I looked over at Mycroft. He winked at me. What was going on in his head? After an uncomfortable pause, I cleared my throat and awkwardly attempted to change the subject.
“Yes, well, we are here for another reason.” I quickly explained my interest in Ragan.
“Aye, Harry. A cryin’ shame.” He sat down heavily in one of the front-row chairs and rested his arm on the back. Recalling the late speakeasy owner seemed to take all the steam out of him. “Harry was one of them fellas what seemed to always be on the fringes of the faith, willin’ to dip his toe in the water now and again, but never takin’ the plunge. He used to enjoy comin’ to hear me preach—said he liked to listen to someone who wasn’t tryin’ to get on his good side—and he dropped a few dollars in the plate once in a while. But he never took the next step. I think he knew what it meant—that he’d have to give up his way o’ livin’.” He shook his head and exhaled a small sigh. “Always kickin’ against the pricks.”
Then he began to chuckle as he recalled something. “D’ye know, I’ve met more than a few men who thought they’d become a ‘nice Christian gangster’—as if they could take Jesus along as they smuggled booze or ran a gambling den! But Harry was smarter’n that. He knew that becomin’ a Christian meant livin’ like Jesus wanted him to, and he just couldn’t let go of his old ways.” Once more he shook his head sadly. This interview wasn’t going the way I had hoped.
“Did Ragan ever mention anyone by the name of ‘Painless’?” If my abrupt change of topic offended Captain Bill, he didn’t show it.
“‘Painless,’ eh? Now there’s a moniker for ye! No, can’t say that I’ve heard of a fella by that name—and I’ve heard some strange ones among the criminal class in Philadelphia, from ‘Boo-Boo’ Hoff to ‘Bugsy’ Siegel. Why, who is he?”
“One of Ragan’s card-playing companions.” Basil, who had been silent until now, spoke up. “He owed Ragan a lot of money from gambling. We think perhaps he caused the explosion.”
Hastily, I introduced Basil to Captain Bill, and apologized that I hadn’t done it before. I also made a mental note to advise Basil not to reveal too much information to a potential suspect—not that I had any real reason to doubt Captain Bill’s intentions, but at this point in the investigation, everyone was a suspect.
CHAPTER 11
Captain Bill pulled out his pocket watch and said, “Well, gentlemen, the day is far spent, and I needs be gettin’ home. What say we continue this conversation over dinner? I’ll just have Maggie set three more places at the table.”
“We wouldn’t want to impose upon your wife with three last-minute dinner guests,” I said, suggesting a gracious way to get out of this invitation.
“Oh, nonsense, young man. We have unexpected company all the time. We’ll just add more water to the soup!” He paused, gave me a knowing look, and nudged me with his elbow. “And by the way, Maggie is my daughter.”
We walked several blocks to an aging Victorian brownstone that had certainly seen better days. I was surprised to notice a “For Sale” sign in the window of the first floor, but Captain Bill led us through a door and up a claustrophobic stairwell to the second-floor flat.
The door opened directly into a small but tidy parlor, with a comfortable seating arrangement. I was just reflecting to myself how the faded floral wallpaper seemed to be fighting for supremacy over the green-and-white striped sofa when the Captain called out, “Maggie, me darlin’! I’m home, and I’ve brought some gentlemen with me!”
Captain Bill’s announcement made me cringe as I thought of what an imposition this must be for a young girl who probably struggled to handle the responsibility of keeping house for her father. What must she be thinking right now? I wouldn’t have been surprised to be chased out onto the street with a broom by a frazzled teenager.
Instead, the kitchen door opened, and a petite, red-haired beauty appeared, a bright yellow apron tied about her waist. This was no teenager! She was obviously in her early twenties—in other words, I thought, feeling the heat creep up my neck, just about my age.
“Ah, Dad, how was your day, now?” Her voice had a delightful Irish lilt. “And when do I get to meet these gentlemen?” She fastened a pair of sea-green eyes on me. Captain Bill began introductions, and when he came to me, he paused.
“My child, there stands before you here the only son of one of my dearest friends. You’ve heard me talk of Dr. John Watson? Well, this fine specimen of manhood is his boy, Thomas.” I had a sudden urge to check the mirror to make sure my hair was combed, then glanced down to make sure my fingernails were clean.
“And this, young man, is my daughter, Maggie.”
“Father, please.” She turned to me and held out her hand with a friendly formality. “My name is Margaret. How do you do?”
Captain Bill put his cupped hand to my ear. “You can call her Maggie,” he whispered, but loud enough for her to overhear. I looked back at her just in time to catch her glaring at her father before she smiled again at me—and what a smile! It stunned me with its bright and earnest beauty. Who knows what she thought of the flush of red that crept across my face?
I mumbled a lame apology about arriving without notice. Apparently she thought this uproariously funny because she threw back her head with a musical laugh.
“Ah, think nothing of it, Mr. Watson. Me dad does this so often that I usually cook more than we two can eat on our own. I’ve given up on bein’ angry with him!” She shook her head at her father, thrusting out her lower lip.
“Maggie, darlin’, you’re far too good to me—better than I deserve.” Captain Bill said this while staring absentmindedly in the direction of the kitchen. Pushing open the door with one hand, he sniffed the air and added, “So, what’s for dinner?”
“Beef stew with cornbread muffins, and it’s almost ready, so take your seats at the table. But I could use a bit o’ help with gettin’ the food on. Perhaps you’d care to give me a hand, Mr. Watson?”
I jumped at the sound of my name, as if she had scolded me. Basil made a gesture as if to offer his help, but I grabbed his arm and pushed past him. “Of course,” I said and followed her through the kitchen door.
Maggie faced the stove with her back to me, stirring a large pot from which emanated a fragrant cloud of steam. My mouth began to water, and I realized for the first time how hungry I was. “I haven’t had real Irish stew in quite a while,” I said stupidly, desperately hoping to get the conversation rolling.
I saw her back visibly stiffen. “And why would ye be thinkin’ this is real Irish stew?”
“Well, I—I . . .”
She turned her head and gave me a wink, and I chuckled self-consciously. She likes you, Watson! Don’t blow your chance.
Maggie took a stack of soup bowls out of the cupboard above her head and set them on the counter. “I’ll fill the bowls. Could you grab that serving tray over there, Thomas?” The color drained from her cheeks and she stared at me apprehensively. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mind if I call you by your first name, Mr. Watson?”
“Only if I can call you Maggie,” I said. She responded with a nod and a sparkle in her eye, as if I had just handed her a bouquet of flowers.
I picked up the tray and awkwardly held it out before me, as Maggie filled one bowl after another with the contents of the pot. Before I knew it, the tray held five steaming pieces of crockery, from which arose an aroma so delicious it made my knees weak. No question about it now—I was famished. I looked at the design on the bowls, an old Victorian rose pattern with a light fluting on the edges. No two were exactly alike, and one had a chip along its lip.
As I studied the china, Maggie was busy pulling two muffin tins out of the oven. She caught me eying the bowls and said, “Me mother’s dishes. A somewhat motley collection, but we make do with what we have.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said sincerely. And so are you, I wanted to add
, but I held my tongue.
With a deft wrist motion, she ran a butter knife around the circumference of each muffin, dropping them into a basket lined with a gingham napkin. “And now we’re ready,” she announced with an air of triumph, as she led the way to the table with the basket in her hands. I followed meekly behind with the tray of bowls, feeling oddly like the assistant in Maggie’s Traveling Medicine Show.
With a musical clatter, Maggie plopped a bowl on each plate and placed a muffin at the two o’clock position next to each bowl. For the first of many times, I marveled at the mixture of gracefulness and pragmatism in her movements.
“We’re all set, Dad,” she said as she took her seat and motioned to me to sit next to her. No chance anyone would argue with her.
Captain Bill stood at the head of the crowded table and folded his hands. “Shall we pray?” I bowed my head and struggled to look pious with Maggie seated so close.
We began the meal, and for a time there was no sound but the clatter of silverware on plates. Maggie’s stew was a dream, with rich, deep-brown gravy and large chunks of beef, carrots, celery, and—of course—potatoes. (What Irish stew would be complete without potatoes?) I kept myself from wolfing it down by periodically taking a bite of a moist, warm muffin.
“Mr. Watson, it looks like we’ll have to refill your bowl already!” Maggie turned down the corners of her mouth in mock disapproval. “It’s not good for your digestion to eat so fast. I don’t think you’ve had a chance to even taste my stew!”
My face burned, and as I looked around the table there were grins on every face—especially Mycroft’s, who was thoroughly enjoying my discomfort. “Oh, I—I tasted it all right—it was delicious. I promise, Miss McBride, I will eat the next bowl more slowly.” I debated as to whether to put on my best Cockney accent and say, “Please, could I have some more?” but I wondered if she would recognize the allusion to Dickens. She laughed at my mock seriousness, took the bowl from my place and whisked into the kitchen, returning almost immediately with a full, steaming bowl.
“Well, now,” Captain Bill began, as if making the opening remark in some deep deliberation. “Tell us, Mr. Holmes—what brings you to Philadelphia?”
Mycroft began his tale in typical basso profundo, making far more of the events of the past week than they truly deserved. Maggie reached over and patted my hand when she heard that my father had died, and the color drained from her face when Mycroft told of the explosion at the speakeasy. But as Mycroft rounded out his story with, “And so, my friends, we now find ourselves in search of larger quarters,” Captain Bill’s face lit up.
“Why, look no further gentlemen—you can rent the lower floor of our house!”
“Not a bad idea, Bill, but isn’t the property up for sale?” Mycroft asked. He turned to me, raised an eyebrow, and added, “Perhaps, young man, this is a good possibility for investing the funds coming in from your father’s writings.”
What? Now he’s going to advise me on finances? I had received the inheritance check just that morning, and Mycroft was already spending it for me. I didn’t want to argue in front of Maggie, so I just said, “Well, that’s something I’d need to think about.”
“No time like the present,” the old man replied brightly, and I wished I had been seated closer so that I could kick him under the table.
“Ah, Mr. Watson, I can see you are a young man of discernment,” Captain Bill said quickly. He obviously saw my predicament and wanted to help me find a gracious way out. “I think you’re right to take your time with a decision as important as the purchase of property!”
“The only problem is, we haven’t any time.” Mycroft poked savagely at a defenseless potato with his spoon. “We need to get out of that closet Thomas calls an apartment and into a residence where we can change our minds without having to go outside.”
“Well, perhaps I can be of assistance,” Captain Bill said. “Our landlord has given us permission to rent out the lower apartment at a modest price to those in need of emergency shelter—and this sounds like a true emergency to me. Since it’s already partially furnished and Maggie has made the beds, why don’t you gentlemen stay the night and try out the place?”
Both Mycroft and Basil nodded eagerly, and I had to admit that the offer appealed to me as well. Despite my suspicions that I was being roped into a real estate deal, I dreaded the thought of another night in a chair. I stretched my back and thought of how good it would feel to sleep in a bed again. “All right, I suppose that would be best.”
“Wonderful! Perhaps Basil can run over tonight and get us a change of clothes and whatever else we need. And tomorrow, Thomas, Maggie can take you around to the owners of the property to discuss a little more permanent arrangement.” Mycroft began rubbing his hands together. I could feel the noose tightening around my neck.
CHAPTER 12
Maggie’s presence alone made the trip to the property agent bearable. I hadn’t been in the company of someone my own age for a long time, especially a female, and surprised myself by carrying on an intelligent conversation. The night before I had been my usual tongue-tied self.
“How did you sleep last night?” she asked, after we’d been walking a few blocks. “Were the accommodations everything you expected?”
“Well, anything would have been an improvement over the chair I’ve slept in the past two nights.” I was rewarded for that comment with one of her dazzling smiles. “But the bed was very comfortable, and the layout of the apartment is quite convenient. I can’t really say, though, that it was everything I expected. The decision to stay the night happened so fast, I didn’t really have any expectations at all!”
She responded to my confession with a ripple of laughter, and I found it hard to believe that she considered me such a sparkling conversationalist. Talking with Maggie was easy.
In fact, we not only discussed the details of the mystery, but also a number of other topics on the relatively short walk to the property agent’s office. She was like no other girl I’d ever met. She was certainly no flapper girl, and no suffragette—but she had a mind of her own. I liked that.
While enjoyable, talking with her was also challenging. Though it wasn’t like speaking with Mycroft, where I always felt a step or two behind his speeding express train of thought, I did sense I was in the presence of an incisive and analytical thinker, someone who wouldn’t let me get away with sloppy reasoning or empty words. Most girls I knew would allow a man to talk on and on about himself, blown up with his own self-importance. Not Maggie—she could be depended upon to knock a fellow down a peg or two.
Don’t get me wrong—she wasn’t mean or vindictive about it. In fact, I began to wonder if putting me in my place was really deliberate, or just something she did naturally and innocently, as an extension of her nature. It seems to me that a proud person is in competition with everyone else’s pride, yet they are ultimately defeated by the truly humble person, the one who refuses to play the game—and doesn’t even acknowledge there’s a game being played.
I guess that’s why I so quickly let my guard down and found myself telling her about my childhood. “When I was born, my father planned to name me after his best friend.”
“Sherlock? Oh, dear.” And we both laughed simultaneously.
“Yes, but Holmes came to my rescue.” I placed my hand across my chest and proceeded to give my best imitation of the detective’s reedy voice: “My dear Watson, it was bad enough that my parents saddled me with such a ponderous nomenclature. But now that I’ve managed to transform it into a household word, you cannot expect the child to endure such a name! Please, call him something else; it is honor enough to be his godfather.”
“So you were given the name Thomas. A family name?” Maggie broke her stride to make a short skip, and I suddenly realized I was walking too fast.
Slowing my gait perceptibly, I replied, “Actually, my father named m
e after a 17th-century Puritan divine who was a distant ancestor—a decision that reflected his love of both history and family heritage. Dad was probably somewhat at odds with the old Puritan—he was a staunch Anglican, at least until his later years—but he did admire his ancestor’s bravery in standing against the status quo. My father’s respect for nonconformity was limited to history, however; I have no doubt he was appalled at some of my personal decisions.”
“Oh, really?” Maggie thought about that for a moment, then added, “I’ve read some of your father’s stories of his adventures with Mr. Holmes. He seemed to be more familiar with nonconformity than you make him out to be.”
Her comment annoyed me at first. Where did she get off saying she knew my father better than I did? But Maggie apparently realized how it sounded, and hastened to explain.
“All I mean is, I don’t think you have taken into account your father’s own comments about his rough-and-tumble experiences in the military, not to mention his readiness to drop everything at a moment’s notice and go traipsing off to who-knows-where with Mr. Holmes.” She winked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You forget that you only knew your father as an older man. Why, by the time you came along, two-thirds of his life was over!”
I stuck out my lower lip doubtfully, but then I slowly nodded my head. “I suppose you have a point.”
Maggie looked straight ahead and thrust her chin in the air. “Too bad I never had a chance to meet him. I think I would have liked your dad.” Then she turned to me with a piercing gaze. “What about your mother?”
The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy Page 9