Willow Locke - Anarchist Detective

Yaakov

Joseph Rocka hung by his fingertips from the ledge outside of the tenement window. A hail storm whipped around him, prying his grip from the sill. He wedged the toes of his patent leather shoes into a gap in the brick work and clung on to the building's exterior. The wind whirled his long brown cashmere overcoat around his legs. His curly black hair hung lank across his forehead.
Peering through the oily glass, he saw Yaakov Mandelbaum sitting at his writing desk. It was late, well after 2:00 am, but Yaakov was still working by the light his little kerosene lamp. He seemed agitated, clinging to the little walnut desk, rocking on his austere stool. He wrote in longhand, his fountain pen was hard rubber with an ornate silver overlay. The pen flashed in his hand. He composed on long sheets of vellum. Crumpled one, started over, drummed his fingers on the table, stared at the ceiling. He had smeared blue ink across his forehead in his agitation.
Joseph examined the window frame—no lock—but why would there be one this high up? The storm threatened to tear him from the building and fling him down to the street below. He balanced his weight with precise physical adjustments, he trusted his physical discipline and his practiced control. He leaned his weight into the wall, bracing himself to let go. He held on with one hand and splayed the other against the wet window, trying to get enough friction to lift it. He felt the wet surface form an adhesion. He pushed and the window opened—it was loose in its frame.
Yaakov seemed oddly unphased—it was as if he was often burgled on the fifth floor and was used to it. He screwed the lid closed on his pen and held it in front of his lips. Whatever reaction he had as the stranger climbed through his window was carefully masked.
Joseph poured himself through the window and brushed his wet hair off of his forehead.
"You're still awake?" he asked.
"You-" Yaakov recognized him, "That dancer-"
"Master Rocka," Joseph bowed sharply and tipped an invisible hat.
"How did you- how did you get up here?" Yaakov placed the pen down on his writing desk and stood up. His hands were working methodically, clenching and unclenching fists.
"I'm looking for Ayala," Joseph said, "What do you know?"
Yaakov suddenly overflowed with angry tears.
"Night before last," his voice was ragged through his sobs, "We saw you dance. I asked her to marry me. She's gone. She's gone and no one knows where. She must have hated me. She ran from the obligation—"
Joseph put his arm around Yaakov's shoulders. Joseph didn't think Yaakov could be trusted—he didn't seem like a man who could keep secrets. Alva had persuaded him that it was necessary, and that the personal stake he had in the affair would keep him under control. The weeping man seemed too fragile for the Anarkhos.
"Stop it." said Joseph sternly. "It had nothing to do with you. We think she was attacked."
"How do you know that?" Yaakov's voice trembled with rage, he stood up, shrugging off Joseph's touch.
Joseph drew an envelope from the pocket of his coat and handed it to Yaakov. He wiped his eyes and opened the clasp, removing a dozen photographs—the images were strikingly sharp. The first showed the fragment of lace collar, the book, mementoes Willow had found in the hidden drawer.
Yaakov's legs withered beneath him when he saw it, but Joseph steadied him. Yaakov snatched the photograph from Joseph's hand and held it close to his face, scrutinizing the ornate pattern, the forget-me-nots.
"What is this?" Yaakov's voice was barely audible.
Joseph studied his expression.
"A fragment—our only clue." he replied.
"The dress—I bought it for her, and that book—she was reading it in the park when I met her." The photographs had chastened Yaakov. The helplessness seemed to flow out of him—he'd known nothing until now and Joseph had given him a single thread, a problem to solve.
"Where did you find this?" Yaakov asked.
"Max Blanck's desk." Joseph held his gaze as he spoke, watched the terror boil up behind the eyes of the other man.
Yaakov was silent for a moment and then he sprung into motion. He threw open the wooden accordion doors of his closet and began flinging clothes on the floor. He reached into the back of the closet and retrieved a small box crafted from some dark, intricately whorled wood. He opened it and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver, a Colt shopkeeper special. The steel gleamed blue-black in the lamplight. He pulled the pin, flipped open the cylinder and began to load it—but his hand shook and the bullets clattered to the floor.
"I know—I know where his house is—in the Upper East—" Yaakov spoke haltingly, he knelt to scoop up the bullets in cupped hands, struggled to load the cylinder again. Joseph knelt next to him.
"That's not what we need from you," he said, taking hold of the gun and steadily drawing it out of his hand. He felt the tremor of the other man's erratic motions communicated through the gun, but he stilled it with his own calm strength. He reached into his open hand and took the bullets from him, deftly loaded the cylinder and flicked it closed with a sharp rotation of his wrist. He secreted the revolver in the pocket of his cashmere coat—still wet—and turned to face Yaakov. This wouldn't do—Alva was wrong. This man was too volatile. He was unreliable.
"What do you need from me?" Yaakov asked.
"Frick Steel," Joseph said. "We need their records, we're looking for exchanges, for a network. Search the records at your office, look for any connection between Frick Steel and Max Blanck. Look—"
He picked up the stack of photographs again and spread them out on the writing desk. They were photographs of Blanck's ledger that Willow had taken—they showed the payments to the Seraphim Clinic, and income from Blanck's fishmonger business in Philadelphia.
"Reveal the network, Yaakov," he stared into his eyes, hard, pinning the older man. "If you can trace the network we will follow it to Ayala."