Dead Man Walking

by Quinn Buckland

“Of course,” I say. “How well did your men examine the fireplace?”

  “The fireplace?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It didn’t occur to me until last night, but I remember none of your officers leaving the room with soot on their fingers. I believe the murder weapon will be found in the flue, or maybe somewhere around it.”

  I hear Liddell growl. “Why did this have to wait until morning?”

  I resist the urge to take a jab at the police. Instead of a nasty comment, I say, “It’s easier to search during daylight hours. It’s possible the knife is hidden by a loose brick that would be hard to find at night but easier during the daylight.”

  I’d seen the loose brick in the photograph in the file. It’s a brilliant place to hide a knife, even I didn’t notice it during my initial investigation in the study. With how rushed I was to get out of the room, it’s little wonder I missed the brick.

  Liddell thanks me for the tip, clearly not buying my explanation, and hangs up, promising to look into the fireplace.

  Genevieve’s eyes rise, and she grins. “What did you really want to say?”

  I grin back at her. “I wanted to say, I waited until daylight so I could make sure your officers got their beauty sleep. After all, if they can’t be smart, they can at least be pretty.”

  Genevieve erupts into laughter and I join in. It’s not nice to be so cruel to the police, but they give as good as they get; them coppers never give us dicks any love.

  “So what now?” Genevieve asks as soon as her laughter subsides.

  I shrug. “Wait for the next job, I suppose. If nobody comes in by end of day tomorrow, I’ll give the Ares Corporation a call and get us in the queue for the next job. Red City is a big enough apple for us to find some good work.” I turn to her and listen to the typing from the typewriter. “How are you coming along on your case?”

  “It’s weird.”

  “It’s a missing person, isn’t it?”

  Genevieve nods. “Yeah. I just can’t seem to make things fit into place.”

  “What have you found?”

  She rubs her eye and leans back in her chair. “It’s the damnedest thing. A woman leaves her house to see a friend but never makes it there. Her friend lives across the street from her, but it seems unlikely she was picked up without anyone seeing her.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “Early evening. Her husband believes it was sometime between five and six.”

  “He doesn’t know?”

  Genevieve’s mouth shrinks, and her eyes ignite with fury.

  “From his testimonial, he was busy reading the paper. He’d just gotten off from a long day and wanted his supper. She’d gone to get a cup of flour and some eggs, and he didn’t notice her gone until he’d realized six o’clock had rolled around and he was still hungry.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Genevieve sighs, and she closes her eyes and shakes her head.

  “I don’t know. There’s nothing to suggest she was abducted. I imagine she would have made a fuss if she was being forced into a car, but I also don’t see anything that says she ran off.” She pulls out a bottle of hooch from her desk and a couple of tumbler glasses. She’s started drinking much more since starting as a shamus. “The problem is, what happened would determine where she’s gone. If she ran off, then someone in her family would know where she is. If she was taken, it all depends on who she is and who her husband is.”

  “And who is her husband?”

  Genevieve shrugs. “Nobody important. He’s a custodian for a factory. His access to sensitive areas is limited at best, and he doesn’t make a lot of money.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s a hard sell to imagine the woman found an opportunity to take off and did just that.”

  “I had the same thought,” Genevieve agrees. “The problem is, nobody knows where she went. It’s almost as if she dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  I think for a moment, mulling over all the potential possibilities. “How busy is the street?”

  “Not very. It gets its fair share of eyes, as the neighbours can’t keep their noses out of each other’s businesses. But as for traffic, there doesn’t seem to be much.”

  “Do the neighbours know each other well?”

  “It looks that way,” Genevieve says, her face changing as she catches on to what I’m getting at. “There was one neighbour who did mention seeing a car she didn’t recognize. A red Cadillac.”

  My eyes widen as I remember four years back to the red Cadillac that followed me around for a day. “A red Cadillac?”

  “Yes,” Genevieve says, rising from her seat. “I’m going to see if any of the other neighbours remember seeing it. Maybe it belongs to someone they know. Maybe I might have a lead, albeit a soft lead.”

  I watch as Genevieve grabs her hat and jacket and bolts out the door without another word. I eye her untouched drink. I shrug and drink both glasses; it’s unlikely she’ll remember having poured it by the time she gets her answers.

  I sit back at my desk and start filling out paperwork for the case I’m consulting on. After ten minutes of work, the telephone rings. It only gets out one ring and a half before Jenny picks it up.

  “Baxter and Lamarche Detective Agency, how may I help you?” she says. “Yes, he’s here. Just one moment, I’ll get him.”

  Jenny peeks around the corner, her eyes wide and her jaw slack. “I heard,” I say and pick up the horn on my desk. “Detective Baxter.”

  “Detective Baxter, this is Warden Greggory Johnson. Do you have a moment?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “What can I do for you?”

  “The other day, there was a breakout and three convicts escaped from our walls.” I can already see where the conversation is going. He wants me to help look for the missing criminals. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, so I’ll cut to the chase. One of the convicts has a personal connection to you, and I want to hire you to help find him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Moses Renault.”

  My heart immediately sinks into my stomach which then collapses in on itself. “Moses Renault is loose?”

  “Yes, and I wish to offer my deepest apologies, Mister Baxter. I know what this individual has done and what his incarceration means to you.”

  “How did this happen?”

  “We don’t know. One of the guards found Renault’s cell occupied by an unconscious guard and a dead cellmate while doing his rounds. We can’t make sense of any of it, especially the dead cellmate.”

  “Let me guess,” I say. “There was nothing wrong with the body. It was almost as if he collapsed and died for no reason at all.”

  “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Twice,” I say. “And both times, it’s thrown me into a spiral of self-destruction.”

  “Does that mean you won’t take the case?”

  I want to throw the case back at the warden. I desperately want to tell the warden to ask a different detective. I want to tear a strip off his backside for allowing an escape. I want to say so many things, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.

  “I’ll take the case,” I say. “I’ll find Renault and the other three.”

  “The other three prisoners already have dicks after them. I believed Renault would be a personal case for you, the sort you’d take personally if it wasn’t offered to you first.”

  He’s not wrong. I just don’t enjoy being called out on it. Like it or not, Renault is my responsibility. I sigh heavily into the blower and chuckle.

  “Yeah, I would. I’m glad you offered it to me. I’ll be by in a couple hours to check out his bunk and try to find any leads.”

  “Okey,” Warden Johnson says, his voice slightly more cheery than before. “I’ll see you then.”

  I hang up and scream an obscenity to the ceiling. Jenny rushes into my office and stalls when she sees my scarlet face, wide eyes and lips curled into a snarl, revealing a set of clenched teeth.

&nbs
p; “Mister Baxter?” she says, her voice shaking. “Are you all right?”

  The terror in her face finally registers in my brutish brain and I start to calm. I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, I’m all right. I just got some very bad news.”

  “Have a cigarette,” Jenny says, holding out my pack.

  I thank her and light the snipe, sending out a plume of grey smoke toward the far wall. The smoke doesn’t go far before curving upward and dissipating as it nears the ceiling. The telephone rings again, and I clench my fists, preparing for more bad news.

  Jenny hesitates for a second but soon leaves to answer the call.

  “Baxter and Lamarche Detective Agency,” she says in her professional voice. You’d never have known she’d had seen me almost erupt into a in a fit of rage only moments before. “I’ll get him on the telephone for you.” She leans to the door. “Mister Baxter, the hospital is on the telephone for you. It’s about your wife.”

  I gasp and grab the telephone, not allowing my mind to go anywhere I don’t want it to go. If it did, I don’t believe I’d be able to take the call at all.

  “Detective Baxter,” I say.

  “Mister Baxter, this is Doctor Grant, your wife’s OB/GYN. Her personal doctor, if you will.”

  “Okey,” I say, trying to get the conversation rolling. “What can I do for you?”

  My voice is strained; I’m trying not to give away my stress and worry. If anything happened to Dorothy, I can’t say what I’d do.

  “I believe you should hear it from a professional before anyone else,” Doctor Grant says. “Congratulations, your wife is expecting.”

  My fear dissipates as quickly as it arrived. I’m going to be a father. My heart soars, and I thank the doctor for telling me. Not even Moses’s escape can ruin the moment; I’m elated, over the moon with joy. I want to go straight home and kiss Dorothy. I want to celebrate our soon-to-be parenthood. But I have a job to do first.

  I grab my hat and jacket and tell Jenny to take all messages. I tell her to call me a taxi and that I won’t be back, but Genevieve undoubtedly will be. Before I have a chance to think, I’m out the door and down the stairs standing on the street.

  Before the cab arrives, I decide to go home first and give Dorothy a kiss and tell her how much I love her. Once I do that, I’ll go to the prison.

  In only a few minutes, a taxi pulls up, and I get in. I give him my address, he pulls out to the road, and I’m home in a matter of minutes. I open the door, and Dorothy is on the sofa, reading the newspaper.

  “So it’s true?” I ask.

  Dorothy nods; her eyes are wet. “It’s true,” she says, standing. “We’re going to be parents.”

  I walk toward her and wrap my arms around her. I place a kiss on her lips, and she smiles back at me. “I’ll have to get pregnant again,” she says. “I haven’t seen this level of affection since I came back from hiding.”

  My eyes turn downward as I remember her disappearance and the lack of explanation I got about it.

  “What’s wrong?” Dorothy asks.

  “I don’t want to ruin this moment,” I reply.

  Dorothy takes my head in her hands, and she kisses me softly. “Whatever it is, I won’t let it ruin this moment.”

  “You can’t make that promise.”

  “Just tell me,” she pleads.

  I exhale and say, “Moses Renault escaped prison. They’ve asked me to find him.”

  “You said no, right?” When I don’t answer, Dorothy’s eyes well with tears. “Right?”

  “I have to find him,” I say. “I can’t let a man like that run loose. But this time, I’m not bringing him in.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Moses Renault hurt my family, and that’s unforgivable. I gave him the option of going to prison, and he took it. But he broke that deal with his escape. I’m not bringing him in this time around. No, when I find him, and I will find him, I’m putting him down for good.”

  Dorothy’s brows furrow, and she looks down at the floor. “I love you,” she says.

  She wraps her arms around me, and I return the affection.

  “I love you too,” I say, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “I love you too.”

  Chapter 19

  The Mystery

  As I climb into the taxi, I regret not asking Dorothy what she’d seen all those years ago in Renault’s Gin Joint. Even with Moses’s escape, I can’t bring myself to put her through that again. I’d asked her a few times over the years what had happened, but every time she’d get a worried look on her face and would change the subject. I eventually learned not to ask.

  I tell the cabby to drive to the Red City prison and I sit back as he drives down the streets, weaving in and out of traffic. I look out the window, watching the people, buildings and cars pass. Each person was living a life most others will never know about. Some of the lives I pass won’t live to see next year. Many more will get drafted to fight Germany, though many will volunteer. It’s interesting to see what a man will do for a good meal and the promise of work.

  After seeing the effects of the Great War on Brandon, I’m not fond of war or the supposed glory that comes with it. I’ve seen their glory: shellshock and a broken promise to be taken care of. I’m not falling for the fake promises, nor will I encourage anyone to do the same.

  They say this war is different. They say the man behind the German war machine is insane and is exceptionally dangerous. I don’t know how much of what they say is true, but I want none of it.

  It takes a half-hour for the cab to take me to the prison. I pay the man and tell him I’ll call for a taxi when I’m ready. He’s waited long enough for me, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. I don’t aim to make my fare any higher.

  I walk the pathway to the front door and a couple guards open it for me. I enter and stop at a wall of bars. I inform them of my sidearm, remove it, and place it in the bin provided for my belongings. The officers pat me down, just to be on the safe side, and when they find nothing, let me through.

  The warden stands behind a wall, a dour look on his face. “You must be Detective Baxter.”

  “I am,” I say, showing my licence and buzzer. “Take me to Moses’s cell.”

  The warden nods, and the guards from outside follow us. As I pass each cell, I feel the eyes of all the convicts I helped put in here stare at me, daggers flying from their eyes. Not one of them says a word, and they don’t need to. I can feel it in the air and I can see it in their eyes. I see it in the deep-set wrinkles around the frowns. I see it in the creases from the bridges of their noses.

  “Here we are,” the warden says, gesturing to Moses’s cell.

  I enter and take a look around. Much to my disappointment, the cell is bare, except for a bunk bed and a single toilet. I press my lips together and shake my head. “Has anyone been in here since the escape?”

  “Not a soul,” a guard replies.

  “There’s nothing to work with in here,” I say.

  “We don’t allow the inmates to have anything that could be harmful to themselves or others. It leaves the cells with very little in them.”

  “What was the guard wearing when you found him?”

  The warden cocks his head to the side. “He was wearing a prison jumpsuit. Renault had stolen his uniform and left him with just the jumpsuit. Why?”

  “Because I can’t imagine how he managed to escape,” I say. I continue to search the cell, pressing the stones in the walls, rummaging under the mattresses and searching everywhere I can think to look. “Do you have any new staff?”

  “Yes, we have three new guards.”

  “Were any of them on duty when the escape happened?”

  “All three were. Why?”

  I shake my head and exit the cell. “Because along with managing to kill his cellmate, knock out a guard, steal his uniform and walk out with nobody noticing or recognizing him is very unlikely. You know what I think? I think there’s somet
hing you’re not telling me. I think there’s a story you’re feeding me to send me on a wild goose chase.”

  The warden stammers, unable to find any words to defend himself or his position.

  “You better back the hell off,” a guard threatens, reaching for his truncheon.

  I exhale through my nose and do as I’m told. I’m without any means of personal defence; the last thing I need is for a copper to pull his stick on me.

  “I’ll give you one last chance,” I say. “Tell me the real story. Cut the crap and tell me how Renault really got out.”

  The warden’s brows furrow and he stiffens his posture.

  “What happened, happened. I don’t know what to tell you. I know full well the story is far-fetched; I almost didn’t believe it myself. But the truth is the truth, whether you believe it or not.”

  I still don’t believe his story, but he seems willing to go through with his tale. I decide to play along for the time being, knowing soon enough I’m going to have to call him on it once again.

  “All right. Well, there’s nothing in here to look at. I’ve got a few places I’ll check out, but if I can’t find him, he might be in the wind.” I pull out a snipe and light it. “It wouldn’t be out of the question that he left town.”

  “If that’s the case?”

  “If that’s the case, then there’s nothing I can do. I don’t have jurisdiction outside Red City. I’m a shamus, not an actual copper. Even if I were, Red City is a city-state and therefore independent of Canada. He’ll still be hunted, I’m sure, but it wouldn’t be by a shamus or copper from this apple.”

  “That means. . .”

  “That means I’ll search the city for him, but if he’s skipped town, you’re going to have to let the feds know what happened. Something tells me you don’t want that to happen.” Just as something tells me he’s in on it and can tell Moses to stay in town.

  “No, I don’t want that.” The warden straightens his tie and stands straight. “But I’m willing to do what’s necessary to get those fugitives back in custody.”

  I grin and shake his hand. “That’s what I like to hear. I’m going to head out now; I have a few more stops before I need to go back to the office. If you think of anything or find any information that could help me find Moses, let me know.” I pull out a business card. I know he already has my number, but the professional in me requires I hand it to him. “Give my office a call. My girl will give me the low down.”