by Scott Mackay
I momentarily sympathized with the poor man’s dilemma, then, for the sake of my case, pursued the matter of Mr Purcell. ‘And what did Jensen have to say about my victim?’
‘He said that thanks to Mr Purcell, the bank was asking him to leave his shop that very day. He then told me it wasn’t the first time Mr Purcell’s tried to ruin him. “Lonnie,” he says to me, “if you knew the half of it.” Then Mr Jensen says to me, “Lonnie, I’m going to put a stop to it. I’m not going to let him walk all over me anymore. Before the evening’s out, Ephraim’s never going to ruin anybody ever again.” And then he left by the back door, Dr Deacon, something he’s never done before. It made me real nervous. Even more nervous than Billy Fray coming to the front door and doing all that hollerin’ earlier on.’
TWELVE
I called on Miss Wade.
I was admitted to the front hall by her maid, Freda. I had brought the Jean Nedra hat. I heard Miss Wade playing her grand piano in the music room at the back, one of Frédéric Chopin’s saddest pieces, the Prelude in E minor, Opus 28, Number 4, the so-called ‘Suffocation’ prelude, a disturbingly emotional piece. Even more disturbing was the pathos she injected into her performance.
Freda, a sturdy woman of fifty in a black and white maid’s uniform, retreated to the music room to announce my arrival. After a few moments, the prelude stopped halfway down its descending series of chromatic chords, a strangled dissonance clutching Olive’s Steinway. I studied the potted palm in the front hall, in suspense as I waited for the housemaid to return.
When Freda came back, she had a distressed expression on her face. ‘Miss Wade is presently not at home.’
I grew still. ‘Not at home? But I just heard her playing the piano.’
The corners of Freda’s lips drew back and she glanced with worried eyes at the brass umbrella stand. ‘Sir, she told me to tell you that she’s not at home. And I suppose we must accept her word on the subject.’
I felt disheartened, and also confounded. ‘Could you at least give her this present?’ I said, offering the hatbox.
‘I’m afraid she’s asked me not to accept anything from you, doctor.’
I pretended thick-headedness because I couldn’t think of what else to do. ‘How could she ask you that if she’s not at home?’
Shifting with suppressed agitation, Freda said, ‘Because, as you know, Dr Deacon, she’s a woman of remarkable talents.’
I stared. Then I said, ‘Thank you, Freda.’ And turned to go.
As I rode Pythagoras down the hill at a slow walk, I couldn’t help thinking that the connection between myself and Miss Wade was like a web being stretched thinner and thinner. A part of me wanted to rush back, barge in, and explain that there was nothing between myself and Miss Gregsby, and that she was a fool for ever doubting me, or for ever thinking I would be untrue to her. Another part desisted. What right did she have after Everett Howse? And after the man from Boston? And so I didn’t turn back. I kept on, the clip-clop of Pythagoras’s hooves muffled by the snow on the ground, the Jean Nedra hat still under my arm, and the connection between myself and Miss Wade growing more tenuous by the moment.
I found Isaac Jensen at home on the appointed day of his return. He was a small man in his late fifties, with a pale Nordic complexion that seemed frosted with tones of talc. He had white-blond hair, and wore wired-rimmed spectacles. He was singularly cheerless. As we shook hands, he gazed at me with bereft blue eyes – I had the impression he was grieving for Ephraim Purcell, despite their troubled past together.
‘Come to my office, doctor. We’ll be more comfortable there.’
On the way to his office, we exchanged a few words about Purcell.
‘We were good friends at one time, doctor,’ he explained. ‘But not so much anymore. We’ve had our differences.’
What surprised me most about his office were the twenty-five rifles he had under lock and key in a glass case against the far wall. He saw me scrutinizing the weapons, and a tight grin flickered to his thin lips.
‘I’m an avid collector, doctor. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell these weapons now. The New York Emporium has driven me out of business and I need to raise capital to start a new venture.’ He shook his head, his cheerlessness intensifying. ‘It’s taken me my whole life to put this collection together.’
‘And have you sold any of these weapons lately?’
‘Please, doctor. Sit. Make yourself comfortable.’ I took a seat on a rocking chair that looked as if it had been around since the Grant Administration. ‘Scotch?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Not a drinking man?’
‘Not at this time of the day.’
‘Do you mind if I go ahead?’
‘Suit yourself.’
He fixed a scotch. As he opened the large liquor cabinet, I noted, as if fate were conspiring to convict the man any way it could, an extensive collection of whisky flasks, twenty-five or thirty standing shoulder to shoulder.
Rifles and flasks. I hadn’t even properly started my questions, and I was ready to indict Isaac Jensen as my murderer.
He finished pouring a drink for himself, closed the cabinet, and turned to me. ‘You were asking?’
‘If you’ve sold any weapons recently.’
He frowned. ‘Doctor, why don’t you get to your point? You might lead Tilda around like a Jersey cow, but I’m a man of education. So please don’t tip-toe.’
I paused to reassess. ‘Very well, Mr Jensen. I’ve come about Mr Purcell’s murder. As you say, you and Mr Purcell were at one time great friends but that as of late you’ve had a falling out.’
He nodded over the rim of his scotch glass. ‘We fought in the Civil War together.’ He grinned, and in that grin there was a lot of heartache. ‘That’s a bond most men don’t break. But he broke it.’
‘And the reason I ask about rifles is because I see you’re a collector. The weapon used in Mr Purcell’s murder appears to have been a collector’s item. Do you by any chance own a Civil War era Henry?’
He grew reflective. ‘I owned a Henry once. Not anymore. Nothing like a Henry for accuracy and rapid fire. It’s a great weapon. I particularly like the distinctive butt, with the brass trim at the back.’
‘What happened to your Henry?’
‘I lost it. In a bet. Years ago.’
I honed in. ‘I also understand that on the night of the murder you told Lonnie Moses you were going to make sure Mr Purcell never ruined anybody ever again.’
For several seconds he didn’t answer. Then some colour climbed into his otherwise ghostlike complexion. ‘I was upset. I got word from my creditors that morning that we had to leave the hat shop. Then at the club I drank more than I should have. My tongue got loose with Mr Moses.’ With a great deal of deliberateness – too much, I should think – he added, ‘For all that, I would never take Ephraim’s life. Not after I risked my own saving it.’
I was puzzled. ‘You saved his life?’
He nodded. ‘We were under sniper attack. This was in Georgia, May of sixty-three. Ephraim was wounded, in the open, and a sniper was taking pot-shots at him. I killed the sniper and dragged Ephraim to cover.’
I paused to assimilate this information, then continued with my interview. ‘A whisky flask of considerable value seems have been taken from Mr Purcell’s person after he was murdered. I look into your spirits cabinet and I see you have an extensive flask collection.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re right, Dr Deacon, I collect flasks. But that doesn’t mean I killed Ephraim Purcell just to rob his corpse of one. I have plenty.’
‘If you killed a sniper during the Civil War you must be a crack shot, easily capable of hitting what appears to have been a target of at least modest difficulty out on Tonawanda Road. Can you see why I must be diligent in following this up?’
In a clear unperturbed voice, he said, ‘It’s true that I’m an expert marksman. But it’s also true that I was passed out in this chair when
Ephraim was murdered, so there’s no way I could have killed him.’ Jensen took a sip from his scotch glass. He then tried sprinkling some of his own cayenne pepper. ‘But if you’re looking for suspects, maybe you should talk to Albert Swinford.’
With the mention of Albert Swinford, our exchange came to a halt. After not getting a Swinford lead from Erwin Fletcher, it seemed I was now going to get one from Jensen. ‘I would be much obliged, Mr Jensen, if you would kindly tell me why you think I should talk to Mr Swinford.’
He looked out the window where on the street I saw the northbound tram of the Tonawanda Road Electric Tram Car Service heading up the hill toward Hoopertown.
‘Ephraim had an affair with Melissa Swinford, is all.’
I paused to orient myself. ‘Mr Swinford’s wife?’
Jensen nodded. ‘It happened back in the eighties. She wasn’t the first woman, either. Oh, no, there’ve been others. Some stretching all the way back to his New York City days.’ He grew lost in thought. I remembered Erwin Fletcher telling me about a woman driving Purcell and Jensen apart. Jensen looked up at me, his pale blue eyes now helpful. ‘It was a bad business with Mrs Swinford, Dr Deacon.’ He took one last sip of his scotch and put the glass on the table. ‘And I know Albert Swinford’s never forgiven Ephraim.’
‘Bad in what way?’
‘I don’t know the precise details. But I know Ephraim used his usual heavy-handed tactics. By the time it happened we were already on the outs with each other, so he never gave me the whole story but he sure let me know how he was having his way with one of the county’s prettiest women, and that there wasn’t anything she or her husband could do about it. The way I figure, everything that happened was completely against Melissa Swinford’s will. And against Albert’s, too. And if that doesn’t make a husband want to kill someone, I don’t know what does.’
THIRTEEN
I stopped by the Sheriff’s Office later that afternoon to talk to Stanley Armstrong about the case.
I first started by asking him if he or the junior deputies had seen any sign of Billy Fray.
‘Not a hair,’ he said. He clucked his tongue, then gave me his opinion. ‘The way I see it, Billy killed Purcell, then sold his rifle so he could raise money to run on. Robert McGlen tells us he was at the club the night of the murder wanting Purcell to come out and fight. Everyone knows Purcell makes a regular stop at the hotel on Saturday after he has dinner at the club. Billy walked round to the smithy after going to the club, retrieved his rifle, which he got earlier in the day from his gun locker at the Shooters Club, then got himself to the hotel to wait for Purcell. That’s about as premeditated as it gets. And the fact that no one can find Billy makes him look even guiltier.’
We discussed Billy for a while. Once we were done, I revealed to Stanley my new suspect, Isaac Jensen, outlining all the damning details of the enmity between Purcell and Jensen. I finished by saying, ‘And the man’s a flask collector.’
The sheriff shook his head. ‘I hardly think Jensen’s going to shoot a man to rob him of his flask. And what about this here wound angle you’re concerned about? It’s not possible a man would shoot him from the roof or an upper window, then come down and rob him. He wouldn’t have the time.’
‘That only means we’re missing something. It doesn’t mean Isaac couldn’t have taken the flask.’
‘I don’t think he would shoot him for his flask when he has a whole collection of them.’
‘Stanley, in Cross Plains, men shot each other for their boots. You know that. Just because we’re in the civilized East doesn’t mean men are any different. Maybe the flask had some special significance. Maybe it was a point of contention between them. Or maybe Jensen shot him over this here woman Erwin Fletcher told me about, or for driving him under, or maybe for some other insult we don’t know anything about yet, and then took the flask as an afterthought. And though I’m still concerned about the wound angle in a robbery scenario, it doesn’t necessarily rule it out. I’m going to see Judge Norris about the flask. I’ll ask him to sign a court order to search the hat shop and the upstairs rooms. Maybe we’ll find it.’
I then explained to Stanley what I knew about Albert Swinford. ‘Jensen told me Purcell had an affair with Melissa Swinford years ago. It happened back in the eighties. If it happened back in the eighties, and we know that Clarence, the son, is in his mid-teens, then it just might be possible that he’s not Albert Swinford’s son at all. He could be Purcell’s son, and that’s why he was crying at the funeral. And if he’s Purcell’s son, and Swinford knows it, maybe it galls Swinford every day of his life, and it finally just got too much for him.’
Stanley gave the matter some thought, leaning back in his chair, rubbing one side of his mustache with two fingers, then the other. ‘I would tread lightly, here, Clyde. Right now, you don’t have proof that Swinford’s involved in this at all. And making assumptions about who Clarence Swinford’s pa is might cause more problems than it solves. As for Jensen, the wound angle and the flask robbery are like opposite ends of the same magnet. They repel. And until you can get them to attract, I think they just confuse each other, which means I think they’re going to confuse the whole investigation if we don’t watch out.’
Later, I rode south on Fredonia Street. I crossed Fifth County Road and left the town behind, climbing the gentle and well-settled slopes of the Tonawanda River Valley. I then traveled, over the course of the next hour, to the more isolated and sparsely populated farmland tracts of the southern counties. The land evened out, and the wind came barrelling down from the north, unchecked by any protective topography or trees.
It had been snowing for most of the trip – thick, heavy flakes that stuck to man and horse alike. Pythagoras, as usual, was tireless, and made her way through the worsening conditions with only modest difficulty. The ride was long and hard. I was glad when the Swinford farmstead finally came into view.
I turned up the drive to the farmhouse. The log construction abode was a pretty red one with white shutters, two chimneys, and a broad front porch.
By this time the snow had stopped. As I rounded the back, I saw young Clarence clearing snow from the farmyard with a horse-drawn plough. He heard me coming and turned. He shook on the reins to stop his horse.
He observed me for a few seconds. ‘Morning, sir. It’s Dr Deacon, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’ I brought Pythagoras to a halt. ‘And you’re Clarence?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is your pa about? I’d like a word with him.’
The corners of his lips tightened and his eyes narrowed; it was as if at the mention of his father something changed – all his initial civility disappeared and he now looked as blank as the snow around him. ‘He’s out in the wood-lot, fellin’ trees. I can show you the way, if you like. Lots of paths back there. You could take a wrong turn somewhere and get yourself lost.’
‘I’d be much obliged. You want to ride that plough horse, or do you want to climb on the back of mine?’
‘Thunder, here, he don’t take kindly to people riding him. Let me just tie him up.’
After unhitching Thunder from the plough and tying him to a nearby maple, Clarence came over to Pythagoras. I took my boot out of my stirrup so he could get a foothold, and with one athletic jump he was up and over the animal, and sitting behind me.
I spurred her to a walk and we soon followed a trail out past the barn and across a field.
A line of brown trees fringing the bottom of some hills drew closer.
‘What brings you to Reese’s Corners, sir?’ asked Clarence. He spoke in a cautious tone. ‘We don’t get many visitors out this way. Someone we know in town sick? Maybe Mrs Wiley?’
‘I heard you know the Wileys.’
‘We do, sir. Ma’s good friends with Mrs Wiley. I sure hope she ain’t sick. She tends to get the ague this time of year.’
‘No one’s sick, Clarence. I’ve come to talk to your pa about Mr Purcell’s murder. I want to verify t
hat he heard just the single shot, and that it came from the back alley behind the Corn Mercantile Building.’
I could feel him tightening behind me.
He didn’t speak until we were nearly at the trees. ‘Pa’s never wrong about things like that, sir. He was in the army, so knows a thing or two about gunfire and how to track it. And I was there with him. I heard the shot. So I think maybe you wasted a lot of horse flesh coming all this way.’
‘There’s a three-pronged fork up here. Which way do I go?’
‘Keep straight. Through those cedars.’
I kept straight. Dark cedars bordered the path on either side, the branches thick overhead, arching above us like joined green hands. ‘So you heard the shot, too?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And did you hear one shot or two?’
‘One shot. I know some people say they heard two, but there was only one.’
‘And it came from the back alley?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your father and you are certainly insistent on that point.’
Some irritation crept into his voice. ‘We know what we heard.’
‘And were the two of you in town by yourselves, or was your mother with you?’
‘She was with us.’
‘And did she hear the shot as well?’
‘She was visiting Mrs Wiley at the time. They were practicing Christmas carols for the church Christmas Concert so she didn’t hear much of anything.’
‘I understand you once worked for Mr Purcell.’
He hesitated again. ‘Back when I was fifteen. At the hotel for the summer. He taught me accounting. Or at least some of the basics.’
‘I saw you at Mr Purcell’s funeral. You were crying.’
He didn’t say anything for a long time. As we emerged from the cedars and climbed the hill out of the trees, I sensed a slackening of his body behind me. We entered a snow-covered meadow that sloped upward. A hand-pump from an old well rose out of dead fallow, its iron handle and spout rusted from years of disuse.