Into the Suffering City

by Bill LeFurgy

  “A Bible? The one Nick’s great-granny gave him?” Jack put his hands over his eyes and rubbed hard.

  “It’s what’s written in the back that matters,” said Clara. “It’s from Nick Monkton’s great-grandma, Annie. She was a slave, and some reverend wrote down notes on the blank pages about her relations. Guess who the slave owner was.”

  “No more guessing games.”

  “Horace Shaw’s great-grandpa. The notes say he got Annie pregnant. Then old master Shaw raised the kid as his only white heir.”

  “You’re saying Shaw’s got Negro blood and is passing as white. And that Shaw’s related to Nick.”

  “Yes. The Bible makes it all clear.” Clara spoke in a low voice while shuffling her feet. “I figure when Nick got the book, he wanted to blackmail Shaw before the election. So Nick gave Lizzie the Bible to hide. Then Nick shook down Shaw. Shaw didn’t play. Instead, he hurt Lizzie and paid somebody to kill Nick.”

  “We’re back to Shaw killing your sister.” Jack pushed his derby back and ran his fingers through his matted hair, trying to figure out just how much she was lying. “Where did Lizzie hide the Bible?”

  “She’d pried up a floorboard and then hammered the board back down. We learned that trick living with our Pa. Nick couldn’t find it, which must have driven him up a tree.”

  “That’s why she had that chisel in her room. Bet you have one, too. You hid the book under a floorboard so the detective couldn’t find it in your room last night.” Jack drained his coffee and waved for more. “Why can’t you sell it to Shaw?”

  “After what he did to Nick? Come on.”

  “Okay—why not give the Bible to the cops?”

  “Because they already suspect I stole the thing. They’ll toss me in jail if I turn it in now. If they don’t kill me.” Clara tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “I’m so thick. I should have left right after Shaw was arrested. But I needed money so badly I thought I could still get something for it. No dice. Now I’m just plain scared.” She put her head down and looked at him. “I’m going twenty-three skidoo—catching a train west in an hour. And look, I really do want Lizzie’s killer caught. You’re the only one who can do that.” She pushed the black book at him. “Here—take it.”

  Jack was suddenly seven years old with his older sister hovering above him. “Do you know every word of the Bible?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The switch hit his back with three stinging thwacks.

  “Yes, really I do, ma’am.” He forced enthusiasm into his voice.

  “Do you swear to use the Bible to educate all those inferior to you?”

  “I swear I will, ma’am. Always.”

  “Take the Good Book. Hold it tight in your hands. Never let it go.”

  Jack’s hand automatically grasped the book and pulled it toward him while two thoughts clashed in his brain. This Bible can crack the case. But Clara is probably pulling something for the benefit of her city detective shadow. Before he could resolve the conflict, Clara rose and stepped away from the table.

  “Good luck, Jack. Hope you get the guy.”

  “‘For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.’” Jack’s voice quaked as he spoke scripture out loud for the first time in almost twenty years.

  “Never would have taken you for a religious man. Guess it’s a sign from heaven.” Clara shot him a tense smile. “Got to catch a train. If I knew how to pray for you, I would.” She turned and walked out.

  Jack looked around and didn’t spot Clara’s tail—but that didn’t mean the detective hadn’t already seen them. He opened the Bible to the title page, which proclaimed The Holy Bible Containing the Old and New Testaments, along with a bunch of other stuff. One phrase set in fancy type caught his eye: Newly Edited by the American Revision Committee.

  He shook his head, uncertain why it was necessary to edit a message that was supposed to be straight from God. He flipped to the back pages, which bore a neat inked script.

  The account was basic. Annie didn’t know what year she was born on the Maryland plantation of Thomas Shaw but guessed it was between 1812 and 1814. She said Shaw got her with child about 1838. Shaw’s wife got pregnant around the same time, and the children were born within hours of each other. Mrs. Shaw and her baby died during the delivery. Master Shaw then took Annie’s fair-skinned baby boy and switched it for his dead child.

  According to Annie, Shaw got her pregnant again two years later, and this time she raised the child as her own. The family tree showed the current Horace Shaw as both the great-grandson of Annie and the second cousin of Nick Monkton.

  Horace Shaw was one eighth black. If that got out, prejudice would ruin all his connections. Shaw surely would be convicted of murder and hanged. Jack stuck the Bible under his jacket, next to the Colt in his belt. As he walked out of the lunchroom, the book rubbed painfully against his side, reminding him that holding onto the thing really put his ass in a sling.

  After looking left and right, Jack saw no cops. Heading toward Charles Street, he came upon a crowd rubbernecking at two blue boys yelling at a wagon driver for carting an unsafe load of bananas piled at least six feet high. Jack had seen far worse violations—the cops were either new on the beat or angling for a bribe. Three men darted from the gaggle. Jack dodged one and was reaching for the Colt when a sap hit him in the left kidney. When the pain cleared he was against a wall in a piss-smelling alley. Snake Eyes O’Toole stood close by with two other city detectives.

  “Nice one, Snake.” He grinned. “Cops usually have no imagination, but anything’s possible if the payoff is big enough.”

  Snake Eyes nodded, and Jack howled as a club hit him on the elbow. “The book.” O’Toole held his face inches away. “Give it.”

  “You know,” said Jack as he breathed through the pain, “those charcoal lozenges do wonders for bad breath. You got to give them a try.”

  O’Toole put on a set of brass knuckles with dried blood and hair stuck all over them. Jack saw the arm cock, a concussive flash, then blackness.

  Chapter 19

  Sarah—Thursday, October 14, 1909, 1:00 p.m.

  Margaret’s carriage sat near the main entrance of the Hotel Belvedere. They had been waiting in line for ten minutes as the other carriages unloaded. Sarah would have been pleased to wait even longer, but the hotel staff worked efficiently to move the well-dressed passengers from their vehicles.

  All too soon, a man took her hand as she stepped from the carriage, only to stumble headlong over the hem of her gown. The attendant caught her deftly and escorted her through the mammoth brass and glass revolving door into the lobby. Another attendant took her wool wrap.

  Margaret, escorted by her husband, lost no time buttonholing the mayor. After a few stilted words of greeting, Sarah stood silently alone, repeating to herself the mad tea party chapter from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. She could only hope to navigate this event as coolly as Alice did hers.

  Sarah caught sight of herself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. While she had glimpsed views of herself dressing at the hands of Margaret and her wardrobe assistants, this was the first time she saw the finished result. The person she saw in the glass was a complete stranger. Her hair was parted in the middle and carefully combed and lifted away from the sides and back of her head to form a sculpted, gravity-defying mass.

  The most shocking thing of all was the dress. The material clung tightly, giving a clear outline of her body before pooling on the floor in a four-foot train. She looked away while trying to adjust the bodice into a more comfortable position.

  “Sarah, are you feeling well?” Margaret had dismissed the mayor and was standing close by. “Do you need to rest?”

  “I have objectives to accomplish.”

  “You look wonderful.” Margaret smiled more broadly than usual. “Two young men with the mayor asked about you. I had better escort
you into the ballroom before one of them tries to take your arm. And please do remember to gather the front of your dress in your hand before walking.”

  It took a couple of tries before Sarah could bunch enough of the flowing fabric to keep her feet clear. Even so, the drag of the train made walking difficult. Falling on her face was a definite possibility.

  The ballroom was an enormous space with twenty-foot-high coffered ceilings trimmed with gilt dentil molding. Three crystal chandeliers floated above thick carpets upon which guests stood mingling in clusters. “I’ll arrange to get one glass each from Commissioner Lipp and Lucas Patterson.” Margaret made a dour face, although she had given up trying to force Sarah to abandon her plan.

  “As we discussed, I must witness the removals. I need to know the provenance of each glass. Also, ensure the servants do not contribute their finger marks. That will complicate my work.”

  “I’ll arrange things with that waiter.” Margaret nodded at a middle-aged black man dispensing champagne with gloved hands from a bottle wrapped in a linen napkin. “He’ll collect the glasses while you’re conversing with each of your—well, your targets.” Margaret swept her arm over the room. “I must circulate before the food is served and all the boring speeches begin. Will you be all right by yourself?”

  She nodded, and Margaret glided off to chat quietly with the waiter. Sarah moved to a corner to stand by herself next to a wilted palm potted in an ugly iron urn. It was one of those offensive faux-Roman things covered with a mishmash of beads and wreaths. She looked over the rim and wrinkled her nose at the fork, cigar butt, and ancient dinner roll lying on top of the potting soil.

  She scanned the crowd and noted the men’s faces were red from alcohol and their mouths wide with conversation or laughter. The women’s faces were powder-white, their mouths fixed with tight smiles. There was a lot of loud conviviality, with voices layered on top of one another. She could not imagine what these people could be talking about. Try to appear normal, she told herself.

  “A crime, an absolute crime—a pretty girl all by herself. Allow me to join you.”

  She jumped and glanced up at a young man slightly older than herself. His black hair was slicked back from a forehead that glistened with a sweaty sheen, and his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Sarah recognized him as the boy who had given her a ham-handed grope at one of the few society events she had attended after coming out. He had put one hand on the back of her neck, the other on her rear end, pulled her close, and was going in for a wet kiss when she bit his lip.

  “What’s a gorgeous apparition like you doing in a place like Baltimore? Waiting for me, I hope. Been wishing for a magical girl like you to appear and rescue me for a long, long time.” He stared at her chest.

  “Go away. You are a louche man with whom I am, unfortunately, already acquainted.”

  The man backed away rapidly. “That voice—Sarah Kennecott.” He walked away as quickly as his unsteady legs could carry him.

  She had to complete her task and get out of this place as soon as possible. She saw Lucas Patterson holding forth nearby with several men she did not know. A series of deep breaths helped calm her a bit as she approached them. “Mr. Lucas Patterson, I see you are present at this social event,” she said. The men ran their gaze over her as Patterson did introductions. She felt like a bug before a group of entomologists just before getting stuck with a pin.

  Patterson broke into a smile, his brilliant white teeth contrasting with his dark complexion. “My dear Sarah. What a pleasant surprise to see you at this dreary affair. You look—well, smashing.” His clothing was more extravagant than the last time they met, with a jet-black jacket framing a white shirt with glossy ebony studs and a high wing collar. A silk bow tie rode under his chin.

  As Patterson introduced her, each man tried to outdo the other with compliments on her appearance. Sarah wished her intellect could elicit a fraction of this reaction. “I was just saying this city needs to restrict child labor,” said Patterson. “Six-year-olds must be in school, not dulling their minds packing oysters or vegetables. This election must be about the future of our youth—”

  “We must drink alcohol,” said Sarah. “The purpose is to ritualistically acknowledge Mr. Lucas Patterson’s candidacy for mayor of Baltimore.” The waiter appeared on cue with a fresh bottle and a tray of clean glasses. Murmurs of approval sounded all around.

  “See, gentlemen? She is both lovely and a supporter of my quixotic candidacy. The perfect combination.” Patterson raised his glass.

  “Sir, I must inform you that this bottle here is our best vintage.” The waiter spoke smoothly. “And I will be scolded if I return to the kitchen with any remaining.” However much Margaret is paying this man, thought Sarah, it isn’t enough.

  The waiter took Patterson’s glass and presented him with one freshly filled. “I want a fair election,” Sarah said, offering a toast. She had hoped to come up with something cleverer, but that would have to do.

  “Most appropriate, Sarah, as my entire campaign is about bringing fairness to all of Baltimore’s citizens,” said Patterson. “Let us drink up—and leave no heel taps in the glass.”

  “Speaking of fairness, how about that rascal Shaw getting bail after a murder,” said one of the men after emptying his drink. “The corruption in this city is outrageous. Everyone knows he’s as guilty as a whore in church. I hope that a jury sees that and he dangles at the end of rope.” All the men laughed except Patterson.

  “Let us not joke about corruption or capital punishment,” he said. “And Horace Shaw is innocent until proven guilty. We must respect the rule of law, which applies equally to all men, despite their race, nationality, or circumstance.” Patterson’s sober look slid into a sly smile. “The voters may feel differently.”

  “The commissioner was a brave man to take on Shaw—but Lipp now appears to have the election in hand,” said a man. “No offense, Patterson.”

  “Just remember the election has yet to occur,” said Patterson. “Don’t underestimate the good citizens of Baltimore. More of them wish to advance Negro rights, help the poor, and improve public health than you think. Many also favor my support for giving women the vote.”

  “Thanks for reminding me not to vote for you,” said a man as he chuckled and slapped Patterson on the back. “Women don’t want the vote. All they want to do is shop, gossip, and boss us around.”

  “That is untrue.” Sarah crossed her arms tightly. “Even in the face of prejudice, women have done great things. Consider Clara Barton, Jane Addams, and Margaret Sanger, just to name some. Broadly speaking—”

  “Speaking of broads, you mean,” said one of the men, stirring great guffaws.

  Her chest constricted as she prepared to continue the attack, but she remained silent as Patterson darted off to place his arm warmly around the shoulders of Dr. Anson, who had just arrived. Sarah was surprised to see her mentor, as he was not a habitué of high society events. Patterson leaned down and spoke into Anson’s ear while the other man nodded gravely. Sarah had no idea the two men knew each other, much less were on such familiar terms. She was about to leave when the duo approached.

  “Is that you, Sarah? You look so . . . different.” Dr. Anson’s eyes were red under his filmy glasses. His complexion had a green cast, which his spinach-colored jacket enhanced.

  “Sarah here is the life of the party—she’s shed her somber ways and is even forcing champagne on us,” said Patterson. “Is there any left?” The waiter provided a glass, which Anson drained in one slurping gulp while reaching for another.

  “Well, well. How nice.” Anson spoke in the slow, deliberate manner of someone who knew they’d had too much to drink. “How are you feeling, poor dear?”

  “I am in acceptable health.” She began edging away.

  “She looks fine,” Patterson said, cocking his head.

  “What of your quest to reveal the secret truth that only you can know?” Anson spread his arms and held the pose,
looking at her like a wobbly lawyer questioning a hostile witness in court. “Or have you moved on from a murder investigation to a search for unicorns? I have pressed Macdonald to help you, but the man’s too polite. Him and his European manners.”

  Sarah felt a livid blush rise up her neck to her face. Anger and hurt crashed wildly within her. How could her mentor speak to her this way, and in public no less? She swayed erratically, wondering how she could possibly endure this shock.

  “Murder investigation?” Patterson turned to her with his brow raised. “Whatever are you up to, Sarah?”

  “Pure folly,” said Anson as his glasses slipped down his nose. “The girl has mental problems.” He shot a finger up to adjust his eyewear but missed the frame, his digit skidding across his sweaty cheek.

  Sarah turned and walked away as quickly as the trailing fabric of her dress would permit. She stumbled and had to clutch a man’s arm to stay upright. Ignoring his words of concern, she advanced before abruptly stopping with the realization that she could also get Dr. Anson’s fingerprints—if the waiter could capture his glass. As luck would have it, the man was nearby and agreed to the request. She observed him smoothly exchange the doctor’s empty glass for one newly refreshed.

  She had a final objective. Standing on her tiptoes, she spotted Adolph Lipp in conversation with two matrons and headed for the group. Do not speak too loudly. Do not be argumentative. Do observe the glass going into custody.

  A plump matron dressed in gathered yards of patterned white silk stood to Lipp’s right. Another woman, wrapped in a pale-yellow brocade and chiffon that matched the tint of her white hair, stood to his left. The commissioner’s suit was cheap and shiny, and with his deep frown and downturned mouth, he appeared as ill at ease as Sarah felt.