Into the Suffering City

by Bill LeFurgy

  The first guy windmilled his arms, reaching for his lost tombstones. “Give it,” he mumbled. “Them’s only gold-plated.”

  The holder of the stolen teeth flashed in bright silhouette, a dumbfounded look on his slab face. A speeding automobile, its kerosene lamps blazing, knocked him to the street and accelerated away. The man staggered to his feet while waving both arms and yelling curses at the receding machine. The other guy stumbled around, head down and arms out, searching the dank roadway.

  Jack moved on into the damp chill. His old overcoat had given up the ghost last winter, and he couldn’t afford another. Turning up his jacket collar, he walked east along the harbor, watching the night’s grip on the city fade away.

  The air smelled of the sea; the Fells Point docks were close enough to hear barges groaning against the piers. It was weirdly quiet. During the day, the place was jammed with people, including sailors, oyster shuckers, and canning factory workers. When the sun went down, there were speakeasies and plenty of other places to seek pleasure or vent pain. The roughness of the place suited him. Plus it was cheap to live down here—the closer the water, the lower the rent.

  Getting to his boardinghouse on Aliceanna Street was just dangerous enough to make things interesting. The dim, hissing glow from the gas streetlights did little to reveal the craters in the sidewalk, the ruts in the street, or the splayed mess of rotten fruit and other garbage. Slick spots from overflowing drains and privy vaults blended with the murk.

  A false step could cause a slip and snap an ankle. That would mean lying on the street with the rats and dogs before some early riser came within shouting distance. A sudden sweet, grassy odor reminded him of another hazard: the big piles of horse manure from yesterday’s traffic. He’d heard the tens of thousands of horses in the city each produced twenty pounds of manure a day, which was easy enough to believe.

  With the first pink light of dawn, the Bible voice came to life in his head. The night is far spent, the day is at hand: let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light.

  Jack put his hands on either side of his skull and tried to crush the voice. It went quiet. A week or so later, he’d conclude the voice was trying to tell him something important. Right now, though, it was nothing but a haunting reminder from long ago about his cowardly father, sickly mother, and powerfully unhinged sister.

  Chapter 7

  Sarah—Monday, October 11, 1909, 9:00 p.m.

  Never had Sarah appeared so late at this door. She hesitated before ringing the bell but then gave it a firm push, reminding herself that the occupants of this house had always been glad to see her.

  The butler received her coolly before withdrawing to notify his employers, both of whom quickly appeared. Margaret Bonifant was a handsome middle-aged woman; Blaine Bonifant was a head taller than his wife, with piercing blue eyes he used to great effect as the city’s most successful lawyer. A former star wrestler at Yale, he was known as “Night Train” Blaine for running over courtroom opponents with powerful arguments they never saw coming. Despite the late hour husband and wife were still dressed in formal evening wear.

  “My dear, how lovely to see you.” Margaret directed the butler to take Sarah’s book bag and embraced her with a maternal hug.

  She had a long-standing fondness for Sarah. Her beloved only child had shown no interest in other people and never learned to speak. His sole interest had been toy soldiers, and he covered the floor of a large bedroom with hundreds of lead figures. He followed a strict daily routine of breakfast, flipping through the same few illustrated military history books before lunch, tending to his soldiers all afternoon, dinner, returning to the soldiers until 10:00 p.m., and then bed. Margaret had doted on the young man until his death from tuberculosis at age twelve, shortly after Sarah’s birth.

  “What have you been up to, traveling around late at night?” asked Margaret. “My word—have you been drinking?”

  As was her habit, Sarah resisted slightly as the other woman stepped away from the embrace. Margaret was the only person whose touch brought her pleasure. “I consumed wine during dinner with a private detective, Jack Harden. And before that, I was dismissed from the Pinkerton Agency. That is not a problem because I, with potential assistance from Jack, am investigating a murder.”

  “The Pinkertons fired you?” Blaine scowled darkly. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “I always regarded that position as temporary until I found a pathology position.”

  “This will not stand. I will call the superintendent right now.”

  “You will not, my dear.” Margaret eyed her husband steadily. “I had doubts about a proper young woman spending any time near private detectives. It is high time that Sarah turn her talents to something more suitable.”

  Blaine stood still for a moment before nodding once, very slowly. “As you wish.”

  Margaret held a tight smile as she placed her hand on Sarah’s forehead. “You are a little flushed, dear. Sit down. Blaine, darling, you may withdraw.”

  “Sarah, you are witness to the only person in creation who has the ability to dismiss me out of hand.” Blaine smiled, then laughed. “If Margaret were a man, she would be president, at the very least. Good night, ladies.”

  The two women sat in elaborately upholstered armchairs as the butler reappeared with a silver tea service. He filled their cups and silently padded away. Sarah closed her eyes to focus on the exquisite feeling of the thin porcelain edge on her lips and the sudden hot, tannic flow of the black tea into her mouth. The experience was soothing and stimulating at the same time.

  “Don’t fret, Sarah. I’ll make some calls to secure you another position.”

  “I remain committed to pathology.”

  Margaret leaned forward and stroked Sarah’s arm. “Poor dear, still obsessed with your notion of justice. I can see why—you had such an unjust childhood, starting when your insane mother decided to cavort with charlatans and ghosts rather than take care of her family. Which dead poet talked her into leaving? Byron? Shelley?”

  “She claimed the spirit of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow instructed her to travel to Boston to bring messages from the dead to the living. She was, and remains, in the grip of a highly subjective mental state that she believes allows communication with the spirit world.” The dull ache in Sarah’s lower back flared into a sharp pinch. “I do not excuse that she abandoned her family. And, as you know, I reject the practice of spiritualism.”

  “Sarah, dear, please lower your voice.”

  “I apologize.”

  “No need. Your mother always had her way with everything, including your father’s willingness to give her a divorce. I wonder, do you think she ever blames herself for the deaths of your father and sister—or anything?”

  Sarah set her teacup down with a forceful clonk.

  “I’m sorry for raising all of this, dear. I admire that you do not bear a grudge against the adults who failed you as a child. Let’s change the subject. I recently met the new president of Johns Hopkins University. I will ask him to get you a hospital position.”

  “At present I am conducting my detective investigation.”

  Margaret’s jaw tightened. “I was hoping I’d misheard what you said about that folly. It is preposterous for a well-bred young woman to conduct such an inquiry. And it is unacceptable for you to have anything to do with a private detective. They are men of appallingly low character. You were supposed to avoid them at the Pinkertons.”

  “Jack is rough and uneducated. Yet he is not insensitive nor unintelligent. Thus far, I find him kind and accommodating. We are both looking into the death of a young showgirl.”

  “This is outrageous. When we arranged for that job for you I told the superintendent to restrict your work to reviewing files and preparing documents. And to hear that this man—this detective—took you to dinner and plied you with wine. He had your virtue at his mercy.”

  “My manner does not offend Jack.
He stated appreciation for my sincerity and intelligence. I enjoyed conversing with him.”

  “Sarah, you have no idea what can happen. The world is full of men looking to take advantage of young women. As a member of the lower class, this person no doubt sees you as a victim who will provide money under the cover of romance. I demand that you never see him again.”

  “Romance is out of the question. It would be strictly a business arrangement.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You are completely innocent when it comes to dealing with men.”

  “I am not a child. I request that you not treat me as one.”

  Margaret’s lips formed a thin white line as she firmly set her teacup and saucer on the tray and then stood. “Sarah. You will put an end to this foolishness. Immediately.”

  “I wish to know more about three men who may have some connection with the showgirl’s murder. I believe you know them. Horace Shaw is suspected of the murder but claims innocence. He provided the names of two men who may have falsely implicated him: Adolph Lipp and Lucas Patterson. The three men are running against each other in the election for mayor. You may begin with a discussion of Horace Shaw.” She had a notepad and pencil ready.

  Margaret put a hand over her heart and looked away while drawing deep breaths. A nearby clock ticked away the silence. “Well, I take some small comfort in that you are interested in living people rather than corpses.” She sat back in her chair. “The Shaw family has an interesting history. The great-grandfather ran a prosperous tobacco plantation on Maryland’s Eastern Shore before the War of Northern Aggression but the place failed. Horace was born under very humble circumstances—as a young man, he worked as a waterman, gathering oysters and other sea creatures from the Chesapeake. Then he moved to Baltimore, got into politics as a street tough, and built the city’s most powerful political machine. Now Horace wants to be mayor—no doubt he wishes to further enrich himself through graft and corruption.”

  “Does he have a habit of consorting with prostitutes?”

  Margaret gasped. “Such language.” She took a sip of tea. “I will say that Horace is known as a man with crude appetites. I am not surprised that he has gotten himself into trouble.”

  “Is he capable of violence?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Please now inform me about Police Commissioner Adolph Lipp.” Sarah spoke without looking up from her notebook.

  “The Lipp family is one of the oldest in Maryland. At one time, they owned much land, which they lost after the war. The family, like that of Horace Shaw, fell into reduced circumstances. The father had a brewery that went bankrupt. Adolph took to moralistic preaching. I’ve lost track of all the evils he rails against. The press turned him into a sensation when he and Carry Nation smashed up a big saloon downtown a year or so ago. That was just after a scandal in the police department, and he was appointed commissioner as something of an antidote.”

  Sarah took a break from her furious scribbling. “I spoke with Adolph Lipp today. He was more interested in damaging Horace Shaw than in pursuing justice.”

  “Commissioner Lipp is careful to be seen as virtuous, but you are correct—he’s filled with hatred, most especially toward Negroes and immigrants.”

  “If Adolph Lipp’s views are abhorrent, why is he popular?”

  Margaret slowly shook her head. “Part of the answer is the nature of Baltimore itself. Slavery flourished here. And the town was infamous for its violent anti-immigrant gangs. I’m sad to say our fair city is still referred to across the country as Mobtown.”

  She rang for the butler and told him to take away the tea service. “Sarah, it’s late. I will have a room prepared for you.”

  “No. I cannot stay, as I have things I must do at home. I need a cab.” Sarah had a cherished evening ritual involving her sister’s dolls that she absolutely had to perform each night before bed. After the servant had left with instructions to call a hansom, Margaret prepared to stand. “You may now tell me about Lucas Patterson.” Sarah had her pencil poised above her notebook.

  “Ah, yes, Lucas. A curious fellow.” Margaret tapped the arm of her chair with a finger as she gathered her thoughts. “His great-grandfather made a fortune in guano—bird droppings from ocean islands that is prized as fertilizer. He bought a big parcel of land near the city and fancied himself a southern gentleman, complete with slaves. Lucas’s father collaborated with the northern occupiers and saved much of his fortune. Lucas is quite well off and is now the leading voice of political progressivism in the city. He is known for establishing the Children's Benevolent and Protective Society, which helps provide for hundreds of poor and orphaned youngsters every year.”

  “Can he win the election for mayor?”

  “He is a radical, and his chances of winning are slim. Still, he is supremely dedicated. Perhaps that’s why he has yet to marry. He is the most eligible bachelor in the city—every society mother with a marriageable daughter has circled him for years. He’s rich, of course, as well as handsome and charming.”

  “Is he above reproach?”

  “There is a strange quality about the man. He is a bohemian who frequents disreputable establishments to listen to degenerate colored music.” Margaret shifted in her chair. “Lucas also can be a bit too zealous in promoting his social and political interests.”

  “Has he wronged anyone? Does he engage in corrupt practices?”

  “No, dear, nothing like that.” Margaret stood and stroked Sarah’s arm. “If you wish to learn more, I can arrange a meeting for you with Lucas tomorrow. You and he may like each other. You share a certain intensity of mind.”

  “Yes. Such a meeting will be of great assistance.”

  “His office is in a very bad part of town—I’ll arrange for a chaperone to escort you.”

  “No. I am quite used to visiting places all over the city by myself.”

  “The dregs of society are unlikely to be put off by that modern woman attitude of yours.” Margaret stood. “I’ll arrange a meeting, but please consider gathering information in a better setting this coming Thursday.”

  Sarah tried to remember what was happening on that day.

  “I’m referring to the annual Daughters of the Confederacy Oyster Banquet at the Belvedere Hotel,” said Margaret. “Plenty of men will be there—including the three you have been asking about.”

  Sarah fumbled with her pencil and notebook and quickly stood. “I have not returned my RSVP.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You can come with us. I can help you get the right dress and accessories. I know you are less than fond of such events, but it would be healthy for you to mingle with others.”

  “No.” Sarah dropped her notebook, stooped quickly to pick it up, only to drop her pencil. “My displeasure in attending far outweighs any reasonable expectation of obtaining useful information.” She retrieved her pencil and jammed it, along with her notebook, into her purse.

  “I know you are uncomfortable with people. How, then, are you going to do this investigation of yours?”

  “A detective solves mysteries. As a scientist, I do the same.” The butler entered and announced the cab had arrived. “Good night, Margaret.”

  “Sarah—”

  “I will admit my task is challenging. I am resolute in undertaking it.”

  Margaret enveloped Sarah in a warm embrace. “My dear. Please be careful.”

  Bouncing over the rough streets on the way home, Sarah’s attention flitted between her wine-induced headache and the known details about Lizzie Sullivan’s murder and its aftermath. Horace Shaw was likely more involved than he claimed—but to what extent? Commissioner Lipp had influenced the autopsy to direct sole blame toward Shaw. Was Lipp’s motivation solely political, or did he also have a relationship with the girl? And how did Lizzie get the head injury that killed her?

  Sarah was accustomed to working alone and perhaps that was just as well in this case. Margaret and Dr. Anson, her two most steadfast allies, were both
less than enthusiastic about the investigation. The only person who could help was Jack, whom she barely knew—and a man of questionable integrity with signs of emotional disturbance.

  She chewed her pinky and thought hard. She was the only person with the desire and the capability to rigorously analyze the evidence in this case. But, reluctant as she was to admit, she could not work out the problem alone. It was necessary to obtain additional information, and that required interacting with people—not her strength. Jack, on the other hand, related to various individuals with apparent ease.

  The truth was that she and Jack, working together, were the only people in Baltimore who could solve Lizzies’ murder.

  Chapter 8

  Jack—Tuesday, October 12, 1909, 7:30 a.m.

  The third cup of black coffee was doing its muddy best on him as he collected his thoughts at the Monumental Lunchroom.

  He’d woken that morning to find his shoes covered with mud and worse—a hazard of walking at night. The holes in both soles were now the size of silver dollars. He didn’t have the money or the time to get them fixed, so folded hunks of newspaper would have to do for now.

  This was going to be a full day of chasing down leads and grubbing around for any information that could help Horace Shaw. Swinging that would be tough, as the guy was looking more like a murderer all the time. The cops were going to collar him, and a jury would eat up how he ran away from a dead girl while leaving his gun and drawers behind. What a mess-up.

  Speaking of messes, Jack had gotten himself into a bad one with his gambling debt. He had been in an awful state of mind at Pimlico racetrack when he placed that idiot bet with Knucks Vogel. An hour earlier, Jack had been walking over the Cedar Avenue bridge toward Druid Hill Park when the blast of a locomotive whistle on the tracks below stopped him dead.