by Bill LeFurgy
A dozen ghosts showed up on the bridge—a few brown-skinned women and a bunch of writhing, bloody children. One woman, shot through the eye and wailing gibberish, kept pushing a bawling baby at him. When they disappeared, Jack found himself astride the bridge rail, staring at a jumble of sharp rocks seventy feet down. He backed off the rail and slapped one side of his face and then the other until he could move himself through the park and up Park Heights Avenue.
He was still in a daze when Vogel buttonholed him outside the track. The guy needled him about a horse named Happy Jack going off at ninety-nine to one in the next race. “Happy Jack! You got to lay a bet on that nag, right?” Jack went in for nine hundred to win. Vogel blanched, asked if he was serious, and reluctantly took the action.
When the race began Jack didn’t even bother to watch—he knew the bangtail would finish out of the money.
What in blazes was he thinking? Now here he was, trying halfheartedly to scrimp on expenses, with burned black coffee for breakfast. The stuff sat in his stomach like tannery acid. Maybe he should just splurge and enjoy his last few days of decent health before Knucks unleashed the inevitable beating. Give up, roll over. The reflection in his cup was shaking its head no.
“Don’t you look thoughtful this morning.” The Pinkerton superintendent sat down uninvited, gesturing for Jack to lean over the table toward him. “We have to drop the Shaw case,” he said in a low voice. “Too hot politically.” He shoved an envelope across the table. “Here’s your termination fee.”
The envelope held forty dollars in bills. “Hush money,” said Jack.
“Call it what you like, man.” The superintendent snorted and lifted his chin. “Just remember I’m the man who picked you out of all the low wretches fit for the job. Keep quiet and I’ll throw you another bone sometime.”
“Playing both sides of the fence, aren’t you?” Jack shot out his hand and held the man in place as he tried to rise. “First you want me to get Shaw off the hook, even if he’s guilty. Then Lipp steps in, and you don’t care if your good friend Shaw hangs—even if he’s innocent.”
“Stop pretending your morals aren’t for sale, chump.” He wrested his arm free and left.
Jack motioned for the waitress to fill his cup. She complied with a menacing grimace. He tried to shoot her a smile but found his jaw clamped so tight that he couldn’t move his lips. Instead he pulled out a five-dollar bill from the envelope and shoved it at her.
“What’s this?” she asked. “You need change or you trying to make me like you?”
“Just feeling generous today. Take it.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Fool. You know you need to be careful with money.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“Fun.” She flexed her left hand as if preparing for a jaw-twisting slap. “Suppose you think it’s fun to act all strange.”
“Way I see it, we’re all kind of strange.”
“The way I see it, you’re a dumbbell.” Her face showed something like concern before she moved to the next table.
Jack looked down into the tarry blackness of the cup, his mind a blank until the Bible voice came booming: My confusion is continually before me, and the shame of my face hath covered me.
He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward, his head inches over the table. The superintendent was right—they both swam in the same dirty pool of corruption. A vision came to him of the inner harbor after a hard rain had washed all kinds of disgusting stuff into it—garbage, human waste, rotting animal carcasses.
“Hello. I’m so sorry to bother you. Is this a good time?”
Clara Sullivan stood hesitantly in front of him, radiating a shy loveliness.
Jack jumped to his feet, sending the chair tumbling backward. “Miss Sullivan. Please have a seat.”
Last night she had been simply beautiful. This morning she was an absolute knockout. A faint dusting of face powder hid her freckles, and her lips were set in a pouty little smile. Gone was the frumpy straw hat and farm girl shift. Now she was wearing a big hat dripping with ribbons and a showy pink dress with a high lace collar. The outfit was a cut above the typical farm girl’s Sunday-go-to-meeting best. The back of his neck tingled like it did when he met her the night before, only stronger.
She sat daintily as he held her chair. “Gosh, you’re such a gentleman and all. You got to call me Clara.” She cleared her throat timidly. “I won’t pester you too long. I was just really, really hoping we could talk about the men maybe connected with Lizzie. She mentioned some names—can’t hardly recollect. If I hear some suggestions it might help me remember. And maybe that can help you catch the man who hurt Lizzie.”
“You said yesterday that Nick and Lizzie were up to something. What did you mean?” Jack gave her a big smile. In addition to being a feast for the eyes, this fine gal might pay to keep him on the case.
Clara folded her hands on the table. “She said Nick had something worth a ton of money. They were fixing to cash in on it real soon.”
Jack drummed his fingers. “What did they have? You must have some idea—was it something shady?”
She turned her big green eyes directly on him. “Don’t think it was legal. She was already getting money from . . . selling herself. Got a feeling she was thinking about blackmailing someone. Don’t know who—it’s got to be someone with money.” She pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and began crying softly. “This is so terrible. My poor little sister—first ruined, then gone crooked, then killed.”
“I only know about one guy who paid for the pleasure of your sister’s company. Name’s Horace Shaw. Ring a bell?”
“It sounds kind of familiar.” She looked up from her handkerchief expectantly. There were no blotches or puffy spots on her gorgeous face—just a slight redness in her eyes. Jack remembered a woman friend telling him that every girl should know exactly how long she can cry and still look her best. “Tell me something about him.”
“He’s a businessman running for mayor. Runs an oyster packing business and is a heavy hitter in local politics.”
“Hmm . . . he got money?”
“Yeah, plenty. Got two other names for you, both guys also in the mayor’s race. What about Adolph Lipp? He’s a puffed-up reverend who’s made a career off other people’s sins.” From her reaction, Jack knew he had hit pay dirt.
“Adolph Lipp.” She scrunched her face. “Yes, I think she mentioned him. Tell me more about the man.”
Jack scratched his chin. Plenty of Bible thumpers allowed themselves adulterous romps, but would Lipp be so careless during an election? Then again, sex could turn any man stupid. “He’s the Baltimore police commissioner. Wants to be mayor.”
“Can’t hardly believe someone like that would do something so horrible.” Clara shot her hands up to either side of her face as her eyebrows raised. “Does he have a lot of money? Enough to make Lizzie take the risk of blackmailing him?”
“He hasn’t got much dough. What do you know about Lizzie and Lipp?”
She presented him with a coy little smile. “Don’t expect me to tell everything that Lizzie said. Sisters tell each other things that no man should hear.”
“If you want to help me catch the killer, you’d better spill it.”
“Lizzie was scared of the police. Probably because of what Nick forced her to do. She was so afraid of getting arrested as a . . . fallen woman. That’s when she mentioned Mr. Lipp. Poor thing. Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“The commissioner doesn’t put the collar on prostitutes personally. Why would she worry about Lipp?”
“You said he was an enemy of vice. I reckon many other wayward girls feel that way.” She dabbed an eye with her handkerchief and drew in a breath as if to gather strength to continue a difficult conversation. “You mentioned a third man. What’s his name?”
“Lucas Patterson. A rich bleeding heart who’s a long-shot candidate for mayor,” said Jack. She opened her mouth to speak. “You want to know about
his money,” said Jack, cutting her off. “Well, he’s got a bale of kale—millions.” He looked at Clara closely and could sense wheels turning in her head. “Think Lizzie and Nick were trying to cash in on some crooked deal with Patterson?”
“I never heard about Mr. Patterson until now.” She shook her head. “Golly, I’m so useless. I can’t help you none at all.”
“Tell me exactly what Lizzie told you about what she and Nick were up to.”
“She just dropped some hints, that’s all. About how smart Nick was and how he could turn screws to make people bleed money. When I begged her to give up her life of sin, she told me not to worry—that Nick had hooked a big fish. Big enough so they could move to New York and go respectable. I warned her that Nick was a bad man. Lizzie was so trusting. You know?” Clara’s chin trembled.
“What about Nick? Could he have killed Lizzie?” Jack watched her carefully.
“Sure. The man’s evil and violent. I told that to the police. Are they going to arrest him?”
“Right now, Shaw’s the prime suspect. The cops have some evidence against him, but it’s possible they have the wrong man. Even so, I’d recommend you steer clear of Nick.”
“This is all too much for me.” Tears welled again in her eyes. “To think I have to stay in this awful city for another couple of days before I’m allowed to take Lizzie back home. You say the police know who killed her? I’m so thankful. At least I can tell Ma and Pa that.”
“Like I say, the cops might have made a mistake with Shaw. Nick or somebody else might be the real killer. I’d like to keep looking into it but I’m off the case.”
“Oh, dear. Why is that?”
“Detective agency cut me loose. This case is all tangled up in politics. If you can pay my fee I’ll keep working to find out for sure who killed your sister. We’ve got to act fast—the coroner’s inquest is later today and the authorities are moving ahead without all the evidence.”
“That’s very kind, but I have no money to spare.” She dropped her eyes and twisted her handkerchief. “And I’ve been raised to trust the people in charge. I can’t see how the police could arrest the wrong person for such a bad, bad crime.”
She slowly raised her head with a shy look. “I have no right to ask you this—I’d like to talk with you again before I leave. I’ll be at my cousin’s place today and most of tomorrow.” She clutched her handkerchief into a tight ball and shot him a bashful little smile. “Can we have supper tomorrow night and talk again? I understand if you have more important things to do. You’re just the nicest man—you’ve helped me feel a little bit better during this terrible time.”
Jack knew he should beg off—he had to keep a tight rein on his time and money.
“Please.” She moved so close that the arm of her luxuriously soft dress brushed against his wrist. Then she put her gloved hand on top of his. “I’m so alone.” She was giving him that adorable head-down, eyes-up look again.
“I’ll swing by your place at six o’clock tomorrow evening,” he heard himself say. This woman was impossible to resist. “Where does your cousin live?”
Clara leaned in closer, smiling with a perfect set of little white teeth. “Gee willikers, thanks so much. I’m staying at the Hotel Kernan.”
Jack’s brow shot up. “That’s a ritzy joint. Expensive as anything.”
“I know, way more than we can afford.” She rolled her eyes. “Pa made me promise to stay someplace big and safe. It’s the fanciest thing I’ve ever seen. Got flush toilets and ceilings taller than a barn. I had to buy this outfit before I had the gumption to register.”
It didn’t square that a rube like her with a cousin in town would end up in one of the best hotels in the city and buy a fancy set of duds on top of it. “Where’d your Pa get that kind of dough? And why did he let you come here all by yourself?”
“He sold off his two best heifers. And he’d have come himself if he weren’t sick bad with consumption. And Ma’s lame. My cousin’s supposed to keep an eye on me but she’s got to work.” Tears formed in her eyes again.
“Jack. We had an appointment at eight thirty a.m. It is now eight thirty-two a.m.”
Sarah. This must be the day for everybody in the world to sneak up on him. Jack pulled his hand from under Clara’s and stumbled to his feet. “Dr. Sarah Kennecott, meet Clara Sullivan, Lizzie’s sister. We were discussing the case. Please join us.”
Jack held her chair as Sarah sat and looked over the top of Clara’s big hat. “Clara Sullivan. We need you to request a second autopsy before today’s inquest. The first autopsy missed the actual cause of death, which I believe came from a hemorrhage precipitated by a blow to the head.”
An impish smile played across Clara’s lips for half a second before her face shifted to a look of utter confusion. “What—I beg your pardon?” Jack noticed how the corners of the woman’s eyes turned down to show off feathery eyelashes that shined like pale orange flames.
Sarah’s expression remained blank. “I am trained as a physician with a specialty in pathology. Jack and I are working to learn about persons associated with Lizzie and discover the truth behind her murder.”
“Actually, the Pinkertons have dropped the case,” said Jack. “And Clara has no money to spare to hire us.”
“Regardless,” said Sarah, “as the victim’s sister you have the right and the obligation to demand a thorough autopsy. A second postmortem is necessary to gather the evidence needed to ensure justice.”
Clara laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, that’s awful, just awful. Enough bad stuff has already happened to poor Lizzie. I can’t bear to think of her being . . . whatever it is they do during those autopsy things. Let’s just let her rest in peace. Please, please.”
“You do not understand,” said Sarah as her hands fluttered and bounced on the table in front of her. “The only way to obtain conclusive evidence is to saw open the skull and remove the brain for careful examination. In lieu of standard procedure, I made a small opening through the frontal bone and found evidence of a subdural hematoma, which means—”
“Sarah,” said Jack as he took in Clara’s horrified expression, “let’s forget it.”
“No. We must convince her to press for another postmortem—”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said Clara in a small voice, “I can’t hardly do that. Doctor—Sarah—what’s your official role in the case?”
“I have no official role.”
“I see. Jack mentioned the three men running for mayor and said they might have—an association with Lizzie. Do you know of any others who might be involved, apart from that horrible, awful Nick Monkton?”
“Not at this time.”
Clara reached over to pat a hand as Sarah yanked both hers off the table. “Oh, good gracious me—I’m sorry,” said Clara. “I just wanted to thank you, Sarah, for caring about what happened to Lizzie and all. You’re such a good person. Bless you.”
Clara turned to Jack. “I best be going, Jack. I’ll see you for supper tomorrow night.” Her voice had just a hint of throaty seduction. She rose from the chair with an animal grace he hadn’t noticed before—like a tigress coming up from a crouch. “Good morning, all.” She offered a sweet smile, waved, and walked off. Jack saw a city detective get up from his table and follow Clara out the door.
He turned back to Sarah. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to tell you about Pinkerton dropping me. It just happened this morning.”
Sarah was looking intently at the tabletop. “Do you plan to fornicate with that woman?”
“What? Heck, no. We were talking about the murder.”
“Does she expect to fornicate with you?”
He leaned back in his chair and eyeballed Sarah with a grin. She was the rare woman who paid little attention to her appearance. Her face didn’t have a speck of paint or powder, although one pale cheek did have a streak of black soot. Strands of limp hair evaded her tortoiseshell combs. Delicate silk flowers crowded her hat, which m
ust have cost a pretty penny. Yet even he could tell the hat was well out of style. It also sat squarely on top of her head, rather than at the jaunty angle most women favored. Her walking suit was expertly tailored in fine fabric, but was as wrinkled as the one she wore the day before. There were moth holes in the lapel.
“Doesn’t every woman who lays eyes on me want to . . . you know? Relax, that’s a joke.”
She stood quickly. “You are a cruel and rude man. I regret coming here.”
“Sorry—really, I’m sorry,” he said. “Please sit back down.”
“No.” Her body trembled.
“I thought we were going to work on Lizzie’s murder. Doesn’t that matter anymore?”
“It does to me. But you do not care if Lizzie’s true killer is caught. You do not care about justice.”
Jack got up and stepped behind her chair. “I do care. Come on, let’s talk a little more.”
She hesitated for a bit, then sat. Despite her moralizing, Jack found himself admiring this strange woman. Maybe all her talk about truth and justice was prodding something in him to life. He went back to his seat. “Can we prove Shaw innocent without another autopsy?” he asked.
“I am not certain what can be accomplished absent additional official proof obtained from the corpse.” She looked to the right of him and then to left as she repeatedly leaned forward, then back, in her seat. “We would have to gather more physical evidence. We would have to interview a number of individuals. Rigorous analysis would then be needed to support a definitive conclusion—or at least a well-reasoned conjecture. All that calls for a large expenditure of time.” She abruptly sat still. “What about payment for our services?”
Jack smiled, glad that she had come down from her high horse about money. “I got a sudden inspiration about that. Don’t worry.”
“Very well.” Her gaze traveled across his face just long enough for him to notice that her limpid brown eyes were flecked with gold. They were her best feature—too bad she spent so little time looking back at people.