Every one had a feature story about Judge Hume’s disappearance on the eve of his meeting with the state police. Now joining the speculation that he was on the run was the theory he himself had been murdered by someone he was going to implicate—conjecture I had no interest in confirming. Because of the Hume/Cooper connection from the bribery scandal, I was mentioned in every article, but not as Judge Hume’s murderer. Any speculation in that direction went to Frank Van Dam, who they all agreed was involved, either as Judge Hume’s coconspirator or his enemy.
I started to call Elizabeth but hung up before the operator answered. What would I say? I couldn’t very well tell her not to worry, he’s fine, he’ll be home soon. I went back to the couch.
The next morning, feeling much better, I took a streetcar to the library and searched for information on the buoyancy of bodies. I found an article in the British Medical Journal that said in cold water a corpse would stay submerged for at least a week, and sometimes as long as a month, before bodily gases accumulated to the extent that it would float. I probably had a little time before the body surfaced. The bag I was less certain about.
With barely a month until the auto show opened, I threw myself into the work, stopping only long enough to pore through newspapers looking for any mention of the judge’s body or my bag. So far, my luck had held.
I created layout after layout of the floor space, worked with sales to get commitments from our dealers to provide salesmen for the show, and collaborated with our advertising department on signage. Mr. Edison was paying us to promote his battery, so I devoted a large space to extolling the virtues of a battery that would allow for long touring trips through the country. Advertising had already put together a display recounting the trouble-free thousand-mile trip Joe and I had made through the countryside in September. Edison batteries powered us all the way. The trip was well publicized and highly successful, although we’d had to abort the ascent of Mount Washington in New Hampshire due to inclement weather.
The rest of the signage emphasized our reputation and service, bragged a little (Behind the car stands the largest electric vehicle factory in the world), and finished with the standard hyperbole (A Detroit Electric is a health-giving, invigorating, care-forgetting necessity).
Christmas came and went, a more somber affair than usual. My family tried their best to cheer me up, knowing only that the recent developments in the bribery scandal made it less likely I’d be convicted of Cooper’s murder. They didn’t know I was free only because Judge Hume’s body and my bag were still in the river. On Christmas morning, my sisters’ children opened their gifts with squeals of delight. Somehow I knew with absolute certainty I’d never watch my own children do the same. I went to bed at eight o’clock with a pillow covering my head.
Two days later, in the early afternoon, I was on the second floor of the Detroit Electric garage inspecting the vehicles we planned to bring to the show. Half a dozen mechanics were at work on cars spread across the rest of the floor. It was noisy, the men talking over the grind of the air compressor and the sounds of metal banging on metal.
I tried to tune them out and concentrate. The most important car we would be showing was the Model 17 underslung roadster ($2,000 with standard lead batteries). It was a rakish beauty half a foot closer to the ground than anything we’d previously made, with a long “engine compartment” (actually a trunk) in front. It sat gleaming, deep blue body over straw-colored chassis, in the front of the garage.
The market was evolving at a glacial pace. More cars at the show this year would be enclosed coupés and broughams, but the majority were still roadsters—open-topped touring cars poorly suited for cold-weather driving, but well suited for the average man’s image of himself as a rough-and-tumble sportsman. The Model 17 was our attempt to break into that market. If Detroit Electric was to succeed in the long term, we had to make automobiles that were considered “manly.”
Since the 601 panel truck was going to be in the show, I had only two more choices, and they both needed to appeal to our current demographic—rich women.
I eyed the brewster-green Model L extension brougham ($3,400 with Edison batteries) that I’d chosen for the prime position in front. It was gorgeous—a picture-book Cinderella opera coach in a rich green tone. The metal fittings and headlamps were polished brass, and the white cushion tires gave the impression the car was floating on air. I poked my head inside. The interior was as luxurious as the exterior. Rich, green Waterloo broadcloth, folded diagonally and buttoned in place, covered the well-padded seats, and a crystal flower vase hung on the passenger side over the leather toilet-and-card case with its built-in watch.
I moved to the next car, a maroon Model 22 coupé—our bestseller ($2,500 with standard lead batteries, $3,100 with Edisons). It was a shorter version of the Model 10, less the new ultraquiet shaft drive we were featuring on our top-of-the-range models.
Until now, Baker had been the only electric with shaft drive.
The final vehicle was the black 601 panel truck. I was familiar enough with it.
I was getting ready to go to the factory when I heard a commotion in the stairway. Edsel and then Wesley raced around the corner and stopped, panting, in front of me.
“We’ve got it,” Edsel said. His face was flushed. He threw his greatcoat over the side of the roadster, and the words tumbled from his mouth. “He was in town.”
“Who?”
“Frank Van Dam.”
“What are you talking about?”
Edsel took a deep breath. “I’d better slow down before I pass out.”
“Hold on.” I looked around at the mechanics staring at us and nodded toward the battery room. “Let’s go in there.” After ignoring me for more than an hour, Elwood had left thirty minutes earlier for the factory, so I knew the room was empty. I herded them through the door and closed it behind us. We were enveloped in the rotten-egg stink of sulfuric acid. “Okay now. What did you find out?”
Edsel glanced at Wesley, who grinned and leaned against a test bench, gesturing for him to take it. “It was your idea, kiddo. You tell him.”
Edsel’s big brown eyes were wide, and his breath came in short bursts. “I’d better start from the beginning. One of our security men told my father what I was up to, and he made them quit. So I was on my own.” He began pacing in front of the tanks on the back wall, marching one way and wheeling around in the other direction.
I took a quick look to be sure the chains securing the tops of each tank were locked in place.
“About the only things I really knew about Frank Van Dam,” Edsel said, “were that he worked security for the labor bureau at the EAD, and he drove a red 1909 Oldsmobile Palace touring car. Nobody at the Employers Association would talk to me, so I decided to track down the car.” He looked up at me, a smile growing on his face. “Wesley helped.”
“Okay,” I said, gesturing for him to speed up. “What’d you do?”
He could hardly speak around his grin. “After Wesley cleared his schedule for me, I phoned all the Oldsmobile garages in the area on ‘official business’ for the Employers Association. We were doing an audit of our employees’ automobile expenses and needed their cooperation. I set up appointments with all of them. I’m too recognizable, and too young, to pass for an EAD auditor, so I drove Wes around and he went in, complete with an EAD badge I swiped from my father’s office.”
“And?”
“We hit the jackpot.” Edsel looked at Wesley again. “You tell him. You did it.”
Wesley nodded. “Frank may have told his mother he was leaving town, but he was here until at least November second. He dropped off his car at the Olds shop down in Wyandotte on Friday, October twenty-eighth, and picked it up November second—the day John Cooper was murdered.”
“So he wasn’t on the train,” I said. “He didn’t mail the letter to his mother—or Elizabeth.”
Wesley shook his head. “He wasn’t in Denver. The man was certain. Frank had all his
service done at that garage. He dropped off the car, and he picked up the car. I’ve got the proof right here.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Complete service order. Shows the time and date in, and the time and date out. He picked up the car at three o’clock on Wednesday, November second.” Wesley pointed to the bottom of the page. “See there? His signature. It matches the others they had on file.”
“Nine hours before John was murdered.” I met the gleam in Wesley’s eyes with my own. “We’ve got him. It was Frank.”
Edsel cleared his throat. “Another tidbit that might be helpful. We checked out the telephone number Frank left with the garage. It’s not registered in his name.”
“Really? Whose number is it?”
“I think it’s a woman. Get a load of this name.” He pulled a notepad from his jacket and glanced at it. “Sapphira Xanakis.”
I sat stunned for a moment before saying, “Sapphira?”
They both looked at me, wide-eyed with surprise. Wesley recovered first. “Do you know her?”
“Frank knows Sapphira?” I was incredulous. Then the pieces all came together. “Son of a bitch. She was trying to keep me out of my apartment until the cops found—” I stopped. “Never mind. Did you find out anything else?”
“We rushed over here as soon as we got this,” Edsel said, “but I can get her address for you, too.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
I seethed. Sapphira had set me up. I wanted to hit her, hurt her, punish her like I’d been punished. But first I needed to find out where Frank was.
When I saw the look in Wesley’s eyes I knew it would be difficult to shake him, but Edsel was another matter. Under no circumstances would I involve him any further. Wesley and I tried to talk him into going home.
He finally agreed. “All right. But let me at least give you a lift. No, one better. Use my car.”
“What are you driving today?” I asked.
“The Detroit Electric.”
“A blue brougham with the initials HF on the door? I don’t think you want us taking that.” He started to say something, but I cut him off. “And not the Torpedo, either. It’s almost as recognizable.” I turned to Wesley. “Do you have your gun?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s at home.”
I looked back to Edsel. “How about giving us a ride? I can’t let you do anything else.”
With a minimum of grumbling, Edsel drove us to our building. I thanked him again, and he dropped us off before turning back onto Woodward and continuing farther up toward his neighborhood.
Wesley and I jumped over the soot-covered piles of snow along the side of the street and hurried up the walk. He opened the door for me, and we ran up the stairs.
“How do you know this Xanakis woman?” he said.
I gestured toward his apartment. “Let’s talk in there.” Once inside, I told him Sapphira was the woman I met at the market and took to the show at the Miles Theater.
“You said something about her keeping you out of your apartment. What’s that about?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
Wesley grinned, but his eyes were deadly. “So you’re not going to fight me on going with you?”
I shook my head. As much as I wanted to leave him out of this, without Wesley I stood little chance of killing or capturing Frank. We ran to the streetcar stop, pushed our way onto the first trolley, and rode to an intersection near Sapphira’s house. While we walked the last three blocks, clomping over the snowy boardwalk, I told him about Judge Hume’s murder and my subsequent loss of his body.
“You idiot,” he said. “I could have helped you.”
“I know.” I put a hand on his arm and stopped him. “But I didn’t want to risk it. I have a hard enough time living with myself as it is. I can’t get you killed or thrown in jail.”
He slapped me on the back of the head, knocking my derby into the snow. “I knew you were a goop, but you outdid yourself this time.”
I brushed off the hat and fit it back onto my head. “Don’t we have more pressing matters than insulting me?”
He gave me a sidelong glance. “For now.”
We began walking again. When we turned onto Sapphira’s block, I pointed out the white two-story to Wesley. We stood next to a big elm tree on the corner and studied the house for a few minutes. It was a standard Michigan winter day, gray and dusky. Many of the nearby houses had lights on, but none showed through the windows of Sapphira’s house.
“They don’t know me,” Wesley said. “I’ll go up there selling something—life insurance. As soon as someone answers the door, I’ll pull the gun. Then we’ll all go inside.”
I couldn’t think of anything better, so I nodded. We switched off the safeties on our pistols. Wesley crossed the street, marched up to Sapphira’s front door, and knocked. No one answered. He tried again. And again. Then he vaulted over the porch rail into the front yard and peered in one of the windows, his hands cupped around his face. A second later, he waved me over. With the gun in my hand, I ran across the street and joined him.
“Interesting interior design,” Wesley said. “A masterpiece of understatement.”
I stepped up and looked through the window into the parlor. There was no green sofa with matching chairs, no walnut end tables, no Tiffany lamps, no Oriental rug—just pale green walls and a scuffed walnut floor.
She was gone.
We checked the other windows, but the view was the same—more empty rooms. Our next stop was the Hammond Building, where we took the elevator to Mr. Sutton’s offices on the tenth floor. A man escorted us into a boardroom with thick burgundy carpeting, a twenty-foot-long polished mahogany table, and a dozen black leather chairs.
A few minutes later, Sutton bustled in. “I’ve just gotten off the telephone with the Pinkertons,” he said, slipping into the chair next to me. “They had some interesting news.”
“So do we.” I nodded to Wesley.
He explained what he and Edsel had done. Sutton’s head began nodding after a few seconds, and a smile crept onto his face. When Wesley showed him the service order, Sutton exploded from his chair. “That’s it, Will,” he said. “That’s our reasonable doubt.”
I grinned. “What’s your news?”
His eyes narrowed. “First describe this Sapphira.”
“Tall, Greek, pretty.” I shrugged. “Exotic looking, I guess you’d say.”
He patted my arm and gave me a sly grin. “The Pinkertons discovered a little more information about Van Dam’s stay at the Oxford Hotel in Denver. It was ‘Mrs. Frank Van Dam’ who checked in on the evening of November second. Who do you suppose her description matches?”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
“She said she and her husband had just gotten in from Detroit, and he would be joining her momentarily.” The sitting was too much for him. He jumped up from the chair and began pacing. “Our men showed a picture of Frank around the hotel. A few of the employees thought he looked familiar, but no one was certain they saw him. Apparently she was seen in the company of a number of men, though a particularly big man was with her when she checked out.”
Wesley slapped the table. “So she mailed the letter to Frank’s mother. And to Elizabeth.”
It finally made sense. “Frank was staying at her place while she set up his alibi.” Another thought struck me. “Wait. John Dodge said something about me bringing a ‘whore’ to the theater. I thought he was just being an ass. But maybe Dodge knew her. If Sapphira’s a prostitute, Frank could have used her to set up John.”
Sutton nodded.
“But no one at the hotel could identify Frank?” I asked.
“It’s a very busy place with hundreds of guests at any time, and it had been six weeks . . . The clerk who checked out the Van Dams could only recall that he was large—very large.”
“It had to be him.”
Sutton stopped pacing and stood in front of me. “First, I’m going to b
ring this evidence to Detective Riordan. Then I’m going to gather as many reporters as I can and lay out these facts for the public. You weren’t the only one to have motive and opportunity to commit murder.” He talked like he was trying to convince me. Habit, I suppose, from spending so much time in front of a jury. “Frank Van Dam killed Cooper to avoid prosecution in the EAD bribery scandal. As a trusted associate, Frank would have had the opportunity to surprise him. On top of that, Frank had been previously arrested for attempted murder, and we have proof he was in the Detroit area at the time.” He gestured toward me. “You, on the other hand, are a University of Michigan graduate, the son of a man with an impeccable reputation who is a pillar of the Detroit business community, and you have no criminal record.”
That all sounded good to me.
Wesley and I stopped for dinner on the way home. In deference to my situation, he didn’t drink, but I’m sure the other patrons thought we were soused. We joked and hooted and laughed like a pair of drunks, finally going home around midnight.
The next day, the newspapers ran with Sutton’s information, along with confirmation from the Oldsmobile garage manager that Frank had, in fact, been in the Detroit area on November 2. Both Frank and John’s fingerprints had been found in Sapphira’s house. There wasn’t much doubt that she and Frank had conspired to kill John. An editorial in the Herald went so far as to say the district attorney should drop his case against me, under the headline: VAN DAM ELECTRIC EXECUTIONER!
My jubilation began to fade later that day as the specter of my bag and Judge Hume’s body rose again in my mind. The next week and a half crawled past. I tried to stay focused on the auto show, but every day was one day closer to the inevitable discovery of the evidence that could put me in prison for the rest of my life. At the time, it seemed it would almost be a blessing when they finally found him, and I could get this over with.
I felt much differently on the afternoon of January 6 when someone pounded on my door, and I looked through the peephole.
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 28