The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  “It’s not like Mae to disappear without a word. And, she’d be the third woman we’ve lost in the last three weeks.”

  Hanke’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean, ‘the third’? I thought it you said was just Mae and Rachel Levy who are missing.”

  Caroline shook her head. “No, the first woman who disappeared was Rachel Levy’s sister Rebecca. That was over three weeks ago. Some of Mae’s friends have been searching for her ever since. Then Rachel disappeared Saturday night and now Mae’s gone this morning.” Caroline couldn’t help herself. Tears of frustration and fear welled up in her eyes. She blinked rapidly before dashing them away with the back of her hand. “I don’t know what we’re going to do now,” she told the sergeant.

  “I think you’d better come on down to the police station with me,” Hanke told her. “It sounds like this whole situation needs some looking into.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Forgive me.” It was his litany, the phantom words silently sounding in his brain not once but a hundred times the last hour. Sinclair sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. It was over. He’d done it. No longer his problem, no longer his concern. That was the counter litany, one he had to force himself to silently repeat every time the guilt hit him.

  Around him men shouted and produce wagons rattled as suntanned farmers drove onto the wharf, wagons sagging under crates of fruits and vegetables, all headed south aboard the small steam ship that slid into the berth once the Maggie Jane raised anchor and headed down river. He squinted, trying to identify the produce visible between the crate slats: apples, apricots, beets, carrots, the dark green of squash, all looking lush and fresh. He’d grown up in a farming community and couldn’t shake the habit of gauging produce.

  The ship they were loading must have a refrigerated hold. Rich land around here according to the fellows in the saloons. They’d claimed the dirt would grow anything, even a pencil. He didn’t believe the bit about the pencil but from what he was seeing, it looked like everything else could thrive in the surrounding valleys.

  Rebecca had said she and her sister grew up on a farm outside Chicago. Tropical Panama would seem so foreign to them. That Mae woman, she was older, not innocent like the sisters. Still, her toughness would be no match for the Canal sickness.

  If she even made it that far. She was feisty. She’d planted a huge bruise atop his foot when she’d stomped on it. His shin had one too. Her scratches still hurt. In the end, though, she’d been no match for the chloroform.

  His fingers fumbled around in his suit pocket until they found the amber glass vial with its tight glass stopper. Holding it up against the early morning light he tilted it, checking the line of the liquid’s surface. Only about a quarter left. He pushed the stopper further down until he felt pain and noticed that his thumbnail had turned white.

  Without this chemical, none of the women would be on the ship. He looked at the hand holding the vial, wishing it wasn’t his. In sudden anger he raised his hand, bent his elbow and sent the vial arcing through the hot morning air. When it hit the water it sank, bobbed up and then quickly floated out of sight downriver, following the Maggie Jane. Too late for it to catch the ship. Probably wouldn’t even end up at the same place. The ship would turn left and steam south along the coast. That bottle might float westward, all the way to China if it kept its air and wasn’t busted up by a ship keel, drifting log, or other floating debris.

  Panama. Once the plan had been set, he’d read a bit about Panama. He’d learned enough to know that there was a good chance that Rebecca or her sister could die there. For sure, if the Clemens woman made it that far, she wouldn’t survive. It wasn’t just the yellow fever. That sick engineer in the saloon, Copeland, had been accurate in his tale. The whole darn place was in an uproar. Columbia didn’t want to sell France’s half-built canal to the Americans. The governor and his buddies in the canal area did want to sell. Everyone thought they would try to secede from Columbia—civil war in other words. Just like Copeland predicted.

  His mind’s eye saw Rebecca fleeing as soldiers crashed through doors and distant cannons roared. She didn’t deserve that kind of end. She . . . “God forgive me,” his litany began again.

  Sage ran, leaping around people and jumping curbs. He became aware that Eich was straining to keep up. “Herman, can you run and tell Sergeant Hanke what’s going on? Fong and I will get to the wharf and see if the ship’s still there. If it isn’t, we’ll be on our way to Astoria.”

  Eich merely nodded and peeled off, heading for the police station a few blocks away. Across the street Fong kept pace, breaking into a run at the same time Sage did. A closed coach rattled toward him from behind. He swiveled to look without slowing. Delicate designs adorned the door and side panels. This meant it was a private coach just as its unmarred paint said it was brand new. As it passed, a woman inside called out to the coach driver who immediately hauled back on the reins, the coach door flew open and a woman jumped out onto the sidewalk without waiting for the driver to dismount and lower the stairs. Reaching the sidewalk she turned and gestured impatiently to those still inside the vehicle. Five other women poured out.

  Sage mentally cursed, trying to get around that gaggle of women would slow him down. He glanced at Fong and was surprised to see the other man crossing the street toward him and gesturing toward the women. Then Sage saw her—Lucinda.

  Once their eyes met, she raised an arm, gestured that he should enter the coach and jumped back inside, leaving her companions to mill about on the sidewalk, cackling like hens shoved off their perches. Sage and Fong reached the coach simultaneously, clambered inside and slammed the doors shut. Sage shouted to the driver, “Couch St. Wharf, and hurry!” They moved forward with a jerk.

  He turned toward Lucinda, “They’ve kidnapped Mae. She’s on a ship bound for San Francisco and god knows where else.” He quickly filled her in. When the coach reached the entrance to the wharf, Sage and Fong jumped out. Sage turned to tell Lucinda to stay in the coach but all he saw was her backside a moment before the door on the other side of the coach slammed shut. Turning toward the river he saw Fong and Lucinda hurrying away down the wood planks. He ran to catch up. Even as he did, he couldn’t help but notice that the three of them were causing a stir among the men trucking crates in and out of the nearby warehouses. No wonder—they had to be an odd sight.

  He’d caught up with them by the time they burst out onto the wharf. A ship was tied up at the wharf. A crowded gang plank bridged the gap as men hurriedly loaded produce crates aboard. He ran to the upriver end of the boat. His stomach plummeted. The script across its stern end proclaimed this was the Lucky Abner.

  Fong and Lucinda caught his disappointment because both of their shoulders drooped. “Too late?” Fong asked.

  Sage cast a glance around. The men now loading the ship wouldn’t have been on the wharf until the Abner tied up. Then he spotted another man, slouched against some stacked crates. Beside him lay a bottle of whiskey. A bowler hat sat neatly on a neighboring crate. Abandoning his indolent posture and near empty bottle, the man’s eyes narrowed and he slowly stood.

  Sage didn’t hesitate. He raced thirty feet and grabbed the man tightly by his shirt front, jerking him nearly off his feet. The man didn’t resist. “How long ago did the Maggie Jane sail?” he demanded. “Where are they taking them?”

  The man’s hand reached up and pulled feebly at Sage’s grip as he said, “She sailed over forty-five minutes ago. Much to my regret.”

  Sage let loose, noting that Lucinda and Fong both stood so that the fellow couldn’t escape. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’ve been sitting here, hating myself for allowing them to take Rebecca, Rachel and Mae away. I’d give anything if there were a way to get them back. But the ship has sailed and I’m just one man.”

  Behind him, Lucinda said, “John, the coach. We have the coach.”

  Sage didn’t have to think, he grabbed one of the man’s arms and Fong the other. As
fast as they could, they half-carried, half-drug the man toward the street and the waiting coach. Reaching it, Fong ran around the back to the other side to block any escape. He clambered aboard while Sage and Lucinda shoved the man inside, following him quickly and slamming the door shut. Lucinda shouted “Astoria! Hurry!” at the driver who hadn’t moved from his perch. The coach jerked forward. They had barely rolled a block before Fong shouted, “Stop.”

  The coach halted and Fong stuck his head out the window to shout in Chinese at a man on the sidewalk who hurried over. There followed a quick exchange. Sage thought he caught the word “Hanke” in its midst. The man’s face disappeared from the window as Fong sat back, hit the roof of the coach with his fist and shouted, “Go!” Once again, the coach jerked into action.

  “Can we beat them to Astoria?” Sage asked no one in particular.

  Fong said, “It depend on horses. Steamer will take one day. If we can find horses on way, we can maybe beat them.”

  “What about taking the Astoria Columbia River Railway? It leaves this morning in just a few minutes.” Lucinda asked.

  Sage was shaking his head even before her question ended. “The train will take too long. I rode that train once. It stops everywhere to let passengers on and off. It would take forever compared to this coach.”

  The man in the corner said calmly, “The captain said they should reach the Columbia River bar near sunset so he can cross during low tide. He’s running with the outgoing tide and will be under steam. He’s in a hurry to get away.”

  The three of them turned to look at him. There was no triumph in the man’s face, only sad resignation. “Even if we get lucky and catch them, how can just four of us rescue them from a ship in the middle of the river?”

  “So, Miss,” Hanke began once Caroline was settled into a chair with a cup of hot tea at her elbow, “suppose you tell me exactly what is going on.” As she opened up her mouth to speak, he raised a finger to halt her and added, “If it helps you to be more truthful, you should know that Mae Clemens is a very, very good friend of mine. I will do anything to make sure no harm comes to her.”

  For a second or two, Caroline could only blink. He watched her forehead wrinkle and her focus turn inward as she tried to understand that connection. Finally, she took a deep breath, fingered her cross and said, “I will trust you at your word” and began her explanation.

  “So, for certain Rachel couldn’t have had anything to do with the laundry fire since she was already missing, is that correct?” Hanke said. When she nodded, he asked, “What about the union president?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I would say that he does not seem like the type.” She leaned forward, “Just exactly who told you union people were involved?”

  Hanke flipped open a little pad of paper and ran a big finger down the page, stopping when he reached a scribble. “A bystander from out of town named James Farley said he saw a man and someone else running way. He said he thought it was a labor union president.”

  Caroline’s snort of disbelief raised his head. He looked at her, “What?” he demanded.

  “Farley’s the union buster hired by the laundry association. I’d say that his ‘witnessing’ any such thing is highly suspect.”

  “Damn, I bet the police officer who took the information didn’t bother to find out why Farley was in town.” Hanke scooted his chair back and headed for the door and called, “Bingham, I need you!”

  Caroline twisted in her chair in time to see a young police officer appear. “Bingham, go find that Farley chap you interviewed and bring him in. You and Clifford interview him. See if he confesses that he’s a union buster for the laundry owners. If he doesn’t, throw his butt into a cell.”

  Hanke returned and took his seat again. “Okay, that was helpful information. In just a minute I’ll stir the troops and get them searching for Mae and those two other women. But, before I do, I want to know exactly what Miss Caroline Stark is doing in the middle of the laundry workers’ dispute. I want the truth, please.”

  Caroline opened her mouth to speak but before she could say anything, there was a timid knock on the door frame and a fresh-faced young officer looked in to say, “There’s a ragpicker fellow outside who says you’re gonna wanna talk to him in person, personally. Says his name is Eich.”

  Hanke jumped up from his desk and disappeared out the door. He was back just minutes later. “Eich says they think Mae’s on board a ship called the Maggie Jane.”

  “On a ship? But why would she want to . . .” Caroline began.

  “Not willingly. Kidnapped.” Hanke scowled as he tapped a pencil eraser on his desk. “I guess we better find out when that ship’s going to sail and arrange a search of her.”

  Another timid knock on the doorframe interrupted them. Hanke scowled at the same young officer who said, “Sorry Sergeant, but now there’s a Chink outside in the hallway. He’s saying he has to talk to you, ‘matter of life or death’ is what he seems to be saying. It’s hard to understand him with that accent.”

  Hanke looked at Caroline as if considering whether to send her out but then he shrugged and said, “Show him in.”

  The police officer left and soon returned with a Chinese man of twenty years or so. The fellow removed his tattered hat and stood before Hanke’s desk, his face twisted in concentration. He didn’t wait for Hanke to ask him to speak, “Mr. Fong. He say, ‘Quick. Get to Astoria. Mae in trouble. For sure on ship, Maggie Jane. Big danger’.”

  The accent was thick but Hanke understood the man because he leapt to his feet so fast that his chair hit the wall. Caroline, too, was on her feet instantly.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said in a tone that made clear she would argue and delay unless he agreed.

  “Come on then. Hope you’re up for a train ride.” He also gestured to the Chinese man. “You, too. We might need your help.”

  Once outside the office, Hanke shouted, “Bingham!” only to get the response, “He’s already left Sarge. You told him . . . .”

  “Right, right,” Hanke interrupted, “You come along then. Grab some men as we go. We’re heading for union station. Run! We have to catch a train in the next ten minutes!”

  As they stormed down the hallway, Hanke gestured toward an older man dressed in shabby clothes. To him Hanke said, “Come on, Herman. The Maggie Jane has already sailed!” As the four of them burst out the double doors and down the steep steps, Hanke grabbed Caroline’s elbow. He began pulling her along as fast as her much shorter legs could travel.

  Chapter Thirty One

  “It wasn’t Ryland McCarthy,” Farley announced without any exchange of greetings. Cobb looked up from his paperwork his face first puzzled then dismayed.

  He threw his pencil onto the desk, where it hit and rolled off the edge. He didn’t watch it roll off nor did he pick it up. “Who was it?”

  “I just got word from my informer that the laundry sale was finalized about an hour ago. The Union Trade Council is celebrating and word got out.” Farley caught Cobb’s dead-eyed stare and added, “It was Henry Teague who sold us out.”

  Cobb jumped up, his chair banging against the wall behind him. “I should have known. That gutless snake never raised a single word of objection. At least Ryland had the guts to speak up.” Anger reddened Cobb’s face as he paced back and forth in the small office. “We have to call a meeting, discuss how we’re going to react to a union-run cooperative laundry.” He paused and stared at Farley, “How long until they’ll be up and running?” he asked.

  Farley shrugged. “My informant didn’t know. And those two operatives of mine have completely disappeared. No one has seen them. I went to their hotel room and bribed my way into seeing their rooms. All their belongings are there. That makes me pretty sure that they had nothing to do with McCarthy’s death. If they’ve done a scamper, they wouldn’t have left everything behind. I’m thinking something bad has happened to them.”

  “Never mind about them. Did you get that loose en
d tied up? The women?”

  Farley gave a hesitant nod. “I think so. I told Sinclair to get them aboard ship before tide change this morning. Problem is, I also told him to immediately report to me once the ship sailed with them on it. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him.”

  “What else can go wrong?” Cobb asked without expecting an answer. His hand fumbled for the chair arm and he carefully lowered himself onto its seat.

  A knock sound on the office door and L.D. Warder slipped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him. “How come you guys are looking so glum?” The drivers’ union president seemed to be twitching with either excitement or cheer. “I’d think you’d be celebrating!”

  Cobb straightened, as if hope had suddenly infused his body. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  “Why, the laundry sale. It won’t go through now that McCarthy’s dead.”

  “You idiot!” Cobb shouted, finally giving vent to the anger that had been building. “The sale has already has gone through! Henry Teague sold them the Star Laundry this morning. Those union thugs are down there at their hall celebrating.”

  Color drained from Warder’s face leaving it ashen. His knees buckled and he staggered, grabbing the wall with one hand to keep from collapsing. “But I heard you say. . . . It was Teague, not, not McCarthy?” he asked.

  Horror contorted Cobb’s face. For once he seemed speechless. Before words came to Cobb, Farley grabbed his hat from a neighboring chair, clapped it onto his head and stood. “That’s it for me, gents. I don’t want any part of a murder I had nothing to do with. I’m catching the next train out of here. Good luck.” With that, Farley opened the door, stepped out and closed it softly behind himself.