by John Mead
Arresting O’Shea and bringing him to the station in handcuffs had shown that the great man was vulnerable, in a way no one had previously thought possible, and even his friends in high-places, at least those he paid to be his friends, were taken by surprise and thought carefully about which side to take and were currently applauding O’Leary. It would change quickly enough, Hank would see to that; he would pull in favours, lean on those who vacillated and make examples of anyone who stood in his way to secure Brandon’s release and have the charges dropped. O’Shea could have been discovered, shotgun in hand standing over his wife but he would never be convicted. Though what Hank would do if he ever came to believe his godfather was responsible for his godmother’s death was something Jack would not have cared to bet on.
As he thought of Hank, Jack heard an office door crash open somewhere on the floor above; a heavy tread thundered down the stairs and Hank, a volcano on legs, followed by three smartly dressed, sour-faced lawyers, tore through the throng and out of the precinct door. Within seconds the street emptied apart from two groups of watchers, one the press and the other Dead Hands. Shortly after the senior officers also left the station and O’Leary came down to check how things stood with the duty sergeant, who pointed over to Jack.
“Why are you here?” Cage wearily asked.
“To report my missing silver hip flask, in the hope it has been handed in,” Jack responded in all seriousness. O’Leary’s loud belly laugh not only cleared the tension but also the area of uniforms, who took the cue that normality had now been restored to the station.
“I can’t let you speak with O’Shea,” Cage eventually stated, dropping on to the bench next to Jack, his weariness suddenly engulfing him. “He is to be transferred to County for the night, to appear in court in the morning. He will be released after that I have no doubt.”
“Hank will ensure he is set free with no charges,” Jack commiserated, though he knew the inspector realised there was never the possibility of any other outcome. “Though, if you can find conclusive proof, justice, of a sorts, might happen.”
“The maid is still not found,” Cage explained, “at the moment the lawyers are pointing the finger of suspicion at her. So I am putting everything into finding her, she is either an accomplice, a witness in hiding or dead, either way she is key to proving Brandon O’Shea is guilty.”
“You think he killed Nina?”
“You know his reputation for being a womaniser,” O’Leary had heard rumours of Martha’s prior involvement but, like most others these days, had dismissed them as scuttlebutt, “and their dislike for each other is readily talked about. Talk is that with the growth of the Knights of Labour his wife’s influence, through her family, over the city’s workers has been greatly diminished; so she has lost her use to him. In all, I think he came up with this story of a robbery, as much to convince Henry Tipwell of his innocence as anyone else, and had her killed.”
“Possibly,” Jack could not counter the logic of Cage’s thinking as being off the mark.
“I would put money on another body turning up soon, that of some hard man, who was brought in to do the killing,” Cage posited.
“Let us pray you find the girl shortly, if nothing else it will bring ease of mind to her parents.” Jack was beginning to doubt she would be found alive as each hour passed, though he still prayed it was a coincidental elopement that was the cause of her being missing. “If I can have five minutes with him I might be able to elicit something to help you.”
“We have been sweating him all afternoon to no avail and you think you can do better in five minutes?” With anyone else Cage might have been angry enough to kick them out of the station but it was more to see the smug grin that crept onto Stevens’ face wiped away that he said, “OK, five minutes, go leave your guns at the desk.” As Cage had not said anything about knives, Jack kept his hunting knife, with which he could dismember a bear, tucked in his boot top.
Brandon sat on a stool in a small cell he had to himself, the other prisoners being held were all in a larger common cell. He still wore his smoking jacket and dress trousers, his hair tousled and face unshaven, his eyes, however, were full of fire, focused and ready for the fight. Though overall, Jack thought, he looked older and more diminished than of old; his flabby frame no longer up to the exertions demanded of a man in his position.
“I have only been given five minutes so I must be direct,” Jack explained, he had been told he must stand, though could keep his cane, nor touch or pass anything to the prisoner, the cell door would remain open and the guarding officer stood outside. Brandon looked up but said nothing in response. “Did you kill Nina?”
“You of all men, Jack, should know the answer to that is no,” Brandon barely moved or changed his tired expression but his voice still carried its old tone of authority. “You and Martha remain together, do you not? Bound by the same oath that bound me and Nina. Yet you have more cause to break that oath than I did.”
“You and Martha both broke that oath long ago,” Jack responded, now was not the time to rake up the past and the fact was he had put those days behind him, “though I hardly, ‘forsook all others’ and Nina did not exactly ‘honour’ you; so none of us have anything to be proud of.”
“But not reason enough to kill,” Brandon told him, his eyes steady as Jack’s gaze bore into him.
“Do you have any idea what has happened to the maid?”
“None, it is a mystery to me,” Brandon shook his head, causing his jowly face to tremble. “My suspicion is she has nothing to do with this and her missing is an unfortunate coincidence, though your inspector friend thinks otherwise.”
“How do you explain your sleeping through all the commotion?”
“I cannot explain it,” Brandon, shrugged. “I sleep soundly but even I believe I should have been woken by a shotgun blast in the next room. Before you ask, Fellows poured my nightcap himself from a freshly opened bottle, he handed them to Nina and she passed my glass to me. It was something of a ritual after we had been out or had a party.”
“Fellows would be the last on any list of suspects I might have and it hardly seems plausible that Nina should have drugged you,” Jack mused, glancing at his pocket watch.
“I did not watch that closely, nor had any suspicion that might give me cause to do so, but I would more believe I did these deeds in my sleep than Fellows being involved,” Brandon smiled at the thought. “No, this is the work of someone who wants to send me a message, a revenge for some past action I have taken. Hank will get to the bottom of it and as soon as I am out of here I will ensure whoever is responsible will get their reward, one that will be spread equally across their family.”
It was as much the murderous intent that flashed across O’Shea’s face as anything else that convinced Jack he was being told the truth. At that moment the Brandon of old, the clever, wily thug who had clawed his way to the top of his clan and the dung heap that was Chicago’s corrupt darkside, flared back to appear on the old man’s flesh that sat huddled before Stevens.
“I never got the chance to thank you and Martha,” O’Shea stated halting Jack as he turned to leave, the guard having called, ‘time up’. “Of all the people I know, those I employ, those who owe me their position and loyalty, even my family, it was you two I first thought of to ask for. I could trust no one else to bring Hank to me, to help him with those first few hours. I thank you for it and tell Martha I owe her a great debt as well.” Jack paused but could think of nothing appropriate to say so nodded and left.
Back in the lobby O’Leary was standing by the duty sergeant’s desk, barking orders to various uniformed and plain clothes officers. As the men all started off to complete the tasks they had been given O’Leary caught sight of Jack, leaning on his stick, watching the proceedings.
“Damnation! You are convinced O’Shea is innocent aren’t you!” the inspector exasperatedly said, j
ust how he read this in Stevens’ face he could not say but it was as clear to him as if printed in ink on the other’s visage.
“What’s happened,” Jack nodded in response, his curiosity roused at the station’s sudden purposeful activity.
“A body has been found,” Cage explained, handing Jack back his guns, “a patrolman has just telephoned it in, a large colored man with half his face burnt off, found in an alleyway just three blocks north of the Black Hawks territory. Any bets on who it is?” Cage waved Jack to follow, wanting to know what had been said in the cell and knowing Jack would have tagged behind in any case.
7
Searching
Day Nine – Wednesday April 23rd 1886
Stevens finally clawed his way out of the pit of mutilated corpses and into Martha’s arms as he awoke early the next morning.
“You were tossing an’ turning, muttering in your sleep,” Martha told him, holding him tight and brushing back his thin, grey hair, knowing her touch would help calm him after his nightmare. “After all these years the war still haunts you.”
“I think the recent drama and deaths have brought it back to mind,” Jack told her, longing for a whiskey to clear his head and to stop his body trembling, his voice horse. “Another was found last night.”
“Another woman? Or a man?” Martha asked, tense despite herself, suddenly concerned it might be Minsky.
“A colored man, found on the edge of Black Hawk territory,” Jack explained, sitting up and disentangling himself from her. “Cage thought it was the manager of a disreputable house called Ruby’s and possibly the leader of the Black Hawks, though truth be told I doubt if his own mother could have recognised him. Whoever killed him did so by pouring vitriol over him, much of his face was burnt away.’
“Dear God in Heaven protect us,” Martha blasphemed, shocked at the thought but glad it could not be her Ibrahim. “What terrible times we live in. No wonder your nightmares have returned.” Jack did not admit that his nightmares rarely left him, they were less vivid than in earlier years but only when he was in his cups did he sleep soundly enough that he would wake with no recollection of having dreamt.
“I should see Boat and his wife this morning, do you want breakfast or should we lie a while?” Jack asked; glad that she opted to get up and eat, neither had much inclination to ‘lie awhile’ as both had their worries and concerns foremost in their minds.
Stevens had no luck at Boat’s.
“Hugh has gone with our son to search for our Bea,” Mrs Partkis, who looked as if she had not slept since they had last spoken, told him. “They are trying everywhere they can think and showing a photograph of her to anyone who will look. They are going to the stations and docks in case she has eloped,” the mother caught her breath as she spoke the word, partly from disbelief that her daughter would do such a disreputable thing and partly out of hope that she had. “And will also try again everyone who has already been spoken to.”
Jack left telling her he would try his contacts along the river and docks and that, if it helped, they could offer a $100 reward for information leading to her daughter being found. She thanked him if somewhat unenthusiastically as each minute that passed brought her nearer to hearing news she dreaded and the thought of offering a reward seemed an act of final desperation.
Blackstaff’s Chandlery was one business amongst a number of manufacturing and mercantile establishments, in a wide and busy street just off the river. Like its fellows it was built of brick and stone and had a solid appearance with the firm’s name chiselled in the lintel over the door. However it was the old wooden sign, hung on the wall, depicting a coiled rope with an old fashioned two masted ship at its centre, that arrested Jack’s attention as he went inside.
“This is an impressive place you have here,” Jack stated, taking a seat once he was eventually shown into John Wesley Blackstaff’s office.
“It is our main office, the site of the original chandlery,” John Wesley informed him, polite though obviously surprised and not too happy by Jack’s visit. “Our main stores and place of sales are up by the docks, fewer and only smaller craft come this far up now, as the merchandise goes straight from the ship onto the railroad for distribution.”
“Is that why the warehouse you own on the riverfront has fallen into disuse?” Jack asked, still looking around the office at its many seafaring related decorations and memorabilia, hoping he gave the illusion of being out of his depth in a place of such high finance.
“In part, it was our oldest building quickly if cheaply rebuilt in wood after the Great Fire, but we still own property along the river built in brick, so the older building seemed the most obvious to sell. A consortium of speculators has purchased the site and intends to build offices rather than wharfs along there.”
“Talking of business that reminds me of mine, I believe this belongs to you,” Jack reached forward and put the hip flask on the desk in front of Blackstaff. If he had hoped the brother of the dead woman would act surprised and defensive at the revelation, Stevens was disappointed as John Wesley looked decidedly unconcerned and barely glanced at the flask.
“Yes, it is one of ours, we have a number made up and they are given to our better clients, we have a range of gifts we use to reward our most loyal customers,” Blackstaff explained, picking it up and placing it in a bottom draw of his desk, “unfortunately they are not always appreciated though.”
“Is there anyway of knowing the name of the customer you gave this to?” Jack noted that Blackstaff neither asked where Jack had found it or why he was interested in it.
“No, they are given out by our senior staff and managers, including myself, all of the flasks are identical,” John Wesley glanced at the large clock on the wall, checking it against his pocket watch to emphasis he was a busy man who could not afford to waste time in idle chat. “The police sergeant who asked me about the flask took a list of our best clients away with him but, as I explained, I could not say that others had not received the flasks.”
“The flask was not the main reason I came here,” Jack said, annoyed to realise that Cage had been one step ahead of him and had not, as he thought, missed the clue of the flask. “A girl has gone missing, and though we pray there is no link with your sister’s death and that she will be found alive, it is possible she knew Miss Blackstaff, and attended lectures given by yourself.”
“Really,” Blackstaff seemed to be coming increasingly annoyed. “Large numbers attended my sister’s recitals, so I doubt they knew each other.”
“The young woman’s name is Miss Beatrice Partkis, in her mid-twenty’s, medium height a little on the stout-side…”
“Actually I do remember Miss Partkis,” Blackstaff interrupted, his annoyance dissipating momentarily, “she was one of a small group of Catholics that attended some of the seminars I gave recently. Her parish priest was concerned about the content of the talks and, at first, forbade them to attend. Miss Partkis asked me to intercede and, after a meeting with the priest, he dropped his objections.”
“She knew you well enough to ask for your help on the matter, did she also know your sister?”
“It was simply a matter of a misunderstanding about the content of my lectures,” John Wesley explained, the note of irritation in his voice returning. “I do not speak against or for any religion but simply hope to demonstrate how mathematics can reveal the inner beauty of God’s creations, that many things, including music, art and poetry, can be reduced to numbers. I cannot say I knew Miss Partkis, she spoke with me on behalf of her group, as for her knowing my sister I would consider it unlikely. As I remember it was Mrs Katherine McGuire who introduced her to me.”
“Mrs Katherine McGuire?” Jack puzzled for a second, then could have kicked himself for his stupidity; McGuire was Kitty’s married name she had dropped it, in favour of using Tipwell, once her son had gone west and she had moved away from the O’S
hea’s, as she thought herself truly single once again. “Mr Henry Tipwell’s elder sister?”
“I believe so,” John Wesley confirmed, his irritation with Jack now blossoming.
“Thank you,” Jack said, despite the denials and obvious coincidences, he could not help feeling there was a link between Miss Blackstaff and Miss Partkis though he could not say what or even why he thought so. “I will not take up more of your time.”
“I suppose now a white woman is missing and Mr O’Shea arrested and released for the killing of his wife, that my sister’s death will fall by the wayside,” John Wesley made no attempt to hide his anger.
“The police continue with their enquires and take all their cases equally serious,” Jack said, hoping to reassure the dead woman’s brother. “As for myself, though I give priority to the missing woman as she may yet be alive, I have not forgotten my oath to you and I still pursue the killers.”
“Though neither you nor the police seem any further forward,” John Wesley sated disdainfully. “For all your supposed efforts you might just as well have used my grandfather’s tarot cards.”
“I do not know what to tell you,” Jack had stood to go, he kept his voice calm and face neutral realising how frustrating the situation must be for the family, they wanted the tragic events explained and put behind them so they could grieve for their loss, “your sister’s movements have been traced to the point of her death, and there are suspects and possible motives but as yet little hard evidence that will give the police the proof they need to make arrests. However, they continue with their enquiries and, I am sure, will bring things to a conclusion.”