by S. L. Stoner
In a more sober tone and with odd intensity, Lucinda added, “I’m told the electricity adds to the house’s resale value.”
Before he could reply, Elvira poked her head around the door frame and raised her eyebrows dramatically.
“Oops, be back in a minute,” Lucinda said and strode from the parlor.
Sage’s eye roamed over the caramel-colored glass shades covering the electric sconces and the brass floor lamps sporting matching magenta silk and gold-tasseled shades. Maybe the time had come to make the switch from gas to electricity like his mother wanted. According to his recently acquired firefighting friends, the city’s new electrical code made fires less likely.
When Lucinda returned she was shaking her head. “One of our newer patrons. I just banned him from returning. Not exactly our kind of clientele.” Her lips twisted in disgust. “You’d think a lawyer would know better.”
Lucinda ran the city’s most exclusive parlor house. She expected her visitors to act like gentlemen and her girls to act like ladies otherwise, she threw them out.
She gestured toward the settee. “Take a seat, Sage,” she said, and sat beside him. “What have you been doing with yourself? Any more adventures in the offing?” There was a chill in her question. He thought he knew why. He’d been busy and not seen her for a week.
At least, he could answer her honestly. She was one of the very few who knew Sage was St. Alban’s undercover operative. And, she was also one of a hand full of people who called him “Sage”—a diminutive of his middle name, “Sagacity”. He never thought of himself as “John” though all but his most trusted friends did.
He shook his head. “No. At least, I don’t think so. But something strange happened the night before last.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Look, I’m sorry you haven’t seen me lately. Things got busy and—” He caught her skeptical look and shut up with his excuses, saying, “‘Anyways,’ as Ma would say, I need your help.”
She said nothing so he held her hand and launched into his story. “The other night I met this young boy, he reminded me of—”
She made no comment until he had finished telling her about Glad and Mickey and the kidnapping. “What can I do to help you find Glad?” she asked, to his relief. The melancholy in her voice meant his tale had stirred up sad memories for her as well. He’d long ago told her about the mine, the explosion and his subsequent fostering with the rich mine owner, but he knew nothing about her childhood. All she ever said was that there’d been monsters, “real” monsters.
“Maybe. God, Lucinda, I just don’t know. You don’t think. I mean, we stopped the sale of children from the Boy’s Christian Society and closed down that one house in Lair Hill—”
She withdrew her hand from his and spoke in a tone that chilled the warmth between them. “You are a fool to think we can stop the trade in children. As long as there are customers, someone will provide the service. So, it’s possible they sold your Glad to a house. But, I doubt it.”
“Really? Why?”
“Selling a child who has family in Portland is riskier than just snatching one of the homeless street orphans who’ve just arrived from someplace else. A child who’s lived here for a while knows the city, knows people who might help. It’s far easier to entice and trap a child new to the city.”
Her explanation made sense. Still, he had to ask. “Is there any way you can confirm that’s not what happened to him?”
Her lips pressed tightly together and he feared she was angry at the request. Sometimes she turned prickly when he alluded to the prostitution business. But, she sighed and spoke as if she’d read his thoughts. “I don’t harbor illusions about the things that go on in the sex trade. While this house might be posh, it’s still the same business. That means I do talk with the other madams. And, like people everywhere, we gossip. I’m sure I can find out whether a new pedophile house has opened and where it is. It will be harder to learn whether Glad’s there. I can’t promise to find that out. But, I’ll try.”
“Thank you, Lucinda. I wouldn’t ask but I hate the idea of him—” He stopped when she held up a hand.
“Sage, I know. Better than you realize. If that’s what happened to your young friend, we need to find him fast.”
He said nothing, thinking as he always did how lovely she was with her honey-colored hair, corn-flower blue eyes, dainty nose, and generous mouth. In that high-necked dress and with her regal bearing she was the equal of any society matron in the City.
“You are doing it again,” she said, startling him out of his contemplation. “What are you thinking?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “You need to be careful, Lucinda. We don’t know who or what is behind Glad’s kidnapping. Those men looked rough.”
His answer seemed to sadden her but all she said was, “I will have my driver with me. Where will you be looking for him while I’m off sleuthing?”
He fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “I guess I better try to find his family. I know the general area where they live. Who knows, maybe Glad’s safe at home. Or, maybe I misinterpreted what I saw.”
Abruptly she stood up from the settee. “I have an idea,” she said and left the room.
Returning, she handed him a scrawled name and address.
“Millie Trumbull,” he read aloud. “Who’s she?”
“A customer was complaining about her. What caught my ear was him har-haring and bawling, over and over, ‘Put on your hat Willie! Here comes Millie!’ as if it was the funniest thing.”
Sage arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
Lucinda lifted and dropped a shoulder in response to his unspoken question. “He was laughing a bit too loud for his mirth to be genuine. He was worried and so were his buddies. I figured it might come in handy to get this ‘Millie’s’ full name.”
“But who is she?”
“Near as I could tell, she’s one of those do-gooder women. But she must do more than meet for tea and tittle-tattle.” Sage had to smile. Lucinda rarely bypassed an opportunity to deride the judgmental wives of her wealthy patrons.
She smirked again, as if he’d read her mind, and then continued, “‘Anyways,’ as Mae would say, this Millie person helps children. That’s the most I could tell.”
He shook his head.
“What?” she demanded.
“I don’t know why I bother to read Johnston’s Daily Journal. All I have to do is visit you. You keep up on everything.”
She looked gratified by his observation. “Given our clientele, we women need to stay current on events. Who’s in, who’s out. Who is doing what to whom,” she said.
Of course. Her customers expected the women of the house to offer intelligent conversation as well as the traditional service. But not Lucinda, he told himself. She offered the conversation but did not provide the service. At least, that’s what Elvira had told him once in confidence. And, as for him, well, their relationship was not commercial.
He reached out and gently traced her cheek with his fingers and leaned toward her.
She pulled back with a regretful sigh. “Sorry, Sage. Better not to start something we can’t finish. I am expecting a guest.”
It was as he descended the front steps that her words made him pause. “Guest? What guest? Whose guest? What kind of guest?” Reaching the sidewalk, he fought the temptation to enter the park across the street. From there, he could stand behind a tree and watch her front door. He made himself keep going.
“Damned if I’ll skulk around like some jealous lover,” he muttered. Then he ruefully added, “Face it, Sage. You’re afraid she’d catch you.”
It was only when he was halfway back to Mozart’s that he remembered her earlier, more disturbing, comment. “Resale value.” What the hell was that about?
“Millie Trumbull?” Mae started to shake her head and th
en stopped. “Well, come to think of it, maybe I do know her. She rarely comes in and, when she does, she’s all business. Not one of those la-di-dah ladies wanting afternoon tea and gossip.”
Sage gave a mental chuckle. No wonder his Appalachian mother and Lucinda liked each other—‘two peas in a pod’ as his mother would say. “Do you think Trumbull would remember you?” he asked.
She pursed her lips, thought, then said, “Who knows? We always visit a bit while she waits for her teacher friend, Valentine Pritchard. That gal is never on time.”
These were names Sage had never heard. Sometimes he forgot that Mae was also making friends in this new city. No wonder, really. She was someone people trusted—dignified and reserved about personal matters but quick to smile and do a kindness.
“What exactly do you ladies chat about?”
“Mostly, she talks and I listen. The two of them are doing things for poor children—orphans and the like. Millie’s some kind of factory inspector. But she does a lot more. Once she told me she was on the board of at least ten charities— and she acts as the secretary or some such officer in each of them.”
“All of them about children?”
Mae considered that in silence before saying, “I recollect her saying that she and that Rabbi Wise have started a TB sanatorium.”
“You have any idea what she thinks about unions?” His was not an idle question. They often worked with and helped people who were not in unions. But, the question’s answer revealed something fundamental about a person’s world view.
“Well, we’ve never talked specifically about it. But, she did say that when her inspection group was picking its office location she insisted that it be in the State Federation of Labor building at Second and Washington.”
Sage smiled. “That’s a good sign. Do you think she’d help us?”
“‘Help,’ seems to be her middle name. I could tell her I want to volunteer.”
He shook his head. “She’d expect you to keep doing it long term. The last thing you need is more work. Maybe you could say that you heard Glad’s mother has TB and no money and you want to help.”
Mae nodded. “I like that better because it’s the truth with a bit left out. For sure, that poor family needs help. Maybe Millie Trumbull can suggest ways to do right by Mrs. Tobias and her kids.”
After a thoughtful lull, Sage asked, “Any chance of Herman turning up sometime soon?” He grinned at her sudden flushing. Mae Clemens and the ragpicker poet had become quite friendly ever since an arsonist locked them inside a burning building. Something had certainly happened between the two of them.
Not that he disapproved. She’d been alone far too long. And, the ragpicker poet had substance way beyond how he made his livelihood. Thoughtful, kind, educated and intelligent—and, most important, Herman Eich clearly held Mae Clemens in high regard. All of that and, there was the added bonus that he readily assisted in their secret endeavors, putting his life on the line more than once.
“Stop grinning like a jackass chomping a carrot,” she ordered and asked, “Why do you want to see him?”
“You can’t approach the Trumbull woman until we find Glad’s family and figure out their situation. Since Herman roams the city with his cart, I’m thinking he might be just the person to find them.”
“I’ll send Matthew to his place with a note right now,” she said. She got to her feet, patted him on the shoulder and headed downstairs to the restaurant.
Four
“Herman, I don’t know if there’s anything to worry about. Maybe Glad’s already back with his family. I’ve looked for him on the streets and asked at Slap Jacks. No one has seen him since we met last Friday night,” Sage said, as he added sugar to his coffee and stirred.
“We are in luck. I know Sullivan’s Gulch well. It is on one of my routes.” Eich was referring to the fact that he and his pushcart ranged citywide, rummaging through people’s dust bins for usable or repairable items. Whatever he found, he sold back to those of limited means.
“You do business in Sullivan’s Gulch? I wouldn’t think those folks had useable things to throw away, let alone money to buy anything.” Sage paused upon noting that his words made Eich uncomfortable. He noticed something else as well. The ragpicker poet had trimmed his beard. Sage knew Eich frequently visited the public baths and his clothes, though shabby, were always clean. But, a trimmed beard? Mae was probably the inspiration, he thought with an inward smile.
Eich shifted uneasily, fiddled with his coffee mug and at last said, “Some people, you can’t take their money.” He gazed out the café window.
The distant look in those dark brown eyes told Sage what was coming. Sure enough, Eich’s warm voice recited,
If any sue for pity –
Though he be friend or foe—
I’ll whisper to my soul,
“He goes the road I go.”
“You wrote that?” Sage asked.
Eich shook his head. “No, a woman friend of mine named Mary Sinton. She helps prisoners and writes poetry.”
Sage pondered the poem’s meaning and asked, “You’re saying sometimes the Sullivan Gulch people pay nothing for what you give them?”
Eich shrugged, “They are among the poorest of the poor.” He straightened, signaling the end of his musing. “I visit each shack so I’ve come to know them all. From what Mae told me, I’m fairly certain I know Glad’s mother and siblings.”
“Do you think you could discover whether Glad’s made it home?”
Eich nodded. “I assume you don’t wish to draw attention to your interest at this point?”
“That’s right. Until we figure out why those men snatched Glad off the street, I’d rather no one know of my interest. It would be best to get the information without being obvious. That’ll leave us with more options if we need to get more involved.”
Eich again nodded. “Usually, I start at the beginning of the gulch where Tanner Creek empties into the Willamette. I recall that the Tobias family has a one-room shack about halfway in. If I just do my regular route, stopping at each shack, it will take me about three hours. Do you want to meet back here then?"
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather come to your place. The less we’re seen together, the better. At least until we know what’s happened to the boy.”
The path alongside the creek was muddy and Eich had to wrestle the cart forward with the little bell on the cart’s side announcing his approach. Men and women emerged blurry-eyed from ramshackle huts to make their requests—a chipped cup here, a dented pot there, a patched coat or blanket. If he had what they needed, he gave it to them, accepting what little they could pay with a smile and a, “thank you.”
“Mr. Eich, please come inside for a bit of tea,” one old crone urged. He accepted her offer, after resting his cart handles atop two rocks sticking out of the mud. He didn’t worry about thieves. The people of the Gulch would watch out for their benefactor.
Her name was Maisie Duncan and her age was old enough for her to have lost most of her teeth and seen her hair turn gray. A wood round destined for the corner stove served as his stool. While she bustled about, pouring hot water into a chipped pot, he studied her tiny space. This shack, built of castaway lumber, held so little and provided inadequate shelter. The wadded paper stuffed into gaps struggled to hold in the stove’s heat. Scattered tin cans caught raindrops in an attempt to keep the dirt floor from becoming mud with only partial success. In the corners and along the wall the tin cans had failed in their mission. Drips had turned the dirt black.
She handed him a cup and sat down on the cot’s edge, her grimy hands wrapped around a cup of her own. “I was digging in the garbage pail of one of them homes up on the bluff and darned if someone hadn’t thrown out a whole box of tea. Must have thought it went stale. I think it’s still pretty good, don’t you?” she aske
d, eager for a positive word.
He sipped the tea. It was weaker than what he’d drank when growing up in New York, those many decades long ago. But, it was still recognizable as tea. “It is mighty fine, Mrs. Duncan,” he assured her. “Far better than some I’ve had in fancy restaurants.”
She smiled a gap-toothed grin and mimed a ladylike gesture by raising a pinky in the air while the rest of her fingers firmly gripped her handle-less cup.
“How are things going down here in the Gulch?” he asked.
“We feared there’d be a flood last week with all that rain. Everybody cleared out and hunkered under the bridges just in case. Luckily it stopped raining, though it sure did turn our path into a sea of mud. Course, we don’t have to worry about tracking none in,” her tone was rueful as she gestured to the shack’s dirt floor.
“Mrs. Duncan, why don’t you move onto that poor farm out Jefferson way? Or, there’s the Patton Home right near here in Albina village. At least you’d be dry and warm.”
Her head shake was adamant. “No siree, bob. I ain’t never going back to no poor farm. I grew up in one. It’s hard work, lottsa stupid rules that you can’t say nothing about least they boot you out. Besides, that poor farm is too far out. I can’t be traipsing up and down Jefferson road every time I want to come to town. And, the Patton place, why it’s just a bunch of old folks sitting around talking about all them that’s dead and gone.”
She has a point, Eich thought, and changed the subject. “How’s your neighbor, Mrs. Tobias faring? Last time I passed through, she was looking poorly.”
Maisie shook her head sadly. “She’s mighty sick. I don’t think she’s going to make it to the spring. Those poor kids.”
“There’s how many of them?” Eich asked.
“She’s got four—two girls and two boys. The boys are the oldest. They all try to help out, except the baby.”