Into the Suffering City

by Bill LeFurgy

  “You knew her.”

  Foster poured another glass. “She was a sweet kid. The kind you want to help get away from a real bad man.”

  “Who?”

  “One of my piano players, Nick Monkton. She thought it was love. He saw it as a business opportunity.”

  “He pimped her out. Nice guy.”

  Foster shot him a look that had probably terrified more than a few of his ring opponents. “Nick’s trouble. Knew it soon as I laid eyes on him—all swagger and big talk. Only kept him around because he’s a fine player and a great ragtime songwriter. I got to know Lizzie through him.”

  “Think he killed her?”

  “Possibly.” Foster took a long pull from his glass. “If so, you can be sure it was about money. That’s the only thing the man cares about. Always has some racket going, some angle to play. I warned Lizzie that he was a nasty, conning heel.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “All I know is that he was hauled off to the Irish clubhouse around eleven last night. Good riddance. He better not show his face in my joint again. Could be bad for his health.”

  “The cops took him to the station—what for?” Jack pushed the derby up his forehead.

  “Could be any number of things. Vice. Fraud. Wrong race.”

  “Nick’s colored?”

  “You’d think he was white.”

  Jack scratched his head and stared back at Bob.

  “A classy preacher came by last week to tell Nick his great-granny died. Nick wasn’t here so he asked me to pass on the message along with some old books of hers. The reverend was a boxing fan and excited to meet me. He jabbered and jabbered and let loose something about how the old gal overcame the pain of slavery through prayer. Guy got upset and said that was a secret—made me promise to say nix. I’m only telling you because you’re so generous with the Pikesville.” He poured another glass.

  “One slave great-granny is enough to consider someone black?”

  “Yep.” Foster snorted and took a drink. “Law says if you have one black great-grandparent you can’t marry a white person.”

  “Don’t politicians have better things to do than put stuff like that on the books?”

  “Don’t play the high-minded white boy with me. This is Baltimore.” Foster’s feet came off the desk as his chair slammed to the floor. “You know damn well how worked up your people get about race. Crazy afraid that all any colored guy wants to do is slit their throats and take their women. I’ve been all around the country—all around the world—and there’s more hatred of Negroes in Baltimore than just about anyplace else.”

  “Then why do you still live here?”

  “Same reason you do, man. Baltimore has bully style—it’s jumping with energy and action you don’t find in another city.”

  “A place where a guy like Nick could meet up with a girl like Lizzie.”

  “As if you got a clue what a black man has to worry about if he’s with a white girl.” He curled his big hands into fists and slowly relaxed them. “Associating with Lizzie Sullivan could get a colored guy in deep trouble. Arrested—hell, even killed.”

  “You think the cops hauled Nick off for that reason?”

  “Maybe. They also tore apart his room here looking for something. Could be they were after his compositions.” Some of Foster’s ferocity faded. “Man may be trash, but he sure can write good songs. Making a name for himself. Guess who likes to come listen to him play?”

  “Teddy Roosevelt?”

  Foster clapped once and laughed. “Not far off. Lucas Patterson, the millionaire socialist himself. Patterson’s a fine judge of piano players. He’s also known to be friendly to good-looking young men.”

  “You mean that Patterson’s—”

  “Yeah. Nick is too, when the money’s right. If Nick had any sense he’d use the situation to get his songs published and promoted. Patterson’s more than happy to help him out. There’s just one problem. Well, two.”

  “Nick isn’t happy being Patterson’s pet.”

  “That’s one. The other’s that Patterson is the only person I know who didn’t like Lizzie. Really, truly hated her. I guess the man figured she stood between him and Nick.”

  “Could Patterson have killed her?”

  Foster lifted his glass and twirled the golden liquid. “Don’t want to speculate on that.”

  “What more can you say about Lizzie?”

  “Danced at the Gayety when Nick didn’t have her otherwise engaged.”

  “Like with Horace Shaw?”

  “That’s who people are saying killed her. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “Any other ideas about who else other than Shaw might have killed her?”

  “I see. Shaw hired you to get him off. The man’s looking guiltier all the time.” Foster pulled out a big gold watch but didn’t bother looking at it. “Time’s up, gumshoe.”

  “That’s a quick few minutes.” Jack got up to leave, aware that Bob knew more than he’d let on about both Nick and Lizzie.

  “Harden.” Jack looked back. “Heard you can’t pay a sizable marker that’s due shortly. Going to have trouble fingering a killer if a bunch of strong-arm men jolly you up. Could even end up floating face-down in the harbor basin.”

  “I got time. Mind if I look at Nick’s room?”

  “Sure—it’s number twenty-six. One more thing, pal. All I said? You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Not like you to be scared, Bob.”

  “The good book.” Foster looked solemn. “Psalm one forty, three to four.”

  “Don’t know it,” said Jack before walking out and closing the door. In the hall, he leaned against the wall with his hands pressed over his ears as the voice thundered in his head. They have sharpened their tongues like a serpent; adders’ poison is under their lips. Keep me, O Lord, from the hands of the wicked; preserve me from the violent man; who have purposed to overthrow my goings.

  The voice still had him shaking as he went upstairs to number twenty-six. The door was smashed and hung open crookedly on one hinge. The room was torn apart, with dresser drawers dumped on the floor and the mattress flipped and shredded against the wall. Pages of sheet music were scattered everywhere.

  A couple of well-worn hymnals lay open on the floor. He picked one up and fanned its pages, finding an inscription on the flyleaf: “For Annie Monkton, whose trying life has served to strengthen her belief in Our Lord. Thank you for sharing your story of bondage, struggle, and faith with me.” It was signed “Rev. Charles Lombard, Baltimore.” Annie Monkton—Nick’s great-granny?

  Jack gave the room a last look. If there had been anything valuable in this place, it was gone.

  The Eastern District police station was a squat brick building on Bank Street downwind from a vinegar factory. The pungent smell made Jack’s eyes water as he climbed the cophouse steps. As if visiting this dump weren’t awful enough.

  The one good thing was that a desk sergeant here owed him a favor. When a major bookie got killed two months ago, a city councilman hired Jack to find his policy sheets before the cops did. When Jack found the papers, he spotted a big-time debt sheet for the sergeant. Figuring one good turn deserves another, he grabbed it and passed it on to the cop.

  Stepping into the lobby, he noticed that electric lights had replaced the old gas lamps. The new lighting revealed exactly how dirty and beat up everything was. The floorboards were worn down below the nails and filthy with cigarette butts, squashed bugs, and balls of hair and dust. Sooty ridges stood out in relief on the hastily slopped plaster walls. The bench seats were worn smooth from countless brawlers, drunks, pickpockets, stick-up artists, and more than a few innocents dragged in off the street. The place smelled like stale sweat and dried blood.

  A raised wooden desk ran the length of the rear wall. Two cops were sitting behind the desk. One was asleep, his head thrown back and snoring with his mouth open. The other—Jack’s sergeant buddy—was leaning over and wearily expl
aining something to a redheaded woman wringing a handkerchief. Jack gave a wide berth to the full cuspidor and waited at the waist-high baluster railing in front of the desk.

  “Miss, I’ve told you all I know. Don’t do no good to keep on pestering me.” The sergeant saw Jack, and a look of relief flashed across his face. “You need to move on, miss. Another’s waiting behind you.”

  “Yinz all got to tell me something. How can someone get killed and the police not know nothing?” The sound of the woman’s hick accent jolted Jack back to his childhood on a remote farm in western Pennsylvania. A shiver spilled through his gut. More bad memories.

  “Sorry, miss. Next.”

  The woman spun around and walked past. Even in the harsh glare of the electric light she was beautiful. She was in her mid-twenties with huge green eyes and a shiny mass of flaming red hair that hopelessly outshone an old straw hat with its faded ribbons. A faint spray of freckles dotted her peaches and cream complexion. Even though her lips were pursed with worry, they still seemed to invite kissing. The body under the faded calico dress was curvy.

  “Harden, how’s the hammer hanging?” said the cop as Jack stepped up to the desk.

  “Tough one, huh, Sarge?” asked Jack with a man-to-man grin. The woman must have been badgering the cop pretty bad—most men would fall all over themselves to get next to a dame like that.

  “You got no idea, brother.” He put his hands together and flexed them out, cracking his knuckles like firecrackers. “People always think the cops are holding out on them,” he said. “It ain’t true.”

  “You mean it ain’t always true.”

  “What you want, snooper?”

  “Need to know about Nick Monkton. He was carted in last night from the Silverstrike Hotel.”

  The cop rubbed his rheumy eyes. “I tell you, are we square?”

  “You bet.”

  “O’Toole brought him in. Sweated the guy in the back room for a while. Then some big muck-a-muck lawyer showed up and got the guy sprung.”

  “Nick’s not the type to have that kind of representation. Who sent the mouthpiece?”

  “He was Lucas Patterson’s personal lawyer. Threatened holy hell if we didn’t leave sweet Nicky alone. Really gave it hot to O’Toole and got him to back off, if you can believe that.”

  “What time was Nick let go?”

  “Late—like two a.m.”

  “What was O’Toole after?”

  “Monkton had something Snake wanted bad. Not sure what. That’s it—we’re done here.”

  “Does the name Lizzie Sullivan mean anything to you?”

  The cop looked like no name could have irritated him more. “Beat it, or I’ll come around this desk and club you good.” He picked up a newspaper and leaned back in his seat.

  Jack walked around the railing and was about to the front door when the redhead rushed up from behind. “Stop, mister, please stop.” He turned to see those enormous eyes pleading up at him. Jack was in a hurry, but she was hard to ignore. “Sorry, I done heard you mention Lizzie Sullivan. She’s my sister. She—she got murdered last night. I found her body.” The woman gasped and pressed the handkerchief to her lips.

  “What’s your name, miss?”

  “Clara. Clara Sullivan.”

  “Miss Sullivan, you have my condolences.”

  She dropped the handkerchief to reveal a trembling chin. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “This is so horrible. I come to town to fetch Lizzie back home. Found her”—she paused to utter a sob—“dead in her room this morning. I been setting in this station trying to learn something for hours. I can’t just go tell Ma and Pa she got killed and nothing else. They’ll be wanting to know who did it and that they got caught.”

  What kind of parents would let a young woman travel alone into the big city to bring back a scandalous sister? This gal was in a pickle. But Jack, as a rule, steered clear of damsels in distress—he had too many troubles of his own to deal with. “Sorry again, miss. I got to go.”

  “Why were you asking about Lizzie?” Her eyebrows sprang into gleaming copper arcs. “Are you a detective? What’s your name?”

  “I’m a private detective checking into Lizzie’s death. Name’s Jack. Now—”

  “Jack, I think my sister was up to something with Nick Monkton that got her killed.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as, if I tell will you help me?” Her voice was throaty and her long, pale eyelashes fluttered.

  “We can maybe work something out.” The possibility of that was definitely growing.

  “Please.” She tilted her head down with her eyes glued on him in a perfect look of girlish vulnerability.

  She made his knees knock. And she might have dope that could help unravel Lizzie’s murder. The only thing pulling him away from her was an urgent sense that another woman was in a better position to help wrap up the case and get him the bonus he dearly needed.

  “Okay. Can you meet me at the Monumental Lunchroom tomorrow morning, eight o’clock? Then I can give you my full attention.”

  Her face brightened just a little but it was enough to hit him like a big, soft punch. “Thank you so, so much. You’re the first person who’s been nice to me in this big, awful city.” She gave him a fragile grin.

  “You’ll find that I’m one heck of a nice guy.” He flashed his most winning smile.

  “Golly, that’s wonderful—’bye.” She gave him a wave. He strode out of the place with the back of his neck tingling in a strange way.

  Outside, the light was fading and the sharp vinegar smell now had a sickeningly fruity undertone. The factory was preparing another fresh vat. Jack’s head throbbed as his stomach did somersaults. He looked for a distraction and flagged down a bootblack lounging under a gas streetlight, which was already sputtering and hissing in the early twilight.

  “Yes, sir. Get the best shine in Baltimore right here for a nickel.” The kid was about eight years old and wore a dirty jacket over torn pants.

  “I want the rag and the brush twice. Do it double time and I’ll give you a dime. I’m seeing a lady.”

  “You got it, mister.” He dropped to his knees and pulled the tools of his trade from a wooden box. The kid’s little hands were stained black from the fingertips to the wrists. He worked fast, with rag snapping and brush flying. The shoes soon gleamed with an almost unnatural glow.

  “Kid, you got talent.” Jack flipped him a dime. “Happen to know who won the Series game?”

  “Pirates, eight to six. Wagner had three hits, three runs batted in, and three stolen bases.”

  Jack hailed a cab and headed back downtown. Since Snake Eyes wouldn’t take a bribe, the best bet to collect on this job was to get a second official opinion on Lizzie’s cause of death—if someone with sway said the gunshot didn’t kill her, there might be enough doubt to keep Shaw out of the slammer. He needed to get another autopsy scheduled right quick. Otherwise, case closed.

  His best shot was getting that lady doctor who talked like a book to prove that Shaw’s pistol wasn’t the murder weapon. They hadn’t parted on great terms, but Jack was usually able to sweet-talk women into liking him. True, he had no experience charming a proper lady. Especially one as quirky as she was. But it would be tough for Shaw if he got collared, and far tougher for Jack if he missed out on the chance to put a dent in his debt.

  Chapter 5

  Sarah—Monday, October 11, 1909, 6:30 p.m.

  “Glad you’re still here. I’d hate to have killed myself climbing those stairs for nothing.”

  Sarah whirled to see Jack, hat off and panting for breath, standing in the office doorway. She did not want to deal with anyone right now, especially not this unethical hireling. She stared at the wall behind the visitor while standing rigidly next to the bag of books on the desk. “What’s with the bag? Been shopping?”

  He was not going to leave her alone. She had to say something. “I have been dismissed and must leave immediately.” An unbearable situation ha
d gotten even worse. She yanked off her right glove and started chewing her thumbnail with vigorous little bites.

  “What—they gave you the gate? They’re even stupider than I thought. Here, let me help you with your bag.”

  “No. I will ask someone else. Go away.”

  “I don’t see anyone else handy. Besides, you helped me in the elevator. Least I can do is return the favor.” He stepped close and grabbed the bag’s handle.

  She noticed a complex mix of odors. The strongest was a pleasant leathery smell with a metallic edge—it brought to mind a horse harness hanging in the sun. But there were also two other unpleasant scents—a vinegary tang and the sweet reek of whiskey. She stepped back and waved a hand in front of her face.

  “Do I smell that bad?”

  “Yes. I do not like the odor of whiskey or the odor of vinegar, and mixed they are hard for me to have in my nose. I insist that you leave me alone. Do so immediately.” If not for the books, she would run away as fast as possible.

  “You really are delicate, like you said. I promise not to stand too close.” He lifted the bag and headed for the hallway. “What do you got in here—a rock collection?”

  He had remembered her refined senses. She followed and caught up with him at the elevator. Why the speculation about a rock collection in the bag? There was no logical basis for assuming that, which probably meant his question was not literal. Was he using one of those non-sensical figures of speech that people were so unaccountably fond of? Or perhaps he was attempting to use humor to interact with her. In any event, she was in no mood to try and interpret whatever he was saying. “I have books in the bag. They are important to me.” She pressed the elevator call button.

  “I may still need your help going down,” he said. “Guess I’m delicate about some things, too.”

  “I will take your arm again. After that, you will leave the bag by the curb and depart. I will have the driver boost my bag into the cab.” The elevator door opened and she reached for his arm, realizing too late she had forgotten to put her glove back on, which made the experience of touching him difficult.