. Ironically, this avaricious little man had given us the first piece of free information we’d had in two days—and the only one that was destined to amount to anything.
CHAPTER 41
* * *
As we came out of Harper’s building we ran headlong into the Isaacsons, who had found my note. Immediately repairing to Brübacher’s Wine Garden, the four of us went over what the account settler had said. Then we devised a plan for the evening. Our options were fairly straightforward: if we should locate Beecham we wouldn’t confront him,