by S. L. Stoner
Terry’s face paled but he made no denial, saying instead, “They took Dougie and Glad. Told me to stop stirring things up and be a ‘good boy.’ They gave me this.” He pulled a copper wristband from his pocket. “This is Glad’s. Mother gave it to him for his last birthday.”
Mae nodded. “Yes, it took some time but we figured that out. We’ve been searching for your brother these last few weeks. Yesterday, the same people took one of our friends. Her name is, Lucinda Collins. She was helping us look for Glad. Now, we’re searching for both of them.”
Terry’s eyes filled with tears. “Mr. Miner’s been trying to find Glad? And, is he looking for Dougie too?”
Mae and Millie exchanged looks, with Millie giving a slight shake of her head. It would do Terry no good to learn that his friend was dead. So, Mae only said, “Mr. Miner and a whole lot of others, including the police, are out looking for them. We’re certain that Vera Clark woman and Speedy Messenger are both involved.”
A thoughtful look settled on the young boy’s face. “Something kinda peculiar is going on at her house.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, last night she yelled a lot. Didn’t even try to—” here he flushed and couldn’t finish.
Mae nodded. “Mr. Miner told me how she likes to embarrass young boys, so you don’t have to explain. But, what did you see?”
“There were travel trunks in the hallway and her maid was running up and down the stairs loading things into them. I think Mrs. Clark’s fixing to leave.”
Millie and Mae exchanged looks. “That cabbie raised the alarm, I’ll bet,” Mae said.
“Cabbie?” Terry echoed.
“Yes, there’s a cabbie that seems to be involved. He has a bad burn scar on the side of his face,” Mae said.
“I’ve seen that fellow a bunch of times. He’s always with Willard,” Terry said.
“Who is Willard?” Mae asked sharply.
“He’s this huge man who comes by Speedy Messenger to pick up the earnings. That cabbie you were talking about is the one who always brings him.”
“Where does he take the money?” Mae prodded.
Terry shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess to the owner of the messenger company.”
“Who is the owner?” Mae was leaning forward, her urgency telegraphing to little Emma who began fussing. Millie tried to jiggle her quiet but it didn’t work. Carrie Lynne reached out and took the baby into her arms. Emma’s eyes widened and she touched her sister’s braid before sticking a thumb in her mouth and going quiet.
Mae tried to relax. “Do you know who the owner is?” she asked again.
Terry shook his head. “He never comes down to the office. Sometimes, Willard comes and runs things while Pringle and Kimble leave for a meeting with him.”
Mae and Millie exchanged disappointed looks that Terry caught because he added, “I know the owner is a lawyer, ‘cause I heard Willard say one time that the meeting was canceled because a judge ordered the boss to show up in court with his client. Leastways, that’s how come I figure he’s a lawyer.”
Millie’s lips twisted but all she said was, “It figures.”
Mae pondered the situation before saying aloud, “Wonder where we could find that Willard fellow.”
Terry straightened on the wood slat bench. “He’s easy to find. I seen him a bunch of times at Mrs. Clark’s.”
Mae was putting the pieces of information together when Terry spoke up. “That Willard is mean. Once they caught a Speedy messenger stealing from a customer. Willard hurt him so bad that he went to the hospital. And, he’s got a gun. I saw him cleaning it right there in Vera Clark’s parlor.”
The group fell silent while the electric train, purportedly the first of its kind in the country, rolled serenely on. Soon they were passing Milwaukie’s brickworks and orchard fields. Mae, however, felt anything but serene. She twitched in her seat, fighting an overwhelming urge to jump off the train as soon as possible and catch the next one heading back to the city. Mr. Fong and Sage needed to know Terry’s information.
At last the train braked to a stop at Park and River Road and they disembarked. Millie cast a sympathetic look at Mae. “Nothing you can do now. The return train doesn’t arrive for another hour. We’ll make sure we catch it.”
Mae took a deep breath and nodded. She forced herself to focus on the children who were looking from her to Millie as if sensing an urgency they didn’t understand. “Come, children, let’s go see your mama,” Mae said, with all the lightheartedness she could muster. She took hold of Carrie Lynne’s hand, while Millie hefted Emma Jane onto her ample hip.
The TB Sanatorium sat in a park-like setting. They trooped up the long grassy drive that wound beneath towering fir trees toward a row of small cottages sitting atop a bluff high above the river. The tiny whitewashed structures had screened-in porches fronted by neatly tended gardens. The sunlit air was crisp and carried a sweetness untainted by the city’s woodstoves and horse manure.
As they walked, Millie Trumbull spoke pridefully about the facility. “Our cottages have hot and cold running water and even soaking tubs. We have a health center with an x-ray machine to track the disease. Our patients spend every minute breathing this clean, fresh air. We give them healthful food in spotless surroundings. Most important, we make sure they have complete rest.” She looked directly at Terry and said, “We are taking very good care of your mother but she is still very sick. Fortunately, her TB is in only one lung. That makes it easier for her to get better.”
The children listened quietly as they gazed owl-eyed around them at the sanatorium’s extensive grounds. When they were close to the tiny cottages, Millie Trumbull made them all stop. She looked soberly at the two oldest and said, “You will be visiting your mama on the screened porch of her cottage. She’s waiting for you. It is important that you don’t hug, kiss or touch her because TB is very contagious. We don’t want you three to catch it. And, she doesn’t want that either. We can’t have her worrying.”
Millie led them up the steps of the nearest cottage and opened the screen door onto the veranda. Three women lay in beds, blankets pulled to their chins. Mary Tobias occupied the bed farthest from the door. Upon seeing her children, she broke into a wide smile and struggled to sit up until a white-aproned nurse quickly stepped forward and gently pushed her back down against the pillows.
“Now Mary, you must stay lying down.” The nurse turned toward the children who were eagerly looking toward their mother. “Come closer, children. Your mother can only whisper because we want her to save her lungs. Please remember that you cannot touch her just yet. But I know she wants to hear about you children. She’s been very worried and that’s not good.”
The nurse turned to Millie Trumbull. “How good to see you, Secretary Trumbull,” she said respectfully but also with some warmth. “Dr. Lane was here this morning and says we are at full capacity, forty patients.” There was pride in the woman’s voice.
The children, meanwhile, edged closer to the bed with Carrie Lynne holding Emma Jane on one side and Terry on the other. Mary looked at her children and smiled wide, even as tears coursed down her cheeks. She began whispering to them and they nodded and chirped in return.
Millie, Mae and the nurse retreated to the cottage’s doorway where the nurse ushered them inside. The room was simply furnished. Three single beds stood against three walls, each bed having a chair and a small dresser beside it. Every wall sported a screened window. Heavy blankets piled atop each bed would keep the patients warm as the night chill flowed through the open windows. A bathing room, with toilet and tub, filled the corner of the fourth wall. Millie stepped into the tiny room to turn on the tap. She nodded with approval when hot water hit her hand.
“How is Mary Tobias doing?” Mae asked.
“She’s very weak and restricted to her bed. She’s only allowed up to go to the t
oilet and to her bed on the veranda. We have to help her do both because she’s so weak. But she’s determined to get better and doing exactly as she’s told. Since only one lung is involved, Dr. Lane is optimistic about her outcome. Even so, we’re looking at nearly six months before she can leave. I know she’s been worried about her children. It will do her a world of good now that she sees they’re okay.”
A puzzled look crossed the woman’s face, “But, I thought Mary said she had four children. Isn’t there another boy?”
Millie straightened and said, “There is another boy but some bad men took him. His name is Gladney but his family calls him, ‘Glad.’ I expect her son, Terry, is telling her right now that we have a lot of people looking for him. Please do your best to reassure her that we will find him,” Millie said in a firm tone that Mae had not heard from her before.
Soon the five of them were heading back down the grassy drive to the train stop. The children and their mother had benefited from the visit. But their brief visit had tired Mary and, even before they’d left the porch, she had drifted off to sleep. The two children chattered as they headed away down the lane, their worries lighter now that they’d seen their mother receiving good care. Mary, in turn, was also reassured at seeing all three children well taken care of. With tears in her eyes, she’d thanked Mae and Millie for their efforts to find Glad.
Back aboard the train, urgency seized hold of Mae. If her hand had been on the train’s throttle she’d have pushed it to full and blasted through every station without stopping. But she wasn’t at the controls so she gritted her teeth and smiled while begrudging every station stop, every boarding passenger, and every curve slowing their return to Portland.
Twenty Two
His neck had a crook in it from sprawling on the splintered boardwalk with his head lolling against the brick wall. He looked at the bottle beside him and again wished it held something other than weak, cold coffee. And, not for the first time, he wondered whether he was wasting precious time. But what else could he do? He’d looked everywhere. This was the place that drew him—why he didn’t know. It teased like a faint light behind fluttering leaves.
He’d been playing the wastrel drunk and keeping an eye on Vera Clark’s three houses for over five hours. He had memorized every single shop, house, and light post as far as he could see in both directions. The sign of every café, barbershop, job agency, gambling joint, crib, grill, and saloon was engraved on his memory. He’d counted every raggedy awning, furled and unfurled, more than once.
It had been a mistake to start so early in the day. The brothel business didn’t really get going till sundown. Strangely, she’d had not a single customer. Despite being near Erickson’s saloon, not a soul had knocked on the doors of Clark’s three houses.
Dusk was minutes away. Down the street, a lamplighter used his long stick to light the only gas fixture on the block. The intersection’s electric light began glowing dimly, its gradual brightening a harbinger of the eventual extinction of the lamplighter’s job. Lucinda had been missing for three days.
With a groan, Sage rose. The darkening sky meant that he and other unfortunates could now occupy the crib rooms for which they’d already paid their twenty-cent rent—though, in his case, he’d paid an extra ten cents for the privilege of having the first pick of rooms.
It was marginally warmer inside. After receiving his key from the bored desk clerk, Sage headed upstairs. As he climbed, plaster crumbles crunched beneath his boots and the breath-catching smell of stale urine, tobacco smoke, and musty filth filled his nose. His room door, only slightly stronger than cardboard, shook beneath his hand as he unlocked the padlock. He saw what he expected when he entered the 6 x 5 x 10-foot space. Chicken wire filled the gap between the top of the thin plywood walls and ceiling. A narrow cot, single chair, door hook, and oil lamp on the window sill were the only furnishings. But he didn’t care since the window faced the right direction. Sage moved the chair in front of the window, raised the sash an inch for fresh air and left the lamp unlit.
“I ‘bout gave myself heart pain getting here and still no Sage!” Mae was pacing her room, her impatience mounting. The sinking sun’s gold had faded from the laced-edged curtains and the blackness outside was turning her windows into mirrors. “Grab hold of yourself, Mae Clemens. Anybody hearing you going on would think you demented,” she scolded.
She stopped in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next. She should be downstairs; the supper hour was in full swing. But she had to find Sage. Tell him what Terry had said about that Willard fellow and Vera Clark’s trunks and the lawyer boss.
Fong had added to her frustration when he’d just come upstairs to say that the cousins couldn’t find Sage. “They look everywhere in the North End, especially around Vera Clark’s and they not find him anywhere.”
“Well, I’m gol darned if I’ll hang around here waiting.” But, where should she look? Fong was certain Sage had planned to return to the North End. What was there that might keep him away from Mozart’s?
She strode to the window, yanked aside the curtain and stared up and down the street. “That’s it. I’m done sitting on my fanny!” She’d told Fong everything she’d learned from Terry. If Sage returned before she found him, then Fong could tell him.
There was neither moon nor stars. Unless passing under the street lamp or across lighted windows, pedestrians were merely shambling black shapes. In the next block, Vera Clark’s red curtains began glowing as lamps were lit. Still, none of Erickson’s booming business shifted toward Clark’s. Their continued absence was making him uneasy. He fidgeted on the chair seat which hardened with each passing hour. Still, sitting inside was better than the rotten boardwalk and brick wall.
The neighborhood had turned lively. Drunks staggered and hollered their way down the street. Ladies of the night strode up and down the block, lounged in doorways and against the lamp post. Their face paint, ribald banter, and exaggerated hip-swings issued invitations to those who looked their way. Here and there the firm, purposeful steps of sober men contrasted sharply with the street side debauchery as did the swift boy messengers dodging drunk’s grasping hands and ignoring the streetwalkers’ teasing calls. He’d watched a young girl hurry past, a stack of newspapers clutched to her chest. All and all, it was a typical night in the North End with not a single thing hinting at where Lucinda might be.
His eye caught on the figure of an old lady. It was the second time she’d passed beneath his window. Her drooping skirt, lopsided hat and painful limp typified many destitute old women. Then he bent forward, squinting as the woman trudged through the gas lamp’s wavering pool of light. When she reached the next block’s end and turned to trudge back again, he was sure.
Slipping out the door and snapping the padlock shut, he went down the stairs, timing it so he stepped out the door and was at her side before she noticed him. In a whisper, he asked, “And just what is a lady of your quality doing down here?” Startled, she jumped and then slugged his shoulder.
“Ouch, that hurt!” he said aloud. The two streetwalkers by the lamp laughed, one of them calling out, “What kind of weird bugger are you? That’ll teach you not to mess with old ladies!” Her companion added raucous guffaws.
He grabbed Mae’s elbow and steered her away from the women. “Come on, let’s get some coffee. They turned a corner and walked a block before entering one of the North End’s minuscule cafés. She ordered coffee while he had a plate of sausage, kraut and mashed potatoes. While he chewed, she told him what Terry had said about the lawyer boss, Clark, and Willard.
“Whew,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “That proves the connection. We thought Clark was trying to protect the pedophile’s house. We were dead wrong. She’s connected to Speedy Messenger.”
“The Willard fellow sounds dangerous.”
“I know he is. I
’m sure he’s the one who grabbed Glad. And, Fong said a big man pushed Lucinda into the cab. I’ll bet that was Willard, too.” Elbows on the table, Sage pressed his fingers against his skull until they turned white.
When he finally dropped his hands and straightened, his voice was firmer. “We have to find this Willard character and take him down. He has to know where Glad and Lucinda are.”
“What about the two galoots that Henry Russell fellow photographed? Wouldn’t they know?” Mae asked.
Sage shook his head. “As of noon, Hanke hadn’t found either one of them. He said a rail clerk thought they’d boarded the southbound morning train. Hanke has telegraphed up and down the line. With luck, a not-so-welcoming committee will greet them at one of the stops. But, even if they’re found, it’ll take some time to get them back up here.”
“Well, then, what about the cabbie?”
“He’s disappeared too,” Sage said, and felt that familiar flare of desperation. “It looks like we’re down to Clark, Willard, the mysterious boss, and the two Speedy Messenger managers. I don’t like it that Clark’s packing up. It explains why she’s had no customers all day.”
“You think those Speedy fellows, Pratt and Kimble, know anything?”
“They sure the heck know who their boss man is and he’s the one we want to catch. The others are just his lackey’s. I think I’ll go pay Kimble a visit. He’s the one on duty tonight.” Sage stood, tossed money on the table, clapped on his hat and headed for the door with Mae hurrying to follow.”
“You’ve been outside Clark’s house for six hours and haven’t seen Willard. I got a feeling that we’d better not lollygag around much longer,” Mae said, as she stepped onto the boardwalk. “I’m going to stay put outside Clark’s brothel. Fong will be down soon.”
Sage didn’t argue. What he’d learned in the three years since they’d been reunited was that Mae Clemens’s “feelings” were usually right. He handed her the key to the crib padlock and told her how to find it. After surprising her with a peck on the cheek, he headed toward Speedy Messenger.