The Bone Collector

as she surely was of her fledglings back in the nest, that she surprised the monster by assaulting him ferociously:—she struck him repeatedly about the face and ripped hair from his head.
    She freed herself momentarily and from her mouth issued an horrendous scream. The cowardly Schneider struck her several times more and fled.
    The brave woman staggered to the sidewalk and collapsed, where she died in the arms of a constable who had responded to the alarm neighbors had raised.
    This story appeared in a book, which was with the bone collector now, resting in his hip pocket. Crime in Old New York. He couldn’t explain his overwhelming attraction to the slim volume. If he had to describe his relation to this book he would have to say he was addicted to it. Seventy-five years old and still in remarkable shape, a bookbinding jewel. It was his good-luck charm and his talisman. He’d found it at a small branch of thepublic library and committed one of the few larcenies of his life by slipping it into his raincoat one day and strolling out of the building.
    He’d read the chapter on Schneider a hundred times and virtually had it memorized.
    Driving slowly. They were almost there.
    When Hanna’s poor, weeping husband huddled over her lifeless body, he looked upon her face:—one last time before she was taken to the funeral home (for in the Jewish faith it is dictated that the dead must be interred as quickly as possible). And he noticed upon her porcelain cheek a bruise in the shape of a curious emblem. It was a round symbol and appeared to be a crescent moon and a cluster of what might be taken to be stars hovering over the same.
    The constable exclaimed that this must have been an imprint made by the ring of the heinous butcher himself when he struck the poor victim. Detectives enlisted the aid of an artist and he sketched a picture of the impression. (The good reader is referred to plate XXII.) Rounds were made of jewelers in the city, and several names and addresses were secured of men who had bought such rings in the recent past. Two of the gentlemen purchasing these rings were beyond suspicion, being as they were a deacon of a church and another a learned professor at a fine university. Yet the third was a man of whom the constables had long harbored suspicion of nefarious activity. To wit:—one James Schneider.
    This gentleman had at one time been influential in several benevolent organizations in the city of Manhattan: the Consumptives’ Assistance League and the Pensioners’ Welfare Society, most notably. He had come under the eye of the constabulary when several elderly charges from said groups vanished not long after Schneider paid them calls. He was never charged with any offense but soon after the investigations, he dropped from sight.
    In the aftermath of Hanna Goldschmidt’s heinous murder, a still search of the dubious haunts of the city revealed no abode where Schneider might be found. The constables posted broadsides throughout the down-town and River-front areas, setting forth the description of the villain, but he could not be apprehended;—a true tragedy, to be sure, in light of the carnage that was soon to befall the city at his vile hands.
    The streets were clear. The bone collector drove into the alley. He opened the warehouse door and drove down a wooden ramp into a long tunnel.
    After making sure the place was deserted, he walked to the back of the car. He opened the trunk and pulled Hanna out. She was fleshy, fat, like a bag of limp mulch. He grew angry again and he carried her roughly down another wide tunnel. Traffic from the West Side Highway sped over them. He listened to her wheezing and was just reaching out to loosen the gag when he felt her shudder and go completely limp. Gasping for breath with the effort of carrying her, he rested her on the floor of the tunnel and eased the tape off her mouth. Air dribbled in weakly. Had she just fainted? He listened to her heart. It seemed to be beating fine.
    He cut the clothesline binding her ankles, leaned forward and whispered, “Hanna, kommen Sie mit mir mit, Hanna Goldschmidt . . .”
    “ Nein, ” she muttered, her voice trailing to silence.
    He leaned closer, lightly slapped her face. “Hanna, you must come with me.”
    And she screamed: “ Mein Name ist nicht Hanna. ” Then kicked him square in the jaw.
    A burst of yellow light flashed through his head and he leapt sideways two or three feet, trying to keep his balance.