by Bill LeFurgy
Sarah moved so quickly down the steps to her waiting hansom that the ragged children had no opportunity to cajole her. She chewed her thumbnail with quick little chomps in the cab on the way to the hospital while wondering if Lucas Patterson was unstable enough to commit murder.
Chapter 10
Jack—Tuesday, October 12, 1909, 10:00 a.m.
The sun hung in a cloudless sky, and the temperature was warm enough to let the flies cluster in force on the horse manure in the streets. Jack continued his brisk pace up Saratoga Street and over the dogleg to Liberty, where the hulking twin towers of the Hotel Rennert dominated the skyline.
The Rennert was one of Baltimore’s best hotels. It was even more famous for the Chesapeake seafood delicacies served in its lavish restaurant. The eatery was far too pricey to cater to the likes of Jack, but the lobby was free to enter.
Antsy as he was to conduct business, Jack got a shoeshine before going inside. When the bootblack kid finished, he pulled out a little whisk broom and gave Jack’s suit a quick brush. At first, he could only reach up to his chest. Then the kid jumped on top of his box to finish the job. At least now Jack looked as good as he possibly could.
The Rennert lobby made no bones about the class of people it aimed to serve. It had plush carpets, dark wood paneling, glittering crystal chandeliers, and huge stuffed armchairs. Usually when Jack entered a ritzy hotel some uniformed lackey was on him instantly, asking what his business was. Nobody bothered him here because even seedier-looking guys came and went to confer with Horace Shaw, who held court with his political cronies in a nook off the main lobby. True to form, Shaw was jotting notes while conferring with a gangly man in a garish plaid suit.
“Councilman, I don’t like those lawless hillbillies moving into your district any more than you do,” said Shaw. “Let me get back to you on your concern. Now, if you will excuse me, I see a fellow I must consult with.” The scarecrow pol got up and walked off.
“Hello there, Harden!” Shaw roared with hollow enthusiasm. “Take a load off.” Jack sat in a chair that sagged from the hundreds of hack butts it had held over the years. Shaw bent down and, after eying the overflowing spittoon by his feet, leaned over and spit a stream of tobacco juice into a crystal ashtray on the table next to him. “You’re here to pitch your services directly now that the Pinkertons have dropped me. Going to try and gouge me, no doubt.” Brown juice dribbled down the man’s chin.
“Here’s the deal. I want a thousand dollars right now. I’ll do my best to spring you—with no promises.” Jack spoke with breezy confidence, even though he had never collected more than three hundred dollars for a single job.
“You’ve got some crust.” Shaw grinned broadly. “I don’t have that much cash on me.” He pulled out his wallet and thumbed through the bills. “Got forty-six bucks. Maybe a little more in loose change.”
“Took a big risk leaving your bankroll at home today, don’t you think?”
“I figured this would be more than enough to cover any new problem. I instructed my lawyer to go to that coroner’s inquest this morning and do what you couldn’t—get me off the hook. My man can grease a palm when he has to.”
“You’re kidding yourself, Shaw. I got inside dope—the cops are coming for you today no matter what. You need to tell me what really happened with Lizzie.”
The man gazed warily at him. “I get it. Lipp hired you to talk to me. You’re going to come away with my supposed confession. It don’t matter what I say. You’ll just parrot what Lipp tells you and lie in court. Everybody knows you private detectives are natural-born perjurers. What a piece of scum won’t do for a few dollars.”
Jack stabbed a finger at the man. “The cops already got all the evidence they need, sport. They found the cabbie who picked you up outside Lizzie’s place early Monday. Guy says you were nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” Shaw’s assurance drained away. “And they got plenty besides the cabbie—your gun, your overcoat, your monogrammed drawers. The coroner’s going to use that inquest to say Lizzie was killed with your gun. No bribe is going to stop you from getting arrested. Scum or not, I’m all you got.”
“Okay, take it.” Shaw pulled the wad of bills from his wallet and thrust it out.
“That’s short of what I need. Way short.”
“You a betting man, Harden?”
“Not when I have my wits about me. Like now. See you later, pal.” Jack stood.
“Wait.” Shaw tossed the cash into Jack’s empty seat and rubbed his chin. “I’ve got a flunky right over there carrying plenty of kale. I’ll give you ten centuries as a flat fee with no assurance of success, just like you asked. Easy money if you want it.”
Jack scooped up the loose cash and sat down. “That’s more like it.”
“But you’re selling yourself much too cheap. And I’d like you to have a lot more motivation on my behalf. Pass on the thousand dollars now and I’ll give you five thousand if you help me beat this rap—all charges dropped, my name cleared. Quintuple or nothing. What do you say?”
“Why should I bet on a horse everybody thinks is headed for the glue factory?”
“Because there’s plenty of life left in this old stallion, that’s why. Look, I’ve done plenty of bad things in my life. But I swear on my dear mother’s grave I didn’t kill that girl. There’s got to be a way to prove it. I’ll give you some details that will help.”
Jack searched Shaw’s fleshy face and saw no tell, no hint of deception. Was the guy really innocent or just a great bluffer? The man did speak the absolute truth about one thing, though: Jack should have asked for more than a grand. He needed at least enough to pay off Knucks after giving half to Sarah. Shaw was offering him a chance he wouldn’t get again.
“Okay. Write up a contract that says you’ll pay me five grand after everything’s settled.”
“After you get me cleared of all charges.”
“Deal. Write it down. And sign it.”
Shaw scribbled on a sheet of paper and gave it to Jack. It looked legit enough.
“Now it’s time to cut the bull. Tell me what happened between you and Lizzie.”
Some of Shaw’s old swagger returned. “Nice girl—knew her real good. Visited her early Monday morning a little after midnight. Had a busy few days down in Newport News and spent most of the day and night Sunday passing cash around Ward 3. Met with dozens and dozens. ”
“People will confirm that you were out of town from Thursday to Sunday morning?”
“Only the governor of Maryland, a US senator, and half the Baltimore City Council. They were with me during the whole trip, down and back.”
“Tell me what happened the last time you saw Lizzie.”
“She wasn’t in a great mood. Had a bump on her noggin and was carping about a headache and feeling dizzy. But she don’t get paid for complaining. We got into bed. Everything was wrapping up just dandy when she starts shaking bad. Then she just conked out—not breathing, looked dead. I’m there just half an hour being nice and friendly and she up and died. Just my luck.”
“I feel real sorry for you.”
“Yeah, well it scared the bejesus out of me, so I threw my clothes on and got out of there as fast as I could. Damn well wish I had taken the time to collect all my things though, especially that pistol.”
“You didn’t bother to call for help before taking off.”
“I never claimed to be a saint,” said Shaw. “You got to believe me, though—I didn’t kill her.”
“You go to the Pinkertons to clean up the mess. Too bad you happen to be running for mayor against this particular police commissioner—otherwise the cops would take a bribe to make the problem go away. As per usual.”
Shaw nodded and heaved a sigh. “I know what’s what in this town. Money’s like oil on troubled waters for lots worse than this. But not this time.”
“How’d you meet Lizzie?”
“Got pulled in by that pimp of hers, Nick. Real sharp o
perator. Always ready to squeeze a buck out of a man.”
“Nick blackmailing you?”
Shaw looked tired and used up. “No hiding anything from you. Yeah. Creep demanded a hundred dollars out of me early Monday morning. Banged on my front door and said he’d tell the cops about me being with Lizzie when she died. That shook me up. Still, I wasn’t ready to pay that kind of money to a guy the cops probably wouldn’t believe. Then the rat sweetened the offer.”
“Nice concept—sweetening a blackmail threat.”
“Nick told me he had written proof that someone else whacked Lizzie on the head a couple of days before and that’s probably what killed her. Said he’d turn that evidence over to the cops and get me off the hot seat. Like a chump, I agreed to pay.”
“Take it that proof still hasn’t turned up,” said Jack. “Probably never existed in the first place.”
“Probably not.”
“Any idea where I can find Nick?”
“Open your wallet and wait for the two-bit grifters to show up.” Shaw looked up at the ceiling. “Failing that, all I know is that his aunt or something runs a five-dollar cathouse on Fawn Street. Name’s Fanny Suggs. That’s where I met the man. Wish I never had.”
“I’ll check into it.”
“You’d better work fast, Harden.” Shaw pulled out a tobacco pouch and loaded up his cheek with a fresh wad. “I was a fool for hoping to buy my way out of this jam without admitting I knew the girl. Lipp will use all that evidence you talked about to push me right quick through the wheels of justice, just like a prime side of beef into a grinder.”
Jack patted his jacket pocket. “Our contract gives me reason to move lickety-split. I can’t collect from a barrel of ground beef.”
“I’ve always said that the right man with the right incentive can do remarkable things.”
Jack heard approaching footsteps and turned to see Snake Eyes O’Toole crossing the lobby, flanked on either side by a uniformed cop.
“Horace Shaw,” said O’Toole. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Lizzie Sullivan. Cuff him.”
“Let’s not be hasty, boys. What’ll it take to leave me be?” Shaw spoke warmly, as if to old friends. The cops pulled him roughly to his feet and handcuffed him.
“Put him in the wagon.” O’Toole held Jack with a dead-eyed stare as the cops marched their man away. “Got something for you.” The detective held up a small rectangle of paper—a spanking-new Honus Wagner baseball card.
“Gee, thanks. That my reward for keeping him company while you were on your way from that rigged inquest?”
O’Toole struck a match and lit a corner of the card. He let it burn before dropping it on the carpet. Jack stomped on it.
“Stay out of this, Harden. Or I’ll hurt you bad.”
“What’s Lipp promised you? Captain of Detectives? A bunch of no-show jobs? It’s got to be the sweetest graft you’ve ever dreamed of.” O’Toole turned to leave. “Wait, I know. Lipp’s hiring Enrico Caruso to sing ‘Kiss Me Good Night, Mother.’”
The detective spun around and stepped so close the mothball smell wafting from his jacket was sickening. Jack wondered about the need to protect such a ratty-looking garment as O’Toole pulled out a long piece of sewn leather weighted at the end with lead shot. Getting smacked in the kisser with that would take out teeth and break bone. Quick as a wink, the sap whooshed by, just stinging the end of Jack’s nose.
“That smart chin music’s going to get you killed, wise guy. Looking forward to the day.” O’Toole pocketed the weapon and sauntered off.
Jack’s knees were jelly. He took a few deep breaths before bending down to pick up the burned baseball card. Only the bottom half of Wagner’s torso was left with “Pittsburg” misspelled across his chest. What a darn shame. He dropped the scrap into his pocket.
The Gayety Theater was a ten-minute walk from the Rennert. As Jack went east on Baltimore Street he passed a slew of retail shops. They worked hard to grab people’s money, with awnings stretched over the storefronts to lure customers out of the weather to linger over sidewalk displays. Every foot of merchant space was plastered with come-ons broadcasting the lowest price, best of this or that, biggest selection, newest arrival.
Some joints went all out with new electric signs, including the five-story-high job that spelled out “The New York Clothing House” with dozens of flashing lights. Jack couldn’t figure why anyone would go into a place like that—the prices had to be pumped up to pay for all those lightbulbs. Yet salesgirls and office clerks flocked to the place. Buying duds in a store with a gaudy sign must make people feel classier and deserving of a better life.
People also came to this part of town for cheap entertainment. The penny vaudeville halls were big draws with their phonograph booths, punching bag slots, and mechanical fortune-telling Gypsies. Most popular were the peep shows, which offered short glimpses of everything from camels walking in the desert to dreadnoughts firing their big guns out into the ocean. A guy looking for a bigger thrill could go to the curtained section in the back and drop a nickel to look into a box and see images of bare-legged girls frolicking.
The arcades packed them in, but the moving picture parlors were getting ever more popular. People lined up, eager to spend twenty-five cents to sit in the dark and let all kinds of flickering fantasies take over their minds.
In spite of all the automated diversions, the vaudeville and burlesque theaters still packed them in. The joints counted on customers paying for live acts—especially shows with pretty girls in skimpy costumes. A bunch of theaters crowded the block just ahead. The signs were even flashier and the buildings gaudier than the storefronts. The Grand Theater was a real sight, with life-size statues of nude women perched on the windowsills as if ready to jump down and hug any man in sight. Next door, Lubin’s Theater looked almost sedate with only one naked statue holding a pair of lights aloft.
The Gayety Theater was directly across the street. Consistent with its occasional claim of “polite vaudeville,” the building displayed no naked statues. Still, a poster for the “Big Girlesque Burlesque Revue” displayed a kick line showing off their naked legs and frilly underclothes.
He went around back to the stage door. Unlike the public entrance, this spot was squalid and bleak, with broken whiskey bottles and nasty puddles covered with flies. Inside, the joint was dark, with muffled shouting coming from deep within. Jack barked his shin against something before his eyes adjusted.
As he rubbed away the pain, he recognized the theater manager’s voice. Jack had done a job for him a while back—collaring a one-armed acrobat who had cracked the theater’s safe and run off with the Saturday night receipts. Stepping closer, he saw a few dim strip lights and one glaring spot hitting two girls onstage wearing the fewest feathers they could get away with and not be arrested for indecency. The manager was waving his arms.
“You two can’t dance to save your lives. Take some lessons! Practice! You need more than skin to get on my stage. Yeah, yeah, I know you panicked the house in Altoona, but this ain’t there.” The girls pleaded for another chance. The manager shook his head. Jack decided to barge in.
“Can I interrupt?”
The manager looked over and dropped his arms. “Yeah, sure. We’re done here, girls. Get dressed and get lost.” Jack followed the other man’s long, quick strides up the theater aisle to the lobby. “Harden, you got great timing. Let’s go to my office before those no-talent dames really get me mad.”
“Tough job, dealing with undressed girls all day,” said Jack.
“They all think they’re ready for the Folies Bergère. As if prancing around in ten-twenty-thirty-cent joints out on the Kerosene Circuit in the middle of nowhere makes them ready for the big time. Nine out of ten aren’t even good enough for the chorus. After a while it’s not even worth fooling around with them—which they’re happy to do with any guy who might put them on a stage.”
The manager was younger than the lines etched in his fa
ce suggested. Maybe he had a naturally nervous disposition, or maybe it was the aggravation of his job. Booze no doubt contributed. The man wasted no time plunking a glass on his desk and filling it with whiskey. “Take it you’re still dry, right?” Jack nodded. “Don’t know how you get through the day.” He downed the glass with a grateful shiver. “Got an open bottle of sarsaparilla around here someplace. Want me to look?”
“Don’t worry about it. You knew Lizzie Sullivan, right?”
“Already talked to the cops about it.” The man’s eyebrows came down in a sharp V, which made the vertical furrow running above his nose and up his forehead look deep enough to plant corn. “Real shame. Nice kid and an okay dancer—she was never going to headline, but didn’t embarrass herself either.”
“You liked her.”
“Like a daughter, believe it or not. She had personality to burn. Real engaging and full of life but with a soft side, too. Most of the girls in this game—even the young ones—get hard quick. Not her. She was still friendly like the girl next door.”
“Any idea who might’ve killed her?”
“Cops said that Horace Shaw croaked her. Bastard.”
“What was the deal with her and Shaw?”
The manager shook his head. “The usual. A married man gets a little paid attention from a showgirl.”
“Heard Nick Monkton arranged the introduction.”
He filled and then drained another glass. “Yeah. I kept telling her Nick was bad news, that he didn’t care a lick about her. She was his meal ticket, that’s all. Still, you know how skirts are.” He folded his hands under his tilted head and said “I love him” in a warbly falsetto.
“Nick found her clients other than Shaw.”
“’Course he did. That’s the biz.”
“They include Lucas Patterson? Or Adolph Lipp?”
The manager laughed and pounded the desk so hard that Jack worried the guy was having apoplexy. “I hear jokes all the time, but that’s great—takes the cake.” He wiped tears from his eyes as he caught his breath. “Next, you’re going to ask if those two have a comedy bit. I wish. Just picture it: ‘The Socialist and the Preacher,’ trading one-liners about the virtues of free love and the evils of liquor.” He drew in a wheezy breath. “And if I could get them to work blue this joint would sell out every night for weeks on end.”