Ripper by Stefan Petrucha

expert if you like.”
    “No, no,” Tudd said. “I’ll take it there myself, with the utmost care.”
    Carver stared at him. “Can I go with you? I’d like to see them side by side.”
    Tudd shook his head. “Sorry, son. Patience. It
has
only been a day. You’ve done well though.”
    Without another word, Tudd hurried off, Carver annoyed at being called
son.
Much as Tudd seemed friendly, he’d now taken the
second
clue to his father’s identity. Carver forced himself to remember Tudd had shown him nothing but kindness, given him nothing but opportunities. At the same time he was no longer quite so eager to return the baton.
    Even without the sheet, he could still look up the name. On his way to the athenaeum, Jackson and Emeril ran up. Apparently, they’d somehow already heard of his success.
    “Wonderful!”
    “What luck! And we could sure use some of that around here!”
    “Cusack? Isn’t that Polish?” Jackson ventured.
    “Norman,” Emeril corrected. “Still used in England, mostly Irish, French before that.” Explaining to Carver, he added, “Surnames are part of my studies.”
    “That and everything else,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes.
    Despite enjoying their company, Carver didn’t quite trust them anymore either. He nodded toward the door. “I’ve only got an hour or so before I have to head back to Blackwell. I’d like to try to find an address by then.”
    They laughed so hard, he had to ask. “Is it
that
funny?”
    “Yes,” Jackson said. “It’s not as though you can use the analytical engine. And even then…”
    Remembering the huge device, Carver asked, “What
is
that? What’s it do?”
    “Not much since Beckley can’t abide the noise.” Jackson chuckled. “He almost quit over it. Tudd knows the nuts and bolts. He’s the first to get one working.”
    Emeril interrupted. “But to answer the question, it was invented by Charles Babbage, fellow who created the difference engine, a mechanical calculator. The analytical engine is more general purpose. Using data coded into punched cards, it can sort them and answer questions. Say you wanted a list of whoever’s related to the person currently living at 375 Park Avenue. Put the question on a punch card, start the engine, in an hour or so, it spits out the answer.”
    Carver went wide-eyed. “Really? Could I use it to find my father?”
    Jackson shook his head. “First, Beckley hates the thing. Second, it keeps breaking down. Third, the cards only cover the city’s current upper class. Your dad’s more likely working class, don’t you think? I suppose if you eliminate your other options and
beg,
Beckley might give in. Until then, it’s the old-fashioned method. Frankly, you’ll be lucky to have the directories stacked on a table by the time you have to leave.”
    As it turned out, Jackson was wrong. Carver not only stacked all the city directories from 1889 on, he also flipped through four, listing addresses for anyone named Jay Cusack.
    By the time he had to leave, he’d accumulated fifty-seven Jay Cusacks.
Fifty-seven.
Worse, halfway through the fifth book he realized he should’ve listed
all
the Cusacks, in case a family member knew how to reach him.
    On his way out, he longingly eyed the analytical engine. As ifreading his mind, Beckley shook his head and proceeded to not only suggest ten more directories, but also to check the major newspaper archives, police reports and hospital records.
    Daunted, Carver felt his shoulders slump as he left. Head buzzing with all the lists he’d have to go through, when he stepped out of the elevator onto Warren Street, he barely heard a familiar voice shriek his name.
    “Carver!”
    He looked up. A hansom cab was at the curb, a pretty girl leaning excitedly out the window. The smart new clothes were utterly unfamiliar, but the black hair and freckled face were unmistakable.
    “Delia!” he shouted, trotting up.
    “How wonderful!” she said. “I was just over at the New York