If It Is April

by Edward A. Stabler

  Chapter 9

  Legwork

  Wednesday, April 9, 1924

  Cole parked his model T flatbed at the dirt end of Swains Lock Road and got out. He pulled off his black felt Stetson and brushed the road dust from its rolled-down brim. He’d left the tree farm in Jefferson County after breakfast, driven over the Blue Ridge and down the pike to Leesburg, then crossed the river at Whites Ferry and continued east to Swains. That was three states, but only forty-five miles and a couple of hours. Maybe everything about this job would be easy.

  A few paces to his left, the whitewashed stone lockhouse showed knee-high mud stains from the flood. On the berm to his right, a rack of canoes guarded the edge of the woods. Across the drained canal and the towpath, a wide shelf of washed-over grass and mud sloped gradually down to the river and was studded with big trees that had seen their share of floods. Cole nodded in recognition. Unlike his family’s whiskey, he hadn’t visited this stretch of the canal in years, but the scenery at Swains Lock would fit in anywhere out west, Catoctin Mountain to Cumberland.

  A bridge of planks had been laid across the lock, and as he started to cross, a well-fed Canada goose strutted urgently up the towpath to the opposite side, wagging its head and squawking at him. Cole laughed and directed a kick its way in passing, but the goose hopped aloft and backward in time to avoid his foot. It waddled after him, sounding the alarm at a safe distance as he turned down the towpath. A plump, white-haired man was hoeing a flood-scarred garden on the far side of the lockhouse. When the man looked up at the commotion, the goose broke off its pursuit, flapping its wings just enough to clear the canal and join him. The man went back to his hoeing. Jess Swain, Cole thought. He’ll hear from me soon.

  Before he’d walked a mile, Cole found the scow resting intact and level on the berm, its bow skewed toward the woods and starboard side squared against two thick trees. Couldn’t of been moored much better than that, he thought. It seemed funny that the boat rode the flood to safe ground while both its crew ended up dead in the river. You might expect it to be the other way round – the scow going out through a break in the towpath and getting smashed to pieces by the falls. He picked his way down the embankment and across the puddled floor of the canal.

  Cole wasn’t sure if the heroin dealer Zimmerman was on board, so when he reached the scow he picked up a rock and banged on the hull several times. No one emerged to investigate, even after he banged again. He climbed onto the deck. The layout looked familiar – stable turned hay-house in the bow, six hatches, cabin aft with its entry from the stern deck.

  He started his search in the cabin, opening the stove’s firebox and digging into the coal bin, pulling out the pots and pans in the cupboard, pawing through the bedding on the lower bunk, probing for loose boards and possible hiding places behind them. His only discoveries were a loaf of bread, a pot of boatman’s bean soup on the stove, and a half-empty five-gallon cask of what must have been Emory whiskey. He poured himself a slug. Not up to Jefferson County standards.

  He went back on deck and pulled the hatch covers off one at a time. Just splintered wood on the floor and a barrel in hatch 5, partly covered by Cole-family cordwood that he might have cut himself. In the stable he kicked through the small remaining pile of hay but found nothing hidden. The toolbox was over a foot long and would weigh twenty pounds or more if it still held the money, so after circling the deck once more he concluded it wasn’t on board. He returned to the cabin, poured himself whiskey, and took a spoon to the pot of bean soup. Then he stretched out on the lower bunk.

  When he heard footsteps on deck, he realized he must have dozed for an hour or two; the light in the cabin made it look like late afternoon. He pulled his Colt from his coat pocket, flicked off the safety, swung his legs to the floor, and leaned back against the cabin wall. After the sound of three footsteps on the stairs, the cabin door opened and an older man entered the room. He had wisps of hair swept back across his age-spotted scalp and wrinkled hollows around his eyes. Cole pointed his pistol at the man and extended his arm.

  “You must be Zimmerman.”

  The man stopped and turned to face him without revealing surprise or alarm.

  “I been called that and worse, my friend.” He squinted at Cole, seemingly in search of a name or a familiar face. “But when a man is sitting on my bed and eating my soup, he might put his gun down and call me Henry.”

  Cole grinned and used his boot to push the soup pot along the floor toward the fold-down table that divided the cabin. “It ain’t half bad, for canal cooking. Henry.” He pulled his forearm back and swung the gun barrel away from Zimmerman. “Could use a little salt and a lot more ham.”

  “You might of seen that my kitchen ain’t too well stocked. Maybe you could bring some stewed tomatoes and navy beans next time.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” Cole said. “But I didn’t reckon I was visiting your boat or sitting on your bed. A couple fellers I know said just the opposite – they came looking for their boat and found you camping here.”

  Zimmerman pulled out a dented tin cup from the cupboard and filled it halfway with whiskey from the cask on the shelf. He pushed a wooden stool into position and sat down with his hands on the table, facing Cole, who noticed the severed ring finger on the heroin dealer’s left hand.

  “I guess it depends how you see things,” Zimmerman said, pausing for a sip that left him blinking away the fumes. “When it comes to the law and abandoned boats.”

  “I don’t think we need to cogitate sea law,” Cole said, “seeing as we ain’t exactly adrift on the ocean. When the ditch gets patched up and watered, I expect the owners will be ready to pull this bucket back to Washington County.”

  “You mean the moonshiners. Their kin came looking for ‘em last week… found ‘em on ice at Perry’s Store. Hard to figure how they drownded.”

  “I heared about that.”

  “You an Emory?” Zimmerman said, squinting with what looked like skepticism.

  “No.” Cole could tell the old man was still trying to place him. “But I done some business with ‘em over the years.”

  “That don’t narrow it down much. What’s your name, friend?”

  “Cole.”

  Zimmerman tilted his cup to his lips for several seconds, apparently buying time. “Can’t say I ever knowed anybody by that name.” Then his eyes snapped up and he lowered his cup. “I heared about a couple brothers in West Virginia, just up the Shenandoah from Harpers Ferry. Had some trouble with a judge in Charles Town. That was a few years ago.”

  Cole bowed his head in mock salute. “Delmond Cole. Here on behalf of Abel Emory, the rightful owner of this boat. Now that we been properly introduced, Henry, I was hoping you could tell me what you found when you came on board the first time.”

  Zimmerman shook his head like he was about to lecture a recalcitrant schoolboy. “I been through this with the Emory boys last week. Billy and Tyler. They said they was looking for a toolbox, a ledger, and a set of keys. I told ‘em none of that was on board when I first got here after the flood. They searched the boat and I’m guessing you searched it – the box ain’t here. If it was and I took it, why would I keep coming back looking for trouble?”

  “Maybe you’re just a crazy old bastard that steals with a straight face whenever he spots the chance. A man that sells heroin might get in the habit of taking anything he can grab.”

  “The Emory boys tell you about that? I don’t reckon it’s much different from selling moonshine. Some like one and some like the other. Some like both. Depends what kind of pain you’re dealing with.”

  “The pain I’m dealing with is spread onto two tribes. Emorys got three kin dead, a month’s profit lost, and all their customer records gone. Coles got their Maryland partner out of business for now.” Cole swung his pistol back toward Zimmerman. “And if I think you’re part of the reason for that, I’ll make sure you get your share of that pain.”

  “Save yourself the trouble.
Go ahead and shoot me now if you think I’m lying.”

  Cole raised the barrel an inch and fired and the bullet tore into the wall of the scow behind Zimmerman’s head. Splinters flew as the hollow bang echoed in the cabin. “Now you know it’s loaded. If I thought you was lying and going to keep it up, I wouldn’t of missed.”

  Zimmerman smiled. “Don’t know what Abel Emory would say about you putting holes in his scow. At least you’re shooting above the waterline.”

  “I can shoot lower,” Cole said, laying the pistol flat on his thigh. “But my aim ain’t as good. Might blow your balls off instead.”

  Zimmerman ignored the suggestion. “Did Billy and Tyler tell you about the hats?”

  “I heared they found ‘em in the hay-house.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  Cole raised himself from his slouch and flipped the Colt upright so it aimed at Zimmerman’s chest. “I got the gun, you tell me.”

  “Makes me think the toolbox was gone before the scow broke its mooring at Swains. Them two fellers would never of left the boat with all their money on board. And if they was taking the box somewhere – say they was going to ride the mules to high ground – they wouldn’t of gone without their hats. So I reckon the Emorys and the box came off the boat at the same time. Maybe in a hurry, maybe at the end of a gun. Somebody marched ‘em off without their hats and took the toolbox off their hands. Don’t know how they got drownded, but somebody come back on board later to throw the hats in the hay-house, where they wasn’t going to be noticed.”

  “You’re saying it all happened at Swains.”

  “Can’t see it no other way,” Zimmerman said. “If someone found the box on this boat after she washed up into the trees, they would of seen the hats and got rid of ‘em. Leaving ‘em behind is asking for trouble. I think whoever tossed ‘em in the hay-house when the boat was up at Swains didn’t know there was going to be a flood.”

  Cole stood up and stretched his legs, retrieved his cup, and poured himself two fingers from the cask. “Seems like you got it all figured out, Henry. You reckon the toolbox might be sitting in that lockhouse?”

  “Could be. But if so, it ain’t Jess Swain’s doing. He was in Baltimore or some place and didn’t get back until two days after the flood. There was other folks staying there and minding the lock while he was gone.”

  “The Emory boys said something about a boat captain from Williamsport.”

  “Cy Elgin. He washed up dead, same as Kevin and Tom Emory.”

  “Same as Lee Fisher, I heared.”

  “Your Emory boys – Billy and Tyler – said Lee got his throat cut before he went in the water. The kid brother at Swains took the mules to high ground when the water come up. So that leaves one person who should know what happened and maybe is alive to tell about it. The sister, Katie Elgin. She was staying at the lockhouse and spending time with Lee. Sounds like nobody seen her since the flood.”

  Cole knocked back the rest of his whiskey, plucked his hat from the bunk, and passed Zimmerman on his way to the door. “I seen folks go missing before,” he said. “They usually turn up sooner or later. And if you aim to keep squatting here, you’ll probably be seeing me again. Might be a chance we could help each other out.”

  Zimmerman pivoted on his stool to watch Cole leave the cabin.

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  ***

  As he walked back to Swains Lock, Cole considered what he’d heard from Zimmerman. It squared with what the heroin dealer had told Billy and Tyler, and what the Emory boys had heard from the sheriff and Jess Swain. He hadn’t learned anything new, but he hadn’t really expected to. It just made sense to start at the beginning, with the scow. It looked like Zimmerman was telling the truth – he hadn’t found the toolbox. And Cole didn’t think anything would turn up at the lockhouse either, but he had to check. Since there were only a couple of places to look, it didn’t pay to skip one.

  He figured he might have to park his truck near the top of Swains Lock Road and sit there until he saw Jess Swain driving out. As it happened the locktender’s car was already gone when he got back to the lockhouse. Cole crossed the plank bridge and knocked on the front door. No answer. And no sign of anyone up or down the towpath either, not even the goose.

  He decided there was no use waiting, so he used the butt of his Colt to smash the lower pane of a window near the door, reached inside to open the frame, and climbed through. The entryway was dark and led into a dining room and living area, with a kitchen through a portal to his left. He raised all the windowshades and got started.

  Upstairs he dumped out dresser drawers, upended chairs, and stripped the beds. A small box holding a pocket-watch and cufflinks was the most valuable discovery in Jess Swain’s room. A dish next to it held coins, none of them the gold and silver dollars that Kevin Emory favored. There were no closets on either floor, and the family rooms downstairs held only a few pieces of furniture. Cole quickly confirmed they weren’t concealing the toolbox. After checking the cupboards and stove in the kitchen, he found and lit an oil lamp. The basement had been pumped out but still smelled like canal mud. If the toolbox had been there during the flood, it would have been found during the cleanup. He illuminated the corners and pulled apart the furniture piles, in case Jess was hiding it within them. Nothing.

  Jess doesn’t have it and never did, Cole thought as he climbed the stairs. And if Swain had found the toolbox, he was probably the type to tell the sheriff about it. Trust the authorities to determine where it came from and what it meant, probably without even trying to open it. Some men were born to follow the rules – let someone else show ‘em what to do, how to do it. Close the gates, turn the paddles, open the gates. Run around a loop of track like a toy electric train.

  He unlocked the front door and went back outside, leaving the window open and the door ajar. Two benches were set in front of the lockhouse for boatmen and visitors to use; they could relax and kill time while watching boats lock through. Cole sat down and leaned back against the sunlit stone façade. He was getting hungry, so he hoped the wait would be short. He stretched his boots toward the lock and lowered his hat-brim over his eyes.

  This time he’d barely started drifting when he heard the rattle of a car engine, accompanied as it approached by the rolling crunch of tires on gravel and dirt. The sounds stopped and a car door slammed in the driveway near the back of the lockhouse. Cole pulled his feet underneath him and sat ready, tapping his coat pocket to confirm the Colt was still there. He heard approaching footsteps on gravel from the side of the house, but before Jess Swain rounded the corner, his goose preceded him. It bobbed its head in surprise when it saw Cole and waddled straight up to him, squawking its disapproval.

  Cole thought he saw a flash of regret in the goose’s eyes a split-second before it tried to reverse direction, but by then it was too late. He grabbed it by the neck, sweeping its body off the ground and pinning the bird to his chest with his other arm. He stood up with the bird’s wings immobilized, its neck held tight in his hand.

  Jess Swain turned the corner on the cinder path and stopped dead as soon as he saw Cole clutching his goose. “Jimmy!” he cried, holding his mouth open as if more words would emerge. He blinked as if caught between opposing impulses, then strode toward Cole with short determined steps, stopping just beyond arm’s reach.

  “Put him down, mister!” he said. “That’s not a wild goose! He lives here with me!”

  Jimmy gurgled and tried to wag his head in indignation and agreement.

  “You been feeding him?” Cole said.

  “Yes I have! I raised Jimmy from the time he was a chick, and he’s eleven years old! Let him go right now!”

  “What does he eat?”

  Swain furrowed his brow, seemingly concerned at the direction of the conversation. “Grass mostly, when it’s growing. And canal weeds. I give him corn as a treat.”

  Cole smiled. “Well I think you done a fine job. Corn-fed goo
se is the best kind for eating, in my experience. I’ll be happy to buy him off you for one dollar. Just let me snap his neck, and I’ll put him down and get your money.”

  “No!” Swain wailed, screwing his face into fleshy mounds and looking as if he might cry. Don’t hurt him, mister! Jimmy’s not for sale!”

  Cole shifted the goose from one arm to the other but didn’t release it. He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice.

  “Well if you want me to give up this fine dinner, you better have some answers for me. The scow that was tied up here before the flood had property on it that gone missing. A metal toolbox that might of found its way into your lockhouse. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know!” Swain pleaded. “It wasn’t in the house when I got back after the flood!”

  “You’re lying. You found it and hid it somewhere!” Cole raised and tightened his grip on Jimmy’s neck.

  “No, please mister! Whatever happened on the scow… if anything was taken or someone drowned somebody… that all happened when I was gone! I don’t know a thing about it! Nobody does! Only the Elgins, and Cy Elgin is dead!”

  “What happened to the mules pulling the scow? They was tied up here.”

  “The boy took ‘em up to the crossroads. His family came down to Potomac to pick him up, so they must have decided what to do with the mules. You can ask them! They live in Williamsport!”

  Jimmy’s breathing had grown erratic and strained. Cole noticed tear tracks on the locktender’s face.

  “What about the sister? Is she back with her family?”

  “I don’t know,” Swain whimpered without lifting his eyes from his goose. “Maybe she found her way home by now.”

  “Is she hiding out on her brother’s coal boat? The one stuck in the canal just upstream?”

  “No. They would have found her. That boat belongs to the Canal Company. A crew already came through to inspect it and lock it down.”