The Shadow Palace

by Jane Steen

  The genuine alarm I felt must have showed on my face. “But that’ll be well-nigh impossible,” I protested. “Mr. Fassbinder’s incorruptible. I doubt anybody high up enough at Rutherford’s to have received such a document would leave it lying around. They’re pretty sharp about locking things up in the big safe, and that’s kept in a locked room in the back of Mr. Rutherford’s inner office. I saw it once when I carried up some account books.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.” Crabb took off his hat and scrubbed at his face with a red handkerchief. “That one’s worth at least five dollars, possibly a lot more. And anything you might hear about Rutherford’s frontier business with Fassbinder.”

  “His what? I’ve never heard anything about that.” As Amelia Harvey, I wouldn’t have. “I can’t possibly—”

  “Ten dollars, then,” Crabb said smoothly. “Perhaps even twenty if it’s good information. It’s important to me, Miss—or is it Mrs.?—Harvey.” This time his grin was decidedly nasty.

  “It could take me quite a while.” I was as worried as I knew I looked. This wasn’t just one more small act of espionage. I could tell by Crabb’s demeanor as much as by the high price he offered that this was something different.

  “I’ll wait.” Crabb patted me on my arm, which was his way of dismissing me. We had been walking side by side, conversing in low tones. Crabb always led the way, using circuitous routes that avoided too many people but invariably ended back near State Street. I often wondered if I’d been seen by people from Rutherford’s or Gambarelli’s who knew me, and what conclusions they’d drawn. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

  I quickened my pace despite the heat, heading south to where I knew Mr. Nutt would be waiting with the carriage. The fast walking helped soothe my agitation a little, but I could predict a sleepless night ahead. I had become far too comfortable with the small role Crabb had assigned to me and had dismissed Martin’s predictions of danger as nonsense. Now I began to wonder if he was right.

  29

  Riches

  I was undoubtedly hollow-eyed when I knocked on Joe Salazar’s door early the next morning. I’d been awake since three, up at four, and was now at Rutherford’s well before opening hours. It was a Friday, the day when the displays were usually changed. I’d encountered the curious stares of a whole bevy of men carrying the long, hooked ladders stored along the walls of the fourth floor.

  I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised to find Martin there. He was an early riser, like me, and like me, he looked as if he’d had a bad night. He didn’t look pleased to see me.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” I asked. “I’ve got something to tell you that can’t wait.”

  Having pulled out a chair for me, Martin resumed his perch on the edge of Joe’s desk. There was something edgy and fidgety about him that worried me. It was a mood that had been growing in him as the summer advanced and nothing more surfaced that would lead to the identification of Lucetta’s killer. The possibility I had deduced from my meeting with Mrs. Fairgrieve gnawed at my mind, but I wasn’t going to mention it to Martin until I was certain, out of consideration for his feelings.

  Frank Gorton, blast him, had not been at Gambarelli’s for weeks. I had at last resorted to asking Miss Green, the most discreet of my former colleagues, to send me a note when he returned. No matter that I’d had to endure her simpering assumption that I was in love with the man.

  I looked at Joe, sitting across the desk from me, rather than at Martin, who loomed above me, fiddling uncharacteristically with his tiepin. The look Joe returned was of mingled sympathy and concern. I was sure that he too worried about Martin.

  “Crabb’s given me a difficult assignment,” I said. “I think it’s a great deal more serious than anything I’ve done for him up till now.” I briefly outlined Crabb’s request for the list brought to Chicago by Mr. Fassbinder.

  Martin twisted round, and the two men exchanged a long look. Joe let out a low whistle.

  “You were right,” he said to Martin. “There’s a connection.”

  “What connection?” I asked.

  Martin was still sitting on Joe’s desk, which fortunately was quite clean of papers. His long legs, clad in immaculate gray pantaloons, shiny pumps, and spats, dangled before me. He was still wearing his frock coat as if he’d come straight to Joe’s office upon arrival, and had gathered its tails over his knees. Now he crossed one leg over the other and grasped his knee. I could see the tension in his body by the whiteness of his knuckles.

  “I had a feeling someone else was mixed up with our problems in the frontier stores. I’m beginning to suspect it’s Crabb,” he said. “I’ve had the Pinkerton Agency looking into him—out of concern for you. They’re pretty sure that money is coming from the frontier to Crabb, from the bawdy houses that open up in about three out of five towns where we build our stores.”

  “As far as we can see, it goes like this,” Joe said. “And it’s another reason to dismiss John Powell, when we can find him. Powell lets Crabb know which towns are to receive an FR Emporium—that’s the name of the stores. Crabb uses his contacts in Chicago to provide girls for a parlor house. He either buys or constructs the building himself or receives money for arranging matters with a third party.”

  “We suspect John Powell has some prominent citizens in each of the towns in his back pocket. Blackmail, perhaps, although I don’t really think he’s intelligent enough for that game,” said Martin. “It could simply be that this is Powell’s compensation for choosing one town over another. It’s the game the railroads were playing before the crash. You find two growing towns a few miles apart and set them one against the other. The one that’s willing to pay, or pay the most, gets the railroad and prospers. The other sees its trade dry up. Fassbinder’s name makes the prospect of one of our stores most attractive, especially among the German frontiersmen.”

  “Which would explain the bonus payments Powell was able to get out of the towns.” Joe took up the tale as Martin drew breath. “He probably takes his own cut, but what he passes along to us makes him look good.”

  “So why is this list of Mr. Fassbinder’s important?” I asked.

  “It’s the towns he’s proposing to prospect by himself,” Martin said. “Since we no longer trust Powell. Fassbinder intends to warn the townspeople to look out for any signs of an increase in vice. This is not something we want our names connected with. By keeping his plans close, and getting rid of Powell, we’re hoping to make life a lot more difficult for Crabb—if it is Crabb. He’s known, according to the Pinkertons, for having ambitions as a property speculator. It’s rumored that Lizzie Allen has promised to make him her solid man if he can become wealthy enough. So he is, as you might say, motivated, and therefore the most likely suspect.”

  I was silent for a moment, thinking through all that Martin and Joe had told me. “Do you think any of this has anything to do with Lucetta’s death?” I asked at last.

  “Why would it?” Martin said, lines of strain creeping into his face at the mention of Lucetta. “She wasn’t particularly fond of Powell. None of the Gambarellis are, although they tolerate him since he’s family. Neither can we find any connection between her and Crabb.”

  “She had a connection with Frank Gorton, and he’s friendly enough with Crabb,” I reminded him.

  “That’s true—but as far as we can see, Gorton’s role is confined to receiving information from Crabb about his rivals. It had occurred to us that Crabb might have killed her because she found out about their business relationship—but what sense does that make?”

  “Gorton could have killed her because she was flirting with Crabb.” I hated to raise the topic of Lucetta’s unfaithfulness, but I had to make the suggestion.

  Martin shook his head, looking down at his hands. He had been running a finger repeatedly over the satin lining of his coattails, an action I was beginning to find irritating. “And cheerfully continue his business relationship with Crabb after having murdered her?” The
re was a strained note to his voice that was odd. “Gorton has never seemed to care much about her . . . side interests.”

  Becoming aware of the unconscious movements of his hand, he stopped fidgeting and laced both hands tightly together again. “Since we’re on the subject of Lucetta, there’s a favor I need to ask you.”

  “What?”

  Martin still wasn’t looking at me. “I’m sending in some Pinkerton agents, four men and a woman, to search my house again. I want you to accompany them—as Mrs. Harvey, of course, and we’ll find some excuse—and I want you to search Lucetta’s clothing. Thoroughly.” He looked up at last, and there was a beseeching look in his eyes. “You know how a gown is made. You know where a dressmaker might sew in a discreet pocket better than anyone else I can trust.”

  I was so shocked that I stared at him for a full minute before replying. “You couldn’t have thought of a more distasteful task for me to do if you’d written it out with both hands,” I said at last, craning my neck back so that I could glare at him more thoroughly. “Why can’t you do it yourself?”

  Martin slid off the desk and seated himself on the chair beside me. He looked as if he were about to take my hands in his, but then he thought better of it.

  “Nellie, please.” His voice was raw. “I can’t go there—I’m never going inside that place again. As soon as I can, I’m selling it lock, stock, and barrel. But it’s never been searched as thoroughly as it should be, and I want it turned inside out. I’m desperate for even the smallest clue.”

  Joe cleared his throat. “If it’s any comfort to you, Nell, I’ll be there too.”

  I looked Martin in the face, my anger dissipating as I saw his expression. He looked like a man whose nerves had been strained to the limit. Of course, he had gone from jail back to work with no rest in between, and had, as far as I could see, taken little time for himself ever since.

  “I’ll do it,” I said shortly.

  “Bless you.” Martin looked down at his hands again, then up at me. “I’m anxious to clear my name before I spend the winter in Europe.”

  I was struck dumb. I looked across at Joe and saw by his expression that he already knew.

  “You’re leaving?” I closed my eyes, calculating. “You’ll have to sail before November, and the shipping lanes may not be open again till—April. You’re going to abandon your business for almost half a year?” And me, I thought. You’re going to abandon me.

  “Joe can run the store,” Martin said. “And—you’re a shareholder. You’ll have my power of attorney in case any major decisions have to be made, and you can consult with Fassbinder at any time by telegraph.” He swallowed. “I can’t stay, Nellie. I can’t bear it here right now. I’m sorry.”

  “Martin will use some of his time in Europe for the benefit of the store.” Joe broke into the strained silence that followed Martin’s last words, spoken in a near whisper. “And for the rest of the time, I’ve recommended the Swiss Alps—a wonderful place to recuperate, I hear.” He rose to his feet. “To be honest, Nell, it’s I who’ve been pushing Martin to go.” He leaned over the desk and placed a hand on my arm. “I’d tell any employee who’d suffered a bereavement to take time off. And when the principal of a firm is constantly irritable and nervy, the whole company suffers. If he’s stranded in Europe for the winter, he’ll appreciate us all the more when he returns.”

  Joe’s tone was light and cheerful, but the hand on my arm was exerting a definite pressure. I nodded at Martin, wishing I could hug him. Or slap him, for leaving me. If only I didn’t love him so much.

  “I’ll search Lucetta’s dresses,” I said. “If that’s what you want.”

  And I would hunt, very hard indeed, for any clue that might prove or disprove the terrible theory that was growing in my mind.

  The foyer of Martin and Lucetta’s house was palatial. Pink-veined, dark gray marble columns rose out of a black-and-white marble floor. On the ceiling, gilding enhanced the elaborate plaster molding, featuring a repeating motif of cornucopias spilling their fruit in eternally frozen bounty.

  Heavy, ornately carved doors led off the foyer, presumably leading to reception rooms; they were all shut. On the walls between the doors, paintings were vibrant gleams of color, like flowers in a dusk-filled wood. Heavy velvet drapes adorned the windows, dimming the light from the street outside. Both the noise of carriages and the sullen Chicago heat diminished as the housekeeper shut the door behind me, Joe, and the Pinkerton agents.

  Joe spent a few minutes in consultation with Martin’s housekeeper, a sturdy woman with a broad, flat face that creased in puzzlement as she read Martin’s note.

  “You won’t find anything I wouldn’t already have found, sir,” I heard her say to Joe. “Almost every nook and cranny of this house has been cleaned and dusted and turned over and brushed time and time again.” Her expressionless gaze swept the Pinkerton agents, who were standing around Joe in a semicircle while I hung back a little. “I got out all the private papers and things for the police detectives back in March. But since it’s Mr. Rutherford’s direct orders . . .” She tailed off.

  “It’s what he wants.” Joe’s smile at her was kindly. “We’re sorry to put you to any trouble.” He motioned to me to come forward. “This is Mrs. Harvey, from the store. She will look at Mrs. Rutherford’s dresses.”

  The housekeeper’s gaze took me in for a moment. “Very well,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the parlor for a few minutes, Madam, while I open the mistress’s rooms up for you.” She looked doubtfully at Joe. “You too, sir.”

  Joe shook his head. “No need. We know where to go and have plenty to do, so we’ll make a start straightaway while you take care of Mrs. Harvey.” He motioned to the Pinkerton agents, who followed him into one of the rooms, their footsteps echoing faintly as they crossed the foyer floor.

  The housekeeper watched Joe shut the door before turning back to me. “Despite what I said to Mr. Salazar, I’ll admit I haven’t had the heart to turn out Mrs. Rutherford’s clothes as thoroughly as I’d like, not without consulting the master,” she said. “You’ll understand when you see them. And that Nicolina, who was good with clothes, I’ll concede, going off like that—well, I put away the things from Mrs. Rutherford’s trunks the day it happened, but please tell Mr. Rutherford I’m awaiting his instructions as to what to do with all of those dresses.”

  “I will,” I said and dropped my voice to a confidential level. “I feel sorry for the poor man—he’s been through so much. I don’t for a moment think he’s guilty.”

  The housekeeper’s expression didn’t change, but a little animation crept into her eyes. She moved toward one of the doors, motioning for me to follow. “Mr. Rutherford’s a kind man,” she said to me as she turned the knob and swung the heavy, highly polished door inward. “It’s a shame he can’t bear the house now, but I understand his feelings.”

  “Did you like Mrs. Rutherford?” I paused on the threshold of the parlor, the question coming unbidden to my lips.

  The woman’s face moved upward as she frowned in consternation. “Not like, exactly. It isn’t my place to like the mistress of the house. But she knew how to be the mistress, I’ll say that. Brought up accustomed to servants and to getting her own way. But very beautiful, very elegant.”

  “She was.” I strained to see in the gloom as the housekeeper crossed to the window. I could see furniture shrouded in dust cloths, looking ghostly and somehow menacing. The air smelled sweet, like potpourri, but not fresh. The windows hadn’t been opened for a while.

  The housekeeper tugged at the thick, heavy drapes, and a wide band of sunlight cut the room in two. My heart leaped into my throat, and I almost cried out.

  I hadn’t known what to expect from my first encounter with the private side of Martin’s married life. I knew I hadn’t expected the life-size paintings that hung on either side of an enormous chimneypiece of carved white marble. I moved into the center of the room as the housekeeper opened the
rest of the curtains, letting light and the faint sounds of the street into the room.

  To the left of the fireplace hung Lucetta’s image, almost as vibrant as in life, dressed in a silk brocade ball gown in shimmering antique crimson and gold. Her glossy black ringlets poured over one shoulder, and the artist had caught well the glitter of rubies at her ears and throat. Rubies were also set into a heavy gold bracelet encircling the slender wrist that held a folded fan. The eyes were as I’d known them, huge, black, and thickly lashed. The smile that curved her lips was the smile of a woman who concealed an amusing secret.

  The door bumped shut behind me, and I realized the housekeeper had left. I closed my mouth, which had been hanging open, and swallowed to moisten my throat. Lucetta’s neck was a column of alabaster, pure in line and hue, set off to perfection by the magnificent necklace of ornately wrought gold spangled with rubies and diamonds. The deep neckline of her dress showed a smooth, white, perfect bosom, glowing with an almost unearthly light. I had the odd impression that the painting was more alive than I was.

  And Martin—dear God, could that possibly be my Martin? He was in three-quarter face, his dark clothing contrasting abruptly with the pale hair, against an inky background that held fugitive gleams of gold and the same antique crimson color as Lucetta’s dress. The portraits had clearly been painted as a pair, the soberness of Martin’s appearance a necessary foil to Lucetta’s magnificence. Martin wore a frock coat over a dark gray vest, darkness against darkness, absorbed into the background and yet standing out against it. The gleam of a watch chain under his heart was repeated in the gold of a tiepin, set with a ruby, in his gray cravat. He stared out of the canvas with what I would swear was the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “I make the money, and she spends it,” I murmured. The paintings suggested a transformation to me. They said that the wealth Martin had the ability to create was intended by fate to adorn the only woman who was a suitable stage on which to display it. In contrast to Lucetta’s serene, amused confidence, Martin’s portrait spoke of power, of responsibility, and of a kind of fierce determination to play the role assigned to him.