I sat bolt upright in bed, sweat pouring down my face. The moon, just a tick past full, beamed through the window, lighting my bedroom to ghostly grays.
A dream. It was a dream. I jumped out of bed, switched on the lights, and glanced at the clock. Two thirty in the morning. Some fourteen hours of sleep. Fear is exhausting.
I had slept through yesterday’s opportunity to telephone Frank or do anything for Elizabeth, and the cloudless sky outside pretty well ensured I’d be tied up with the mileage test until late at night. I had to keep up the pretense of normalcy. Anyway, I couldn’t skip the test and have any hope of remaining employed. Other than the endurance runs I’d made with the Victoria, my job performance was pitiful at best. My father had told my supervisor, Mr. Cavendish, that I was to be treated like any other employee. Had that been the case, however, I’d have been fired long ago, given that every morning I was either hungover or still drunk. But Cavendish seemed near the breaking point.
Frank and Elizabeth were going to have to wait. I hoped Elizabeth could.
Like every day, the first thing I did was make my bed. It was a point of pride that my apartment was neat, particularly since I’d let my maid go shortly after Elizabeth broke off our engagement. The empty liquor bottles were simply too embarrassing.
I made a cold beef sandwich and a pot of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table trying to force my mind into gear. The sandwich and two cups of coffee later, the haze started to lift. I tried to puzzle out the identity of the presumed blackmailer. (Even though he hadn’t asked for anything yet, it seemed inevitable.) It could be a policeman, but that seemed unlikely. Though “Detroit policeman” and “blackmailer” were by no means mutually exclusive professions, I was sure I had lost them at the factory.
The only people who knew I was out that late were Ben Carr and Wesley McRae. Ben could have followed me from the garage, but I couldn’t imagine why. And Wesley could have seen me dump the clothing, but he was home when I got back. I couldn’t think of any way he would have even heard about the murder. It seemed possible the killer had written the note. He had been at the factory and could certainly have followed me home. But it would make more sense for him to just give the clothing to the police. No one else would have a stronger reason to see an innocent man convicted of the murder.
The idea that any man would be able to overpower John Cooper seemed ludicrous. Even armed to the teeth, the murderer couldn’t have persuaded him to climb onto that press, and if John was unconscious, few men could have lifted him high enough. A gang, perhaps? According to the newspapers, there were enough of them around, though mostly groups of teenage hoodlums. This didn’t seem like the work of boys.
The roof press wasn’t complicated to run, but it seemed likely the killer had been familiar with it beforehand. A union man made sense. The unions would do anything to get a foothold in an automobile company. Once they got their claws into the first one, they would have the leverage they needed to break others. What better way to make a statement than killing the man causing you the most trouble, and framing me, the son of the owner of an open shop, for it? They get two for one.
It was probably one of the unions in the American Federation of Labor. They’d been making runs at my father’s company for more than a decade. John and his predecessors’ planted men had identified many union organizers over the years. They were fired without comment.
The Industrial Workers of the World were another possibility but seemed less likely. The Wobblies were relatively new, particularly in Detroit, and were concentrating on unskilled workers, the ones the AFL disdained. In the automotive industry, that was a tiny percentage of the workforce. I doubted John had run afoul of them.
I wondered if I should call the police and explain the whole situation, but quickly decided against it. What would I tell them? That I was being blackmailed for the return of my blood-soaked clothing? I could just as easily drive myself to prison. But I would make sure Riordan looked at the AFL.
Until I could get Frank’s take on this, I didn’t see any alternative to waiting for the blackmailer to make his next move. In the meantime I had to help Elizabeth, to make whatever amends I could. Something was seriously wrong with her, that much was certain. Her behavior was so peculiar. How could she have so little reaction to the news of her fiancé’s death? Could her behavior be explained by drugs? By some sort of brain-damaging poison? Or could she have changed so much in a single year?
John didn’t say she was in danger, he said she was “in trouble.” Pregnant? Given her appearance, it didn’t seem possible. “Trouble” could mean danger. It could mean almost anything. I had to find out. If her trouble proved to be related to John’s murder, I might be able to piece something together that would also help me. But there wasn’t much room for hope.
As soon as I was able, I would go back to Elizabeth’s house. If she refused to talk to me, I would speak with her mother. If that failed, I would try to get her father to listen to me. One way or another, I was going to help her.
At four o’clock I dressed in my motor toggery: a loose-fitting dark gray sack suit, calf-length leather boots, gloves, goggles, my new cap, and my tan cotton duster. I roughed up the cap in the dirt of the backyard before catching a streetcar to the garage. My ankle was nearly back to normal, but still I shuffled the last hundred feet. I wasn’t eager to see Ben Carr again.
He wasn’t in sight when I entered the garage. I whispered a prayer of thanks and hurried up the steps to the second floor. The Victoria sat on the automobile elevator. Elwood and Joe Curtiss, Detroit Electric’s head mechanic, both in gray coveralls, were bent over the front battery compartment. The empty battery lift hung over them. Other than their murmured conversation and the hum of electricity, the shop was quiet.
I joined them at the automobile. “Morning, Elwood, Joe.”
They both straightened and greeted me. Joe was an older and shorter version of Elwood—light brown hair, brown eyes, and a gangly build—but a little more filled out from his two decades as a mechanic. Joe and Elwood were my best friends at the company. I suppose, given that I’d lost touch with just about everyone else, they were really my only friends.
Elwood grimaced. “Tough about John Cooper, huh?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it’s horrible.” I could hear my voice tremble. The news had likely spread across the city by now.
“Cops figure anything out yet?” Joe said.
“Not that I know of.”
He leaned back against the Victoria. “Did you know Cooper?”
“I did. We went to college together.”
They both offered their condolences. Joe said, “He was the football player, right? The huge, good-looking guy?”
I grunted out a laugh. Huge? Good-looking? John was Michelangelo’s David, except six-five and thickly muscled. “I suppose you could say that.”
“How did you know him?”
“We boarded at the same place in Ann Arbor.” The memory of our first meeting put a smile on my face. I hadn’t thought of it in years. “The first time we met we were freshmen. I recognized him from the football games but was sure he didn’t know me from Adam. One of the sophomore football players cornered me with a pair of sheep shears and was about to give me the ‘freshman haircut.’ ”
Joe frowned. “The what?”
“Oh, it’s a wonderful tradition. You corner the kids who are already scared to death of the older men, and you whack off their hair so they look like they’ve just escaped from a mental institution.”
Elwood shook his head. “It’s a good thing college is for you intellectual giants. I don’t think I’m smart enough to figure out stuff like that.”
“Real funny. Anyway, John recognized me from the boardinghouse and gave the other guy a thump on the head. That was the last time anybody tried it. Come to think of it, it was the last time anybody at the U of M physically challenged me in any way.”
“You figure the murder was personal,” Joe said, “or something to
do with the Employers Association?”
Elwood nudged Joe, who turned and looked at him with knit eyebrows. “What?”
With a quick shake of his head, Elwood ducked back into the battery compartment.
My stomach suddenly hurt. I turned back to Joe. “John was engaged to Elizabeth Hume, my old girlfriend.”
“Oh. You never said.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “What’d he do at the EAD?”
“He ran security for the labor bureau.”
Joe looked at me blankly.
“He called it ‘hiring strikebreakers and whopping troublemakers,’ ” I said. “He took care of both of them.”
“Shit.” Joe shook his head. “Cooper hired scabs and broke heads. The AFL would want to crucify him.”
Elwood finished connecting the wires to the battery. I forced a smile and said, “Are we ready?”
“The batteries are fully charged and all warmed up.” Elwood grinned and gestured toward Joe. “But I can’t speak for the rest of it with this grease monkey running the show.”
I turned to Joe. “Everything good?”
“Yessiree. Outside of the batteries, which Mr. Screw-loose here has undoubtedly bungled, everything on this sweetheart has been cleaned, tightened, oiled, or greased. It’s perfect.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “But let’s go through the list to be sure.”
Joe nodded, and we ran through the various lubrications and adjustments he had performed. He was thorough. The Victoria was ready.
Dr. Miller, our official observer, arrived a few minutes later, dressed in tall boots and a gray three-piece suit with a matching cap and oilcloth duster. A kind man with a full beard and keen eyes behind pince-nez glasses, the doctor was well known for his sterling character and would be an impeccable witness. On the surface he was the ideal observer. He was my doctor, a friend of my father, and the owner of a 1910 Detroit Electric coupé. My father had suggested him for the role. I wanted to tell him no but couldn’t do that without telling him why. To my parents, I’d explained the broken engagement as a loss of love between Elizabeth and me, a widening of our differences as we grew older.
I would never tell them the truth.
Dr. Miller rushed up to us, grinning with delight like a small child. “Are we going to set a world record today?” He pushed his goggles up onto his forehead.
“No question about it,” I said.
A few months before, Baker Electric had established a record of 201.6 miles on a single charge. We were aiming to beat them. I had to concentrate.
Dr. Miller shook my hand vigorously. “That’s what I like to hear. Chip off the old block.”
He apparently had memory problems.
Joe showed Dr. Miller the certification for the new odometer, and he and Elwood gave us their blessings. I was relieved my father had not come down to send us off. The less I had to think about the Cooper mess, the better the day would be.
Unfortunately, we had no more than buttoned our dusters and pulled our goggles over our eyes when Dr. Miller said, “I heard about the murder at your father’s factory. Did you know the man who was killed?”
I nodded and climbed into the Victoria.
Dr. Miller hopped in, and we began the descent to the first floor. “Did you know him well?”
I nodded again and looked away.
He patted me on the knee. “Don’t want to talk about it? I understand.”
“Thanks.” I knew if I told him about John and me, and especially about John and Elizabeth, I wouldn’t be able to get off the subject all day.
The elevator clunked to a stop. Joe and Elwood had taken the stairs and were already sitting in the blue Model T that would serve to confirm our odometer reading.
I twisted the key in the end of the controller stick to start the auto, and ticked the amp and volt meters with a finger to be sure the charge was full. Everything was perfect. I pulled the steering lever down in front of me and pushed the controller to first speed. We crawled through the garage, Joe and Elwood following behind. I turned left up Woodward. It wasn’t yet five thirty and still quite cold, in the thirties. A streetcar approached, rattling down the tracks toward the ferry docks. When it passed, the street was nearly silent. I could feel, more than hear, the hum from the Victoria’s electric motor. I took a deep breath, determined to enjoy this day. It might be the last attempt I’d ever make for a world record, or, for all I knew, the last time I’d ever drive a car.
Dr. Miller tapped my shoulder. “Isn’t it awfully cold to be doing this? Won’t the batteries suffer?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t really matter how cold it is outside, so long as the batteries are warm. Mr. Crane got them nice and toasty, and when they’re working they stay warm. We’ll be fine.”
He nodded.
I took advantage of the nearly empty downtown streets, driving with the lights off to preserve the batteries. The electric street lamps lit the way well enough. Even in the dark, the majesty of this city, “the Paris of the West,” was clear. We passed skyscraper after skyscraper—the Penobscot, Majestic, and Hammond Buildings, the Ford, and the Dime—brick and stone edifices disappearing into silhouettes lit by the bright glow of moon and stars. The empty lots that had peppered the area when we moved here were gone. Buildings of all descriptions—offices, homes, stores, factories, warehouses, showrooms—had sprung up everywhere.
We looped through the downtown area, alternating between the two most efficient speeds—second, which ran at eight miles per hour, and fourth, which pushed us up to seventeen. Even though the city speed limit was ten, it was worth the risk to try to get the record in a single day. And a speeding violation seemed much less significant than it would have a few days ago.
I could hear snatches of conversation between Joe and Elwood over the putt-putt-putt of the Model T behind us, but Dr. Miller and I were quiet. I was lost in my thoughts, and he seemed satisfied to just enjoy the ride. It was a relief he hadn’t yet brought up Elizabeth. I hoped it stayed that way.
Thinking I’d run past Bennett Park, the home of the Tigers and my favorite summer locale, I turned down Trumbull and headed back toward the river. Trumbull was one of the few streets that still had the old Edison light towers, 125-foot-tall monstrosities that had been in most of the downtown area when we moved here in 1895.
“Don’t you live around here somewhere?” Dr. Miller said.
“Five or six blocks that way.” I waved vaguely toward my left. “On Peterboro.”
I left the lights off, though the Edison towers were widely spaced and did a better job of lighting the sky than they did the street. With the headlights of the Model T trailing us, I thought I could still see well enough.
“Funny, that,” Dr. Miller said, pointing across me to a fallow cornfield that took up a city block, the only remaining vestige of the rural roots of the area.
“Farmer named Parker,” I said. “Land speculators have been trying to buy him out for years. Stubborn old cuss.”
The doctor nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets.
Just before the intersection at Temple, I pushed the controller to fourth speed for the long straightaway.
Suddenly a two-foot-high barrier loomed in front of us.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cursing, I jammed on the brake pedal, shoved the steering lever away from me, and yanked back on the controller stick. The brakes squealed. The car jerked hard to the left and tipped right, the tires on my side a foot off the ground before the Victoria crashed back down to the cobblestones. Dr. Miller bounced off the leather interior of the automobile and slammed into me. I grabbed hold of him and helped him sit up. “Are you all right?”
He pushed his goggles onto his forehead and blinked a few times. “Yes, I think so.” He stretched his arms and legs. “No harm done.”
We both looked over the passenger side of the Victoria. A brown horse lay in the middle of the street.
“Damned horses,” Dr. Miller said. “They’re nothing but a nuisance
.”
A dead horse in the street wasn’t an unusual sight, what with the thousands of them working in the city every day, but this one had scared the hell out of me. I took a deep breath and looked at the odometer. Our run had almost ended at nineteen miles.
Joe and Elwood appeared simultaneously on either side of the Victoria. After making sure we weren’t hurt, they quickly inspected the automobile and waved us on.
I pushed the controller stick forward again. The Vicky seemed fine, but I kept it in second speed with a close eye on the road until the sky began to brighten. When I could see well enough, I pushed the controller up through third to fourth.
Dr. Miller pointed at a steaming pile of horse manure in the middle of an intersection. “I thought the automobile was supposed to solve this part of the pollution problem.”
I shrugged. “Maybe someday.” Even now, deep into the “horseless age,” there were still easily fifty horses in the city for every motorcar.
“Well, I can’t wait for that day,” he said. “Oh, for a clean breath of air.”
I nodded my agreement. Depending on the time of year, we breathed either coal smoke or horseshit. In the winter, the air was hazy with smoke, and snow turned gray within a day. During the summer the pungent odor of fresh manure filled the city. Worst of all, when the wind was up during a hot stretch, horseshit fine as dust blew in through the windows and coated the insides of every home and business.
More people now were heading to work. Soon the intersections would clot with horses, wagons, bicycles, pedestrians, and automobiles competing for the right of way, so I headed up Woodward out of town. We passed the “Crystal Palace,” Ford’s new plant in Highland Park. I’m sure the esteemed Dr. Freud would have a few things to say about Mr. Ford, or Albert Kahn, the architect. Five massive smokestacks towered a hundred feet over the factory in a gigantic phallic display, billowing great gray plumes into the blue November sky.
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 4