“Solomons,” he responded without lifting his head from his newspaper.
It was not at all in the direction of Washington, but they could work with it. “Excellent,” Shoe said, and then he glanced back through the train and saw Mackall entering the last car from the caboose, moving nonchalantly but forward nonetheless. “Problem, Rudy. Everybody jumped it.” He dragged Charlotte from her seat and the three of them started backing away.
“Sidearm would be good, Rudy,” Shoe hissed. “You don’t have to shoot him. Just wave it around.”
“Uh, good plan, poor execution,” Rudy said. “It’s in my suitcase.”
“Holy Father, help us,” Shoe muttered.
Mackall moved across the train couplers and entered the second car, a gun pressed discreetly against his leg, eyes locked on the brothers.
“There you are,” he said, coming forward, his eyes settling on Charlotte. He tipped his head toward the rear of the train.
Shoe glanced out the window at the woodland whizzing by. There was no way he could shoot them and get off the train. He shook his head. They would all have to keep company here.
The gun barrel raised slightly and Mackall crooked a finger at Charlotte. “I’ve been looking all over for you, dear. Come back to your seat.”
Charlotte took a step forward. Rudy put up an arm to block her way, but Mackall managed to grab her wrist. He hurried her toward him with a yank and wrapped an arm around her. Her eyes were wide and she trembled.
The door between the cars opened again and a rotund, bald-headed man in denim work clothes entered, politely excusing himself as he tried to squeeze past Mackall and Charlotte.
Mackall stepped aside to let him pass, pulling Charlotte with him. The tubby man grimaced, attempted to suck his overhanging belly in, and probably thought tiny thoughts too, but the space was simply too tight for the three.
He smiled sheepishly at Mackall. “Terribly sorry. If you could move slightly that way,” he said, nudging Mackall back toward the door.
Mackall’s eyes flashed with anger. He threw a warning glance at Shoe and complied with the request.
“And you this way . . .” the man continued as he repositioned Charlotte in the other direction. “I think we’ll have it.”
Before Mackall could protest, the man turned on him. “Pinkerton, sir. Put your hands up. You’re under arrest.”
Mackall’s gun barely cleared his leg before there was a quick bang, bang, bang. He staggered back against the door and slid to the floor, writhing in pain. Charlotte threw herself into Rudy’s arms as screaming and all sorts of commotion cut loose in the rest of the car.
Shoe sagged down into the nearest empty seat. “How . . . how . . . how . . .?” He raised questioning hands.
“Must have been the angels,” the railway dick said, waxing philosophical as he slapped a pair of bracelets on Mackall. “Been tracking you people all over town. The Koenig boy broke down and gave us a full account. He saw it all. Tough little nut to crack, that one. We’ve been looking for this one for hours. It was over as soon as he hopped that railing.” He pulled Mackall to his feet—none too gently—and motioned to Shoe to open the door. “Do you mind? We don’t want to turn this into a circus.”
Shoe was pretty sure that elephant was already out of the tent, but he complied, catching a burning look from Mackall as he did. Even wounded and in handcuffs, Mackall was not a man to take lightly.
The train was nonstop, straight to Solomons, and when they arrived in station, several police officers met them and quickly bundled Mackall into a waiting vehicle and took off—back to Nevis, no doubt. Charlotte, as a material witness to the murder, followed in a separate car. The railroad dick, Paulie Fahey, re-boarded for the return trip and strongly suggested Shoe and Rudy do the same.
By the end of the day, Shoe decided being a court reporter had much more to offer than being grilled in any criminal proceedings. The Nevis cops worked him and Rudy over separately, politely but firmly, in their quest to guarantee Mackall and his cohorts never tweaked their arrogant noses at them again. Embarrassing Benedict Weathersby, whom they hated, was an added bonus. Shoe wondered how much trouble the industrialist might have been spared had he showered more interest and scratch on the welfare of the local constabulary.
When the police finished with them, he and Rudy walked out of the police barracks strings-free, unless you counted an expected court appearance somewhere down the line. They headed for Oscar’s Restaurant on the upscale side of town, where Shoe ordered enough oysters and Klondike Fizz to make any unpleasant experience slip below the horizon with the last crimson rays of the setting sun.
The first thing out of Shoe’s mouth before the oysters went in: “You mention Darby?”
Rudy shook his head, going for the oysters rather than talk.
“No, me either. You think they have witnesses?”
Rudy shrugged. “Don’t care. They’re dumping everything on Mackall regardless.”
Shoe stared at him a moment. “You have attitude. Why the attitude?”
Rudy put down his fork. “Butch Koenig. Why didn’t you tell me there was another witness?”
“After all this, you’re going to hold on to that? Jeesh, Rudy. At the time, it seemed right. You weren’t exactly the epitome of trustworthiness, and I didn’t know how things were going to fit together. Somebody is buying up land, the Koenigs suddenly move up in society, Donaldson is buying up property. What could I have said?”
“All of that. And I could have saved you a lot of legwork. I knew Donaldson wasn’t involved. I’ve been working with him for months. Calvert Unlimited is a shell company of his. He aims to preserve the cliffs, buy up as much buffer land as he can and sell Congress on the notion of a national park like Yellowstone. Only, he can’t purchase the land directly. Land prices would skyrocket. He’s negotiating indirectly through the ghost company. That company hired me to acquire as much property as possible from here to the cliffs.”
“And the Koenigs?”
“Donaldson courted Mrs. Koenig when they were young. Apparently there is a soft spot inside that calculating business mind of his. The new house, the movers . . . he took care of her. See how helpful I could have been?”
Shoe nodded. “I’m sorry, Rudy. I was wrong, and if I could do it all over again, I would tell you. How about we start over with a clean slate?” He extended a hand across the table.
Rudy studied the hand over the rim of his glass. “Okay,” he said. He put down an empty glass and shook hands. “Clean.”
“Right. But not finished. There’s still Emerson. He owes us each a bundle.”
“First thing tomorrow. Then I never want to hear another word from that disgrace of a family.”
“Mr. Shoemaker? Mr. Becker?” It was the waiter. “Another gentleman has already covered your expenses.” He set a tray in the center of the table. “He also instructed me to deliver these.”
Rudy picked up an envelope addressed to him. “Lousy, chicken son of—”
“Ladies,” Shoe said, reminding him of the group at the next table. He sliced his envelope open with his table knife and found a crisp pile of greenbacks inside.
“Didn’t even have the decency to finish things up with us,” Rudy continued, tossing the envelope back on the tray. “Just hired help. No wonder Mena hated the lot of them.”
“You’re taking it, right?”
“Darn tooting, but I don’t need to make love to it! And then, that’s the end of them.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
A Final Token
The very next morning, Rudy caught Shoe and Fannie outside the Bayside. Rudy looked as if he hadn’t bathed or slept in days, and more troubling, he didn’t appear to care. Shoe had never seen him so subdued.
“I have an appointment,” Rudy said. “Ten o’clock this morning at the bank. It seems I am to be drawn into the settlement of Mena’s estate.”
“She had an estate?” Shoe asked.
“Apparently
so. It seems the Weathersby family has found me out. As much as I’d like to forget the lot of them, I can’t. I’d like you to accompany me.”
Shoe glanced at his watch. Ever the planner, Rudy had five minutes to hoof it down the street. Still, Shoe hesitated to give him an answer. There was no chance they would ever be brotherly—even friendly might be pushing it—but in either case, mixing in money was bad practice. If his suspicions were correct, Rudy would enter First National a struggling journalist and walk out a very wealthy man. Surely there was someone else he could lean on.
“Please. I can’t do this by myself.”
Please. Had Rudy ever begged for anything? The look in his eyes suggested he was closer to jumping off a pier than heading for potential riches and a life of security. “Yes, of course. Be back shortly,” he said to Fannie, who was standing quietly behind him.
“No. I’d like her, uh, you too, Fannie. Please, I need you both.”
Upon entering First National, a familiar face set upon them—or more precisely, memorable shoes. Mena’s solicitor, Millard Hinson, greeted them at the door wearing a familiar set of Converse tennis shoes.
“Betty’s diner,” Shoe said, shaking his hand. “How is it you knew so early on of Miss Weathersby’s passing?”
“Right this way,” Mr. Hinson said, ignoring the question. He led them into the vault and directed them to sit at the rectangular table while he pulled a metal drawer from the bank of safety-deposit boxes lining the walls.
“I wasn’t ignoring you, Mr. Shoemaker, but some things are better said in private.” He turned to Rudy. “May I speak frankly, Mr. Becker?”
“Certainly. Consider Mr. Shoemaker my proxy.”
Hinson nodded. “The Weathersby family tends closely to its financial assets, and straightaway Mr. Weathersby personally asked me to settle his daughter’s affairs. He was most thorough in his discussion with me, and the information he provided led me to you, Mr. Shoemaker. Only, it appears I had the wrong person,” he said, addressing Rudy.
“But . . . but . . . but . . .” Rudy said. “She was living in the slums without anything. What could she possible have . . .”?
Hinson set the drawer on the table before Rudy. “It’s all here. Should you need any assistance, I’ll be right outside.” He left them alone without elaborating on the contents of the box.
Rudy made no move to open it. The three of them sat and stared at the box for so long that Shoe began to question whether Rudy was going to open it at all. Of course, not opening it wasn’t going to change a thing. What was done was done. He had either been left a piddling sum or could buy a mansion on the Newport cliffs.
“Rudy?”
Rudy hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s blood money.”
“Nothing wrong with blood connections, brother. Mena would want you to be happy. Put her in a special, wonderful, protected place in your heart and move forward. Someday you’ll see her again and she’ll be so proud.”
Shoe immediately regretted his last remark. Not because it was wrong, but because Rudy’s eyes were beginning to glisten. Shoe watched him nod and waited as he took it all in.
“Right,” Rudy said. It came out in a whoosh as if he were a heartbeat away from leaping off a murderously high cliff. He pulled the box close, flipped up the lid, and pulled out the contents. Inside was a small gold heart on a delicate chain that Rudy said he’d given her, and a single typewritten page. He read the document through several times, his face revealing nothing of what was written there or how he felt about it. And when, finally, he seemed clear as to the contents, he handed it to Shoe and moved away from the table.
The document was a summary written in layman’s terms of the legal disposition of the estate of the late Wilhelmina Barton Weathersby. It seemed “close acquaintance, Rudy Becker” was the sole beneficiary of her personal effects, with specific mention of the ten paintings in her studio, a Siamese cat named Elmer Valentino, and one thousand dollars currently held in trust by the Bowery Savings Bank in New York. There would be no magnificent cliffside mansion overlooking the spectacular Rhode Island Sound.
“There’s no mention of spouse. I suppose this was done before your ceremony.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s really better this way. Our secret, untainted by other people’s opinions.”
Shoe handed the letter to Fannie. “This is nice, Rudy. Her personal things. I wonder where the cat is now. Did you know she had a cat?”
Rudy nodded but remained with his back to them, staring at the bank of deposit boxes. “Nice cat. Met Elmer before I met her. We were going to return for him after we were settled.”
Shoe thought he could hear an aww from Fannie as she folded the letter back into its envelope.
“How did you and Mena meet?” she asked.
“I was on assignment for the Philadelphia Inquirer, writing a story on Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney’s Studio Club in Greenwich Village. Shoe, you’re from Philly . . . the Ashcan school of art? The Studio promoted the devil out of them and other avant-garde artists who couldn’t find a stage to promote their innovative work. Mena’s paintings were there . . . and that cat. Elmer took a shine at first sight.” He chuckled. “I guess Mena and I did too.”
He paused a moment and when he began again, he perked up a bit. It was as if he were seeing it all anew. “You could see her soul in those paintings. It was her calling. But she was swimming against a swift current. What rich old bastard wants his daughter out on the street sketching the smelly, dirty lower class?” He shook his head in disgust. “From the moment she entered the world, her path had been chosen for her: afternoons of bridge and mah-jongg, a debut at The Marble with the Vanderbilt daughter, and eventually one more cold mansion along the cliffs. Cubism? How could one hang that on the wall of a private study?”
“But all these stories about your liaisons—”
“All a façade. Just stories. There was no one but Mena. And anything bad Emerson told you about Mena is just more lies designed to manipulate you into helping him.”
Fannie handed the summary back to Shoe and turned away as she pulled out a handkerchief.
Shoe returned the document to the box. “Did you have any questions for Mr. Hinson? I can call him back in.”
Rudy shook his head. “I need to think it all through first. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A New Beginning
Christmas Eve morning and there was no indication that the weather would sweep in a white Christmas. What it would bring, however, was clear, if brisk, weather for the lighting of Mr. Coolidge’s Christmas tree, and a bright smile to Fannie Byrne’s face. And so, Shoe found himself standing in the middle of his room at the Bayside with exactly one hour to shine himself up to her very particular specifications—dark gray suit and polished black oxfords—and catch the 9 o’clock Railway Express train to Washington. What he didn’t need at the moment was an unexpected call from his brother.
“Of course I have time for you, Rudy,” he said, giving his clock a furtive glance. He ushered him in and directed him to sit, but Rudy declined. He walked in a few paces and remained close to the door, fidgeting with something in a pants pocket. Hardly to be believed, the poor guy looked even more bedraggled and rock-bottomed than the previous day.
He threw a copy of the Evening Star on the bed. “Dirty clean-up down at the wharf. No explanation for Ridley’s murder or the whore’s. Looks like Mackall will get away with both of those.”
Shoe stopped to look at the front page. “If only she’d come with us . . .”
“Just another choice, Shoe.” Rudy sat down awkwardly in the chair near the window. “Listen, that, uh, introduction at the Evening Star?” he asked. “Were you serious? Calvert Unlimited has shut down. When everything comes out in the papers, there will be too much poking around in Nevis for them to do anything on the sly. They’ll go away quietly for a while before giving it another go. I’ve decided to take the money that Mena left me, and there’s Emerson’s
payment, but I’m looking for something to keep me busy.”
“Sure. But I don’t think you’d ever be happy here, Rudy. Not enough action. Why would you give up Washington for this two-bit place?”
Rudy was strangely silent.
“You don’t have anything going on in D.C., do you?”
“Uh, it seems I’m, uh, in between . . .”
His voice trailed off into something unintelligible. Shoe wasn’t surprised at his lack of journalistic employment. It wasn’t that Rudy was slow witted—his tongue was keen and his pen keener. No, Rudy was a blowhard who never seemed content with what he had. His goal always seemed to be to acquire what everyone around him possessed. He spread discontent wherever he worked.
“Rudy,” Shoe said, proceeding with caution, “is it possible, and I’m not saying you are . . . maybe you’re in the wrong field? Maybe news-hounding isn’t your bailiwick. Calvert Unlimited was a good first step, but there are new opportunities everywhere, every day. Why don’t you take some time off and use the money Emerson paid you to figure things out?”
“I need something now, okay? And of course I’m in the right field,” Rudy said with a huff. “The money from Calvert Unlimited was quick money. Mena and I had no intentions of staying in Nevis where her father could get at us. The job was just to get me solid again, and then I’d be back to reporting.” He shook his head. “No, journalism is right, it’s the subject that’s all wrong!”
Shoe struggled with his tie. Staring intently into a mirror seemed rude and uncaring. “Somehow I don’t see you writing pulp pieces for Writers Digest.”
“Pfft.” Rudy dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Entertainment.” He walked over and knotted the tie in several quick, practiced moves.
“An actor?” The man was clearly delusional. Shoe had seen Rudy’s clumsy attempts at subterfuge and he’d heard him caterwaul too.
“Critic,” Rudy said in a tone more offended than angry. “Maybe radio. We’re on the cusp of something great, Shoe. Hand RCA thirty-five bucks and they’ll give you a radio that can give you all sorts of news and opinions. Everybody wants one, whether they agree or just need somebody to argue with. It’s the thing. I’m taking my career to New York. Live in the Bowery—be around all the places and things that Mena loved.”
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