by John Mead
“I have been worried out of my mind… ”
“What is that to me?” he had meant it to sound unconcerned but it came out as a harsh shout instead.
“My friend has been been missing for two days now,” she went on, her voice even, she stared fixedly at the washstand with its bowl of water ready for Jack to shave, the cut throat razor open beside the lather brush. “It may not seem a long time but we had agreed to meet the day before yesterday and he would not have missed it or, at worst, would have sent me word. Since then I have looked everywhere I can think of but with no sign nor word of him.”
“I knew you for a loose woman,” Jack suddenly sat up and spat out the words, “but this is beyond the pale,” throwing himself back down, his face now turned to the wall, though this was no defence against the worm of curiosity that began to burrow into his mind.
“He has been involved in a business undertaking, not of his choosing, with the Black Hawks and Black Rube in particular,” Martha now struggled to hold back her tears, she could think of nothing worse than to cry now, having come this far she was prepared to beg for Jack’s help, pay whatever forfeit he demanded but she would not cry, not resort to the blackmail of womanly tears. “I understand from what I have heard you say about that person that he is a dangerous fellow and I am terrified by the thought of what has become of my friend.”
“Your lover,” Jack interjected, his voice harsh but no longer a shout, “that is how you styled him, not friend.”
“Yes,” Martha agreed quietly, though not timidly, she wanted him to understand it was his help she wanted, not to hurt him, “he is my lover. A Russian by origin, still with a slight accent to his voice, shorter than average for a man he would only reach to your chest even in your stocking feet. You will have heard me speak of him once, many years ago when I told you of my time here in Chicago, after you had sent me away and I thought myself a widow.” Jack punched the wall at this, startling her, reminding him of his past wrongs did not improve his temper. “His name is Ibrahim Mikhailovich Minsky, a few know him as Karl, though almost everyone calls him Minsky.”
“The fat, little rat that sold your paintings to O’Shea and DeWert?” Jack said, with a snort of derision.
“He is of a stout build, but not fat,” Martha stated a little too defensively.
Jack did not want to swear at Martha, nor use the words he knew many would throw at her to describe her inexcusable and lewd behaviour, as he thought to do so would be undignified and he would not stoop below the standards of a gentleman. “You know,’ he told her, turning over and propping himself up on his elbows, scowling at her, “Nina said you would make me wear a cuckold’s horns again and I’d be fool enough not to be aware of it.”
“Strange you should mention Nina.” Martha, a carter’s daughter, was more than happy to revert to her class and describe that ‘loathsome woman’ in terms she thought fitting. “But it is that bitch’s diamonds that Minsky has stolen. That was the business he was forced to undertake by Black Rube and it is why I am so worried that my darling Belorussian is missing.”
Jack’s face screwed itself into a knot as he went over Martha’s words in his mind as if they were some code he was attempting to decipher, his mouth opened and shut again; then he swung his legs round so he could sit up on the edge of the bed. “Your fat, little Russian stole Nina’s diamonds?” he finally worked out.
“Yes,”
“Then he blew Nina’s head off?”
“No,” Martha firmly stated, even without proof she was certain on this point, “he was not a fighter. If he had been caught he would run but not fight to save himself, he simply wasn’t the type. Besides,” she added conclusively, “where would he have gotten a shotgun from?”
“You knew what he planned beforehand?” Jack asked, still incredulous at what he was hearing.
“Yes, I helped him plan how to do it and then helped him get into the house,” she tried not to sound pleased at her part of the venture but still it crept into her voice. “He was disguised as the man who brought me the distressing message.”
“About an hour before midnight?” Jack spoke more to himself but Martha nodded to confirm the prearranged time of Minsky’s charade. “Did you see him leave?”
“No,” Martha admitted, remembering the last time she had seen him was walking up the stairs to Nina’s bedroom, “though he would not have stayed much beyond midnight, we agreed he should not spend longer than an hour.”
“It makes no sense,” Jack muttered after a few minutes thinking, Martha had sensibly kept quite but was intently watching her husband as he thought. “If he had been caught an alarm would have ben raised, at the absolute least Fellows and Brandon would have been called on. So why should either keep quite about it the next morning when Inspector O’Leary questioned them? It is also beyond all reasonable belief that Nina would have gone to bed ignoring the open safe and, of course, her mattress would have been on the floor.”
“Brandon must have killed her,’ Martha calmly stated after a further pause as Jack muttered to himself.
“Had she been strangled or bludgeoned to death then I might agree, there was a revolver on his bedside table and he might have used that. But a shotgun? No I can’t see Brandon doing it like that,” Jack informed her. “Nor do I believe he had a motive, not anymore as he grows old and looks for companionship not excitement.”
“How can you be certain of all this?” Martha wondered, they had not been allowed onto the third floor of the O’Shea’s house, where the bedrooms were.
“After Cage left I had a look around, whilst you and the others talked. I have also spoken to Hank, Brandon and a few others since then,” Jack informed her, standing as he did and wincing at the ache in his knee. “I will shave and finish changing then we must go to Cage, as this information changes everything.”
“I will not publicly attest to being an adulteress and an accomplice to robbery,” Martha emphatically stated, she could stand much but public humiliation was beyond reason. “Think what it would mean to our children,” she began to plead.
“We will not tell him the truth,” Jack told her, annoyed once again. “I will tell him I have looked into your story and believe you were duped into helping the messenger gain entry to the O’Shea’s house. I will also say that I have learned that the man’s name is Minsky but that I haven’t been able to trace him. The inspector may not fully believe us but with no other evidence he will have to take us at face value. You,” he looked at her sharply, his tone that of an irritated sergeant major, “will say as little as possible and we will go over the story a few times before leaving.”
Jack returned to his shaving, fiercely lathering his brush, and cursing under his breath as he waited for his hand to stop trembling before putting the razor to use. Unable to sit still, Martha put herself to use in tiding the small apartment, scooping the broken plaster into a bin, replacing the gun and stick on the table, straightening the furniture and picking up clothes. The female attire she bundled into a ball and dropped in a corner beside the wardrobe in the second bedroom. She hung up Jack’s dirty clothing and laid out fresh for him in the room where he still shaved, taking exaggerated care so as not to cut himself, as she did so she noticed a brown check suit she did not recognise and, on closer inspection, realised it was far too small to fit Jack.
“What is this?” she asked, showing Jack the suit she had straightened on its hanger.
“Put that back, it is nothing,” Jack told her as he started to dress in the clothes she had set out for him. “Let us concentrate on learning the story we are to tell Cage.”
“Who do you think killed Nina O’Shea?” Martha asked from the other room, as she hung the the small sized suit back in the wardrobe, sniffing the fabric as she detected the smell of a woman’s scent and wondering which of Jack’s friends owned it. Pinky she guessed from the size, he probably made use of the rooms when Jack wasn’t th
ere. “Men,” she thought to herself, “are like dogs in a pack when it comes to helping each other. They will fight over every scrap they find but close ranks against any outsider; females, of course, being considered outsiders.”
“It’s the method of her death that is the clue,” Jack called back. “A shotgun has two attributes: it is noisy and messy. It is not the sort of weapon one uses for a quiet, neat job that an assassination at night requires.”
“Then why use such a weapon? Whoever did it brought and took the weapon away,” Martha asked, returning to help him with his shirt collar and cravat, he did not need the help but it was their habit when he dressed in the same way he would help her with her buttons and hooks. “It seems a cumbersome thing to carry especially if breaking into a house.”
“Exactly, so it was brought for a reason, one not linked to the robbery or Minsky,” Jack stated, patiently waiting for her to finish. “It was meant to raise the household and to, literally, blow Nina’s head off.”
“Dear God, why do such a thing?” Martha demanded, her face sorrowful and puzzled as she stepped back to admire her handy-work, “I did not like the woman but to kill her in such a way beggars belief.”
“Whoever did this planned it thoroughly in advance so their exit was swift and undetected, as the gunshot would have had the household up in moments,” Jack pointed out. “What’s more blowing her head off did not disguise Nina’s figure nor what she wore. Cage told me that Brandon identified her more from the rings she wore than anything else.”
“That is… ” Martha began, then stopped dropping into the chair and shaking her head in despair. “It wasn’t Nina was it?”
“No,” Jack said quietly, his own voice and expression despondent. “It can only have been Beatrice that was killed. Which is why we must tell Cage and also I need to find out what he has discovered about another man, one linked to the killing of those first two poor women,” Jack paused, his voice catching, “then I must go to visit Boat and his wife.” Jack waited for Martha to finish the prayer she gave up for Beatrice’s soul, though his own prayer for a shot of whiskey was to remain unanswered for some hours.
“Beatrice was a similar height and build as Mrs O’Shea,” Jack continued to explain as Inspector O’Leary and Sergeant Magnusson listened, Cage noticing that Mrs Stevens discomfort rose the longer Jack spoke. The inspector believed what Jack was telling him but was certain that things were being distorted or left out to the story, “admittedly she was much younger and a great deal prettier but even her hair was a similar match.”
“The medical examiner barely looked at the body,” the inspector informed his sergeant rather than Jack or Martha, “just took Mr O’Shea’s word for it that it was his wife.”
“Understandable,” the sergeant sympathised, “given the number of bodies he deals with the cause of death for Mrs O’Shea was hardly in question and… ”
“His slipshod methods have put us on the wrong track, spending days looking for the maid and hauling Mr O’Shea into custody. Who do you think will get a kick up the… ” Cage paused remembering Martha’s presence. “Who do you think will carry the can for that?”
“You agree then that Brandon is innocent?” Jack asked.
“It seems likely, but I will rule out nothing at the moment,” was as much as Cage would concede. “As far fetched as it appears, the most likely suspect is that Mrs O’Shea orchestrated her own fake death, propably to discredit her husband and make off with the diamonds, she would have had help from a lover perhaps.”
Despite her obvious embarrassment and upset at the situation Martha could not help giving a short derisive laugh at the suggestion, “You obviously did not know the woman. She had many faults,” Martha informed the inspector, “pride, arrogance, even vanity of a sorts, but she was a devout woman and would not have contemplated taking a lover, even if anyone would have had her.” Jack scowled at his wife to keep quiet as they had agreed, whilst the inspector and sergeant exchanged glances.
“It is equally possible she was abducted, removed from her room and the dead girl brought in and then shot to… well you understand my meaning,” Jack offered an alternative.
“It is possible, but why?” the sergeant asked.
“To put the police off the scent and extract a ransom from Brandon,” Jack smiled, sitting back in the wooden chair and stretching his aching left leg.
“There are many new threads to pursue in this,” the inspector concluded. “We must seek out this Minsky, and ascertain his exact role in this affair,” the inspector did not fail to notice Mrs Steven’s glance at Jack, who was studying the knob of his cane. “Though first I will go to the morgue, the body is not yet released so there is still time for it to be properly examined. Jack, Mrs Stevens, I would be grateful if you can give a detailed description of Mr Minsky to the sergeant and he will arrange to see if the Russian can be found.”
“I should go to Boat’s, that is Mr and Mrs Partkis, to inform them of what has been discovered about their daughter,” Jack said, as grim and as unwanted the message might be he was determined to be the one to deliver it.
“It would be better to wait,” Cage disagreed, “until I have a more detailed knowledge and description of the body. I would hate for that information to be given to the parents and then it prove false. However, if you wait at home I promise to accompany you should it prove necessary.”
“That is very sensible,” Jack agreed, happy at the stay of execution as it would give him the opportunity to fortify himself for the task. “Before we go, has there been any news of Joseph Mannheim?
“None,” the inspector informed him, “I have had the address you notified me of watched. The place is used by the Kings and is obviously a disorderly house but there have been no sightings of any of the Mannheim’s. I have also spoken with the Pinkertons who have been looking for Joseph for some days but they have had no luck and few recent sightings.”
“We will get him, you can be assured of that,” Sergeant Magnusson assured them all and Jack in particular, as he had been detailed to oversee the operation.
“When you do track him down, take care as he carries vitriol, as well as a cosh and probably a gun,” Jack emphasised the dangerous nature of the man they sought. “I doubt he will talk without persuasion.”
“Once he is in our care, he will sing,” the sergeant stated confidently, tapping the desk with a balled fist.
“I might be of further help,” Jack went on, realising that he might be pushing his luck, “if I speak with Hank and Brandon first about our recent… ”
“No,” Cage snapped, “the information you have given us is of great help and, whilst I appreciate what you have done to get it, it is not to be shared; not until I say otherwise.” The inspector did not want O’Shea, with all his resources at his disposable, getting hold of Minsky before the police. “Do I have your word on this Mr Stevens?”
“Of course, Inspector,’ Jack smiled, he would have offered his hand had Cage used his first name, however, he recognised this was more than a friendly request but a formal police warning that the inspector would act on if Jack ignored his injunction.
They did not have to wait long for Inspector O’Leary to call for them, Jack had used his time to catch up on reading the papers and taking a drink whilst Martha had knitted.
“It is as we feared,” O’Leary informed them, on being shown into their parlour, though he did not take the offered seat, “it is a young woman in her mid-twenty’s, there is little to identify her by other than three large moles in a form of a triangle below her right knee.”
“I would like to go with you,” Martha stated rather than asked as Jack stood to accompany the inspector. Neither of them objected, neither of them wanted the task before them and Martha’s presence could only help.
The Partkis’ guessed why Jack, Martha and the inspector were visiting them together, they could see their w
orst nightmare coming true in the drawn and grim faces of their three unlooked for guests. The bereaved parents held each others hands as they listened to Jack’s explanation, with O’Leary nodding to confirm the truth of what was said.
“Three moles below her right knee,” Mrs Partkis echoed, her face already wet with tears and her voice quavering, “that is my Bea.” For a few minutes the room was quite apart from the subdued sobs and intoned prayers of those gathered there. It was Martha who suggested sending for the Partkis’ son and younger daughter and perhaps notifying their parish priest.
“I wish to go to her,” Hugh stated, standing looking down at his wife who nodded that she also wanted to see her daughter, though could not for the moment find the strength to rise.
“I will see to the arrangements,” O’Leary muttered, glancing at Martha hoping she understood that a delay was needed.
“Perhaps you should wait until the priest can go with you,” Martha hesitantly suggested, “to lead the prayers.” Hugh nodded his thanks at the suggestion and sat down heavily, his eyes on Jack.
“Do you know who did this?” he asked Jack, expecting nothing but an honest answer from his old sergeant.
“The case is much clearer now,” Jack said as earnestly as he could manage, “the police have leads to follow up and will soon have answers for you.”
“The O’Shea’s, was our Bea killed because of them?” Hugh demanded.
“Mrs O’Shea is still missing, there is nothing to show that Mr O’Shea is involved,” Jack recognised the other man’s tone, his demand for vengeance was clear. “Those involved, Hugh, will be caught and brought to justice, it is but a matter of time.”
“Justice? For the rich?” Hugh’s voice rose in anger.
“She loved her work and was devoted to Mrs O’Shea,” Mrs Partkis told them as she dabbed at her tears, not understanding what was being said or inferred.
“I will have the truth of this,” Hugh muttered, placing an arm gently round his wife. “They will pay for what they have done, an eye-for-an-eye.”