by Bill LeFurgy
“I’ll take that to mean neither of those guys hung out with Lizzie. Tell me who else she was with over the last week or so. Could be that Shaw’s innocent. If so, I want to find the killer.”
“That so?” The manager scratched his chin. “I only catch so much, you know. Did see Nick showing her off to this funny little guy last week. Had these glasses that made his eyes so big he looked like a bug. He also had this little pointy patch of hair sticking up on his bald head. Fellow got her excited, though—she came back and told me he was a doctor who wanted to examine her. Now, imagine that.”
“Know anything else about the guy? Like his name?”
“No. And I always take what these guys tell the girls with a chunk of salt.”
“Lizzie ever mention her sister, Clara?”
“Oh, yeah, the acclaimed Clara Sullivan. Lizzie loved her, even though Clara gave her a ton of grief.”
“Acclaimed?”
“Not a fan of the legitimate theater, are you? Clara Sullivan’s a stage actress. Does high-brow stuff. She was in that Ibsen show—A Doll’s House—that ran at the Academy of Music last week. Had the lead and got good reviews.”
I’ll bet she did, thought Jack as he stared at the last few drops dripping down the sides of the grimy whiskey glass. “What was Clara badgering Lizzie about?”
“Family dispute. The mother died and Clara ran off and left Lizzie alone with the father, who was sick. When he died, he left the farm to Lizzie. She sold it for a little money and moved here. Being young and foolish, she spent the cash real quick on clothes and whatnot. Ask me, all that money was hers to spend. But Clara showed up with the gall to demand half the inheritance. Lizzie should have told her to take a hike. Instead, she gets all boo-hooey and lets her sister push her around, even when Clara got mean. Guess highbrow acting don’t pay all that well.”
“Yeah, but it’s a skill that comes in handy offstage, too. Did Clara know Nick?”
“No way anyone got to Lizzie without going through Nick.”
“I hear Clara’s at the Hotel Kernan.”
“Yeah, all the Academy of Music acts stay there. Except for them that want more privacy. There’s a deal with the Academy Hotel next door, where performers can stay under a fake name.”
Jack got up. “Thanks for the information. Just what I needed.”
“Hope you find out who killed Lizzie. Like to strangle the guy with my bare hands.”
Jack got on a trolley going east on Pratt Street toward the Fawn Street cathouse Shaw had mentioned. Clinging to the back of the rattly car as it moved along the harborfront, he got a good view of the old and the new Baltimore. The brand-new Power Plant on Pier 4 was spewing thick black smoke from its four towering stacks while ginning up extra juice for the United Railways and Electric Company streetcars. A handsome array of double-globe electric streetlamps ticked by, the metal posts still showing off their glossy black paint. City boosters touted these lights as providing a “great white way” to blast away the night. Jack knew shady business still took place around here after the sun went down, although some crooks and grifters had reluctantly shifted to darker locations.
Another sign of progress were the trenches ripped into the street paving. One work crew was installing sewers, which offered the promise of flush toilets to this section of town. Another gang was digging cuts for electrical conduits that were supposed to replace the mess of wires now drooping overhead. Good move. Hissing wires routinely slithered off the overloaded poles to kill people like deadly electrified cobras. A drawback to all this worthy work was that traffic had to weave among open ditches, piles of dirt, clouds of dust, and knots of inattentive laborers. As the car rolled past Hollingsworth Street, Jack gaped at an automobile lying upside down in a construction pit.
“Idiot joyrider. Serves him right for racing down the street at twenty miles an hour with no care for anyone else,” said a pale young man standing nearby. “Those damn devil wagons should be illegal.”
“No turning back from our fine progressive age, my friend,” said Jack. “Horses are on the way out. At least the streets will be cleaner and not smell so bad.”
“Hope I’m dead before machines outnumber horses.”
“Take some comfort that a whole bunch of autoists will croak themselves—like that guy under his big boat in that pit.”
Old Baltimore was still alive in the harbor rolling by on the right. Dozens of rake-masted bugeyes and skipjacks crowded the water’s edge unloading oysters lugged in from the Chesapeake. Wagons and carts were backed up to the low harbor wall. A parade of men with bushel baskets hauled in the catch from the boats. Both whites and blacks were working together. The urgent need to move fresh oysters overrode the usual practice of separating the races. That maybe meant the blacks earned as much as the white men for their work. All the oyster brokers standing around in their natty suits and bowlers were white, naturally enough.
Jack jumped off the car just across the Jones Falls bridge on the edge of Fells Point. It was a quick jog to Fawn Street, with its worn paving stones and broken curbs. Sunken stretches of roadway held pools of dark, greasy water. Privy stink hung in the air. Rows of modest three-story buildings lined both sides of the street—typical working-class houses.
One place looked different. It sat next to an open alley with a locked gate. The front door was reinforced with iron bands. A neatly lettered sign hung on the brick next to the door handle: “Do not inquire within without prior appointment.” Unlike the other houses, every window in the place was covered by thick curtains. All hallmarks of your fancier whorehouse. Jack knocked and stood back from the door, in case he had to dodge something. The door opened a crack to reveal a woman’s chubby face with dark bags hanging under surly eyes. “What you want?”
“You Fanny Suggs? I’m a private detective.” Jack waved a five-dollar bill. “Just want to talk. That’s it.”
“You alone?” The door opened a little wider, and the woman stuck her big head out to get a better look.
“Yep. Five bucks for five minutes.”
“What else is new. Men.” She snatched the money from his hand. “Okay.”
She stepped back from the door and Jack went in. The front room smelled like expensive cigars and cheap perfume with an undertone of sticky sweet champagne. There were two big divans covered in plush red velvet with lace doilies on the arms. Ashtrays on stands sprouted from the floor like brass weeds. A massive player piano with a candle sconce set on either side of the keyboard filled one side of the room. A roll of punched paper music sat above the keyboard, and a nearby cabinet was stuffed with more rolls.
“Heard you know Nick Monkton. That true?”
“Man’s a low-down weasel. Got no use for him.” Fanny turned away, picked up a feather duster, and swiped lazily at an amateurish oil painting of a well-endowed nude woman reclining with what was probably supposed to be a beckoning look on her face. The rough brushstrokes gave the gal a cross-eyed look.
“I need to talk with him. Where’s he at?” The annoyed voices of two women bickering drifted down from upstairs.
Fanny moved across the room and flicked the duster at a collection of ceramic figurines arrayed on a side table. She worked on several smirking cherubs poised to let arrows fly and moved on to a girl holding a bunch of flowers. A vigorous flick knocked the girl over. “Nick’s a piece of garbage but I ain’t peaching on him.” She dropped the duster and stood up the fallen figure with tender care.
Jack noticed a moth bumping into the gaslight globes hanging from the ceiling. The thing didn’t give up until it found an opening, flew straight into a gas jet, and vanished in an orange burst of flame. “From what I hear, you’re right about Nick’s character. Thing is, he’s got himself tied up in the murder of a soiled dove. That should mean something to you, given your line of work.”
Fanny puffed up her big cheeks and blew out a breath. “You best leave, mister.” He held up two more five-spots. The woman’s baggy eyes fixed on the cash
as the argument upstairs escalated. Fanny thrust out a meaty hand and he put the bills into her palm. “Staying in an old stable down on Fell and Ann near the water,” she said. “Got a pistol to keep him company.”
Outside, the sunlight was fading fast. Jack jammed his hands into his pockets, thinking it would be safer to visit Nick tomorrow morning in the daylight. The Silverstrike Hotel was close by, and he needed to have another chat with Bob Foster. On the way, Jack heard a newsie yelling about World Series game four. The cagey kid made him buy a paper to get the result: Detroit 5, Pittsburgh 0. The Series was all tied up at two games apiece.
While walking, he thought about the life of a whore. It was pointless to blame any gal for lack of morals because forces outside her control called the shots. Both young men and women came to the city to find work and to escape a dreary farm life. A man could get any number of laboring jobs and, if he managed to save a little, could buy a horse and start hauling stuff for higher pay. Assuming the guy was careful, he could save enough after a while to buy multiple wagon teams or even a store. Given Baltimore’s crazy growth, a penniless hick could turn himself into a proper businessman in a few years.
A woman from the sticks faced a different situation. Factories were among the few places to get respectable work, and the wages were a lot less than what men earned. Only those gals who were pretty and clever enough could get work in a department store and earn a little more, or dance in a chorus line for a little more still. None of those jobs paid enough to allow even the thrifty to save much. But few saved a dime, as the social pressure to buy clothes and go out on the town kept them poor. The promise of cash and “having a good time” drew gals into prostitution, but the life could be harsh. Pimps and madams were experts in skimming earnings, and johns dished out abuse, violence, and disease.
Unlike the last time Jack was in the joint, the Silverstrike was packed. It took time to find a spot at the bar, and getting there required a lot of pushing and shoving. His height, along with his sobriety, made the job easier. One guy took a wild swing at him and ended up hitting a big man in the back. Jack didn’t bother to turn around to watch them scuffle. He slid cash to the barkeep. “Tell Bob I have something he needs to see.” The man left on his mission just as the piano player sat down.
“Good evening, ladies and gents. I’m going to start out with a Nick Monkton tune. You all know Nick—he’s a master of the raggedy piano and got a rare talent for writing good-time music. He calls this number ‘The Baltimore Riprap Rag.’” The guy started playing fast. His strong voice dipped and soared around the lively piano notes.
What’s that by the shore?
With all that jumpin’ looks like a dance floor
Guys goin’ way up and girls step so great
Nobody’s steady, nobody’s straight
It’s a new kind of dance, just for shock
You got to step from rock to rock
It’s the Baltimore riprap rag
It’s just what you need to feed your jag
Come on now, forget your woes
It sure ain’t steady as she goes
Jack was tapping his finger in time when the bartender leaned over and shouted in his ear.
“Bob.” He jerked his thumb.
Jack pushed his way to the back of the bar and opened the office door. He stood across from Foster, who sat stone-faced behind his desk. “You weren’t kidding about knowing Lizzie, now were you?” Jack tossed the letter down on the desk. Foster read it silently, his expression unchanged.
“Look, I know you cared for the girl,” said Jack. “And I’m inclined to think somebody else killed her. Still, that letter’s suspicious, don’t you agree?”
Bob got up and stepped within punching distance. “You’re as reckless and cracked as everyone says, Harden. What did you think I would do when you showed up at my place and shoved this in my face? Give you a fat reward? Break down and confess? You had to know that I’d lay you out before your hand even touches that gun of yours.”
“All I want is answers to two questions. First: Where were you last Friday?”
“You got some big brass balls coming here to play this game.” Bob raised his fists.
“Answer the question.”
“I was at a boxing exhibition in Washington, DC, from early Thursday morning until late Saturday afternoon. It was in the paper. You can read, can’t you?”
“An expert says Lizzie got hit in the head on Friday. That’s what eventually killed her early Sunday morning. Not the gunshot.”
Bob held his aggressive pose for a second before dropping his hands. “You should be a bloody mess right now. Want to know why you’re not?”
“Because I brought the letter here. If I’d gone to the cops they’d come after you. What’s that you said about a colored man and a white woman? That letter’s enough to get you in big trouble.”
“Yeah.” Bob dropped back into his chair. “And I respect that you’re serious about getting to the bottom of Lizzie’s murder. What’s your second question?”
“What about Nick—”
“That damn guy.” Bob pounded the desk with the flat of his hand. “I got hot at Lizzie, told her to dump the man, that she deserved way better than him. Why are some women so loyal to men who treat them bad? It don’t make sense. She stuck with him until it was too late.” He hit the desk again, harder.
“Okay—”
Bob waved the letter. “I know what some would say about this. Proof that Foster was so jealous that he smacked the girl. But I didn’t. Never laid a hand on her. When she wrote ‘you didn’t mean to hurt me’ she was talking about her hurt feelings, all the rough stuff I yelled about her and Nick.” He looked at the letter. “Last time I saw her she was crying. I’ve got to live with that.”
Jack stayed silent for a while before leaning over and putting his hands on the desk. “Let me just spit out my second question. What about Nick’s latest con? Got a strong hunch it’s tied up with this whole mess.”
“I knew something about what Nick was up to. Made me sick.”
Jack tilted his head. “I’m listening.”
“I’d finally had it with the bastard Sunday night—told him I was letting him go. Laughed and said he didn’t need the job because he had something proving a big-deal white man in town was part Negro. Said he was going to make a mint off it and move himself to New York. Wouldn’t say anything more—just went over and sat with Lucas Patterson for a while before the cops came and took him off.”
“Patterson the mark? Or in on the scam?”
“No idea. But a man making money off someone’s secret Negro blood don’t deserve to draw breath. Especially Nick, who’s passing himself. It’s wrong to regret your ancestors. Wrong to let the white man make you ashamed. But I’ll level with you—I was scared when the cops dragged Nick away and tore apart his room. Figured the less I let on about what I knew about Nick, the less I had to worry about what that devil O’Toole might do.”
“Don’t blame you for that. Since we got all the cards on the table, how can I find out more about Nick’s shakedown?”
“Go visit Nick in his love nest with Patterson.” Bob held a match to Lizzie’s letter, then dropped it into a big brass ashtray and stared down at it. “All I got for you apart from that is Nick spends a lot of time consorting with the crowd at Kernan’s Rathskeller. He loves to run his mouth, so one of them might know something.” Bob’s fixed eyes reflected the flame as the letter burned.
“Thanks for that. Promise you I’ll do my best to get Lizzie’s killer.”
“You mean you’ll do what it takes to get Shaw off.”
“Says he didn’t do it.”
“Something you should know about Shaw. He’s the type that would just as soon kill a woman as swat a bug. Lizzie was scared of him. Far as I’m concerned, the man could be guilty.”
“Or maybe he’s innocent and I’m the guy who’ll find out who really killed her. That would mean something to you, right?”
/> “Okay, Harden, maybe you’ve gone and sold your soul to Shaw. You think he really needs you—and he does to stay out of court. But just remember the man is too well connected to spend time in jail. He owns lots of judges. And even if he’s convicted, his good pal the governor will pardon him in a flash. Shaw will still be running this city come what may. The only reason he’s dangling money at you is that you’re the cheapest and cleanest way for him to get out of the mess. Stop pretending to be some damn white savior crusading for justice. I’m not buying it.” Bob opened a book with The Souls of Black Folks by W.E.B. Dubois stamped on the cover. “You can get on out of here now.”
Jack shrugged and walked out. Bob was, of course, dead right. Shaw had managed to claw his way into the heart of the political power structure, and that might make him arrogant enough to kill with no fear of consequences. Which made it all the more remarkable that Lipp had the sand to push for Shaw’s arrest. The only question was whether the commissioner’s motivation was strictly moral or rooted in something less honorable.
It was past 10:00 p.m. and his boardinghouse was six blocks away. Jack was tempted to take a roundabout route out past Patterson Park to work off his nerves. But it was smarter to get into bed as soon as possible. He had only nightmares to look forward to, but he should give himself a shot at some sleep.
Walking down Caroline Street he thought again of Sarah, how she could be so smart about hard stuff and so dumb about straightforward dealings with people. How she could be a blunt pain in the rear one minute and honestly caring the next. How she wanted to be independent while at the same time work as a team. He liked her plenty, but working by himself was less complicated.