The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [121]
Soon, a young man—even younger than Farnshaw—sidled up to me. He wore a cheap checked suit and a low derby set just over his eyebrows, and his face was hairless. Had I encountered him on the street, I’d have feared he was a pickpocket. “Hi, Doc,” he said.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you. You work with Farnshaw, right?”
“I thought you said you knew me,” I replied.
“Not personally, Doc.” The young man lifted his hat a few inches off his head. “Ben Taylor. Police reporter for The Inquirer.”
A reporter! If this was how a genuine reporter appeared, my impersonation at the Germantown Mission was indeed lacking. I had been fortunate then that Reverend Squires was such a willing and enthusiastic subject.
When I did not further the conversation, young Taylor did. “I’m told you know more than a bit about this. How’s about you give me an exclusive?”
“Whoever told you that was mistaken,” I replied, wondering if it had been Borst himself. “All I can say is there is no man on earth less likely to have committed these crimes—this crime—than George Farnshaw.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Taylor said. It occurred to me that he was employing the same technique as I had with Reverend Squires—pretending to knowledge to entice the other party to give information.
“You hear wrong,” I said tersely.
“Well, he’s in for it, in any case,” Taylor said.
“What do you mean?”
The youngster eyed me as if I were mentally deficient. “You joking? A doc accused of poisoning another doc? The whole city’ll turn out for the hanging.” He glanced about, then said, “Unless there’s more to it. Cops talk to cops, you know. You can hear a lot in a police station. Nobody’s coming out and saying it, but there’s some mumbling about rich birds and strange goings-on down at the docks.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken,” I said. “About everything.”
I saw that Farnshaw was being marched back outside toward the wagon, despondent in a sea of happy, raucous police and hangers-on. Without excusing myself from the reporter, who deserved no such courtesy, I hustled forward. But Borst stepped between us before I could reach Farnshaw.
“End of the line, Doc. He’s official now. It’s off to Moko.”
“Moko?”
“Moyamensing Prison, Doc. That’s where we take prisoners to wait for trial.”
“Come on, Borst,” I said. “Couldn’t you let me ride with him?”
Borst considered this. “Well, it’s against the rules and we know what a bastard I am, but sure. Why not? I don’t figure you’re gonna try and slip him a pistol on the way.” He smiled. “Maybe when we get to Moko, they’ll think there’s supposed to be two for the lockup.”
“Yes. Perhaps. Thank you, Borst.”
“Don’t thank me. The more you see, the more likely you are to tell me the truth, Doc.”
The trip to Moyamensing Prison, where Tenth and Reed Streets were intersected by Passyunk Avenue, was not a long one. I noted that the jail was not far from Mary Simpson’s home and the Croskey Street Settlement. Once again, Farnshaw and I didn’t speak during the ride. When we emerged, hunched and blinking in the sunlight, we saw before us what appeared to be a medieval fortress, more suited to repelling an attack by chain-mailed knights than housing felons. The building, in three sections of tan limestone, was set back sufficiently from the avenue to accommodate a moat. Its center section was three stories high, crowned with a huge battlement tower, and the top floor was ringed with a cornice. The two wings each featured a battle turret on the end. I was told that the wing on the right was the county jail, housing petty criminals of all stripes. The wing on the left would be Farnshaw’s temporary home, a holding facility for those awaiting trial. A twenty-foot-high stone wall extended out from either end turret, the full length of the street.