Gaslight Magick

by Teel James Glenn

  “This was Mister Mike’s office,” the Scotsman said, his burr so thick I had to listen carefully to understand him. “It is just as we found it.” He pushed the door to a room inward and allowed me to step inside.

  What I saw was a horrific image that will stay in my mind’s eye for the rest of my life; the office was a shambles with the walls splattered with what could only have been traces of Mike’s blood!

  The room was wood panelled and had been nicely appointed before whatever had ravaged it. There were nick-knacks from his travels-- souvenirs from Arabia and Turkey, rugs, statues and icons, many of them now smashed and scattered around the room as if a storm had struck the space.

  I recognized some of the curios he had purchased in my presence when we met in Cairo when he was reporting for a wire service-- a clay tablet, a medallion of Horus that matched the one I wore, and a jewel encrusted dagger that now showed a bloody blade. The plush carpet, upholstered chairs and a fine, carved oak desk were all torn to shreds and stained dark with the life essence that had been my friend’s.

  “Miss Ellenbogen and I returned from shopping ten days ago on a Sunday afternoon to discover it like this,” the Scotsman said. “Except that there was also what was left of Mister Mike. His remains were scattered across the desk and floor; torn to pieces as if a pack of wild wolves had been at him.” The giant’s stoic, moustachioed face was shadowed with the memory before returning to neutral, though his voice revealed his deep emotions.

  I stepped further into the room and felt an eerie sense of foreboding.

  I could clearly see what appeared to be claw marks scratched deeply into the dark wood of the desk and the carpet had been torn up as if by scythe blades. All showed that a terrific struggle had taken place; my friend had not gone gently to the land of the dead.

  “And you have no idea exactly what happened?”

  “No,” Angus said. “No one else was in the building when it happened, sir, except the bar back Little Tony. And Little Tony disappeared after that. No one has seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “You do not suspect him?”

  “No, not Little Tony,” the Scotsman said. “He would not have had the strength and it was not in his nature—he was a nice wee fella.”

  I walked slowly to the desk and looked down on the sanguine spot where my friend must have died. The stain was not much of a monument to a man like Mike; self made, a bold, laughing fellow who, though not to be crossed, never wilfully hurt anyone.

  There was a photo frame on the desk that was overturned, the glass shattered. I lifted it up. It was a photo of me and Mike standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Aunt Mini between and dwarfed by us, in Egypt. We were all smiling. It had been taken in Cairo during the first week we had met while I was on leave to visit with Mini.

  Mike’s lantern jaw was set in an easy smile and his eyes shone with his usual inner mischief. I found my vision blurring with tears at I stared at the blood-spattered space on the desk.

  “We have to find this Tony, then,” I said when I could speak. “We will find out what happened to Mike and someone will pay!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Motives and Murder

  “Ye think we’ve nae tried to find the wee tagger, sir?” the Scotsman sneered at me at the edge of impertinence. “Every wharf rat and street walker has been questioned about him.”

  “The police?”

  “Useless,” the Scotsman said. “They just took a quick look and then dismissed it as just another saloon keeper killed by a wild dog, a low life they couldn’t care less about.”

  That made me angry but as I turned to face the Scotsman I felt a tingling through my right hand where I held my sword cane. The sensation was much like my hand was asleep and traveled up my arm. The gem on the knob end of the stick glowed a soft blue that pulsed beneath my grip.

  “What is it, sir?” Angus asked as he noticed my odd expression.

  “Do the police here have a Merlin?” I countered checking my new cane to be certain.

  “A what?”

  “A government sanctioned sorcerer like we have in England,” I said.

  “No, sir; the metropolitan police have a shaman on the force, on loan from the Cherokee Nation for major cases that might involve magick, but they don’t come around for lowly barkeeps like Mike. Why?” He looked to my walking stick. “Because of that?”

  “Yes,” I said. “The Ambassador from Mexhico gave this to me; it has an obsidian blade but the jewel set in the handle is sensitive to occult energies. There has been dark magick used in this room.”

  “Mister Mike never had truck with such things,” the servant insisted. “He was raised a good Christian man.”

  “Even the Anglican church accepts magick- albeit in form of official Merlins,” I said. “But be that as it may, it could be our lead to Mike’s killer; if Mike did not use it than his killer certainly did.”

  We went back up stairs to the parlour where Miss Ellenbogen waited for us. She was the image of deliberate calm, sipping her tea as we reentered the room. It was as if she had not moved since we left.

  “You saw,” was all she said. The tension in her posture was evident.

  I sat opposite her again and told her about my impressions of the room and the discovery of dark sorcery being involved.

  “Then, “ she said with a great sigh, “my brother was not just killed, but foully killed.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Perhaps like the others,” Angus spoke up.

  “Others?”

  “Since Mike was—“ she said, “ Since Mike died, two other owners of saloons in the neighbourhood have died.”

  “Much the same way,” the Scotsman added. When I turned to look at him with what must have been a puzzled expression he added, “Oh, not so spectacularly-sorry, ma’am- as Mister Mike, but violently nae-the-less.”

  “And this roused no interest from the authorities?” I asked with confusion.

  “We are not considered ‘respectable’ by the rest of the city, baronet,” The girl said with obvious pain but deep resignation. “So death in our class, violent or otherwise is not much of a concern to the police forces or the men who finance them.”

  “I thought you Americans were all about lack of class distinctions,” I said. The girl snorted in derision and the Scotsman laughed. It only made me more determined.

  “Well,” I continued, “We will not let this rest, dear lady, I promise you I will find out who did this and we will make them pay.”

  She looked at me with eyes a blink away from tears, “Why?” she asked, “Why would you do this for us?”

  I noted she said ‘us’ and that was telling. I had an image of Nenetl sitting beside me and knew who she was including in her ‘us’ as I included my jaguar in my comments now.

  “He was my friend,” I said with a smile. “And you are his sister; is that not enough?”

  She sat upright. “I am sorry, baronet,” she said quietly, I think a bit ashamed to doubt me. “Of course- from what Mike said about you I should have realized it would be what you would do.”

  “How shall we proceed, your lordship,” Angus asked. The faithful Scotsman took no convincing of my motives because, I suspect, his highland sense of honour aligned with my own feelings of what was right.

  “First off, call me Athelstan,” I replied to Angus, “I am not a lord.”

  “Then you should call me Spike,” the girl said, sniffing away her tears. I nodded. She did her best to give me a grin and her youth fairly glowed from her. My heart went out to such a young girl, regardless of the tough demeanour she presented, to be set adrift without family. She was lucky to have a loyal aide like Angus but still, I knew she had no one else now that Mike was gone.

  “Alright, Spike,” I continued with as upbeat an attitude as I could muster. “ Secondly, I think we need to look at who would benefit from Mike’s death.”

  “Benefit?” The girl asked.

  “Competitors or creditors who wo
uld want him out of the way,” I said. “Deaths linked like these must have motive and greed is the most human motive I can think of.”

  “Mister Mike had no creditors, sir,” Angus said. “At least since he returned from Egypt. Before that he paid things as catch-as-catch can with his reporter’s checks. But when he came back he bought this place and he was always able to pay cash for all his bills of lading.”

  “Cash?” I said. I knew that Mike was a canny businessman, but he had only on his journey to the sands of Egypt because of a steamship ticket he won in a poker game. He had made his meager living with stringer reporting and with various short-term business deals, buying and selling property and objects. He had not been a wealthy man—not then.

  “Yes,” Miss Ellenbogen said. “We inherited a small bar on 14th Street from our dad and ran it at the edge of foreclosure for two years before he went away but when he returned he had the money to buy this place and we opened Mike and Spike’s. He would never tell me where the money came from.”

  I studied the remains of my tea in its cup for a long moment while I digested that while I hesitated to voice my thoughts about my friend, but realized I had to or I was not being honest with myself or them.

  “Could Mike have been involved in some sort of criminal enterprise, Spike--something that would make any secret partners-“

  “Mister Mike was the salt of the earth, sir,” Angus injected before the girl could object. “He would no more be involved with that sort than—than a vicar with a rum runner!”

  Both Spike and I looked to the giant who shrugged. “Seemed like a good analogy to me,” He said.

  “I personally know a vicar on the Romney Marshes that ran rum,” I said with sincerity. “But yes, I get the point; I don’t believe Mike could be anything but a little mischievous and just enough crooked to keep on the right side of things either.” That got a giggle from Spike. “He was the most honest and kind man I have ever met; though we only spent a little over a month together as traveling companions I think I can honestly say that and more.

  Spike and Angus exchanged a look that showed they understood how Mike could affect me.

  “But,” I continued, “ that does not mean that someone else did not think he was not trustworthy-- people tend to see themselves in others and project their own short comings; conversely honest people often do not see flummery in others because they can not imagine dishonesty.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Mike could cut a good deal, some might say, even, a sharp deal, so some people might have—well…”

  “So tell me who he might owe or more importantly, who might owe him?”

  “There were five I can think of he either lent money to or had problems with us opening here,” Spike said. “Hanover Jones, who I hear went back to Brooklyn, Juice Martin over on Fourteenth Street and the Marble brothers over on Third are left. Race Mangani and Dave Barton were—they were -this last week-.”

  “The other murders?” I asked though her manner made it clear what the answer would be.

  “Yes,” Angus said. “Race was found floating in the Hudson – they said sharks or fish got to him but he was all torn up, and Barton well, they only found his head and a lot of blood in his brothel on the east side.”

  I thought for a moment then held out my empty teacup. “I think this is a two tea cup problem, Spike,” I said. “Then we have plans to make.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Forest Primeval

  The New York-Brooklyn Bridge was an amazing edifice and proof positive that this raw new country called the United States of America was ready for its place in the greater world.

  Its granite towers and steel cables rose over two hundred and seventy feet from the water of the East River and connected the island of Manhattan to the larger Long Island at the city of Brooklyn. It was over fifteen hundred feet long and wide enough for four lanes of carriage traffic and pedestrians walk ways on the outside, while steam powered trolleys ran along the centre of the bridge.

  Beneath the bridge steam and sail ships chugged and glided and beside it small, ‘commuter’ or cargo dirigibles, looking like so many floating pickles, buzzed across the river in a steady stream from both directions.

  Angus drove a closed hansom with Miss Ellenbogen and myself in the back. I’d sent a message to my aunt that I would be late meeting her, though she would have expected it with me meeting Mike in any case. I did not tell her he had passed on, for how could I put such an ‘event’ in a few words? Not at least until I had some idea of what had really happened.

  The three of us, Spike, Angus and myself, decided that the first course of action would be to venture to furthest of the ‘suspects’ in the adjacent city of Brooklyn and visit one Mister Hanover Jones.

  After sitting in the closed saloon the young lady was charged with excitement at being able to actively do something about finding her brother’s killer. Even the taciturn highlander was grinning with the prospect of some action. Little did we all realize just how much action we would be finding.

  The spectacular bridge disgorged us onto the broad Atlantic Avenue at its Brooklyn base and the semi-rural nature of this city so near to Manhattan was immediately clear. The air was crisper and with none of the soot from the island though the wide streets were still thronging with people and a network of telegraph wires were visible over head, though not to the extent that they criss-crossed the air above Manhattan streets. It was a large city in its own right but of a very different character than its near neighbour.

  The streets were wider and the nature of the shops were more exotic, with Syrian and Lebanese signs on food and clothing storefronts. We moved with the flow of horse carriage traffic alongside horse drawn trolleys.

  “After we pass Borough Hall we can move along the water front more quickly than this main avenue,” Angus called from the driver’s seat. He was skilled at manoeuvring the carriage but going was still slow.

  “You know the way?” I called up.

  “Aye, sir,” The highlander tossed back, raising his voice above the sound of the street, “I accompanied Mister Mike out here when he came back from Egypt to meet with Mister Jones.”

  “Hanover is hiding out at his ‘country’ place in Brighton Beach,” Spike said with disgust. “ He was raised out there; then he had the bar down the block from us on Fourteenth Street. He owed markers to our dad and when Mike and I inherited after our father passed away the markers came to us. He resented that and for a time he contested them, but when Mike came back from Egypt they had that meeting and my brother said afterward that the debt was forgiven.”

  I touched the eye of Horus amulet my friend had given me on our stay in Cairo and felt a deep sadness again that rose to anger quickly. “Why would Mike do that?” I asked.

  “I asked him,” she said, “ but he just said that since we were moving to Twenty Third Street there was no point in keeping any sort of anger going-- that there was enough room for all of us.”

  “It would seem to me that would make this Hanover Jones grateful, not angry.”

  “I know,” she said, “ but it was just the opposite, he said it shamed him, made him seem a welcher-- though he never made any effort to pay off. He started to badmouth Mike to anyone who would listen.”

  “This would all be a little easier if we could locate this Little Tony you say is missing,” I remarked as our carriage pulled off the main avenue.

  “We tried,” Spike said. “But it is like he just vanished.”

  Angus wheeled our carriage past the municipality’s governmental offices and to a roadway that led along the East River waterfront opposite the Manhattan skyline.

  We rode for a while in uncomfortable silence, driving by sugar refining plants, dockyards, gas refineries, ironworks, several slaughterhouses, and factories. I was told by Spike that the buildings produced everything from clocks, pencils, and glue, to cakes, beer, and even some fine cigars.

  I was pondering the scarcity of facts about Mike’s deat
h when the carriage rounded a turn onto a short causeway that would bring us to the Coney Island. The resort was a complex of entertainment parks, racetracks and beaches for recreation of the populace.

  As we pulled onto Surf Avenue a marvel I had heard about presented itself to our eyes. Looming over the landscape was The Elephant Hotel!

  At 150 feet tall, The Coney Island Elephant was an astounding sight to behold as it loomed over the amusement centres of the Brighton Beach portion of Coney Island. Its legs were 18 feet in diameter, with the front legs serving as a cigar store while the back legs held the entrance to the actual hotel via a circular stairway. Angus proudly told me “Its construction cost a quarter million American dollars!”

  I knew Aunt Mini would want to see it for her self, possibly even stay in one of the rooms before we left New York; it had not been built when she or I had been last there. I had the fleeting thought that it would have made Nenetl laugh.

  In short order we pulled up in front of a vulgarly painted house on a side street off of Surf Avenue. It was all greens and yellows in bright, Caribbean colours and while it might have looked at home in Kingston Jamaica it stood out even against even the brightly coloured brick or wooden buildings in the area of this resort community.

  The Jones refuge was a sprawling two stories with a wide porch that surrounded the whole of the building. The building was set back from the road and had a broad lawn that effectively functioned as a green moat. When we stepped out of the coach the sharp tang of salt air was brisk and refreshing after the sooty atmosphere of Manhattan.

  “Mister Jones may not be very receptive,” Angus said from the driver’s perch. “Perhaps I should go first?”

  “I’ve never been afraid of that big windbag,” Spike said with a vigor that reminded me of Aunt Mini. “And beside, I have his lordship with me, if Hanover starts anything it will be an international incident.”

  “I’m not a lord,” I reminded her, “but I do hope to be of use should this fellow get stroppy.” I brandished my sword cane and grinned. “I do need to try this out.”