Lake of Darkness

by Scott Kenemore

  Flip sighed and hung his head.

  “Just give me a moment to dress.”

  An hour later, Crespo and Flip walked—slowly—into the massive new city hall on the corner of Washington and La Salle in the heart of the Loop.

  Flip had been quiet for most of the ride in the motorized police wagon. Only after they had ventured within the great stone hall of government did he remember to ask Crespo if his friends had made it home safely.

  “The madam and the carnival magician?” Crespo said. “We had ’em dropped off. Say, I sort of want to ask you what they were doing there . . . but also, I sort of don’t. So maybe we don’t mention that part to the man, eh? I’ll trust they know enough keep their mouths shut.”

  “They do,” Flip said. “They were in this for themselves. To keep people they loved safe. Talkin’ doesn’t further that goal, does it?”

  Crespo agreed.

  They traversed the ground floor of the crowded municipal building—filled with lawyers, clerks, low-level politicians, and those who aspired to be low-level politicians—and made their way up a stone staircase to the mayor’s office. It had a high wooden door that reached nearly to the ceiling. Its entrance was flanked by a row of American flags. Several on each side, mirroring one another. It was meant to appear grand, but the flags hung flaccid and grim. Flip wondered how frequently they had to be dusted.

  The entire floor was quiet, as if the regular functionaries had been warned off.

  Flip and Crespo approached the row of flags, and the door to the mayor’s office was opened from inside by a pair of men from the security detail at the GAR room. Plumes of cigar smoke wafted from the office out into the hall, and so did the sound of conversation.

  Inside, the mayor was laughing and smoking. Ten other men were gathered with him. Some were the men Flip had met previously; he recognized Wrigley, Marshall Field, and Oscar Meyer. They lounged across the mayor’s couches as though the office were their own.

  The mayor looked up from his high-backed chair. He noticed Flip and Crespo, and sprang to life. He was nimble for such a large man, and on his feet in a trice. (Flip remembered that the “Big” in Big Bill Thompson predated the man’s descent into girth. The champion footballer’s physique was still there, concealed somewhere beneath all those extra calories.) The mayor drew close and eyed Flip’s shoulder sympathetically. He helped the policeman into a chair as though helping an injured sportsman off the field.

  “Now! Now comes the conquering hero! For the vanquisher!” the mayor cried.

  The rich and powerful men burst into applause. One, who was still wearing a hat, doffed it.

  Flip was bewildered. He smiled and said nothing. Before he knew what was happening, a cigar and a scotch were thrust into his hands. Something told him to simply hold both, but the pain in his shoulder barked for relief. He threw back the scotch in a single gulp. The rich men cheered, and someone poured him another.

  “I had asked you for a progress update by today. . . but you have beaten my expectations and resolved the case completely!” the mayor announced.

  He sat on the edge of his desk now, fat legs adangle.

  The rich men raised their glasses and cigars.

  “You got him; you really did!” cried Oscar Meyer. “That was Durkin. I went and viewed the body myself!”

  “We owe you a great debt,” said young Marshall Field. “It was done so quickly and so quietly. You are a credit to your race, my friend.”

  Flip took a drink of his second scotch—only a sip this time. His eyes flitted over to Crespo who stood silently by the door. The Italian smiled from underneath his wide mustache.

  “Just doing my job,” Flip managed.

  “And so modest too!” offered Wrigley.

  The mayor looked over the rich men and a strange smile crossed his face. The rich men quieted down until all were silent and grinning. It made Flip uneasy.

  The mayor tented his fingers conspiratorially, as though he had a secret to tell.

  “Officer Flippity . . . New York City does not. . . to my knowledge. . . yet have a Negro Police Sergeant within its ranks,” he began in a tone of abstract, almost academic consideration. “But we are going to move ahead of them in that respect very shortly, I think. When you return to duty, it will not be as a mere patrolman. Do you understand?”

  Flip swallowed hard. His throat was scratchy and peaty from the scotch, and he tried not to cough.

  “Yessir,” he said.

  “And the funds we provided you with which to operate . . .” the mayor continued.

  “Less than half spent,” Flip reported. “I can give you a proper accounting if you give me a pencil and paper. Write it all down for your bookkeeper.”

  The mayor shook his head.

  “As far as the city is concerned, those funds were entirely expended in the course of this investigation,” the mayor announced.

  Flip realized they were allowing him to keep the balance that remained. He looked down to hide his amazement.

  “How was it?” one of the men asked—Flip did not see which. “How was it to kill a walking dead man?”

  The room grew silent again. Flip opened his mouth but struggled to find any words that might make sense.

  “I expect it’s like killing any other kind of man,” Flip eventually said. “I shot him and then he died. Again.”

  The rich and powerful men applauded this. The mayor smiled. Flip’s head swam.

  The men asked flip to recount the shootout in greater detail. Though he felt woozy and as though his head were stuck inside a fishbowl, he did his best to tell the tale of storming the garage. His audience listened, rapt. They applauded once more when he had finished.

  By this time, they had emptied the mayor’s crystal decanter and significantly diminished the cigar collection in his desk humidor. As if this were a signal, they gradually began to depart—each one shaking Flip’s hand and slapping him on the back as they did so. Though slow and casual, once this parade started, it did not stop. In a few short minutes, they had all left the mayor’s office.

  All but one.

  It was one of the men who had not yet been introduced to Flip. Flip recognized him from no newspaper photograph or prior encounter. He was in early middle age, had a pronounced mustache, and sat with a top hat on his lap. He had wide spaces between his front teeth, but appeared quite handsome when his mouth was shut. As the other tycoons made their way down the granite corridor leading away from the mayor’s office, this gentleman stayed put.

  Big Bill Thompson shut the door. Then—quite soused—he sloppily poured himself another drink from a fresh bottle in his desk drawer. He refilled Flip’s glass too. Then he motioned that Flip should join him and the mystery man over on the couch. The private security had departed with their employers, leaving only Crespo behind. The Italian stood stock still, blending into the granite.

  Confused but also curious, Flip reseated himself. The mayor sat too, on the opposite end of the same couch. The cushions wheezed under Thompson’s weight, but ultimately held fast.

  “Mister Flippity,” the mayor said, “This gentleman is Adolf Graf.”

  The man holding the hat smiled awkwardly, and met Flip’s eyes for only an instant.

  The beer baron from Milwaukee. The one who visited the Palmerton House whenever he was in Chicago.

  “Yes,” said Flip. “I b’lieve I’ve drank some of your beer in my time, sir. Off duty, of course.”

  The baron nodded silently.

  “Mr. Graf has asked to give you his personal, private thanks for your job well done,” said the mayor. “To speak with you alone. Is that all right, officer?”

  Flip nodded.

  “Very well,” the mayor said, lifting his great heft from the couch. “Then I will leave you to it.”

  The mayor pointed to Crespo, snapped his fat fingers, and gestured to the door. The Italian went outside to wait beside the flags. To Flip’s surprise, the mayor—scotch in hand—left also.

/>   Flip was alone with Graf.

  The beer baron looked up.

  The expression set into the baron’s face was something Flip had seen before. Priests and physicians might see it more frequently than policemen, but policemen still saw it an awful lot. Confession. Contrition. The look of a man who was being eaten up inside by a secret that gnaws at his soul. By something he has done. In such a man’s mind, the only thing that can make the pain stop is to bring the secret out into the open. To speak its name.

  “They told us you were probably the best policeman in Chicago,” Graf began, speaking numbly, like a man who had seen into great, horrible distances. “They told us you employ a kind of a magic witch to help you in special cases. Is that really true?”

  “It seems word has gotten out,” Flip told Graf candidly.

  “Secrets are hard to keep, eh?” Graf said, for the first time smiling a little.

  “Looks that way,” Flip replied cautiously, still wondering what was going on.

  “See, I know that you are a good policeman, because they tell me you involved the madam of the Palmerton House in your investigation,” Graf said. “Your instincts are correct.”

  Flip did not know what this meant, but nodded.

  “I can tell you are the kind of man who learns everything eventually, anyway,” Graf continued. “Were I to try to conceal the truth of what has happened here, you would soon discover it. And then you would think even less of me.”

  Graf hung his head.

  “I don’t understand,” Flip said. “I don’t think any less-”

  “I never told him to kill them!” Graf cried suddenly.

  Flip shrank back. His scotch jostled. A few drops splashed onto the mayor’s fine couch.

  “I never said to kill,” Graf insisted. “I certainly never said that he should do . . . any of the things that he did to those children. That was his own devising. And then we could not stop him.”

  “I don’t-” Flip began.

  Graf put up a hand to stifle him.

  “I must tell it to you plainly,” the baron said. “From the start. Then you will see how I am not. . . at least not entirely. . . to blame.”

  Flip leaned back on the couch and fell silent.

  “As Miss Battle has doubtless informed you, I am in the habit—when visiting Chicago—of retaining a large portion of the Palmerton House for myself,” Graf said, tenting his fingers. “This fact must be kept secret. It must be kept secret for so, so many reasons. If my shareholders learned of my predilections, they would not take it kindly. My competitors would use it to generate popular sentiment against my beer. My wife and my children, not to mention my father-in-law, the senator . . . well, I do not like even to think of it.”

  “You have to keep your visits to the Palmerton quiet,” Flip said, in a tone that tried to assure the man this did not make him quite so unusual. “You, and half the men on the South Side of Chicago.”

  “Yes,” Graf agreed. “And for many years I was successful in doing so. But then came that fateful night at the start of this summer. I was in the western suite at the Palmerton. Do you know the one? No matter. It is a large first-floor room with a high ceiling, tall bookshelves, many couches, and. . . and a single tall window. And that window was my downfall. It faces an empty alley. I had cavorted within that room perhaps twenty times before, and never seen a face through it. I thought the narrow passageway beyond was inaccessible, truly! But that night. . . Let us say, plainly, I learned otherwise.”

  Graf shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “It was a warm evening, and so the window had been opened by the girls. The breeze did us good. There were perhaps five sporting girls inside the room with me. It was because the room was so crowded—five at one time is a bit excessive, even for me—that I did not initially believe anything amiss when I heard my own name being called by a strange voice. I thought one of the young women had called for me from across the room. It was a high-pitched voice, you see, in an accent from the Deepest South. But in the course of our revels, I was thrust onto my back, and there I found myself staring up into the open window. And that was when I saw them! Two Negro children. I think boys, but I am not certain. Perfect identical twins. Exactly the same. They had sneaked into the alley and were looking at us! And something more. My valise sat on a nearby table. I liked to have my cologne and a fresh set of clothes along, you see. But the problem is that my valise is monogrammed, very clearly, in all capital letters, with my full name. The two urchins in the alley were reading my name. Even pronouncing it correctly! This was most alarming. If word began to circulate that a white man named Adolf Graf spent time in the Palmerton—even as an unsubstantiated rumor among Negroes—then it could spell disaster. And so. . .

  “And so I did what any reasonable man would do. I shouted at the twins. At which point, they promptly fled back down the alley. I disengaged from my revels, dressed to a degree, and went to find the only man I knew who could solve such problems. You must understand this about Durkin. He really was remarkable. Friends and associates had told me of situations in which—when I imagined myself in them—I would have planned to leave the country entirely, or to end it all. Predicaments so unsolvable and impossible. . . And yet Durkin found ways to solve them. If he did not completely make them go away, then he always made them into things that could be handled. Managed.

  “I do not need to tell you where I found him. Only that I did. I informed him of the details—and gravity—of the situation. Identical twin Negro children with southern accents had seen something they should not have seen. Had read my name and knew it. It must be ensured that they did not speak it. I only meant—God help me!—I only meant for Durkin to scare them a little. And I meant for him to use an olive branch, in addition to a stick. I gave him money to bribe the parents. Scare the kids into silence, sure, but then throw a little cash their parents’ way. Not such a complicated idea, is it? Not so strange? I told Durkin I did not know who the twins were, or where to find them, but he took my money and assured me it would be solved. The twins would be silent, he swore. My secret doings in the Palmerton would remain forever unknown.”

  Graf nervously reached for a glass on the table and had a drink.

  “Of course, Durkin was always a man of his word,” Graf continued. “But killing children and mutilating them? When I learned what was happening, I went straight to our group—to the men in this room today—and let them know he had finally gone too far. Whatever his prior usefulness, Durkin had become. . . excessive. Perhaps he enjoyed killing children. Enjoyed mutilation. But now he worked for us. We could not afford to be connected in any way to such depravity. That was when we enlisted the outfit from New York to come and finish him off. And we thought we had. . . until the killings resumed. You can imagine what a low point it was for us when we were forced to turn to the mayor and the municipal police.”

  Flip was in too much physical pain to take this personally.

  “You need to understand. . . I never intended to harm those children. Scare them?—surely—but harm them? Absolutely not! I was horrified by what Durkin did. And I hope you will agree that I did everything within my power to stop him.”

  The beer baron seemed to be finished with the confession. Flip let a few seconds pass before responding.

  “Did Durkin ever say things about hating twins?” Flip asked.

  “No,” Graf replied. “Such an idea is ridiculous, is it not? Why hate twins? Of all the things to hate a person for, it would be most arbitrary.”

  “He was found. . .” Flip began, then started over. “When I shot him, Durkin was in the home of a man who everybody thought was a twin.”

  “Maybe he had gone there to kill him too?” Graf said, leaning back in his chair, relaxing now, as if the hard part were over. “Really, I don’t know. He had always been discreet before. When he did jobs for us, he made it look like a robbery gone bad, or even an accident. Once, he crushed a man with a piano, if you can believe it! But mutilation w
as entirely out of his character. By sending him after twins, did I awaken within him a sleeping twin-mania? Hmm. Who can say? It’s as if I told him I needed him to silence a red haired man, and he began butchering every red headed person in Chicago.”

  Flip nodded. Graf smiled and set down his glass. Then he rose, as if they were finished.

  “I see that you have been wounded in the line of duty,” Graf said, as Flip also stood. “If you need further attention, my personal doctor will be glad to treat your injury without a fee. Is it very serious?”

  Flip could tell that—after the fever passed—it was the kind of wound that would take a year or two to stop hurting completely.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” the Flip told him.

  “Well, anyhow,” said Graf, “come up to Milwaukee any time you like, and you can see my specialist. You would be a personal guest inside my mansion. I receive many Negro visitors, you know. In the meantime, I’ll see that a barrel of beer is delivered to your home within the week. Goodbye then.”

  The guilt seemed to have been washed clean from Graf ’s face. The man genuinely felt better, Flip realized, just as he had hoped to.

  Graf extended his hand. Absently, Flip shook it.

  Back outside, the mayor, still very drunk, was leaning against the passageway, pressing his face against the cool stone wall. The mayor started and opened his eyes as Graf reemerged. Big Bill Thompson walked over to the beer baron and gave him a full-on embrace. His chest lightened by the unburdening of his horrible secret—washed and absolved—the beer baron hugged him back, then walked cheerfully down the stone steps to the first floor of city hall.

  The mayor motioned for Flip and Crespo to wait. Flip thought the mayor might have final words to say to them, but after a moment he simply indicated that Flip and Crespo could now depart as well. There was enough space between the baron and the policemen.

  All was, once again, as it should be.

  On his journey home to resume convalescence, the only coherent thought holding steady in Flip’s mind was that he must never—ever—tell Sally of the connection between the killings and her establishment.