She smiled. “No, it’s an easy ride.”
The elevator arrived after a spell. The operator pulled the door open and said through her nose, “Second floor, millinery department.”
Ladies was trying on hats in there. Then he spotted the man.
“That’s him!” He nodded toward a bald man wearing a gray suit and bow tie. He was talking to a lady looking at a hat.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s him.”
“Wait here,” she whispered, “and don’t be obvious watching us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started whistling Yankee Doodle, so he wouldn’t be obvious.
She walked slow-like toward the man, pausing every few feet to look at a hat. She stopped and picked one up. She put it on her head and adjusted it two or three times. Then she walked over to a mirror on the counter near the bald man, who was still with the other customer. She tugged it lower on one side and turned her head different ways while looking in the mirror. It either fit or it don’t. Maybe she was just stalling.
The other customer thanked the bald fella and left with her new hat. The bald man spotted Miss Peach and went up to her.
Jasper eased closer so he could hear. He stopped whistling but was careful not to stare.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Oh my, yes, you certainly can.” She touched the brim of the hat and tried that smile of hers on him.
“That’s a lovely Milan straw,” the man said. “I think the velvet ribbon and hyacinths really make the hat. Were you looking for an evening hat?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You look very nice in it.”
“Do you think so?” She batted her eyes.
“I do indeed. It goes well with your lovely red hair.”
“It’s ginger.” She showed him that sweet smile again. “I prefer a hat that shows it off but doesn’t overbear it, if you know what I mean.”
“Of course, ma’am. That one looks just the thing.”
She turned this way and that, looking back over her shoulder at the mirror. “A handsome man like you would certainly know.”
He colored red, then winked. “Well, I have served a number of fine ladies.”
“It’s for the soiree at Mayor McCulloch’s on Saturday. Do you honestly think it’s pretty on me?”
“Any hat would be pretty on you, but this one fills the bill nicely.”
She shrugged her shoulders like she didn’t know what she thought. “I’m just not sure. I’d like to bring my husband in to give his opinion.”
She was married? Dang. Jasper shuffled his feet and tried to look like he belonged there.
“Would you hold it for me? I don’t want any other ladies to snatch it up.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“May I ask for you by name, sir?”
He commenced to winking at her again. “Certainly. I’m Buford Lowe, at your service.” He bowed his head.
“Oh, Mr. Lowe, you’ve been so very helpful. I’ll be back as soon as my husband can get here.”
She’d tricked him good about that hat, but Jasper sure didn’t know she was a married lady. He sighed and followed her out.
***
Miss Peach led Harley and Jasper through the first floor to the elevator and up to millinery. She spotted the bald man, offered her arm to Harley, and headed toward him.
The dreadful man saw her and waved. His face twitched: three blinks, one wink. He’d be jerking from ear to ear quite soon. She suppressed a smile.
“Mr. Lowe, I’d like you to meet Mr. Harley Calloway,” Miss Peach said.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Calloway,” Lowe said. “You have a charming wife.”
Harley didn’t smile. “Truth be told, she’s not really my wife. She’s my stenographer.”
Lowe hesitated, then broke into a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. You have a different . . . interest . . . in this young lady’s appearance?”
He deserved what was coming.
Harley crossed his arms. “Actually, my interest is you.”
“Oh,” he replied, his eyes widening. “In what way, sir?”
“I was wondering if you could recommend a good bawdy house? Maybe Miss Jessie’s?”
Lowe’s mouth flopped open, and his eyes blinked and winked uncontrollably. “I, ah . . .” He spoke in a quieter voice. “I don’t know any bawdy houses, sir.” He looked around the store, still blinking and winking.
“Oh, really?” Harley replied in a normal tone, causing Lowe to put a finger to his lips. Harley didn’t lower his voice. “Miss Sadie in particular spoke very highly of you.”
“I . . . I, ah, don’t know any Miss Sadie,” Lowe whispered.
“She gave me your name as a reference, Mr. Lowe. You said your first name is Buford, right?”
“Yes,” he croaked. He was about to burst.
“She even said you worked in the millinery department at Sanger Brothers. I believe you have sold hats to Miss Jessie Rose herself?”
The man froze, speechless, both eyes blinking wildly, and then scurried off down the aisle. He glanced over his shoulder and nearly ran out the back door. It was all she could do to stifle a laugh.
Harley raised an eyebrow at her. “Papa would quote Proverbs about now, wouldn’t he?”
She answered with a smile. “I do believe we just saw the wicked flee.”
“When no man pursueth.”
Chapter 17
“So Winky-Blinky’s been right around the corner from us all along?” Catfish asked, still standing just inside the door as they crowded around to give him the report.
“It looks that way,” Harley replied.
He took off his coat and hung it on the hook by the door, then peered at Jasper. “Sure that’s him?”
“Yes, sir. I’m real sure.” Jasper seemed excited. “You wanted me to keep an eye peeled for him, and so I watched him good.”
“He has an eye twitch just as Sadie described,” Miss Peach added.
As he passed behind her, Catfish noticed she’d drawn daisies on her notepad—dozens of them, all in rows, each perfectly the same as all the others.
Sweet girl. She was young, all right, but she had a pretty good sense of people, and he’d come to rely on her for much more than just taking notes and banging away on the confounded typewriting machine.
“You think he’s a killer?” he asked her.
“That man a killer? Not at all.” She drew another daisy, then shuddered. “He’s more oily than scary. After Mr. Harley confronted him, he was very nervous.”
“I agree,” Harley said. “He’s not the kind of fellow to strong-arm anybody.”
Catfish paced around the room in circles. Not that kind, huh? But Lowe must be the right one—he’d run off like a scalded dog when Harley asked him about the sporting house. He was hiding something. The guilty do flee when no man pursued, even guilty men who didn’t look the part. Maybe he had some kind of connection with Bud Orman. And even if he wasn’t the killer, maybe he’d seen Orman there.
“Is Lowe in the city directory?”
“Yes, sir,” Harley answered. “He lives on Mary Street.”
“Good, let’s pay him a call at home. I expect he’s not too keen on folks knowing about his visits to Miss Jessie’s. That’s probably why he skedaddled.”
“Right.”
Catfish checked his pocket watch, then settled into his swivel chair and lit a cigar. They’d visit him after finishing with Jasper.
The colonel had been standing dutifully by the door, ready to leave every time his master paced toward the door. He ambled over and collapsed with a groan under Catfish’s dangling hand.
“Jasper, let’s go back to Miss Jessie a minute. You said her carriage passed right in front of you. Did she see you?”
“Yes, sir. She turned toward me and just looked me right in the eye, then went on about her business.”
“Anybody with her?”
“Just a hack driver.”
“No, sir. Didn’t pay him much mind.”
“Wasn’t the same hack you saw the night of the killing, was it?”
“Oh no, sir. That one was red, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t have but one seat.”
He yanked the cigar from his mouth. A one-seat hack? Couldn’t have been for hire—must have been a personal carriage, maybe even the killer’s buggy.
He gave Jasper a paper and pencil to sketch it. The boy drew a buggy with one horse, one seat with a spindle-back, and no top.
Didn’t see many like that around. Should be able to find it.
He curled the tip of his mustache. “What’d the horse look like?”
“Tall roan, maybe sixteen, sixteen two. Didn’t have no markings.”
Catfish leaned forward, arms on his knees. “When the salesman handed over that box to Miss Jessie, what else did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Did she give him anything?”
“No, sir.”
“She didn’t pay him?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s peculiar.” But it was consistent with Sadie’s story.
“Maybe she bought it on credit,” Miss Peach suggested.
“Or she could have paid before when she selected the item,” Harley said.
Catfish leaned back. “Not likely. Sporting girls don’t go inside stores. I’m inclined to agree with Miss Peach that she bought it on credit. Likely a hat. Maybe picked it out of a catalog?” He turned to her. “They have a mail order business?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lowe was a customer of Miss Jessie’s, and she was a customer of his. Catfish whirled his chair around and tapped cigar ashes into a tray on his desk. “There’s another possibility to consider.”
“What’s that?” Harley asked.
He puffed on his White Owl. “Maybe he barters goods for sport.”
“Surely not.” Harley shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he just pay Miss Jessie rather than pay the store? People would ask why he’s buying things.”
“I’m not thinking he pays the store.”
“He steals from his own employer?” Miss Peach asked.
“He’s in a perfect position to. Nobody would question him.” He put out his cigar. “Yes, sir, that’s what’s happening—he’s doing in-kind trade with the sporting girls. Maybe Bud Orman arranged it.” He got up and paced toward the door. How could they confirm Lowe’s arrangement with Jessie? He looked at Miss Peach. “How about you going to Sanger Brothers to check your account balance?”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t have one.”
“No, but maybe Miss Jessie does. If she does, that would explain why she didn’t pay him. If she doesn’t, my theory might be right. It’s likely nobody but Winky-Blinky has seen her face to face.” He laughed at the thought. “Say, could she call in on that talking-phone to order something? Like a mail order?”
“She could.” Miss Peach looked uncomfortable. She blotted the ink on her pen and rested it on her notepad. “So what I hear you suggesting is that I go into Sanger’s pretending to be Miss Jessie?”
“You’re our only female thespian.”
“What do I do if she does have an account there?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his money clip, and peeled off a ten-dollar treasury note. “Make a payment—and here’s my wager that she doesn’t have an account. But after you get back, whether she’s got a credit line or not, call up Miss Jessie on that talking-phone and tell her you’re from Sanger Brothers and want to see if she’s happy with her recent purchase.”
“It’s a telephone,” she said with a smirk.
“What?”
“It’s not a talking-phone. It’s just a telephone.” She groaned. “A telephone’s only purpose is to talk.”
“Exactly. You can’t send a telegram through those wires, can you?”
“Of course not.”
“So it’s a phone just for talking, not telegraphing.”
She stood up. “Mr. Calloway, I’m your stenographer, not your witness, so I would appreciate it if you don’t cross-examine me.” She placed her hands on her hips and aimed a glare right between his eyes. Mighty bold for such a slip of a girl.
“I’m sorry, Miss Peach,” he said as innocently as he could. The poor girl complained all the time that he cross-examined her. “I was just explaining what I meant. But whatever you call it, I want you to go check your balance before you start talking on it.”
“Yes, sir.” She went into the front room but popped her head back through the doorway before she left. “You know, you’re not paying me enough to be a spy.”
“Go on, now.” He flicked his hand at her. “Scat.”
The colonel got up expectantly but settled back after she left alone.
“Mr. Calloway,” Jasper said, “do you mind if we have some private talk?”
Catfish wheeled his chair to face Jasper. “Of course. Harley, why don’t you go to the livery and get the surrey? We’ll drop off Jasper at Baylor on the way to see Buford Lowe.”
“Right,” Harley said. He departed, leaving them alone.
“What’s on your mind?” Catfish asked.
He let out a long breath. “Folks at Baylor been asking me what I know about Cicero.”
Catfish softened his tone. “What’ve you told ’em?”
“Mostly that I don’t know what he was doing at that whorehouse, which is mostly right. It don’t set well with me not telling what I do know.”
“Who’s been asking?”
“Professor Perkins, for one.”
“Don’t worry about him.” Perkins was a friend and wouldn’t do anything to hurt Jasper. “He already knows what happened, and he’s not gonna get you in trouble. Who else been asking?”
“Professor Charlton. Him and his wife lives in our dorm. He was the one I first-off told about Cicero not coming back that night. He’s asked me some more questions, and I don’t feel right lying to him.”
Catfish didn’t really know Charlton. “It sounds to me as though you haven’t actually lied, just held back part of the truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s not really lying.”
“It sure feels like it is.” He stared at the floor, then looked back up with worry written all over his face. “Mr. Calloway, to be real honest, I’m scaryfied they’s gonna find out I gone to a whorehouse and had a beer, and then they’ll boot me out of school. That’d shame my mother and father, and I can’t abide that. All our neighbors pitched in to pay my tuition.”
Catfish locked eyes with Jasper. Houston’d had that same look. He’d been older, of course, but the look was the same. Eight years later and the fear, the plea for help were still so vivid.
Damned if he’d let anything happen to Jasper. Not this time.
He clicked twice at the colonel, who came over and plopped down between them. Jasper leaned over and rubbed his floppy ear.
“Well,” Catfish began, “first thing is, you didn’t know you were going to a sporting house, did you?”
“I thought we was going to get a drink.”
“And you didn’t even touch a sporting girl, did you?”
“No, sir. But one touched me, right before I got out of there.”
He smiled. “That doesn’t count as being with a girl. And as for the beer, I thought you said you didn’t even open it.”
“No, sir. I didn’t, but I knowed we was going there to drink beer.”
“That doesn’t count as drinking. As far as I can tell, son, you didn’t actually do anything wrong. Just thinking about sinning’s not wrong—otherwise, lots of good folks’d be sinners.”
“Preacher Jones don’t agree on that.”
Catfish swatted the air. “Preacher Jones isn’t from around here.”
“It sounds right the way you say it, but folks at Baylor is real strict about things like that. They give us this student handbook, and it says we’s supposed to
act Christian all the time.”
“Jasper, as I told you before, I’m your lawyer too. You gotta trust me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Peach breezed back in the front door and clicked across the floor straight to Catfish.
“Mr. Calloway,” she said, handing him the ten-dollar bill, “there’s no account at Sanger Brothers for a Jessie Rose or a Rose by any other name.”
He smiled. “Good work. Call up Miss Jessie right now and see how she reacts.”
They waited while she went to the front room and made the call. He strained to hear but couldn’t catch what she said.
She bustled in a minute later. “I don’t think she was expecting that call. When I asked her if she was happy with her purchase, there was a long pause. She just said ‘yes, thank you’ and hung up.”
He nodded. Now they were getting somewhere. “Something’s up between Miss Jessie and Mr. Buford Lowe, alias Winky-Blinky. Time for us to find out what.”
Chapter 18
On the way to see Winky-Blinky, after they dropped Jasper off at his dormitory, they stopped at City Transfer. Mr. Manchester knew buggies as well as anybody in town, and Catfish wanted to show him Jasper’s drawing of the one-seat buggy. Mr. Manchester said it looked like a Stanhope gig. He showed them a picture in a catalog: one two-person bench seat and a spindled back, just like a wide Windsor chair. Mr. Manchester said there weren’t many in this part of the country, but they were popular back east for heavy harness showing.
Next stop was the town square to show the same drawing to Mr. Moon. He spent most of his days watching the goings-on around the square as he shined shoes. He didn’t remember ever seeing a buggy like that but said he’d look out for it.
When they got to Buford Lowe’s residence on Mary Street, Catfish looked around for a red buggy. Didn’t see one. No place to keep one, either.
Winky-Blinky himself answered Harley’s knock at the door. His jaw dropped, and his eyes started jumping. He began to push the front door shut but hesitated, glanced over his shoulder, and reluctantly stepped back toward them.
“What do you want?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“How do, Mr. Lowe,” Catfish said more loudly than usual. “You mind if we have a word with you?”
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