Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2)

by N. S. Wikarski

  “Gosh and begorrah, it’s from the emerald isle that I coom.” Freddie had begun to sweat. The vault was stuffy. He prayed his hair dye wouldn’t begin to run.

  “From Ireland?” The clerk’s voice held a slight note of disbelief. “What part?”

  “Faith, have ye heerd of Belfost, boyo?”

  “Yes, sir, of course I have.”

  “Well, I’m not from thar.” Freddie had to think quickly. “I’m from the sooth of Ireland which ye may heer a bit in me speekin’. And sure it is I’ve traveled a wee bit. Even spent some time amoong the Hottentots. Here and thar. Hither and yon, as the sayin’ is.”

  “I see.” The clerk seemed skeptical. “How may I help you?”

  Freddie reached into his coat pocket and produced the safety deposit box key. “Well, lod, you’d be doin’ me a great sarvice, that ye would, if ye’d be showin’ me the way to me box.”

  “Of course sir.” The clerk took the key and checked the number. He then went to his file and drew out the corresponding signature card. “Mr. Bayne, is it?”

  “Aye, lod. Thet’s right. I be Desmond Bayne, himself. Withoot a doot.”

  “If you’d just sign the signature card, Mr. Bayne, I’ll let you in.” The clerk pushed an index card and a fountain pen across the counter at him. Freddie noted from the first entry that the box had been issued about two months prior to the present date. Calculating backwards, he realized that the date of issue corresponded roughly to the time Desmond appeared as a guest at the Allworthy dinner party. The last signature was dated a week ago. He prayed that the clerk on duty wouldn’t remember Bayne on sight. The young man took a deep breath and, with his left hand, scribbled out a signature and a date that he hoped would approximate Bayne’s own scrawl.

  The clerk compared Freddie’s illegible marks to the previous signature. He looked up in consternation. “Sir, the signatures don’t appear to correspond.”

  “Aye, there’s the rub, lod, there’s the rub. I’ve broke me right hond that I use to write with. Ye see?” Freddie waggled the stubs of his fingers that protruded through the cast. “A wee fallin’ oot with a companion aboot a week ago. Had to deefend me honor, as the sayin’ is, gosh and begorrah!”

  “How unfortunate.” A note of resistance in the clerk’s voice warned Freddie of trouble. “Well, sir, I’m sorry to say it isn’t our policy to admit anyone if the signatures don’t correspond.”

  Freddie tried to take a conciliatory approach. “Faith, it’s rother a sad way to treet a customer. Ain’t it?” He waggled his fingers again pathetically. “Boyo, I’m stuck in this plaister for a good six moonths. It would be a hard thing if I couldn’t secure me valoobles for the nonce, don’t ye see?”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true.” The clerk relented slightly. He tapped the counter in a fit of indecision.

  “Here, I knooow,” Freddie volunteered. “Pose me a queestion and if I con’t answer ready enough, why then ye can just shoo me the way oot. How’s that for fair? Boyo, I’m appealin’ to ye as a Christian. Faith, sure an’ ‘tis, I’m at yer marcy.” He smiled in what he hoped was a plaintive manner.

  The clerk softened a bit further. “Yes, I suppose that might work.” He flipped the signature card over without allowing Freddie to see what was written there. Cupping the card in his hand, he asked, “Mr. Bayne, what is your address?”

  Freddie sighed to himself in relief. He rattled off the cursed address of the cursed apartment building with ease.

  The clerk nodded. “One more question, sir. Where is your place of business?”

  Freddie’s confidence began to grow by leaps and bounds. He puffed out his chest and answered readily. “Sure tis the grondest place of business on arth! Tis the Hyperion Electroplate Company on the noorth side of this fair city where I’m emplooyed as Vice President.” Growing reckless in his confidence, the young man gestured to the telephone on the wall. “I invite ye to call the company and ask if a Desmond Bayne woorks thar, ef ye still don’t beleeve me.”

  The clerk paused to think the idea over. Freddie wanted to bite his tongue off for having made the suggestion. It only belatedly occurred to him that Bayne might actually have returned from the Allworthy villa and gone to work that day. It would be an unpleasant surprise if the blackguard came to the phone himself. Freddie could feel the sweat running off of his scalp, seeping through his hat band and running down the back of his neck. He prayed his shirt collar wasn’t stained black with hair dye or the clerk would have even more reason to think he was odd.

  The man behind the counter tapped the signature card hesitantly for a moment longer. Then he snapped it up and returned it to the filing cabinet. “No, sir, ringing the company won’t be necessary. You may step this way.” He held open the wooden gate to allow Freddie to pass through.

  The young man wanted to break into a jig to celebrate his cleverness, but he settled for a sedate pace instead as he passed into the belly of the beast. He watched in breathless anticipation as the clerk fitted Desmond’s key and the bank’s key into the lock. Turning them simultaneously, the clerk swung open the flap and pulled out the safety deposit box. Handing it to Freddie, he said, “If you’d like some privacy, sir, there are rooms just outside the vault and to the right where you can go through your papers.”

  Cradling the box in his putatively useless arm, Freddie tried to maintain an even tone “Thank ye, lod.” His heart raced as he strolled off to one of the private booths.

  Once the door was securely shut behind him, he opened the lockbox with the same awe and anticipation as he might have reserved for the ark of the covenant. Encumbered by the cast, he could only work with one arm, but he managed to make a quick job of his search all the same. First he found greenbacks, quite a number of them. Approximately ten thousand dollars worth in hundred dollar bills, as nearly as he could tell. Next he found municipal bonds and stock certificates. The earliest issue date of the bonds corresponded to the date Bayne had first entered the vault. Subsequent dates indicated he had been adding to his collection of securities every few days or so. Impatiently, Freddie rifled through the rest of the stock certificates, looking for a note, a letter, a scrap of clothing that might have been used to blackmail Martin.

  At the very bottom of the lockbox, hidden under the papers and money, he found what he was looking for. He bit his lip to keep from whistling through his teeth in amazement.

  Freddie quickly pocketed the object and stashed the other items haphazardly in the box. Trying to rein in his excitement, he walked back to the counter and stood patiently through the ceremony of returning the safety deposit box to its home in the vault.

  “Your key, Mr. Bayne.” The clerk returned the bright metal object to him. Freddie put it in his pocket alongside the other bright metal object that now rested there.

  “Gosh and begorrah, much obleeged to ye, lod.” Freddie strolled up the stairs to the lobby and out to LaSalle Street with great dignity.

  He looked around hastily in both directions for his friend. Evangeline was coming toward him but she was still about a block away. Freddie gestured to her impatiently with his good arm. When she saw him, she quickened her pace.

  “Well?” she asked breathlessly, when she was within earshot. “Did you find anything?”

  The young man’s eyes were twinkling with self-congratulation as he produced his find.

  Evangeline took the object and examined it closely. It was a miniature photograph in a gilt metal frame. The glass had been slightly cracked as if someone had thrown or dropped the picture and it had struck a hard surface. Despite the cracks in the glass, the image beneath was still clear. “Is this what she looked like?” Evangeline asked her friend.

  “Well, when you see someone who’s been floating in the river overnight, her features are a bit distorted, but I’d say it’s Nora Johnson.”

  “She was very pretty,” Evangeline said softly and a bit sadly as she studied the image—a solemn-eyed young woman with the hint of a smile on her lips sta
red back at her. An inscription had been written in a corner of the photograph. In a small, neat hand, the lettering read, “To my dearest Allworthy, remember me always. Nora.” The inscription was dated April 23, 1894. Evangeline looked up at her friend. “Isn’t that the date—”

  Freddie completed the thought. “Yes, that was the night she died. Her body was found on the twenty-fourth.”

  “Hmmm.” Evangeline began thinking out loud. “The date on the picture and the inscription would suggest Nora was on good terms with her murderer. Right up to the day she died. It seems to me that the drowning wasn’t premeditated. She must have said something to anger him, and he pushed her in.” Evangeline traced the cracks in the glass surface. “That would also explain the damage. Somebody didn’t want this picture anywhere near him. It’s hard enough to forget a person you’ve just drowned without the additional injunction to ‘Remember me always.’ He must have flung it away from him as soon as possible.”

  “It might also explain how Bayne got possession of it in the first place.”

  “Yes, Desmond must have been there to witness the entire scene. When the murderer fled, Bayne probably followed him and found the picture lying on the ground along the way.” Evangeline frowned.

  “What is it, old girl?”

  She shook her head in exasperation. “Why couldn’t she have used a Christian name instead of a surname! We still can’t prove conclusively that it was Roland she met that night!”

  “Ah, that would have been too easy.” Freddie laughed ruefully. “Technically, since we still have two Allworthy suspects, what do you suggest for our next move? That is, right after we find a hammer and smash this deuced cast!” Freddie scratched at the plaster in a pointless attempt to ease his suffering.

  Evangeline ignored the young man’s misery. “I think the next step would best be performed by me.”

  “Do tell,” Freddie drawled. “You mean you’re actually prepared to get your gloves dirty?” He tried pounding his arm against the granite facade of the bank in the hope that he could shake the plaster away from his skin enough to alleviate the itching.

  “Stop that, Freddie. You look ridiculous!” Evangeline took her friend by the arm and started to lead him up the street. Standing too long in front of the bank with a man beating his arm against the wall might draw attention. The lady regarded the young man coolly. “The next bit of detecting requires a feminine touch.”

  Freddie sensed a veiled insult. “Why? Don’t you think I can handle it?”

  “I’m sure you could, if you put your mind to it.” Evangeline smiled sweetly. “I just thought that the idea of flirting with Roland might be distasteful to you.”

  At the mental image of making up to Roland, Freddie lost all impulse to scratch. He grimaced in distaste. “You actually think you’ll get him to admit anything?”

  Evangeline shrugged noncommittally. “My money is still on Roland as the killer. I don’t know that he’ll blurt out a confession, but being a ladies’ man, his greatest weakness is that he likes to cut a dashing figure in front of an admiring female.”

  “Bear in mind that you’ll be flirting with a murderer, Engie.” A note of worry crept into the young man’s voice.

  “He may be a murderer, Freddie, but I’d be willing to bet he wouldn’t try to strangle me in broad daylight with witnesses around. And I certainly don’t intend to lead him to a secluded rendezvous.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. What do you expect him to say anyway?”

  “I’m not sure. Some hint, some clue that he drops unawares. All I have to do is get him to start talking.”

  With a shudder, Freddie thought back to the infamous dinner party, when he was closeted with Bayne and Roland over cigars and brandy. “Get him to talk, by all means, just don’t ask him to sing!”

  Chapter 19—Chanson De Roland

  “Mr. Waxman, are you in?” a young man standing in the open doorway inquired.

  “Hmmm? What’s that, Perkins?” The old tycoon with the white muttonchop whiskers looked up from his paperwork.

  “I asked if you were in, sir. There’s a lady who wishes to speak to you.”

  “A lady?” Waxman asked absent-mindedly. “Is it my wife?”

  “No, sir.” The secretary stepped forward and handed his employer a calling card. “The lady wished me to give you this.”

  Waxman adjusted his spectacles to read the card. “Miss Evangeline LeClair. But I don’t recall... Oh, wait a minute. Yes, I do. Send her in, Perkins. Send her in.”

  “At once, Mr. Waxman.”

  The door closed briefly and then reopened to admit the lady herself. A confection in pink silk with a frilled parasol, she stepped forward into the paper-cluttered inner sanctum of the man of affairs. She held out a dainty gloved hand in greeting. “So good of you to see me without prior notice, Mr. Waxman.”

  “Yes, Miss LeClair, to be sure, to be sure. Very pleased to see you again!” The old man walked around his desk and solicitously helped her to a chair, afraid to tax so rare and delicate a creature with the effort of seating herself.

  When he saw her comfortably settled, he resumed his place. “But seeing you again, Miss LeClair, puts me in mind of a far happier occasion before tragedy struck.”

  Evangeline sighed. “Then you’ve heard the news about Mrs. Allworthy?”

  “Couldn’t help but hear about it. Poisoned, eh?”

  “Yes.” Evangeline averted her eyes.

  “I heard they arrested that medium.” Waxman shook his head in puzzlement. “Just can’t make sense of it. Miss Serafina seemed a nice enough young woman when we met. Soft-spoken and ladylike. Well, I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover. It’s a sad day for all of us when you can’t even trust your houseguests not to do you in unawares! I tried to call Martin to offer my condolences, but his office said he’s still up in Shore Cliff.”

  “Yes, I imagine he’ll be staying there until the funeral arrangements are made. Did you send Roland back up to join him?”

  “The very minute I heard the news.” Waxman hoped Evangeline wouldn’t infer that his haste in offering to dispatch Roland was prompted more by self-interest than by friendly concern.

  “So he’s gone to be with his uncle?”

  Waxman shook his head. “Martin wouldn’t hear of it. Said the boy was better off here, minding the store so to speak.” The businessman tried mightily to suppress a note of regret in his voice.

  “Well, that’s good to know...”

  “Miss?” Waxman looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “Oh, nothing.” Evangeline struck off in a new conversational direction. “Just listen to me, wasting your valuable time and not telling you the purpose of my visit. You see, I’m in a quandary, Mr. Waxman, and I hoped that you might be able to help me.”

  Waxman’s chivalrous instincts came to the fore. “Yes. I’d be happy to help, if I can. What is the nature of the problem?”

  Evangeline looked as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “Excess capital, sir, that’s what’s the problem.”

  “Well, well. In all my life, I’ve never heard it described as a problem before.” The tycoon’s interest was piqued.

  Evangeline laughed airily. “Oh, but it is, Mr. Waxman. It is! You see, I have unfortunately inherited sacks and sacks of money and have no idea what to do with it all.” She looked utterly helpless and appealing. “I really do need some guidance to invest it wisely.”

  Waxman gestured toward the windows behind his desk, which looked out on the bustling activity of State Street. “Perhaps some real estate?”

  Evangeline flashed a winning smile. “Why, sir, you are a quick study! That’s exactly the reason I’m here. I’m interested in acquiring some additional property in the city that I might rent out, and I hoped your firm could assist me. I thought Lincoln Park might be an up and coming area. You do have a few buildings there, don’t you?”

  “Only too glad, Miss LeClair, only too glad to help.” The
old man leaped at the opportunity. “I’m sure I can arrange to have one of the fellows take you around this afternoon and show you a few places.” He rose and was about to go to the front office in search of a salesman when Evangeline stopped him.

  “Here’s an idea!” she cried. “I wonder if it would be possible for Roland to show me the properties you have for sale?”

  The businessman froze in mid-stride. He turned incredulously to look at his visitor. He adjusted his spectacles to get a better look at her face since he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “I’m sorry, but I thought I heard you say Roland.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Evangeline smiled serenely. “Is he available?”

  Waxman scratched his head in perplexity. He stammered, “Are... are you sure? Roland? You do mean Roland Allworthy?”

  The lady nodded her head.

  Waxman’s bafflement was of such magnitude that it temporarily deprived him of the power of speech. When he did speak, all he could manage was a plaintive “But why?”

  Evangeline laughed. “Oh, surely, Mr. Waxman, it’s no mystery. I know Roland. I’ve met him on more than one occasion. Overwhelmed as I am when confronted by matters of business, I’d just feel more comfortable in the company of a person I already know.”

  Waxman stood immobilized a moment longer, impaled on the horns of a dilemma. He wanted to show his properties to their best advantage, which, as a matter of course, meant sans Roland, but he did not want to offend a potential customer. He heaved an immense sigh and walked out the door, feeling a fat commission slipping through his fingers as he did so. “I’ll just see if I can scare him up, Miss LeClair,” he said half-heartedly.

  “Oh, that would be lovely,” the lady enthused.

  ***

  Later that afternoon, after looking at several townhouses which she rejected as being too big, too small, too dark, too light, too noisy, too quiet, too cheap or too expensive, Evangeline had exhausted Roland’s inventory and his lackadaisical interest in making a sale. She finally had him where she wanted him.