by S. L. Stoner
It took all of Lucinda’s willpower to remain mute and unmoving. The fingernails digging into her palm helped her to suppress her fury.
Clark shrugged. “It don’t matter what happened to him. Time’s run out for you.” At those words, Willard tossed the crowbar aside and grinned, showing teeth that were black at the roots..
Clark turned to face Lucinda. “I won’t say, ‘see you later’, because I’ll never see you again. I won’t say, ‘have a nice trip’, because I hope it turns into some kind of hell. So long, Lucinda Collins. I’m damn glad to finally see your backside.”
She nodded at Willard who grabbed Lucinda’s arm and jerked her toward the open door. Clark’s shrill laughter followed them as they entered the tunnel into the underground.
Sage hadn’t strayed from his window. For a few extra under-the-table bucks the surly desk clerk had let him stay behind when he chased the rest of the tenants out and locked the door. In the two hours since, he’d not seen a single customer knock on Clark’s front door. Instead, he watched with mounting anxiety as, one after another, her working girls left, suitcases and boxes in hand. It was obvious Clark had closed her brothel down. So, was Lucinda in there?
At this point, he could describe fear in a multitude of ways: A kick in the gut, a hollow stomach, a frantic whirling in his brain. None of the descriptions were big enough to capture how scared he was. What made it worse, was that he’d swear she’d been very near, close enough he’d almost heard her voice indistinctly murmuring in his ear. Maybe he had some of his great aunt Mary’s psychic powers. If so, then he was now even more anxious because his sense of Lucinda’s presence was abruptly absent. Had she died?
They weren’t going to kick off their plan until later that night. Something was telling him that would be too late. They had to make the rats scurry sooner. Suddenly he straightened in his chair and leaned forward. Was that Terry standing at the corner, staring at Clark’s house? Yes!
Sage jumped from his chair and ran for the door. Racing across the empty lobby Sage took note that the desk clerk was not at his post. That made sense what with the cribs closed down during the day. Sage opened the outer door, setting its spring bolt in the lock position. That way, the bolt would prevent the door from closing.
Once across the street, Sage softly called Terry’s name. The boy whirled around, his face twisting fearfully until he saw Sage.
“Oh, finally,” he exclaimed. “Matthew’s out looking for you and Mrs. Clemens. I came back here because . . .” he paused, his forehead wrinkling before he shrugged and finished, “I didn’t know where else to look.”
Sage smiled. “Same with me. But why were you looking for me?”
“Last night, I followed that fellow I think is the boss. Anyway, he didn’t look or act like one of Mrs. Clark’s customers.”
“Where’d he go?”
“The Imperial Hotel. He’s staying there.”
Terry’s words nudged loose a memory. Early on, Sage had followed another man to that hotel who hadn’t seemed to be Clark’s customer. “Was he wearing a suit and looked kind of posh?” Sage asked.
Terry nodded eagerly. Sage didn’t have time to think about what that meant because, over Terry’s shoulder, he saw Fong running toward them.
Twenty Six
Willard pulled Lucinda through the brick-lined tunnel that led from Clark’s basement into the underground. Water seeped from its walls and glistened in the lantern light before flowing into the muddy puddles sucking at her boots. She slowed her steps as best she could.
“Where are we going?” she asked. He didn’t reply, just jerked her arm to speed her up. She pretended to stumble and went to her knees in the mud. With a grunt, he yanked her onto her feet as easily as if she were a three-year-old child. She yelped and he growled, “Shut up.”
Upon entering the underground itself, the lantern’s light shone about ten feet, beyond that she could see only shapes. Willard’s boots scuffed through the dust sending it drifting upward into her face. She clamped shut her lips and raised her arm to cover her nose.
“Why are you doing this for her?” she probed. “Vera’s probably heading out of town and leaving you behind to face the music for doing what she ordered.”
He gave her arm a yank and said, “No, she ain’t. This ain’t our first rodeo together.”
Willard’s voice was unexpectedly high-pitched, shrill like an excited juvenile’s. Still, she wanted to keep him talking. “You’ve been with her for some time?” she asked.
“Five years.”
“Not here in Portland, then. Vera’s only been here two years. Where were the two of you before that?” Lucinda cared nothing about the answer. If they kept talking, someone might hear and wonder why a woman, an American woman, was in the underground. Maybe they’d act on a chivalrous impulse and rescue her. Or, even better, maybe Mr. Fong’s cousins were searching for her. Plus, there was the chance a distracted Willard might not notice she’d slowed her steps.
It didn’t work. He sped up even as he said, “San Francisco. Stop dragging your heels or I’ll yank your arm out of its socket,” as he emphasized his declaration with a jerk.
“Ow!” she yelled far louder than the pain justified. “I’m wearing a skirt and I don’t have long legs like you, Willard. Slow down. Otherwise, I’ll trip.”
He said nothing, only grunted, but his pace lessened.
She thought she’d give it one more try. “I bet you that, right now, Vera’s finished packing and sending a messenger for a cab. You get back, the place will be empty.”
“Nah, I got our train tickets in my wallet.” He gave her arm a little twist and said, “You shut up. I don’t want to hear no more from you. One more word, I’ll stuff a damn kerchief in that yap of yours.”
Lucinda stumbled along in silence, taking small steps, slowing him down, not knowing if it would help. She didn’t know where she was. The lantern lit only concrete and brick walls, inky corners, and scatterings of rubble everywhere. Poor Glad, he must have been terrified. How could a ten-year-old find his way through this mess without any light?
Willard, though, seemed to know exactly where he was going because his stride didn’t falter and soon they entered another tunnel. She tried to recall what direction they’d traveled. If she escaped, she needed to know in what direction to run. They’d exited Clark’s heading east. Once through the second tunnel, Willard had turned right. That meant they were under the blocks between Second and First Avenues and heading south. It was the same route she’d told Glad to take.
She peered around, looking for signs of the boy. If he lay in a dark corner, she’d never spot him. Besides, he’d been gone more than a day. Once again, dread filled her at the thought of Glad being forced aboard a sailing ship. Forget it, Lucinda, she chided herself. You can’t do anything about Glad now. You’ve got to figure out how to get away from Willard. Then you can start searching for Glad.
He hauled her through another tunnel. Now they were under the building east and across from Erickson’s on Second. They were heading toward Burnside Street. Another two tunnels and they’d be beneath the blocks where many Chinese lived. She trusted Fong’s men were still looking for her. That would be where she’d have the best chance of getting away or being rescued.
The next tunnel was the longest yet. It confirmed their location. They were passing under Burnside’s wide road with its crowded sidewalks and two trolley tracks. She heard iron wagon wheels rattle over the cobbles and fought the urge to scream. Burnside was too busy and noisy. No one would hear her and Willard would gag her. If he did that, she’d be unable to scream when she needed to. She pressed her lips together, kept breathing through the sleeve across her nose and allowed Willard to haul her into the next basement.
Before Sage could say a word, Fong said, “Glad boy escape, find cousin
s. He safe.”
At those words, Terry sagged to the ground as his knees gave way. Seconds later he was jumping up and down and waving his hands like a demented holy roller.
Sage grabbed the boy, “Shh. Don’t draw attention to us. Stay calm. There’s still more to do.” The admonition worked and the boy settled down except for the joyful sparkling of his eyes.
Fong had more information to share. Glad says Lucinda is in Clark house cellar. Or, maybe in underground on way to ship. Boy hit head, lost track of time.”
Now it was Sage who lost control. He whirled to run toward Clark’s only to have Fong grab his arm. “We stick to plan. Glad say Willard has gun. Make Miss Lucinda real mad you get killed charging into house.”
Sage froze on the spot, undecided. Fong patted his arm. “Eich on his way. I send Matthew to get Hanke and his men. Soon they have house surrounded.”
“We need Clark to identify the boss. So, I guess you are right, we’ll stick with the plan.” Sage said, even as he gritted his teeth in frustration.
He turned to Terry. “Go over to the corner and stay out of sight. A ragpicker and his cart will turn up soon. Once he takes up a position on the side street go over and tell him who you are. We need you to do what he tells you to do, even if it seems peculiar. Okay?”
Terry’s eyes widened with surprise and concern but he just nodded his agreement.
Sage turned back to Fong. “I guess that means you’re heading below ground and I’m heading to Mozart’s.
Fong nodded. “That the plan.” For a moment his dark eyes studied Sage’s grim face. “Don’t worry. Everything go fine.”
Twenty Seven
Eich’s cart rattled as he pushed it down Third Avenue. He stayed close to the street curb, carefully sidestepping the ever-present horse manure. Because the street cleaners couldn’t keep up, horse droppings tended to mound, leaving pedestrians to high step across the streets. Of course, cleaning North End streets was never a priority for the City. That same indifference was probably why only rotting, wooden boardwalks fronted the streets north of Burnside.
His floppy hat shadowed his face but Eich’s eyes studied everyone. It was when he crossed Couch that he spied the boy he’d been hoping to see. Fong had described him well. Besides, the boy had to be Terry Tobias. No one else would have reason to lurk about on such a chill afternoon.
Eich halted before the center one of three houses that covered the southeast corner of Third and Davis. Dropping the cart’s handles to the pavement, Eich pulled a folded sheet of clean white paper from his coat pocket. Mounting the steps he knocked on the door. A frantic woman, hair in wild disarray, threw open the door. “What the hell do you want?” she snarled.
Mutely, he extended the note to her, asking, “You be Miss Vera Clark?"
“Did you read it?” she said as she snatched it from his hand.
“No, Miss. I can’t read,” he lied. Technically, he hadn’t read it but he knew what it said. He’d penned it using the perfect script he’d learned while attending the best of Eastern schools.
After giving a dismissive snort, she read the note slowly, her lips parsing out each word. Reaching the end, she whirled to holler. “Agnes, I’ve got to go out. Help me fix my hair and then get me my coat.” Eich peered around her and glimpsed travel trunks, with leather straps buckled, filling the dim hallway.
“Why are you still standing there?” Clark demanded. “Get on your way.” She waved a shooing hand at him. He tipped his hat and returned to his cart. She watched until he rounded the corner onto Davis Street and disappeared behind her end house. She slammed the door and just missed seeing Terry Tobias jump from his hiding place and race after the ragpicker.
Terry stared dumbfounded at the fine suit of clothes the ragpicker thrust into his hands. A pair of polished shoes sat atop the clothes. “Hurry boy, get these on and get back on Third Street. If Clark comes out and waves down a cab, run to the corner and signal me and then hightail it over to the Imperial Hotel. Mr. Miner and Mrs. Clemens are waiting for you.”
Still, Terry didn’t move. Eich shoved him gently toward a narrow gap between two buildings. “Do it, boy. We don’t have much time,” he ordered. “I’ll stand in front and make sure no one sees you.”
Terry stepped into the gap and hurriedly began disrobing, hopping first on one foot and then the other while yanking off his boots. His canvas pants dropped and he donned trousers that felt silky on his skin. Thin-soled shoes replaced the scuffed boots. Next, his flannel shirt and canvas coat were hurriedly replaced by a white muslin shirt and a fine wool suit coat. The new clothes weren’t as warm but that didn’t matter. He’d be running.
He stepped over to the ragpicker who straightened his collar, buttoned the coat and nodded his approval. Terry had left his old clothes piled on the ground but Eich snatched them up and shoved them under the cart’s tarp, saying, “Waste not, want not.” Then he instructed, “If you see me come to the corner and wave it means she’s gone out the back door and down to Second. Take off running to the Imperial if you see me do that.”
Terry had just disappeared around the corner when Eich saw the woman cautiously slipping from behind the corner house. She hesitated at seeing him so he pretended to be busy tightening the tarp’s ropes. Seconds later, she headed east on Davis toward Second Street.
He watched Clark round the corner and then he sped to Third and waved vigorously until a well-dressed young gentleman charged out of a doorway and ran south toward the business district.
Eich returned to his cart. He’d barely reached it when a troop of five policemen rounded the corner and hustled up to him. “Perfect timing,” he told their leader. “She just left. Remember, the Willard fellow might be inside with a gun. So, be careful.”
Hanke’s men didn’t hesitate. Two ran behind the houses to block escape that way. The other three ran to the front and charged across the center house’s porch. One of them gave a mighty kick that burst the door open. They rushed into the house hollering, “Police!” A single woman’s shrieks heralded their invasion. Minutes later, one of the officers returned to the porch and gestured for Eich to enter. Stepping across the threshold, Eich saw an open door and descending stairs.
One of the officers hustled up with a lantern. He and another officer cautiously descended the stairs with Eich trailing behind. An open padlock hung from a door hasp at the staircase’s end. The officer quietly lifted the padlock and slowly eased the door open. Pistols raised, they stepped inside and lifted the lantern high.
The air was fetid with the smell of excrement. The lantern light revealed a small cellar containing only an empty wooden crate lying on its side, a jumbled pile of clothing, two metal pails sitting against a wall and some wooden boxes. Across the room, another door stood partially open. Eich crossed and pulled the door wide. On its other side a vaulted, brick tunnel led into blackness.
He turned to the officer holding the lantern and said, “May I have that lantern? I need to set a beacon.”
Silently, the man handed it over. Eich sloshed its contents and was gratified to find it full of fuel. He walked to the tunnel’s end and into the underground where he turned the lantern mantle to a high burn. After setting it down in the dirt, he retreated to the cellar and followed the men up the stairs.
Terry’s feet flew up sidewalks and across streets. Maybe the lightweight shoes made his feet swifter. They certainly helped but, mostly, it was joy. Glad was alive. He was free. He was safe. Terry imagined his mother’s face when she first caught sight of her youngest son. And Carrie Lynne, she’d cried buckets over Glad. He bet she’d cry again but she’d be grinning, too. Tomorrow they would go out to the sanatorium. Mr. Miner and that nice Mrs. Clemens would take them, he was certain of that.
Glad was free, Terry rejoiced over and over again as he ran. Then he realized that, if Glad
was free, then so was he. No more Speedy Messenger Service. No more Willard. No more disgusting Vera Clark and people like her.
Rain began its cascade from the roiling clouds and he welcomed it even as it drenched his fine clothes and soaked his new shoes. He didn’t care. The tears he’d suppressed since hearing Glad was safe could now freely fall. Tears and raindrops. Who could tell the difference? He raced to the Imperial Hotel, oblivious to both the shouts of the drivers he dashed in front of and the scowls of people he brushed by.
Twenty Eight
The four of them looked toward the door as rain-saturated air gusted into the lobby. A bedraggled and drenched young fellow stood just inside the entrance. Well, thought Sage, at least he is well-dressed. He jumped up and headed for Terry, reaching him the same time as the bellboy. Sage turned to the uniformed young man and said, “Kindly fetch some towels for my son, here, if you will.” A silver coin accompanied the request and the bellboy ran off, returning just as Sage and Terry reached the lobby sofa.
Now they were five. Hanke and Trumbull faced the door; Sage, Mae, and Terry faced the elevators. Anyone would think them a gathering of relatives. The hotel manager beamed at their presence. The guest, a man named “Miner” was very well dressed and had just rented a double room for himself and his son. The two women visiting with Miner were proper matrons and escorted by an equally respectable gentleman who looked vaguely familiar. They’d ordered coffee, tea, and pastries and had quietly conversed for the last half hour or so.
Soon they would rise and head into the dining room now that Miner’s son had arrived. The silly kid had gone out without his coat. A worry flitted that maybe the boy’s wet pants would stain the sofa cushion until he remembered seeing the father lay a towel down before the boy sat. These were decent, upstanding, thoughtful people—exactly who the hotel wanted as guests.