Ripper by Stefan Petrucha Read Free Book Online Page A

kicked a lever at the base of the lamp table. In response, the car moved, but so smoothly, so quietly, it was only because he could see out the windows that Carver realized they were moving at all.
    “Back in 1870,” Hawking said, “Alfred Beach worked secretly,digging this tunnel to demonstrate what he thought would be a more elegant way of traveling than the elevated trains that hiss and fart and stink up the air. People rode his little
subway
as a curiosity, but he never won the contract to expand. It was sealed up, forgotten, until I helped purchase it.”
    It was another surprise in a day full of them. “You
own
this?”
    “Don’t go picturing any big inheritance. The money wasn’t mine, and it’s nearly all gone. It belonged to Allan Pinkerton. I know you’ve heard of him; otherwise my card wouldn’t have piqued your curiosity.”
    Carver nodded. “He was amazing.”
    Hawking’s harsh demeanor faded slightly. “You’re right about that. I was there when he foiled an assassination attempt on President Lincoln. I worked undercover for him during the Civil War. After that, I helped him track some of the worst criminals the country’s ever seen. Amazing? He was more a force of nature than a man. Or so I believed. In 1869 he had a stroke. The doctors said he’d be paralyzed permanently. Pinkerton insisted they were wrong. It was painful as rising from the dead, but day by day, inch by inch, he forced himself to stand, to hobble and then to walk. Inside of a year he was back on his feet, slower but still worth ten men half his age.” He paused. “Wish I could say the same for myself.”
    “What… happened to you?” Carver asked.
    “One life at a time, boy. While Allan Pinkerton recovered, his sons ran the business and never quite gave it back. He spent the rest of his life struggling with his blood over his own company. They saw the future in factory security, not exactly what he saw as his legacy. So, in his will, he left his two most trusted agents, myself and Septimus Tudd, a considerable amount to establish anew agency, dedicated to fighting criminals. Tudd always loved contraptions, so I let him talk me into using this place as our base.”
    “Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”
    Hawking bristled. “The New York police department has an annual budget of five million dollars. They collect another
ten
million in bribes. Pinkerton stipulated our organization remain secret to avoid corruption, even fight the police if need be.”
    The little car slid into a wide, open area. They were still underground, but this place was so airy, it felt as if they were outside again. High above, Carver saw an arched brick ceiling supported by steel girders. The track ended at a small platform at the edge of a plaza. On either side were two three-story structures, buildings of a sort. One was open faced, the other a windowless mass.
    In the open building, Carver could see inside many of the rooms. There were offices full of file cabinets, rooms that stocked pistols, rifles and strange devices. A wide space full of wires and tubes looked like a laboratory. Unlike the elegant but abandoned spaces beneath Devlin’s, these were brightly lit and bustling with activity. Of the twenty people he could see, some worked in suits with bowler hats, others in shirtsleeves. There were even several women present. A man and a woman wearing goggles and greasy overalls were hunched over mechanical equipment whose function Carver couldn’t even guess at.
    Three men waited at the platform. Two, tall and fairly young, flanked an older, rounder man in a bowler hat. Closer to Hawking’s age, he looked something like a friendly sheepdog.
    “It worked well for a while,” Hawking mused. “Until the money started running out.”
    “Are you in charge of all this?” Carver said, ecstatic.
    The car door opened. The sheepdog man stepped in front of it, blocking the way, hands on his hips. “You gave him the combination, Hawking! We