As he threaded the Ford down the rough, fog-shrouded street, Emile said, "What about those fraternity kids on Lowerline? Do you think their invitation will entice the Axman to make an appearance?"
"It would serve them right if he did."
Emile was surprised his former editor at The Daily Picayune had agreed to publicize the invitation. "AXMAN IS INVITED TO A SMALL, SELECT PARTY," the headline had read. Four foolish Tulane students had given the address to their fraternity house and taunted the Axman to pay them a visit at a quarter past twelve, the exact time the killer's letter had claimed he would make his next strike.
The stupid kids had even boasted that there would be no jazz music playing in their house that night since the letter writer had promised to pass over any house from which he could hear the sounds of a jazz band. In their invitation, which Gene Langenstein had printed in its entirety, the students gave the Axman specific instructions on how to enter their fraternity house and in which rooms he could find victims to "scalp."
Colin shifted in his seat. "Don't forget you promised to buy me supper if I went with you on this crazy excursion."
Emile glanced at Colin as he turned onto Esplanade Avenue. "We'll eat after the next stop." Then he looked back at the road just in time to see a huge hole in the brick pavement disappear under the left front fender. There was no time to steer around it as the front wheel plunged into the hole, the heavy jolt rattling Emile's teeth.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Colin said. "What did you run over, a cow?"
Emile stuck his head over the side and listened for the telltale hiss of air escaping from the tire, but he heard nothing other than the crunch of rubber on brick.
Then the back wheel fell into the same hole.
Again, Emile stuck out his head, but it appeared both tires had come through the ordeal without rupturing.
"Your new boss is going to fire you if you wreck his car," Colin said.
Emile drove on, getting used to the mechanical contraption. Though not as sturdy as a horse and wagon, a motorcar was definitely faster. He estimated his speed to be at least fifteen miles per hour.
"By the way," Colin said. "Just because I'm here doesn't mean I agree with your cockamamie theory."
"But I can tell you are considering it," Emile said, smiling.
Colin opened his mouth to speak, but the shrill sound of a whistle from somewhere up ahead in the fog stopped him. He leaned out over the passenger door and peered around the mist-shrouded windscreen.
"What was that?" Emile asked as he jerked back on the throttle.
"A police whistle," Colin said.
The Ford coasted to a stop as they crossed Marais Street, a block from North Villere. Emile heard running footsteps coming up behind them. He turned and saw a patrolman charge past them on the sidewalk.
Colin pointed as the patrolman disappeared into the fog. "Follow him."
Ahead, the police whistle shrieked again. Then a voice shouted, "Man running riverbound on Esplanade."
Emile shoved the throttle all the way in. The Ford shook as it picked up speed. Seconds later they overtook the patrolman who had run past them.
Then the whistle sounded a third time just as a tall man wearing dark clothing and a wide-brimmed hat charged out of the fog in front of them. He ran straight toward them and when the Ford's headlamps shone on him, he ducked his head to shield his features under the brim of his hat.
"Cut him off," Colin ordered. "Pull right in front of him and cut him off."
They were forty feet from the intersection of North Villere Street. The big man was already midway across the intersection and still sprinting their way. Emile spun the wheel to the right, angling for the curb just short of the intersection. As the automobile cut in front of the man, he stopped and raised a revolver.
Emile slammed on the brakes and skidded the Ford on the damp bricks. Colin grabbed the back of Emile's coat and shouted, "Duck!" as he pulled him down onto the seat. An instant later, there was a loud pop and the windscreen exploded, showering broken glass over the front seat. Emile closed his eyes and covered his head as the Ford lugged to a stop.
An instant later, Colin pounded Emile on the back. "Get up. He's gone. Drive after him."
Cautiously, Emile sat upright behind the steering wheel. Glass fragments tumbled from his clothing. The windscreen was gone. Only jagged shards remained. Looking down the length of the hood, Emile saw a second patrolman emerge from the fog and run toward them, his whistle clamped between this teeth. The second patrolman jerked to a stop at the corner and looked to his left, down North Villere Street.
Emile followed the patrolman's gaze and could no longer see the big man. He had vanished in the fog.
Then the first patrolman lumbered up to the passenger side the Ford and grabbed onto the door for support. He was middle-aged, overweight, and badly out of breath. He pulled off his garrison cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His face red was from exertion. Or maybe from drinking. Emile thought maybe it was a bit of both. Once the patrolman caught his breath, he said in an Irish brogue, "Are you lads all right?"
Colin nodded as he pulled his pistol from under his coat.
The sudden appearance of the big automatic made the patrolman reach for his holster, but then he stopped and stared at Colin. "Christ, Fitz, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What in Jesus's name are you doing out here at this time of night?"
"Looking for a killer," Colin said. Then he smacked Emile's shoulder and pointed his pistol down North Villere. "Go after him."
Emile stomped the clutch and grabbed the gearshift, then realized the car wasn't running. "The motor's dead. We killed it. And my boss is going to kill-"
"It's not dead," Colin interrupted. "It stalled because you didn't use the clutch." He looked at the patrolman, then pointed to the front of the car. "Give us a crank, will you, Smitty?"
As the policeman skirted around the front fender, Emile stared at the empty frame of the windscreen, wondering what he was going to tell his editor at The City News. Then Smitty ducked down below the hood, and Emile heard the motor start to turn as the patrolman spun the hand crank. After several rotations, the engine coughed and fired up.
"Clear the way," Colin shouted. Then he banged on Emile's shoulder again. "Go!"
As soon as Smitty stepped far enough back so as not to get run over, Emile pushed in the throttle and made the turn onto North Villere, leaving the two uniformed cops behind.
Emile and Colin drove into the fog. They caught sight of the big man two blocks later. He was running down the middle of the street, fifty feet ahead of them and barely visible through the mist.
As the Ford bounded along the rough pavement, Emile saw Colin switch his pistol to his left hand and grab the door handle with his right.
"Pull up right behind him," Colin said. "Bump him with the grill, and I'll jump out and arrest him."
"You think he's the Axman?"
"We'll find out."
As Emile closed the distance between them, the man kept running but still managed to turn his shoulders and aim the revolver at them again.
Colin shouted, "Look out," just as a flash of light erupted from the muzzle and the Ford's right headlight exploded.
Emile jammed the brake pedal to the floorboard and jerked the wheel hard left. Colin fired once, but he was already being tossed against the passenger door by Emile's sharp turn. The motorcar slid and spun, the rear end passing the front as the Ford careened into the gutter and slammed to a stop against the curb. There was another loud pop. Emile thought it was gunshot. Then he heard the violent hiss of escaping air. The right rear tire was blown.
"What do you think of my cockamamie theory now?" Emile shouted at Colin.
"It's growing on me," Colin said as he vaulted over the closed passenger door. Just then a second gunshot exploded from out of the fog. Colin cried out in pain and collapsed out of sight below the door. Emile scrambled across the seat and peered over the door. His friend l
ay on the brick pavement, the Colt pistol on the ground beside him, and both hands clutching his left thigh. He was writhing in pain.
"Are you shot?" Emile said.
"No," Colin said between gritted teeth. "It's my damned leg."
"What's wrong with it?"
"A German put a bayonet through it," Colin said.
Emile looked out into the fog.
The big man had disappeared again.
CHAPTER 41
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1919
7:20 A.M.
I bought a copy of The City News from a newsboy and sat down on the front steps of Saint Louis Cathedral.
The huge church, with its mixture of Spanish and French architecture and its triple spires, had stood at the edge of Jackson Square between Pirates Alley and Pere Antoine Alley for 125 years and was considered by many residents to be the heart of the city. Ten years ago, someone had thrown a dynamite bomb through the front doors, and although no one was injured the bomb had caused significant damage. Two Sicilians were arrested, but since there was no evidence against them, they were eventually released. The real culprit was never caught, but the most likely motive, or so I had heard, was a labor dispute between a contractor hired to do repairs to the church and some of his workers.
Sitting on the steps, overlooking the square and the river, I unfolded the newspaper and found the story I had asked Emile to write. It began on the bottom half of the front page.
DETECTIVE PROBES LINKS BETWEEN AXMAN KILLINGS, CITY HALL, AND POLICE DEPARTMENT
Could the abominable axman attacks that have plagued this city for close to a decade, attacks that have taken the lives of 12 people and left 11 others grievously wounded, be something other than the work of a "madman," as police officials claim? Could it be that the axman killer is part of a larger conspiracy, one with perfidious roots in the halls of power?
That is the theory of Detective Colin Fitzgerald of Central Station. Fitzgerald, who only recently returned from the war a decorated and wounded hero, has amassed credible evidence that he says could lead to the indictment of several powerful men in this city, both within and without government.
Fitzgerald says that certain members of the New Orleans Police Department are involved in the plot to cover up the axman slayings.
To what purpose, though?
"That is the question that will not be answered except in front of a grand jury," said the tight-lipped Fitzgerald, who is the son of former Chief of Detectives Connor Fitzgerald. As many readers will recall, Chief Fitzgerald, a hero of the infamous Robert Charles riots, was slain in 1901 while attempting to apprehend a notorious fugitive.
Emile's story broke at the bottom of the page. I flipped to page five and continued reading.
The younger Fitzgerald was assigned to the axman case last March after he was involved in a shootout with a mysterious prowler he believes was the heinous killer.
Despite Police Superintendent Frank M. Thompson's oft-repeated assertion that the axman is a deranged lunatic, a type of Jekyll and Hyde madman who is somewhat on the order of the fiend known as Jack the Ripper, the murderous butcher who plagued London some years ago, Fitzgerald is not so sure.
After studying all of the cases dating back to the murder of Italian grocer Joseph Davi and the maiming of his wife on July 4, 1911, Fitzgerald is of the opinion that the axman is not a maniac, but a cold-blooded killer whose victims are carefully chosen in furtherance of some diabolical scheme.
Even more shocking is Fitzgerald's contention that the axman is not acting alone, that he is, in fact, working with others who are not only protecting him, but may actually be directing his attacks. Far from a demented madman, the axman may actually be a ruthless assassin working on behalf of a sinister cabal whose members wield power, position, and influence in city government.
"The axman," Fitzgerald said, "might even be a policeman."
What the object of this far-reaching conspiracy is, Fitzgerald will not say, at least not now. He says he has evidence of the plot, including the identity of the conspirators, and that he intends to present that evidence to the district attorney as early as next week.
I folded the newspaper and set it down on the step beside me. Emile had done what I had asked him, and then some. The truth was that I didn't have any real evidence, just circumstance and supposition. Nothing I could present to a prosecutor. And even if I had hard evidence, I knew I wouldn't get any action from District Attorney Jacques Bartholomew, who, in addition to being a long-time member of the Choctaw Club, was a personal friend of Dominick O'Malley.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope that had been shoved under my door. I read the message again.
THE AXMAN IS A BLOOD-THIRSTY MANIAC.
The note and the $500 were proof that I already had the attention of the conspirators. What they would do after reading Emile's article, I could only guess. The problem was that I still didn't know who they were. I hoped the article would flush them out into the open.
I stood and shoved the note back in my pocket. The newspaper I left on the steps. Someone would pick it up and read the story and perhaps pass it on to someone else. The more people who read it the better. I wanted them-the conspirators-to be nervous for a change. Because nervous people make mistakes.
The sun was above the rooftops now and burning away the chill left over from the night. In the cathedral I could hear the chorus singing Come Holy Ghost. Seven-thirty Mass had begun.
I walked up the wide steps and pulled open one of the massive wooden doors just far enough so I could slip through. Inside the vestibule was a stoup filled with holy water. I dipped two fingers into the water and made the sign of the cross.
Bolted to the vestibule wall was a brass box with a narrow horizontal slot at the top. A placard affixed to the front identified it as the poor box. I dropped the $500 through the slot. Then I took a seat in the back pew as the chorus reached the end of the hymn and the priest rose to deliver the homily.
CHAPTER 42
WOUNDED WAR HERO DETECTIVE EXCHANGES GUNFIRE WITH AXMAN
Fitzgerald And Two Patrolmen Pursue Fiendish Devil Through Fog Despite Hail Of Bullets.
-The City News
MARCH 20, 1919
9:45 P.M.
Emile Denoux hurried down the crowded sidewalk. He was headed for a bar on Frenchmen Street, between Dauphine and Royal.
The bartender had telephoned the newspaper as Emile was leaving for the night. Ex-detective Tobias Conrad had just walked in, but the former policeman had only laid down enough money for one drink. "You better hurry," the barman had said. "I don't think he'll be here long."
Despite the threat from that rat-faced supernumerary patrolman at Maria Fitzgerald's funeral last October, Emile had not stopped looking for the former detective. But the man had left town. Now he was back, or so Emile had heard, which had prompted him to talk to several bartenders and leave a dollar with each, along with the promise of another dollar for a telephone call the next time any of them saw Tobias Conrad. Now one of the bartenders had called.
Emile was certain that the statement Detectives Conrad and Detmar had taken from Miss Harriet Lowe moments before she died was false. In the statement, the twenty-nine-year-old housekeeper had accused fifty-nine-year-old Louis Besozzi-her employer? lover? benefactor?-of bludgeoning her with an ax after she discovered he was a German spy. But Miss Lowe died without signing the statement, a coincidence Emile found all too convenient.
Had Miss Lowe been coerced into making the statement? Or could she have been so delirious from her recent surgery that she only imagined Mr. Besozzi had attacked her? Or had she not given the statement at all? The statement was not written in her hand. She had been too incapacitated. It had been written for her by one of the detectives, but the statement went unsigned and, therefore, was inadmissible in a court of law.
The allegations that Besozzi was a German spy had proven to be unsubstantiated, and the subsequent brutal attacks on Mrs. Edward Sarrano,
Mr. Vincent Romano, and Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cortimiglia and their infant daughter, all committed during the nine months that Besozzi had been in jail, had proved that Louis Besozzi was not the Axman.
While it was possible that Besozzi had attacked Miss Lowe as the result of some personal quarrel and then tried to make the assault look like the work of the Axman, the severity of Besozzi's own wounds, which included deep lacerations of his face and head, a fractured skull, and a permanently damaged eye, coupled with the similarity of the method of entry to the other Axman attacks, bespoke otherwise.
Crossing Esplanade Avenue and leaving the French Quarter behind, Emile was able to quicken his pace as he entered the more residential Faubourg Marigny, where the streets were less crowded. Moments later, he passed Kerlerec Street and an Italian grocery on the corner. The owner was closing up and shut his door just as Emile walked past. Emile heard the bolt click.
As he turned left on Frenchmen Street, Emile was thinking of how best to approach Tobias Conrad. Should he first strike up a conversation about some everyday topic and offer to buy the man a drink? Or go at him more directly, admitting to the ex-detective who he was and what he was trying to find out? Different people responded to different approaches. He would have to assess the man once he saw him.
By the time Emile reached Royal Street, he was sweating heavily. His shirt was stuck to his back. He stopped on the corner and leaned against the iron pole of a burned-out streetlamp to catch his breath. The bar was halfway up the next block. The streets were empty.
Something crunched under Emile's shoe. He glanced down and saw pieces of broken glass on the sidewalk. Then he looked up at the busted streetlamp. Since the city had installed them several years ago, the glass globes that housed the electric streetlights had been a favorite target for boys and their slingshots.
Emile pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his dripping forehead. Was he imagining things, or was there a sense of foreboding tugging at the back of his consciousness? The deserted streets, the broken lamp, the corner shrouded in darkness-all seemed to coalesce into a sense of eeriness. Maybe even danger.
The Axman of New Orleans Page 24