“Hi, Wesley.”
He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Will.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve got the money for you. I’ll just have to get my coat.” He stood, but paused and pulled his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. Glancing at it, he said, “Can you possibly wait forty-five minutes? These slave drivers will dock me if I don’t start on time.”
Given my state of mind, I didn’t want to wait forty-five seconds, but with no other choice, I agreed.
I lit a cigarette and took a seat in the back, near the wide bins of sheet music arrayed behind the chairs. A few men and children were in the audience, although most of the white wooden seats were filled with women—a few younger ones in shirtwaists and skirts of muted colors, more of them dowagers in colorful day dresses of cotton or crepe. I had to duck to see Wesley under the sea of elaborate chapeaus adorned with feathers, baubles, and other assorted gimcracks, some of the hats’ brims a yard wide.
Wesley looked out at me and smiled before projecting his voice to the small crowd that had assembled. “Good afternoon. My name is Wesley McRae, and I’ll be playing selections from Detroit’s own Gus Edwards Music Company for you today. Why don’t we start with an old favorite—with a little twist? Here’s one of Gus’s classics.” He played the intro to “In My Merry Oldsmobile” and began to sing. His fingers caressed the keyboard, and his strong tenor filled the store. He replaced every “Oldsmobile” with “Detroit Electric,” which sounded ridiculous and threw off the rhymes (“Come away with me, Lucille, in my merry Detroit Electric”). Still, I had to appreciate the effort.
Next, he played a collection of Edwards tunes from the new Ziegfeld Follies show: “The Waltzing Lieutenant,” “Mr. Earth and His Comet Love,” “Look Me Over Carefully,” and more. Ziegfeld was big in Detroit, a city that strove for both the sophistication and the gaiety of New York. While he played, dozens of people purchased music, most of it from the Gus Edwards bins. Wesley was a good plugger, well worth whatever Edwards was paying him.
After a flourish on the piano and a bow, Wesley stuffed his music into the bench, held up a forefinger, asking me to wait, and hurried to the back of the store. A moment later he returned wearing a gray overcoat, fitting his ivory porkpie onto his head. With a nod, he led me toward the entrance.
I stayed a couple of feet away from his side. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Gus Edwards is selling like hotcakes. They can’t get enough of Wesley McRae.” In an operatic voice, he sang, “The Scottish Songster,” and broke out into a laugh. “And I found out this morning Gus is buying another one of my songs. ‘The Honeysuckle Rag.’ ”
“That’s great, Wesley. Congratulations.” I tried to be enthusiastic, but I could hear the indifference in my voice.
“Christ, Will, call me Wes. Wesley’s what my mother calls me.”
We walked out to bright sunshine. I hadn’t noticed it on the way here. The sidewalk was packed with people out enjoying what could be the last of the year’s nice weather. I offered Wesley a smoke and took one for myself. We walked against the stream, dodging women’s hats, until we reached a little alley next to the store.
He took a quick look around, pulled an envelope from his pocket, and handed it to me.
I slipped it into my pocket. “Thanks, Wesley, er, Wes. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Don’t mention it.” He leaned against the brick wall and blew a smoke ring toward the sky. “These new Ziegfeld tunes are the worst. I can hardly bring myself to bang them out on the piano.”
“They sounded good.”
Giving me a sideways glance, he said with mock seriousness, “To Philistines like you, perhaps.” He laughed. “They’ll never get a million-seller out of that dreck.”
Next to the alley’s entrance, the driver of a green Model T laid on his horn. Ah-ooh-gah! Ah-ooh-gah! It had to be a Klaxon, the loudest, most obnoxious horn on the market. A People’s Ice Company wagon was double-parked in front of him, the driver nowhere to be seen. The man in the Ford, around thirty years old with long side-whiskers and a petulant expression, pounded again on the horn. Ah-ooh-gah! Ah-ooh-gah!
I saw red. “How’d you like to eat that horn?” I shouted.
The driver looked at me, startled, and began to say something before thinking the better of it. I realized now I was standing in the street, cigarette crammed in the corner of my mouth, my hands balled up into fists.
Wesley grabbed me by the shoulder and tried to pull me back to the alley. “Will, calm down. Come on back here.”
After a long look at the driver, whose eyes didn’t leave the back of the ice wagon, I followed Wesley.
He nodded toward the Model T. “He looks like a guy who’d go straight to the cops if you patted him on the back. You’ve got to make them hit you first—in front of witnesses.”
“Sounds like you’ve had experience.”
“Well, let’s just say I’ve had a difficult time getting the Detroit Police Department to see my point of view. They like to exercise their frustrations on people like me.”
Taking a long drag on the cigarette, I nodded. People like him.
“Will, it’s obvious your problem is about a lot more than money. Tell me about it.”
I flicked the butt onto the street. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
He pushed himself off the wall and turned toward me. “Listen, Will. You may not understand what being friends is all about. I want to help you.”
Friends? For a year and a half, I had treated him like dirt. I stop only to let him loan me four hundred dollars he probably doesn’t expect to get back, and he’s willing to call me a friend? I searched his eyes and saw only sincerity.
He shrugged. “You just said I should trust you. Well, you’ve got to trust somebody sometime.”
“I just . . . all right.” I leaned in close to him so I could speak quietly. The words tumbled from my mouth in a torrent, like a Catholic’s final confession. I told him about Cooper’s phone call, finding the body, running from the police, leaving the cap and Victoria at the factory, and, finally, the blackmail notes.
The creases in Wesley’s forehead got deeper and deeper. When I finished, he shook his head and blew out a deep breath. “Do you have the notes?” I pulled them from the inside pocket of my coat. He looked over the pages and laughed out loud. “Unimpeachable, is he? Nobody with a vocabulary like that could be too dangerous.”
I grabbed his arm. “The person who wrote this may have put John Cooper on top of that press and crushed the life out of him. He could be very dangerous.”
Wesley bit his lip. “Do you think he’ll leave you alone after this?”
I thought about it. “The police are already suspicious of me, and they don’t even know about Elizabeth yet. If they get the clothing, the trial will take about five minutes. But I might have a chance if the evidence is destroyed.” I sighed. “What choice do I have?”
“You’re right. But you’ll figure something out.” He looked at his pocket watch and began to walk back toward the store’s entrance, then stopped and clapped his hands. “I’ll help. It’ll be fun.”
“Wes, this isn’t playacting. It’s my life.”
“I know that, Will.” He smiled. “And I also know some men who specialize in rough trade. Your blackmailer won’t know what hit him.”
I walked to the Peoples State Bank in the shadow of the Penobscot Building and got six one-hundred-dollar bills, leaving only a few dollars in my account. I considered trying again to see Elizabeth but didn’t think I’d have enough time. Wesley was leaving Crowley Milner early to meet me back at my apartment at three thirty. Besides, the blackmailer was the only person I could think about now. I went home and paced, too keyed up to sit. In a matter of hours, I would be facing a man who may have been responsible for John Cooper’s death.
It was almost four when a quiet knock sounded against my door. “Will?”
I looked through the peephole. Wesley, in a long gray coat,
stood in front of three men in derbies and rumpled suits. I opened the door.
“Meet the Doyles,” Wesley said. “They’re going to be helping us out.”
The oldest of them, a stout man with gray stubble on his sunburned chin, stepped forward and shook my hand, followed by the boys, who I now saw were twins. They were about the same age as Wesley and me, and were rawboned and rangy, with dark eyes and shocks of rust-colored hair poking out from under their derbies. None of the three spoke.
I was already a bundle of nerves, but Wesley appearing with characters such as these put a shiver up my spine. Mouth agape, I stared at the men for a moment before finally remembering my manners. “Please, come in.” I opened the door all the way and led them into the parlor. The Doyles sat side by side on the sofa. I stopped in front of them. “Can I get you a drink?”
The younger men looked at their father. He nodded and grunted. “Whiskey. If you got it.” He looked doubtful.
Wesley followed me into the kitchen. “Will, I’m so sorry you have to go through this.”
I grabbed five glasses from the cupboard and set them on the counter. “Thanks for the help, Wes.” I tipped my head toward the parlor and whispered, “Where did you come up with these guys?”
Wesley grinned. “From time to time I help Mr. Doyle with a few of his business concerns.”
“Really?”
“Sure. You haven’t seen all my talents.” He nodded toward the parlor. “Doyle might not look it now, but he once went seventeen rounds with John L.”
That made me feel better. “Are they armed?” I whispered.
He nodded. “In their business you always keep a gun handy. I’ve got one, too.” Wesley pulled a little one-shot derringer from his pocket. He must have seen the skeptical look on my face, because he added, “It’s perfect for close work in a crowd. The Doyles are carrying cannons.”
“Would you have another I could use?”
He shook his head. “Not a good idea. The blackmailer said to come unarmed. If he searches you, you’re done.” He put his hand on my shoulder. I flinched. A question showed in his eyes for a second before he said, “With me and my friends watching you, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I picked up three of the glasses and gestured for Wesley to take the other two. “Okay. So now what?” A shiver ran through me, and the two glasses in my right hand clunked dully against each other.
“We’ll go over the plan,” he said. “Such as it is.” Wesley picked up the remaining glasses and headed back to the parlor. He seemed awfully at ease, as if dealing with a blackmailer was a daily occurrence for him. It was all I could do to hold on to the glasses.
We walked back into the parlor. I poured five shots of Jack Daniel’s and passed four of them to my guests. Wesley and I sat on the upholstered chairs facing the other three men. The Doyles all slammed back their drinks in one swallow. I jumped up, grabbed the bottle, and handed it to Mr. Doyle. He nodded his thanks.
Wesley took a pull on his drink, crossed his legs, and settled back into the chair. “The plan is simple.” He looked at me. “Will, you’re going to give the envelope to the blackmailer—but only after you get the clothes. The rest of us will set up around you, watching. We’ll follow the blackmailer, grab him when the time is right, and the Doyles will bring him back to their place. I’ll meet you outside the Pontchartrain, and we’ll go to their house for a little chat.” He uncrossed his legs and tilted his head toward me. “And if anything, anything, goes wrong, we’ll meet outside the main entrance of the Pontch. Got it?”
I nodded. I was way out of my depth here.
Wesley checked his watch. “All right, Will, you and Robert get out of here.” One of the young men stood, and Wesley addressed him. “You keep an eye on Will until we get there. Wait for us at the ferry landing. In case anyone’s watching Will, we’re going to catch the next trolley.”
I left first, trying to appear nonchalant while I peeked around me, looking for anyone paying too much attention. The only place I didn’t look was behind me. I hoped Robert wasn’t too far back. I also hoped he wasn’t close enough to see the shivers passing through me every minute or so.
On the streetcar I caught his eye and quickly looked away, though I was reassured by his presence. After that, I stared at my feet until we got off at Jefferson and walked down to the ferry landing at the end of Woodward. The sun sparkled off the tops of the swells on the river. It was very warm for November, again near sixty degrees.
The Ste. Claire, a long white three-story ferry, sat at the dock. A small number of passengers trickled down the gangplank and past me, chatting gaily about their day on Bois Blanc Island. My vision had changed, dark around the outsides, like I was looking through a tunnel. I had a sudden overwhelming urge to urinate, but the train station was the nearest public facility. I couldn’t go there yet.
I shuffled from foot to foot until I saw Wesley and the other two Doyles. Wesley nodded his head slowly. I hurried the last three blocks to the train station and stood under the redbrick clock tower. It was five minutes of five. Wesley stopped across the street and leaned against the wall with a newspaper. Mr. Doyle slouched about twenty feet away, studying his fingernails. The street was lined with horse wagons and automobiles, giving them some cover. One of the twins was stationed to my left, near the corner of the building. The other stood to my right, partially hidden between a red Oldsmobile Palace and a black Hupmobile coupé.
A man slammed into me from behind, nearly knocking me over. “Sorry,” he called over his shoulder as he trotted down the sidewalk. I stuck my hand in my coat pocket and felt for the envelope. It was still there. Men rushed past me in a blur, hurrying into the station to catch a train or hurrying out, having disembarked. I was jostled repeatedly. Each time I checked for the envelope to be sure it hadn’t been pickpocketed. Finally I just left my hand inside my coat, squeezing the envelope, and looked for the man who was blackmailing me.
Five o’clock passed with no contact. The depot grew even busier. Eventually I stopped paying attention, just stood there trying to ignore my bladder, feeling like I had a target painted on my forehead. I glanced up at the clock. It was 5:25, and still he hadn’t shown himself.
Someone pulled on my coat sleeve. A boy of perhaps ten years old, with a recessed chin and heavy-lidded brown eyes, grinned up at me. “You’re Will Anderson, ain’t’cha?”
I looked around. Outside of my confederates, no one seemed to be paying attention to us. “Yes.”
“Man says you got a envelope for him. Says I’m s’posed to get it.”
I glanced around again. “Where is this man?”
“Says that’s none a your business.” He dug through his thick black hair and scratched the top of his head.
I squatted down, holding tightly to the envelope in my pocket. “You tell him I need my package before he gets this envelope.”
The urchin was still grinning. “Says you’d say that. Money first or no clothes. Says the coppers wants ’em.”
I didn’t know what to do, but it didn’t seem like I had a choice. I hoped the Doyles lived up to their billing. “All right. Where’s the clothing?”
“Says it’s in locker twenty-seven, but you can’t get at it till I gets the envelope outta here.”
The lockers were on the track side of the station. Even running, it would take me at least thirty seconds to get there, plenty of time for him to disappear. I exhaled heavily through my nose and took the envelope out of my pocket. The boy grabbed it, but I kept hold. “No funny business, right?”
His brow wrinkled, and he squinted at me. “You see me laughin’?”
I let go of the envelope, and the boy blended into the crowd. Though I thought it unlikely I’d find my clothes, I shoved my way to the back of the depot and looked inside locker twenty-seven. It was empty. I ran back out of the station, looking for the boy or Wesley and the Doyles. None of them were in sight, so I hurried up Woodward to the Pontchartrain Hotel and paced back and
forth in front of it.
After ten minutes, a voice called out behind me. “Will!”
I whirled around, expecting to see Wesley. Instead, Edsel Ford, in a dark suit and homburg, climbed out of the blue Detroit Electric brougham his father had bought for him a few months earlier. He bounded up to me, hand extended. “Will, my chum! How are we today?”
I’d met Edsel a few years earlier at the Detroit Automobile Dealers Association auto show. We’d taken to each other but had never become good friends, mostly because he was five years younger than me—only seventeen now—but also because his father didn’t hold much truck with the “High Society” crowd. I shook his hand, my eyes still searching for Wesley. “I’m kind of busy right now, Edsel. Could we talk some other time?”
“Oh.” He looked confused. “All right.” He fixed his dark eyes on mine and nodded toward the hotel. “I’ve got to rescue my father from a meeting with the Dodge brothers anyway.”
I apologized, hoping I hadn’t hurt his feelings. I needed all the friends I could get. He told me not to worry about it, clapped me on the back, and gestured toward his car. “Nice acceleration, but you’ve got to work on the speed. I’ll give you the complete review the next time we speak.” He walked backward toward the hotel’s entrance. “I’ll phone you.”
I nodded absently, and he headed inside.
Another twenty minutes passed. My bladder about to burst, I ran inside and used the restroom, then ran back to Jefferson and headed east, looking down every cross street and alley. After ten minutes I doubled back and sprinted to the Pontchartrain. Wesley still wasn’t there.
I again ran down to Jefferson and west past the train station, my head on a swivel, searching to no avail. Stopping in an alley, I bent over trying to catch my breath. The boy had disappeared. Wesley and the Doyles had disappeared. Panic gnawed at my insides. I ran through the alley shouting Wesley’s name. The only reply was my voice echoing off the red-brick walls.
I walked back to the Pontchartrain and stood outside for a while, trying to decide what to do. Thinking Wesley might have gone back to the train station, I searched there—no luck. I hurried up Woodward and down every side street for a quarter mile. I was frantic, yelling his name as I pushed through the people on the sidewalks and streets. Back to the Pontchartrain. Nothing. It had been almost two hours.
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 8