“Maybe he’s got more depth than we realized.” Miss Trout’s voice had turned dreamy. Bradshaw thought it wise to not look up. “They asked if you were a socialist or anarchist. And they wanted to know about your past, but we told them we didn’t know anything about it except that you once lived in Boston and that you’re a widower.”
The words were like a vice on his heart. The police were asking questions about his past. He closed the final desk drawer then looked at the knot of students and found their curious faces surprisingly warm and kind.
“They wanted to know about your late wife’s death, but we told them we didn’t know and it was none of our business or theirs because you were a good and kind man and would never cause anyone a bit of harm.” Miss Trout’s expression turned protective as the others nodded emphatically.
Tears stung Bradshaw’s eyes. He wanted to hug them all. “Thank you.”
Reeves eyed the others, then said, “Besides, you couldn’t have done it, we’ve figured it out.”
He cleared his throat and got hold of his emotions. “Yes?”
“Well, it’s what the inquest jury must have figured out, too. Since the power fluctuated while you were still giving an examination to Oscar here, then you couldn’t have been down in the lab, moving the body and turning on the Machine. You’re innocent.”
Daulton pressed the hair from his eyes. “Good thing I’m lousy at exams. If I had finished sooner, you wouldn’t have an alibi.”
If you, Oscar Daulton, had finished your exam sooner, I would have been halfway home when the building lights sizzled, and it would have been some other poor soul who discovered Oglethorpe’s body. But he didn’t say so. Daulton had found a new confidence after his exam and the success of his exhibition project. That confidence was something fragile to nurture, not undermine.
Still, Bradshaw felt it prudent to explain the error of their logic. “You’ve missed one crucial point, Mr. Reeves. You’re assuming I’m innocent because I have an alibi for the time the Machine was turned on. But I was alone in my office at the time the coroner says Oglethorpe actually died. I could have propped him in the cage, gone on to my class, then had an accomplice turn on the Machine while I was in another room with a witness.”
The students stared at him in surprise. The idea of an accomplice was apparently new to them. They must not have read yesterday’s article about Henry. They exchanged glances. What passed through their young minds, he could only guess. Poor Miss Trout turned a deathly pallor, white as a ghost or white as a sheet, either one would suffice.
Their voices rang as one. “But you didn’t!”
Bradshaw’s mouth twitched into a smile. “No, I didn’t. But the police will be plotting out every possible scenario, and we must all strive to uncover the truth or someone innocent will hang. Possibly me.”
Apparently, this was too much for Miss Trout.
“Catch her!” Reeves called, and she dropped in a dead faint into Daulton’s arms.
Chapter Nineteen
“It’ll take me ages to learn my way around Seattle, Mr. Bradshaw. Especially if the department stores dump me out in an entirely different place than I went in.” They’d entered The Bon Marché through a main entrance on Second Avenue and emerged twenty minutes later from a small side exit onto a steep hill. He hadn’t steered her this way to confuse her, but to avoid lingering too long on the street.
Accidents happened on the street. Lethal accidents. He’d beat the falls yesterday, but he didn’t want to try his luck against a horse or a streetcar or a desk falling from a third floor window. He’d been trying to think deviously since last night and finding the world littered with potential death.
“Remember that if you’re facing downhill and can see Elliott Bay, or at least ship masts, the avenue numbers get lower. Uphill, they get higher. And the streets follow a handy saying. There’s an irreverent version, but the respectable version goes: Julius Caesar Made Seattle Under Protest.”
“Julius Caesar? What are they teaching up at your university, Professor?”
“It’s not meant to make sense, just be memorable. The first letter of each word matches the first letter of a street name, and the streets come by two’s in the order of the saying. So Julius stands for Jefferson and James. Caesar for Cherry and Columbia, then Marion and Madison, Spring and Seneca, University and Union, Pike and Pine.”
Missouri marched to the street corner and looked up at the sign mounted to the light pole, a slim hand on her straw hat to keep it from blowing away. “Pike, so Union or University is next, and behind us is Pine?”
She smiled, looking exactly what she was, a country girl straight off the train. And two blocks behind her, hat set at a jaunty angle, strode a city danger named Artimus Lowe.
“Go back inside.”
“What?”
Bradshaw steered her back into The Bon, took out his wallet, and counted twenty dollars into the clean but worn palm of her gloved hand. “Buy yourself a complete suit of clothes.” Twenty dollars ought to buy her a decent suit. He added another bill. “Shoes and gloves and a hat.”
Her coppery eyes were huge as she stared at the bills. “Mr. Bradshaw, I can’t take your money.”
“Then consider it a long-term loan. You’ve seen how the city girls are dressed. You’ll have to look like them to get a job. Go on now. I’d be no help, but there are plenty of shop girls who will help you make the right decisions. I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll meet you back here in, say, one hour?”
He wouldn’t let her argue. He saw her safely into the care of a well-dressed shop girl, and was on his way.
He hurried along Second Avenue, turned up University, and spied Lowe. Staying well back, he followed Lowe up to Fourth Avenue and the grounds of the old Territorial University. The main building with its four grand columns now housed the public library. North Hall, a boxy two-story building, temporarily housed the University of Washington’s School of Law. Next year, the school was to be moved up to the new campus. Lowe vaulted up the short flight of steps and disappeared inside. A minute later, Bradshaw followed.
The narrow entry was empty and quiet but for the distant murmur of voices behind closed doors where classes were in session. Miss Peggy was on duty in the office. Bradshaw knew her. She’d worked for a short time on the main campus.
“Professor Bradshaw, how nice to see you.” She had red curls and a round pretty face. He’d always wondered why she hadn’t married. She must be near his own age.
“Nice to be seen, Miss Peggy.”
She slid Lowe’s academic file into his hand almost before he completed his request. She didn’t question his motives, ask him about Oglethorpe, or give a hint of distrust. The world could use more Miss Peggy’s.
Lowe’s file proved interesting yet inconclusive. Lowe had classes here on Mondays and Wednesdays, and one class up on the main campus, Oglethorpe’s Industrial Problems lecture, on Fridays. On Thursdays, the day Oglethorpe died, Lowe had no classes at all. So why had he been on the main campus? Why had Bradshaw seen him rush from the building?
Lowe’s grades were impressive. He’d made the Dean’s list every term for the past three years. Four letters of recommendation from his law professors were on file, praising his intelligence, his devotion, and his work ethic. Lowe had a bright future. Everything to hope for out of life—would he risk it all over an argument? A misguided ideal?
Bradshaw skimmed the application letter Lowe had submitted. He was from New York City, his father was an attorney by trade but supported by independent means. Old family money, he gathered. Lowe’s current place of residence was the Cascade suite of the Lincoln, a nine-story first-class apartment hotel that catered to Seattle’s elite.
“Can I do anything else for you, Professor?” Miss Peggy tilted her face up to his as he returned the file. For the first time in a very long
time, Bradshaw actually paused to consider the personal implication of her question. He looked into her hazel eyes and saw interest. She really was very pretty. And unmarried. He could ask her to dinner. Not that he wanted to. But he could, and that’s what he found unexpectedly interesting.
“No, but thank you.”
He checked his pocket watch as he stepped out into the empty hall. He had forty-five minutes, if Lowe remained for the scheduled length of the lecture.
He left the law school and hurried over to Madison Avenue to the pristine white-bricked Lincoln Hotel. Inside the lobby, the polished floors gleamed and brass fixtures glowed. But he found no welcoming or policing presence, and no one in the office behind the front desk, which he entered as if he owned the place. He opened a few file drawers and quickly divined the numerical and alphabetical filing system. His pulse raced, but his mind was crystal clear and focused. Inside the Cascade suite file were a dozen bills for rent, receipts, and a few letters. He scanned them quickly, his eye catching such words as “late,” “overdue,” and “amount past limit.” A carbon copy of a letter dated a few weeks past, addressed to a Mr. Lowe in New York and from the manager of the Lincoln, contained a summary of past and current debt. Bradshaw deftly folded the copy and slid into his suit pocket.
He was back out in the sunshine and noisy street before he had time to contemplate what he’d done. He quickly descended to Second Avenue, his limbs flooded with adrenaline.
As he neared The Bon, he felt a now familiar tingle at the back of his neck. His already heightened senses peaked. He slowed and turned, pretending to examine the display of shiny bicycles in a repair shop window as he studied the vague reflections of pedestrians passing behind him. Dark suits, light dresses, hats of all shapes floated by, but no figure moved to accost him.
He turned, hands in his pockets, and cast his gaze over the street as if considering which way to go. His examination touched on every face, the back of every head. He began walking again and had gone half a block when he felt a tug on his sleeve. In a split second, he calculated his safety—he was in public surrounded by a crowd of witnesses on foot and in buggies and taxis and the streetcar. He paused, took his hands from his pockets, and turned, ready to defend himself but not yet swinging.
“You walked right past me as if you didn’t even know me!”
He blinked. He hadn’t known her. In a slim, tailored blue walking suit and matching hat, Missouri Fremont was a new woman. A woman, not a girl. She laughed and turned around, holding her arms out to display her new attire. The new black button shoes upon her feet, he noted, had sensible heels and toes broad enough for a real foot to walk in comfort.
“Well?” She tilted her face up to his, like Miss Peggy had done.
Only what he felt was so very different.
Missouri bubbled with joy and it was an effort to resist touching her glowing face, which began to fade with disappointment. She’d hoped, he realized, for something complimentary from him.
“I’d hire you myself, if I had a job to hire for.”
Her glow returned. “Come with me.” She took his arm and tugged, turning him completely round. “The girl who waited on me told me about a switchboard operator position at the Rainier Hotel where her sister works. It’s on Sixth and Marion, so if I’ve got it straight, we must go uphill four blocks and over at least three until we reach the M’s. You must tell me everything you know about telephones before we get there.”
Even antisocial Bradshaw knew that the enormous Rainier Hotel-Apartment on the hill, with its ballrooms and restaurants and wide verandas, was all the rage for Seattle society. And it was but a short stroll from the Rainier to the Lincoln. Bradshaw didn’t like the idea of Missouri working in a place so likely to be frequented by Lowe, but she looked so eager, and a job as a “hello girl” was a respectable position.
“Have you ever seen a switchboard?”
“Not up close. Back home, there was one in the post office, but the woman who ran it didn’t like visitors. Sometimes, she’d leave the door open and you could see in. They’re big and flat with lots of holes and wires and plugs.”
“Hmm, yes. The big flat part is the upright panel, the holes have drop shutters connecting round apertures, and the plugged wires are jacks an operator inserts into apertures in order to connect a caller to a line.” He spent the next several minutes as they marched, negotiating traffic and mud and paving projects, explaining the basic operation of a telephone switchboard. Missouri caught on quickly, grasping the concepts and terms with remarkable astuteness.
When they arrived, Bradshaw was encouraged by the sheer size of the hotel. The enormous handsome wooden structure had been erected in a record eighty days after the Great Fire of 1889. It took up an entire city block. There were so many people about, and so many entrances, it was possible that Missouri would find her way to and from work without meeting a love-smitten law student.
He saw her as far as the main entrance, then told her to go in alone. “I don’t believe my presence or my reference would at the moment stand you in good stead.”
She cocked her head considering this. “I suppose you’re right. Will you wait for me?”
“Of course.” She went in, and he found a comfortable chair on the wide covered verandah in sight of the main entrance. The city sprawled below him, Elliott Bay sparkled beyond, bustling with small steamers, large freighters, and sailing vessels. The grand Rainier radiated a holiday feel. Bradshaw didn’t dare remove the letter from his pocket. He’d never stolen anything in his life. He felt giddy, ecstatic. Surprised.
Was this how Oglethorpe’s killer felt? Was this what motivated his devious behavior, the secret thrill of deception? He analyzed the feeling. It was empowering. He had something he wasn’t supposed to have because he’d been bold enough to simply take it. He hadn’t followed the rules of polite society, he’d disregarded even the criminal code. He’d stolen, no one knew, and it was exciting.
But killing? What sort of person felt this thrill when killing? What sort of person felt no guilt or remorse? Or if the killer felt guilt but remained hidden, what did that tell him? That the killer felt justified. Someone believed his victim deserved to die. Why did this person feel Bradshaw deserved to die? Because he was a suspect? Because he was treading too near the truth? And what had he discovered so far? Nothing. Where had he been looking? At the university, in the lab, Snoqualmie Falls.
The minutes passed by slowly as Bradshaw pondered the psychology of Oglethorpe’s murderer and reviewed the attempt on his own life where footsteps were his only clue.
He closed his eyes and began testing himself, listening to the footsteps of hotel visitors as they crossed the verandah. He found he could fairly easily discriminate between the steps of men and women, even young and old. Who had made those footsteps yesterday at Snoqualmie that had preceded his icy dunking? Light like a woman’s, yet the sound had been solid somehow. Not the clunk of a wood heel but the tap of a leather sole on cement. A light running step. A young man’s step.
Artimus Lowe was a young man with expensive leather-soled shoes. But he’d returned to Seattle hours before Bradshaw was pushed. Or had he? What was to stop him doubling back?
He now heard three distinctly different footsteps at once. A strong feminine tapping of what he guessed to be a heavyset woman, the scraping of sole grit of a somewhat lazy man, and the rapid patter of a child. He opened his eyes to verify his guesses and found he had two out of three correct. Coming toward him was Marion Oglethorpe on the arm of the gentleman relative who’d sat with her at the inquest.
Bradshaw stood as they approached, and then saw his error in the third set of footsteps. It wasn’t a running child, it was Missouri, bounding from the hotel and past Mrs. Oglethorpe. “I got the position! I’m going to be a ‘hello girl’!”
He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Miss Fremont, you c
an tell me all about it later.” In appropriately subdued tones, he introduced her to Mrs. Oglethorpe, then Mrs. Oglethorpe introduced them to her escort, who turned out to be her physician Dr. Swenson.
“Dr. Swenson has so kindly helped me these past few days with all the arrangements. I don’t know what I would have done without him.”
The good doctor patted Mrs. Oglethorpe’s hand where it lay tucked in his supporting arm.
“Everyone has been so kind and supportive. I haven’t had to think of anything myself. Food keeps arriving at the door, and my dear friends, the Ladies of the Improvement Society, have organized a reception here, for tomorrow after the funeral.”
Bradshaw nodded and murmured his agreement at the kindness being showed her, but he was remembering the three Improvement Society Ladies who’d looked at him with such fear and accusation yesterday up at Snoqualmie Falls. Those same women were caring for Mrs. Oglethorpe like devoted sisters. Had one of them made herself judge and jury and sentenced him over the raging falls? Could any of those stout women have produced the light tapping step he heard?
If one had, Mrs. Oglethorpe was oblivious to it. She stepped nearer to him. He could now see her eyes through her sheer black veil. “I don’t believe a word those newspapers are saying about you, Professor. I know you didn’t harm my husband. You will come to the funeral tomorrow?”
It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. “If that’s what you truly want, Mrs. Oglethorpe. I’ll be there.”
Chapter Twenty
“Dad!”
Bradshaw, in stockinged feet, the collars and cuffs of his best dress shirt not yet attached, ignored Justin’s shout. He sat on the edge of his bed reading again through the letter he’d pilfered from Lowe’s hotel file. The letter seemed to be about a different Artimus Lowe than the one on the Dean’s list three years running. This Lowe was not winning the respect of anyone, least of all his landlord. The Lincoln Hotel-Apartments supplied its residents with not only luxurious rooms and suites, but all the other amenities of a fine hotel: maid service, fresh linens, restaurant or room service meals, and the services of a concierge. For the past year, Lowe had been late on rent nearly every month, and he’d charged a small fortune to his account. Intermittently, large checks had arrived from New York and been applied to the balance, but last month a letter from Lowe’s father had arrived in lieu of a check, refusing to pay the bill recently submitted and any future bills.
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