“Well, perhaps I overstated her grief just a bit. But the rest is true. I did attend a funeral with her on Wednesday. Would you have wanted to see her travel to the city alone and unescorted?”
“No, I certainly would not.” It was Horace Simpson’s turn to look uncomfortable. His old-fashioned notions of protectiveness toward the fair sex made him vulnerable to this particular line of attack, and Freddie knew it.
The younger man pursued his advantage. “What do you take me for, Uncle? Do you think I’m the sort of fellow who would abandon a lady in distress? Here was a young woman of long-standing acquaintance appealing to me for help. I ask you, what would you have done under the circumstances? I didn’t think to notify anyone here of my whereabouts. I merely answered the call of duty, and now I see I’m to be treated like a convicted felon for extending a helping hand!” Freddie threw his arms wide in a theatrical gesture of appeal.
“All right, Freddie, that will do. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. Whose funeral was it, anyway?”
“It was one of Miss LeClair’s students from Mast House who passed away unexpectedly.” Freddie neglected to mention the circumstances surrounding Elsa’s demise.
“Regrettable,” Mr. Simpson tapped a pen contemplatively, “but not entirely unaccountable. That whole neighborhood around Mast House is disease-ridden, and the immigrants who populate it live in filthy conditions. Typhoid, was it?”
“Something like that. Something equally unexpected.”
“I see,” the older man replied. Then, to Freddie’s delight, he dropped the subject entirely. “Well, I think that’s all I wanted to speak to you about today, Freddie. You may return to your office now.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” He tried to keep all trace of irony out of his voice. “I really appreciate the personal interest you take in my career here.” The young man rose to go but turned just before opening the door. “Oh, and Uncle Horace...”
“Yes?” The older man glanced up from the document he had started to examine.
“Perhaps in future you won’t immediately credit all the reports you hear about my bad behavior.”
“Agreed, young man, agreed. Now be about your business.” Freddie’s uncle waved him out of the room.
“Whew!” Freddie closed the door behind him.
“Congratulations.” Louise paused in her typing, noting Freddie’s expression of relief. “You don’t appear to have been flayed alive.”
“My dear girl.” Freddie leaned impudently over her desk. “My logic was irrefutable, and in the end I made him see the error of his ways.”
Louise made no comment but held her hands suspended above the typewriter keys, staring skeptically at Freddie as she waited for more.
“And you can tell my uncle, that if he should hear any further tattling about my absence from the office for the next few hours, it’s because I have to see to some additional arrangements for Miss LeClair.”
“Unharmed and with a license to play hooky! You really did come out of this one smelling like a rose.”
“Who knows,” Freddie said over his shoulder as he left the reception room, “I may make a good lawyer after all.”
“I’m sorry, young master, I didn’t catch that last part. Did you say ‘lawyer’ or ‘liar’?”
***
Freddie, gleeful at having obtained even an insignificant victory over his uncle, left immediately for the Gazette building. He grew more alive with every step he took. Aside from his romantic designs on Evangeline, Freddie’s only other object in life was to become a news reporter. This career had been discouraged by every member of his family down to his youngest sister. His mother went so far as to say that journalists were one step below circus sideshow performers. Freddie had been sent to law school for the purpose of eventually stepping into his father’s shoes. His family’s assumptions about his destiny were not at all in accord with Freddie’s own wishes.
While he reported to work as a junior associate of Simpson And Austin, he spent every available moment hanging around the Gazette offices. Being viewed as a mascot was Freddie’s curse in life. Not only did Evangeline treat him as one, but his reporter friends sent him on errands as the price of admittance to their inner circle. Rather than chasing down news leads, Freddie spent his time chasing down lunch orders. He bore all of this with the resignation of a man who has never been taken seriously by anyone.
The sole bright spot in this bleak personal portrait was that his family shared the popular view of his low potential. This meant that after a decent interval of incompetence at the law firm, he would be left to his own devices. For his own part, Freddie would have been quite content to sacrifice his already tarnished reputation in exchange for one really good feature story. Tracking down Elsa Bauer’s murderer was his best hope of ever achieving that dream.
The clock was just striking eleven when he ran up the stairs to the city news room. His entrance was heralded by a series of catcalls and howls from the inmates. Comments like “Where in blazes have you been?” and “It’s about time!” were followed by a barrage of paperclips and wads of paper aimed in the general vicinity of Freddie’s head. Having recently been treated to a similar missile attack from Evangeline, Freddie was becoming adept at dodging injury.
“Greetings, animals! Is it feeding time at the zoo already?”
“What do you mean, already?” a voice demanded from the corner. “When you didn’t show up yesterday, one of us had to bring back lunch instead.”
“Imagine that. You actually had to exert that much energy yourselves? What’s the world coming to?”
“Well, now that you’re here, you can bring me a corned beef on rye,” another voice called out.
“Stop right there, fellows.” Freddie held up his hands. “I’m not here to play delivery boy today.”
A disappointed rumble arose from the group who had begun to cluster around Freddie. One malcontent even growled, “Well, what are you good for, then?”
Choosing to ignore the insult, Freddie persisted. “I’m here to see Bill. Do any of you fugitives from the public baths know where he might be?”
“You could try the print shop,” a surly voice answered. “I saw him going that way about fifteen minutes ago to run down some final copy for tomorrow’s edition.”
“Thanks.” Waving his arm above his head, Freddie said to the assembly, “Always a pleasure, gentlemen! You can interpret my use of that term as loosely as you see fit!” Narrowly dodging a copy ruler that came whizzing past his shoulder, he heard “Awww, get lost!” as he ducked out the door.
His exuberance still undiminished, Freddie ran back down the stairwell to the print shop that was located on the ground floor. As he opened the double doors to enter, the roar of the rotary presses pounded his ears like a pair of iron fists. The cylinders were powered by steam engines that could produce twenty-thousand pages of print an hour. The entire building shook from the vibration they made. Freddie edged past one of the monsters, imagining the damage that could be done if a hand accidentally got caught in the mechanism. Eventually he saw Bill Mason standing against a back window. The reporter was chewing on one of the two-cent cigars he favored and frowning as he read over a galley proof.
“Hello, Freddie boy!” Mason said when he looked up over the rim of his reading glasses and saw Freddie standing in front of him. “Where’ve you been? I was about to ask the coppers to drag the river for you.”
“Personal business, Bill. There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s confidential.”
Mason’s attention had been snagged by the utterance of the magic word “confidential.” He crammed his glasses into a vest pocket and took his cigar out of his mouth. He then nudged the brim of his dented, ash-streaked derby farther back on his head. This gesture, Freddie knew from experience, meant that Bill was all ears. “Well, this ought to be good, if it’s confidential. Anything fit to print?”
“Since when did you ever cavil over whether a story was fit or not before
throwing it on the front page, Bill? In answer to your question, I’m here to get information, not give it.”
“What’s it worth to you?”
“How about a free lunch at Hennessey’s and all you can drink?”
“For a deal like that, Freddie lad, I’d tell you where the mayor keeps his streetcar-concession bribe money!” Unceremoniously handing his galley proof to one of the typesetters standing nearby, Bill sauntered out of the print room with Freddie trailing along behind him.
While great age has sometimes been described by the term “before the flood,” Bill Mason was considered an ancient journalist having been a Chicago newsman since “before the fire.” Because he had single-mindedly pursued the life of the mind, the life of the body had been sadly neglected. He drank too much, slept too little, and failed to note that his shirt collars were only white on the day he first bought them.
His deshabille notwithstanding, Mason was very good at his job. He maintained an intricate network of contacts among Chicago’s political community, which had the same membership as its criminal underworld. As a result, he was able to receive information impossible to get through more formal channels of inquiry. For some odd reason, Bill had taken a liking to Freddie—odd, not because Freddie was an unlikable fellow, but because Freddie seemed the last sort of person that a man of Bill’s satiric disposition would be expected to like. Even more odd was the fact that Bill actually took Freddie’s aspirations as a reporter seriously.
The two left the Gazette building and headed down Madison Street to Hennessey’s saloon—a nearby tavern frequented by newsmen from one or another of the city’s papers. The place was relatively empty but ready for the lunch crowd to arrive; the corner of the bar was piled high with platters of cold cuts, cheese, bread, and pickles. Doc Hennessey, the owner of the establishment, stood presiding with great dignity behind the bar. The hazy light streaming through the tall front windows reflected off his bald head like a cherub’s halo. When he saw Bill and Freddie enter, his mild expression turned to a scowl. Spitting expressively on the floor, he said, “I didn’t think you’d be showing your ugly mug around here anytime soon, Mason.”
“Tut, tut, Doc. Is that any way to treat one of your best customers?”
“My best customers are my paying customers. You’re a leech!” Hennessey pointed to the wall behind him. “It’s mainly on account of you I put up that sign just yesterday!” In bold Gothic letters, a sign above the bar warned: “NO TRUST!” As if the message might need additional emphasis, another sign flanked it: “Pay TODAY or Thirst TOMORROW!”
Spitting again to emphasize his displeasure, Hennessey leaned forward over the bar, presumably the better to reach Bill’s windpipe. Before the dispute could take a physical turn, Freddie intervened. “How much does he owe, Doc?”
“Five bucks and two-bits!” The proprietor was clearly incensed by the enormity of the sum.
“I’ll settle his account.” Freddie took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket. “That should cover for today and then some. Fetch us a bottle of whiskey, Doc.”
As the proprietor walked out of earshot to bring the requisite item, Bill muttered under his breath, “A whoreson Achitophel! A rascally yea-forsooth knave! To bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security!”
Freddie recollected Bill’s penchant for quoting Shakespeare. The reporter had a particular fondness for Falstaff, which surprised Freddie not at all.
“My young friend!” Bill patted Freddie’s shoulder. “I am greatly obliged to you. I always knew you had character.”
“And I always knew you were a character! How long did you think you could go on like this, Bill?”
“Till payday, my boy, only till payday,” Bill responded with aplomb.
“And what will you do when your paycheck isn’t enough to cover your tab?”
“I’ll hurl myself off that particular precipice, lad, when I arrive there.” Bill apparently took note of Freddie’s solemn expression. “Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me, nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine.”
This had the effect of making Freddie smile in spite of himself.
“There, that’s more like it.” Bill’s voice expressed satisfaction. “Now let’s change the subject. You have bought my time for the next hour or for as long as it takes me to become incoherent from demon whiskey, whichever comes first. Ask your questions.”
“All right.” Freddie wasn’t quite sure his hints on the value of temperance had been persuasive, but he was unready to be lured away from the topic.
At that moment, Doc returned with a bottle and two glasses, placing them on the bar with a loud thud to announce his displeasure at not being able to crack Bill’s skull for nonpayment. He growled, “The food’s there. Help yourselves,” as he stalked back to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses.
Before Freddie had time to pour himself a drink, Bill had already downed his first shot. The reporter then unfolded his handkerchief and meticulously dabbed at the corners of the bushy moustache that completely obscured his upper lip. He nudged his empty glass in Freddie’s direction. The young man sighed and poured his friend another drink before filling his own glass. “Let’s get something to eat and move off to a table on the side.”
“It’s your ten-spot.” Bill complied with Freddie’s request.
When the two were seated, Freddie leaned across the table so as not to be overheard by the few other patrons of the establishment.
“I need some information about the murder you covered over a week ago.”
Bill tilted his chair against the wall and fished in a vest pocket for a match, presumably intending to light one of the foul-smelling fire sticks he defined as a cigar. Freddie watched the operation, noting silently that the only reason Bill’s mouth perpetually drooped at the right corner was because it had been a cigar perch for so many years.
It took three matches before the operation was complete. When Bill had succeeded in igniting the tobacco and creating enough smoke to obscure the air around his head, he picked up the thread of the conversation. “The girl at the Templar House? That’s old news, my boy. A suspect has already been arrested. What’s your interest in it?”
“As I told you, it’s confidential.” Freddie glanced nervously over his shoulder.
“That won’t suit, son. You’ve piqued my curiosity. I smell a story here.”
“All right, all right. I’ll tell you a few things about it just to shut you up.” He took a large bite of his ham sandwich. “Do you know a lady named Evangeline LeClair?”
“The railroad heiress? Don’t know her personally, but I’ve heard a few things about her from the high hats who write the society column. She’s said to be a bit odd. Inherited a fortune from her parents. Seems to be sworn off matrimony, though I hear she’s still trailed around by a few young fools who keep proposing to her. You wouldn’t be one of them, would you, lad?”
Freddie stopped chewing abruptly and gulped down his mouthful of food. “Not exactly. We grew up together. She’s a friend of mine.”
“I see.” Bill puffed on his cigar. The cryptic expression on his face reminded Freddie of Alice’s caterpillar. To the young man’s relief, he changed his line of questioning. “I’m assuming there’s some connection here with the murder at the Templar House?”
“Yes, there is. Miss LeClair knew the girl who was killed. The lady teaches classes at Mast House and this was one of her students.”
“Oh, ho!” Bill laughed. “An heiress and a blue stocking! That’s a deadly combination if ever there was one. So she’s taken a personal interest in this business, has she?”
“Yes.”
“And I’m assuming you want to play the hero by finding out for her what she wants to know?”
“Something like that.” Freddie gave up the pretense of eating entirely and squirmed in his chair.
Bill eyed him for several moments through the smoky haze without s
peaking. “All right, my boy. You’ve satisfied my curiosity. Now I’m ready to satisfy yours. Present your questions.”
Freddie was all eagerness now. “Did you get to see the room where the girl was found firsthand?”
Bill snorted derisively. “You ought to know by now, lad, the coppers try to keep us out, but we’re usually there before the body hits the floor.”
Freddie winced at the image. “What shape was the room in?”
Bill tilted his chair forward before replying. He lifted the corner of his sandwich skeptically to peer underneath the rye bread. He picked up the dill pickle perched on the side of his plate and scrutinized it with the same cold detachment. Apparently not finding anything to whet his appetite, he made no attempt to eat. Instead, he poured himself another shot of whiskey. “It didn’t look like anything was out of place. The furniture was all arranged. I asked the chambermaid if anything had been moved. She was scared and shaking, but she said no.”
“Did she notice if the door had been forced open?”
“It wasn’t. It was just locked from the inside. The maid knocked, and when there was no answer she used her passkey to let herself in and... saw what she saw.”
“Hmmm.” Freddie thought for a few moments. “Was there a window?”
Bill nodded. “Just one. The window leads out to a fire escape and then down to the alley below. It was a cheaper room at the back of the hotel. I overheard one of the coppers say that the window had been shut, but it wasn’t locked.”
“What else did you see?”
“Only the girl. She was lying face down on the floor. Her head was tilted to one side, almost as if she’d fallen asleep that way.”
“Any sign of a struggle?”
“Not that I could see.” Bill swallowed the remainder of his drink and poured another. Freddie waved away an offer to refill his own glass. “There was a cut in her back just below the nape of her neck and a trickle of blood. Her left hand was thrown up behind her head as if she’d tried to reach for the spot where she’d been stabbed when she fell. That’s all, no bruises—nothing like that—no ripped clothing. But I got the impression she’d been crying.”
The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) Page 9