by Raymond John
She held her chest as she caught her breath. “Oh, hello, sir. Forgive me. I’ll be leavin’ in a trice. I made the beds, but I didn’t change the Turkish towels in the bathroom because they looked like they haven’t been used.”
I loved her Gaelic brogue and her bird-like twitter. “I can see you’ve done a wonderful job. Thank you.”
“Have you been out sight-seein’? Today’s Armistice Day, you know. There’ll be a big parade downtown.”
“No. But thanks for reminding me. I forgot.”
She pointed toward the sofa. “There’s newspapers for you, and chocolates on the beds. The paper says there’s going to be a big parade in Chicago. The mayor will cut a ribbon to open a new road that runs to California. Route 66. It’s called the Will Rogers Highway.”
Fearing she would run out of breath and collapse, I reached into my pocket and took out a half-dollar and handed it to her. She curtsied. “Oh, thank you, sir.”
“You have other rooms to clean. Ours looks just fine.”
She curtsied again before hurrying to her cart, her face redder than her hair. “Thank you, sir,” she called over her shoulder.
After she left, Holmes turned to Violet. “I suggest you and Rose check your belongings,” he said flatly. “That woman obviously feels guilty about something.”
“I don’t think she’s been up to any mischief,” I said. “We just surprised her.”
“You’re far too trusting, Wiggins.”
“Maybe. Actually, I’m glad she reminded me today’s a holiday. Our young friends, the Irregulars, will be off school, and I think I have a way to put them to good use.”
Sam, as well as six of the seven Irregulars, waited eagerly at the schoolyard when Holmes and I arrived twenty minutes later. Holmes was grumbling. I’d just as happily have left him at the hotel to rest. But I needed help transporting the troops. I knew why he was crotchety. He liked my idea but didn’t want to admit it because he hadn’t come up with it himself.
We hired two taxicabs, and they stood along the curb. The gulls were back, gyrating in the cloudless sky. All traces of snow had disappeared, and the only moisture was dew in the shadows that hadn’t yet fled from the morning sun.
The boys were lined up with eager faces. “Did you bring the money?” Sam asked when I got within ten feet. Not a good morning, or a nice day. This young man was all business.
“We sure did. Who’s missing?”
“Mike. He had to go fishing with his parents. He wants me to collect his money for him.”
We had it. Before we left the hotel, Holmes had stopped at the front desk at the hotel and turned a few of his gold pieces into shiny new quarters.
“Do you think you could find someone to take Mike’s place? I’m going to need all eight of you today.”
“I can get my brother. Why do you need him?”
“I have a special job for you. Are you all sure you want your money?”
They all responded with cries of “Yes.”
“Line up,” Sam said.
They did. Each in turn inspected his quarter as if it were a foreign object. I almost expected at least one of them to bite it to see if it would bend. Sam and I stood at the back of the line. When all the backs were turned, I surreptitiously slipped him his dollar.
All the young soldiers were paid in a matter of minutes. “What’s up?” Sam asked.
“As I said, I have an important job for you. This may be a bit boring, so I’m raising all your wages to a dollar for today.”
I was greeted with a chorus of Ooos. Some of their fathers didn’t make that much.
“You’re probably too young to know that there are four newsstands in Boston that sell German newspapers. You all know what Mr. Becker looks like. He may already have left town, but he may still be here. He has a lot of friends in Germany, and I’m sure he wants to know what’s happening there. If he buys a paper at one of those stands, we may be able to catch him. You all told your parents you would be playing outside all day so they won’t miss you. Right?”
They looked at each other and nodded.
“Good. You’ll work in teams of two at each of the newsstands. If he should show up, one will stay to watch him, the other will find a policeman. Trade off when you start to get cold. Whatever else happens, don’t ever get anywhere close to him. He won’t hesitate to hurt you. Do you understand?”
Wide eyes and quick nods.
“My friend and I will take you where you need to go. Someone will have to sit in someone else’s lap when we get in the cab.”
As expected, I was greeted by a chorus of “Uh uh. Not me.”
“We’ll meet back here at four o’clock. My friend or I will pick you up before then. That’s a long time to be standing around, so I’m giving you each another quarter so you can buy a candy bar or a soda pop. Is everyone ready to go?”
“Yeah,” they shouted, taking off on the run toward the cabs.
Chapter 31
Sam won the race to the taxis and staked out the one parked in front. “My brother can sit on my lap,” he said.
I thanked him for his generosity. No one else volunteered to double up to ride in Holmes’s taxi. We also didn’t want any whining about who’d be riding with whom in the taxis. Holmes came up with his own solution. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out a box of lucifers and removed two. He broke one of the matches in the middle, and the second so one end was decidedly shorter than the other.
“You, you, you and you are riding with me,” he said, pointing at four of the boys at random. “I have four match sticks. The short one will sit in the long one’s lap.”
We heard mutters as he held out his right hand. “Each of you take one.” The boy named Eric was the loser, with Charlie getting the short match. The other two enjoyed a good laugh at their expense.
“Now that’s settled, we have to decide who goes where,” I said. “Two of the teams will ride in each cab. Three of the sellers are downtown, the fourth is at Harvard Square.”
Holmes cut me short. “I want the venue at Harvard. I’ve never visited that educational citadel, and I doubt I’ll ever have another chance. I’ll take any of the remaining three.”
The words brought a stab of sadness. Even the great Sherlock Holmes knew he was mortal. I showed Sam the list of addresses. “Which one would be easiest to get to from Harvard?”
After a quick look he pointed at the one at 284 Tremont Street.
“That’ll be Mr. Andelman,” I told Holmes. “I talked to Officer O’Neal. The vendors all know what we’re planning. I’ll meet you there.”
Just as Holmes’s contingent was about to get into the cab, I took out my bag of liquorice pipes, giving each of them one from my precious stash. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful.”
Sam lived three blocks away and jumped out as soon as the driver stopped. Bare seconds later, he came back with a slightly shorter, sandy-haired boy in tow. “This is Vince. He doesn’t know what Mr. Becker looks like, so he’ll be the one to fetch the cop. You’re giving him a dollar, too, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
Sam elbowed his brother. “See? I told you I wasn’t kidding.”
As we neared downtown Boston, traffic got heavier. People sought out places to sit or stand along Downtown Crossing to watch the parade. Despite the delays, it only took ten minutes before we arrived at 520 Broylston Street where Ada Twombley offered a worldwide selection of papers. Sam and Vince got out first. I followed them into the shop.
The tiny store was unenclosed, with papers clipped to tall stands covered from bottom to top with newspapers from presses in Europe and Asia, as well as an enormous selection of local papers. Ada, diminutive with black hair streaked with splashes of gray, bent forward and held a hand next to her mouth. “Are you the boys work
ing with the police?” she asked in a stage whisper.
They both nodded with enthusiasm.
“This is exciting. I hope I’m here if he comes in. Do either of you like cookies?” The boys beamed. “Yeah.” Neither noticed when I stepped back to return to the cab.
Art and Patrick got the last post at Court Street at Corner Square. This shop had a front door with a large sign reading “Non giornate Italiano,” in red letters. Stepping in, I didn’t see as many papers as the other shop, but Tom Flanagan sold tobacco, cigars, and cigarettes as well as candy bars to supplement his wares. A sharp-featured man in a flannel shirt came forward with a jaunty step.
“Top of the morning to you, boys. I’m pleased to meet you. I always like to help the police. Since you’re working for them as special agents, you’re welcome to buy a Baby Ruth bar or a Coca Cola for a penny. But let me warn you. Don’t let me catch you trying to steal cigarettes. If I do, I’ll send you to the pokey for a week, special agents or not. Do we understand each other?”
Eyes the size of dinner plates, they nodded vigorously.
Has anyone been in to buy a German language newspaper recently?” I asked.
“Just old Gerhardt Schultz. He buys a copy of Frankfurter Zeitung every week. No one else I can think of.”
“Any chance you have a copy of the Detroit Free Press?”
“Sorry. I’m sold out. I have the Dearborn Independent.”
My teeth gritted. Even the mention of the rag made me furious. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t even light my stove with it. If I’m not mistaken, you don’t carry Italian papers.”
Flanagan shrugged. “You’re right. I don’t want any dirty W.O.P. coming into my store looking for them.”
I wanted to say I was willing to bet his parents probably didn’t have papers when they came to America, either. “Why? Are they trying to buy them with Lira?”
He frowned. Before he could say any more, I turned my attention to my young minions.
“Good luck, men, Here’s a pipe for each of you. Just don’t try to put tobacco in them.”
They eagerly snatched the last of my liquorice from my hands, then immediately began to argue about who looked older with a pipe stuck in his mouth. They were still at it when I left.
With the parade only half an hour away, it took us more than fifteen minutes to get to 284 Tremont. I paid the dollar fare and added another dollar for a tip. “I may quit early today,” the driver said without irony. “Thanks.”
The door to the shop stood open. Instead of hangers, shallow shelves bulged from floor to ceiling with newspapers of all sizes. A short ladder on wheels allowed customers to reach the upper levels. Across from them, Terry Fields stood on tiptoes rummaging through the candies. He saw me and showed off his braces with a grin. With customers in the shop, I put a finger to my mouth to prevent him from greeting me aloud.
Mr. Adelman emerged from the back of the store. “Good morning. Can I help you find something?”
“If you’ve got a copy of the Detroit Free Press, I’ll buy one.”
“It’s a day old. Today’s edition hasn’t come in yet.”
“Yesterday’s is fine.”
He knew exactly where it was. With an apologetic look, he said, “Six cents. I have to charge extra because it has to come by train.”
I had six cents in coppers. Folding the paper under my arm, I passed Terry on the way to the door. “Good job,” I whispered.
Terry’s partner waved at me from across the street. Pedestrians ignored the traffic light and crossed in a steady stream. Certain I wouldn’t be noticed, I joined them and ducked into the doorway of a dry cleaning shop. My young irregular joined me.
“No luck yet?”
“Nope. This is getting kinda boring.”
“That’s the way these things work. I don’t know your name.”
“Neil Tully. I just moved here from Cleveland three years ago.”
The conversation ended immediately as a familiar-looking black automobile stopped in front of the news stand. I knew in an instant it was an Essex.
I dashed across the street to get a better view of the auto. My heart pumped faster when I noticed the dented fender. Out of breath, I darted back to where Neil was standing watching me with a puzzled expression.
“Get the policeman! The man we’re looking for just went into the shop!”
Chapter 32
My heart pounded.
I stood frozen in place. Instead of joy, all I could think of was what could go wrong. What if Neil couldn’t find a policeman before Becker returned to the auto and drove away? What if Becker somehow recognized Terry Fields and abducted him from the shop? What if the villain saw me?
The last, at least, was something I could control. I backed into the doorway of the jewelry store behind me and took out my pocket watch.
Seconds ticked by, and nothing changed. Neil was nowhere in sight, and I became more and more certain Becker would reappear at any moment. I was bound and determined he wouldn’t get away again.
My suspicions were confirmed. Becker stepped out carrying a newspaper. Just as he was about to get into the auto, I sprang from my hiding place. “Stop! Thief!”
Seeing me flying willy-nilly in his direction, he turned tail and headed toward the ever-growing crowd. The auto was of no use to him. The steady stream of traffic prevented his driving off.
“Stop thief!” I shouted again.
That brought plenty of stares, but no one tried to stop him.
It never even occurred to me he could have had a weapon. I forged onward in hot pursuit.
“Stop that man,” I called as he dodged forward at full speed, elbowing and pushing aside everyone in his path. “He’s a wanted criminal.”
I should have known what would happen. Far from offering assistance, frightened-looking people stood aside to make way for him.
A toddler girl suddenly appeared in my path, escaping from the grip of a terrified mother. If I were twenty years younger, I would have hurtled over her, but I had no choice but to put on the brakes. Becker disappeared as the crowd closed. By the time I skirted the terrified tiny obstacle, I’d lost sight of him.
I forged ahead a few more yards, then gave up. As I struggled to catch my breath, I realized Becker had defeated me again. The only consolation was that he had been forced to leave the stolen automobile on the street.
I returned to it. After taking a look around to be sure no one was watching, I casually peered through the passenger side window to see if the scoundrel had left anything behind.
My heart skipped a beat. A hat, coat and briefcase lay invitingly just a few inches away.
I took another look. No one was even looking in my direction.
Heart banging wildly, I opened the door and lifted the briefcase from the seat. It took all of my will power, but I casually nudged the door shut. Everyone from blocks around could hear me and know I was up to no good.
What now?
Terry Fields stood a foot away. “Take this,” I said, thrusting the valise toward him. “Go down the street to the drug store and wait there for me. If anyone asks you, tell them you’re waiting for your dad to come and take you to his office. Got that?”
With a dubious look, he nodded and took the briefcase from me. He turned and started to run for his destination.
“Walk. Don’t run. I’ll be down to pick you up as soon as I can. Here,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a fifty-cent piece. “Buy yourself a chocolate soda while you’re waiting.”
Despite my warning, he took off at a trot.
Bare seconds later, Neil showed up, out of breath, with a police officer following. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I couldn’t find the policeman. He was helping an old lady get to an automobile. She had fallen.”
“It lo
oks like I’m too late,” the officer said. He could have been a stock character from a vaudeville play, with a gargantuan stomach assaulting the buttons on the front of his uniform, and an enormous rose, lovingly nourished by years of strong spirits, hanging between his eyes.
“He—he was getting into the auto,” I stammered. “I didn’t want him to escape. I chased him into the crowd.”
“You should have waited,” the officer said. “He wouldn’t have gotten very far with the traffic the way it is.”
I felt my face turning red. I hadn’t even thought of that. Not knowing he was in danger, Becker would probably have sat waiting until he could find a break in the traffic. “I just wanted to make sure he couldn’t just drive off.”
The officer pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, he’s on foot now, so he can’t get very far. Is this the car he stole?”
“Yes. You can see the dent in the front bumper.”
The officer peered into the auto and spied the hat and coat. “He’s going to be plenty chilly. It’s supposed to get close to zero this afternoon.”
“Maybe he left something in the overcoat,” I said, envisioning what I would find in the valise.
“That’s possible. I’ll get someone to tow the auto and bring the clothes into the evidence room. Too bad we couldn’t catch him red-handed.”
“It is,” I replied, forcing a sad face. “Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”
With the parade less than half an hour away, nearly all street traffic had come to a standstill. Neil Tully and I waited for Holmes beside the Essex. I could hardly wait for the great detective to appear. In our friendly but intense game of one-upmanship, I had pulled ahead by a mile.
He arrived ten minutes later, immediately catching my expression. “What makes you look so smug, Wiggins? Did you capture Mr. Becker?”
“No. But he did show up. I tried to chase him, but he got away in the crowd.”
“That hardly sounds like a victory to me.”
Vowing not to be offended, I patted the Essex’s fender. “Does this look familiar to you?”