Into the Suffering City

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Into the Suffering City Page 3

by Bill LeFurgy


  “I’m told you’re just the man I need.” Shaw spoke with a politician’s phony warmth.

  Jack shook the offered hand, which was rough as a rasp. “Need for what?”

  “Let’s everybody sit down,” said the superintendent. Jack avoided the plush sofa in favor of a hard-backed chair. He noticed Sarah sit in a matching chair, back straight and shoulders pulled back like a cadet at drill. “Horace is a fine man with deep interest in local politics. He’ll be an excellent, excellent mayor.”

  The superintendent’s reverential tone shifted to one of mild distress. “He has a problem that demands your special skill, Harden. The police have the absurd notion that Horace was involved with the death of a dancing girl. She was killed late last night or early this morning. Name’s Lizzie Sullivan.”

  “Why do the cops suspect him?”

  Jack kept his eyes on Shaw, whose stuffed armchair groaned as he shifted his bulk before speaking. “Shot with my pistol. Thing has my name engraved on it. Someone’s trying to frame me.”

  “A pickpocket stole the pistol from Horace,” said the superintendent. Shaw gazed silently off into space, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere other than here—even clinging to a capsized boat in the middle of the Patapsco River.

  In Jack’s experience, the less a guy talked in this kind of situation, the more trouble he was in. “Can I assume Shaw knew the girl and that he doesn’t have a respectable alibi for the time of the murder?”

  “I didn’t know the little slut.” Shaw’s voice was now devoid of bonhomie.

  Sarah looked up while still scribbling notes. “What is your alibi?”

  “I’m not going to be grilled by a girl who smells like an undertaker.” Shaw waved her off with a thick hand.

  “I cannot possibly smell like an undertaker. Morticians use arsenic-based embalming fluid. I have just come from the city morgue, which uses liquid formaldehyde to preserve bodily organs. Each chemical has a distinct odor.”

  The superintendent shot Sarah a dark look. “Horace, the girl is a doctor, believe it or not. I pulled in a big favor from the mayor to have her observe Lizzie Sullivan’s autopsy for anything useful.”

  Jack glanced back at Sarah with a mix of dread and curiosity. He hated doctors but had never seen one of the lady variety, even though he knew they were around. Her work for the Pinkertons made even less sense than before. Surely she could earn a lot more money pretending to patch people up—and deal with a better sort than the three men in this room to boot.

  “What the hell good does it do to have her involved?” asked Shaw.

  “While the coroner has listed the cause of death as a gunshot, I have some doubt,” said Sarah.

  “You have some doubt, do you now?” Shaw tromped his foot. “Who’s going to believe you? I’d look like a weak fool having a woman bang the drum for me. Anyway, there’s no need for that. I’m innocent.”

  “We should insist upon a reexamination of the body—”

  “That’s enough out of you, Sarah. Be quiet.” The superintendent turned to Shaw with an apologetic look. “Horace, let’s get back to giving Harden what he needs to know.”

  “I get the picture,” said Jack. “Shaw’s the prime suspect. When’s the coroner’s inquest?”

  “Tomorrow,” said the superintendent.

  “What inquest?” Shaw sloshed a wad of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other.

  “Coroner has to get a jury to look at evidence about a suspicious death,” said Jack. “If the jury decides it was homicide, the cops make an arrest. Mostly the jury does what the coroner wants them to do. If you’ve got anyone to vouch for your whereabouts last night and early this morning, you’d better have them testify at the inquest.”

  “Let them talk to my real good pal the governor. I was with him and a gaggle of associates on a steamboat excursion down to Newport News. Got back Sunday morning in time for church and spent the whole rest of the day canvassing for votes in Ward Three—probably where I got pickpocketed.”

  “I assume the governor wasn’t with you when the cops think you killed that girl,” said Jack.

  Shaw stared at the floor sullenly. “Told you I didn’t do it.”

  “You need someone to vouch for you or—”

  The superintendent interrupted. “Harden, you’re making Horace uncomfortable. He says he didn’t do it, and that’s good enough for me. I’m sure there’s a way to resolve this matter without accounting for every second of the man’s time.”

  “A good resolution depends on who needs what kind of compensation. And if the cops don’t have any more evidence against Shaw other than that gun.”

  “We’re counting on you to persuade the authorities to leave Horace alone. He’s in a spirited election and doesn’t need any distraction.” The superintendent offered an envelope. “Here’s fifty dollars to get started. If you can help Horace out of this jam, there’s a lot more in it for you. He’s offering a five-hundred-dollar bonus.”

  “My, my,” said Jack. “That’s a lot of money. But it should be, considering you’re counting on me to swing a big-time bribe.”

  “Don’t put it so crudely,” said the superintendent.

  “Whatever you say.” Jack took the envelope and tucked it into his jacket. He wasn’t eager to help a murderer get away with it. Still, five hundred iron men would go a ways toward covering his gambling marker. “Shaw, I need to ask you a couple more questions.”

  Shaw made his chair creak for its life as he crossed and then uncrossed his tree-trunk legs. “What for?”

  “If you didn’t kill the girl, who did?”

  “Who cares? Just get me cleared.”

  “That’s not so easy. Cash doesn’t always make the police forget about a murder. It might also be necessary to point the cops to a handy suspect, like someone who might want to set you up. Who’s your worst enemy?”

  “Police Commissioner Adolph Lipp. My main opponent in the mayor’s election.” Shaw heaved himself up, walked over to a brass spittoon near the door, and let loose a long squirt of dark brown tobacco juice. He ran the back of his hand across his lips and then across the seat of his trousers.

  “I know Lipp,” said Jack. “He’s the Bible pounder who raids Sunday liquor sales with a pistol in one hand and a hymnal in the other. Loves to see his name in the paper.” Lipp was a sanctimonious sort who was, even by Baltimore standards, a raging bigot. His campaign slogan was something like, “The saloon ruins righteous character, while the Negro and the immigrant ruin racial purity.”

  “He’s the bastard who’s lined up most everyone who hates me,” said Shaw as he crashed back into his chair. “Pardon my French, miss, but I’m in a state. Lipp’s got all the teetotalers, immigrant-haters, and churchgoing types locked up. There’s more of them than you might think. Lipp’s meaner than a snake and wants his boot on my neck. But I’ve got the votes to smash him like a bug.” Shaw pounded his fist into his palm like a sledgehammer hitting steel.

  “If Lipp’s out to railroad you, it’s a problem.” Jack saw that Shaw was in more trouble than the man was willing to accept.

  The superintendent sniffed. “I’m told the commissioner is a man of integrity who lets his men do their jobs without undue interference.”

  “In other words, the superintendent believes the cops will put their money hunger ahead of whatever the commissioner wants,” said Jack. “Who’s the lead detective on the case?”

  “A cop named O’Toole questioned me,” said Shaw.

  Jack smiled broadly. “Snake Eyes O’Toole. The dirtiest city dick there is. That’s good news for you. But we need a patsy other than Lipp. Who else has it in for you?”

  “There’s a third man running in the election—he hates me, too. Name’s Lucas Patterson. A joke of a candidate. Soft rich boy.” Shaw gave a rude snort. “He’s called the millionaire socialist. A real radical dynamiter that hardly nobody’s going to vote for—just the good-government bleeding hearts. Patterson supports all sorts of goo-
goo nonsense. Coddling bums. Giving coloreds special rights and women the vote. Putting child labor rules on the backs of businessmen. I can’t run my oyster packing business without using kids. Patterson don’t care that families would starve without their kids’ wages. He thinks those ignorant brats should waste everybody’s time going to school. Patterson’s a traitor to his class and his race. He’s only running as a gadfly.”

  “A rich man isn’t a useful suspect,” said Jack. “Who else can you give me?”

  “That’s enough for now.” Shaw scowled and looked at his watch. “I know I’m in deep horse—forgive me, miss.” He stood up. “Superintendent, Harden, I’m counting on you to do whatever it takes to keep me out of jail.” He looked at Sarah with a frown. “Don’t want anyone to know the girl’s done anything for me, hear? I’d never live it down. I want her off the case.”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” said the superintendent in his butteriest tone. “You can count on that.”

  “Good. I know how this kind of thing gets fixed. Just tell me who I got to pay and how much.” He put on his ten-dollar hat and left.

  “Harden,” said the superintendent as he waved a sheet of paper, “here’s the Sullivan girl’s boardinghouse address. The only other thing we know is that she worked as a dancer at different theaters around the city.”

  Jack stood and took the paper. “Anything else?”

  “We need you to keep a clear head, so don’t blow what I just gave you on a wild bender. Save the loony, liquored-up brawling until after you finish things. Got it?”

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Sure, sure.” The superintendent gave a tired wave. “Just keep your focus on the assigned task. Don’t make me regret doing you a favor by giving you this job rather than using one of my own operatives.” He picked up the telephone receiver. “I’ll call someone to escort you down to the lobby.”

  Jack bridled, knowing that he was the one taking the risk. The Pinkerton Agency contracted out dirty work that might besmirch the firm’s well-crafted reputation for ruthlessness that stopped just short of breaking the law. If Jack landed in hot water for offering a bribe, the superintendent would claim astonished innocence and disavow any role in the matter. Jack was easily expendable, unlike a regular Pinkerton dick. “Forget it,” he said. “I want Sarah. She knows how to handle the elevator.”

  “No,” said the superintendent with a forceful shake of his head.

  “I do not object,” said Sarah. “I helped him cope with his morbid fear of elevators earlier. It is logical to assume he needs additional help to return to the lobby.”

  “Let’s go, Sarah,” said Jack, striding for the door with the superintendent guffawing behind him. Jack turned to her in the hallway. “Why’d you embarrass me like that? Now he thinks I’m chicken-livered as well as a boozy nutcase.”

  “It was not my intent to cause embarrassment. I merely mentioned what I learned from you earlier.” She abruptly veered her gaze past one side of his head to the other while both her hands wagged.

  Sarah tested Jack’s ability to size people up. She was willful and blunt, as well as brainy. But her behavior was beyond stiff—she didn’t seem to know how to deal with people in a natural or even normal manner. And what was the deal with that poker face and those fluttery hand gestures? He had never run across anyone remotely like her. “Let’s go down to the lobby,” he said. “I want to talk with you.”

  Once again she took his arm and held it just the right way to keep him from coming apart as the elevator dropped to street level. She let go as soon as they stepped into the lobby. “Where’d you learn that arm trick?”

  “I worked with nervously disposed invalids in a lunatic asylum. Some patients were victims of an inherited disorder, others suffered from a shock or mental trauma. Patients responded well to touch—it relieved their anxiety.” There was no hint of bragging.

  “So—even crazy people can’t avoid doctors these days.”

  “At Johns Hopkins Medical School I studied all aspects of the medical sciences, including psychology, anatomy, surgery, and obstetrics. I had a particular interest in medico-legal pathology, which covers toxicology—”

  Jack held up his hand to stop the torrent of words, most of which meant nothing to him. “You said you doubted Lizzie Sullivan died from a gunshot wound. How can we get that checked into before the coroner’s inquest?”

  “A second autopsy is difficult to obtain. The authorities require a compelling reason.”

  Jack was in a hurry to go see the person in the best position to kill the case against Shaw, but it was always good to have another angle to play. “Can you get the superintendent to talk with his pal the mayor? Seems like you can provide a good enough excuse.”

  “I can provide an excellent rationale. The bullet hit a coronary artery, but there is no evidence of extensive bleeding. That almost certainly means the gunshot occurred postmortem. If administered prior to death, the wound might even have caused exsanguination, as the heart would continue pumping at pressure adequate to—”

  “Sarah. You’ve convinced me. You need to talk to your boss.”

  One of her eyebrows jerked faintly. “The superintendent has instructed me not to annoy him with verbal details. I am to communicate with him in writing only.”

  “Shaw made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want you involved, but maybe you’ll just have to make the boss listen about how best to help the client. Look, I’ve got to run. Let me take you to dinner tonight, and we can discuss how to handle this.”

  She held up a hand. “No.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I have three reasons. First, accepting a male escort may lead to a misunderstanding on his part with regard to physical intimacy. Second, I must write my report. Third, I do not approve of your mercenary role in this case. You are willing to subvert justice to collect your fee. I find that offensive.”

  “Wait a minute. We both work for The Eye.”

  “Who or what are you referring to by that term?”

  “Those creeps.” He jerked his thumb up. “You know, ‘The Eye that never sleeps.’ Same devil that pays you. How come I’m a mercenary and you aren’t?”

  “My only goal is to pursue the truth. I will stay here tonight to write a thorough report for the superintendent about what I observed during the autopsy. Lizzie Sullivan deserves justice.”

  He noticed that the more she talked, the louder her voice became. It was as if she were unaware of the need to regulate her volume in the course of a conversation. “You’re kidding yourself, sister, if you think your hands are clean as long as you’re working for the Pinkertons. Or that your little report is going to amount to a hill of beans in terms of getting that girl justice.”

  Sarah looked at the backs of her white-gloved hands and then the palms as her cheeks turned bright pink. “I want this conversation to end,” she said.

  Jack jammed on his derby and walked out of the Continental Building into the rainy afternoon bustle. No one had ever called him a mercenary, although the word had floated through his head a time or two. Truth and justice—she seemed to believe they were real. The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day. Jack pressed both fists over his eyes until the voice faded.

  He needed to work off some agitation and didn’t mind walking in the rain. As he strode east on Baltimore Street, fat raindrops pounded his hat and jacket.

  The rain brought out different smells as it gurgled in the gutter. There was a mineral tang from the paving stones and a pleasant animal-plant scent from the manure and vegetable waste scattered everywhere. He liked how the clip-clop of the passing horses was different in the rain—the sound was clearer and richer. After a few blocks he came to the awareness that he’d be chilled to the bone by the time he got to the Silverstrike Hotel at High and East Fayette Streets. He dug in his pocket and was glad to find the change needed for the streetcar that groaned to a stop just ahead.

  Jack jumped
on the trolley, and as he dropped onto a bench, the Colt poked into his ribs. Maybe it was a warning. The guy he was going to meet was a violent brute with a badge that let him get away with anything. Jack gazed at his hand and saw that the tremor, while bad, was less than it had been at the lunchroom.

  Chapter 3

  Sarah—Monday, October 11, 1909, 2:00 p.m.

  Sixteen favorite books lined up precisely on her desk at the Pinkerton Agency provided a welcome distraction from a blinding headache. She arranged the books alphabetically by title, then rearranged them from thinnest to thickest. As she worked, she stroked their pebbly, reassuring covers and fanned creamy pages to release a soothing inky scent. Handling the books reminded her of joyful childhood memories.

  She had been born into a world of overwhelming sensory anguish. Everything was too vivid, too intense. People especially terrified her with their big, alarming faces and loud voices. Her panicky tantrums eased only after she’d managed to shut down her emotional reactions and withdraw into a private world.

  She eventually grew tolerant enough of her environment to appreciate select surfaces, such as the cool smoothness of her blanket’s satin edging and the faint woven feel of the wallpaper in her room. Certain people—her father, her sister—gradually seemed less scary. After learning to walk, she discovered her father’s library. Her favorite activity after that was pulling books off the lower shelves and exploring their wonderful smells and textures.

  When she was three and a half, she found a colorful piece of paper haphazardly folded into a series of uneven squares. Her sense was that the object needed fixing, and she presented it to her father.

  He smoothed the paper open to reveal an outline divided into shapes of different colors. Great black lines ran across the shapes. Her father told her it was a map of the United States, with railroad lines connecting cities. He pointed his finger at the text while sounding out the title of the map: “The Eastern Span of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Highway of the Continent, from Great Rivers and Lakes, across Prairies, over the Alleghenies, down the Valley of the Potomac to the Sea.” In the days that followed, she loved sitting in his lap as he named the cities and towns along the rail lines. Within a few weeks she was able to read everything herself.

 

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