Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect)

by Bernadette Pajer

  Upstairs in the fresher air of the detective’s room, O’Brien said, “I’ll leave him in there a night or two.”

  Bradshaw shuddered. He’d spent the night once in that very cell. Alone. If the experience of being in the foul place locked up with twenty hardened men didn’t turn the boy away from a life of deception and immorality, nothing would.

  “Jim, he won’t be hurt, will he?”

  “Nah, I’ll have Jailor Corbett keep an eye on him. I want to scare him, not kill him, and not scar him for life.”

  “What’s happening with Maddock and Tycoon Tommy?”

  “They’re both sticking to their stories. The Ryker boy identified Tommy’s hands as being the typist’s, but it’s not solid evidence. Maddock is looking mighty smug and might be telling the truth.”

  “If Tommy acted on his own, who did he try to sell the rest of Doyle’s drawings to? And the other cigar box he stole from me?”

  “He says he found only what he was carrying when we arrested him.”

  “Have you heard from the hospital?”

  “The sisters are hopeful. Mrs. Doyle sat up today, and even ate.”

  O’Brien was hailed by the desk clerk, and Bradshaw left the station. He stood on the blustery corner, busy with traffic, wondering which direction to turn. He finally chose northwest and the Bailey Building.

  In the hall outside his office, he found Henry in an agitated state, pacing, scratching his jaw. From the other side of the closed door came the shrill sound of women’s voices raised in argument.

  “You don’t want to go in there,” said Henry. “Not without protection. You got a stick or a club on you?”

  The voices swelled, there was a shriek, and something thunked against the door.

  “Explanation?”

  “Well, the good news is Mrs. Adkins is in the clear, complements of Mrs. Smith, who tracked her husband to the Adkins’ apartment building on the night of Vernon Doyle’s death, and she can testify the two of them were there all night long.”

  “That’s rather convenient.”

  “Sometimes, Ben, life throws us a bone. She’s got no reason to lie, and there’s plenty who will back her up. She hasn’t stopped talking about it since it happened. She didn’t know which apartment he’d gone into, so she stayed in the lobby until he came down in the morning, at half past six, at which time she commenced to bash him with her umbrella.”

  “Huh. So there really is a Mr. Smith.”

  “A battered and bruised Smith now living in a cheap room and begging his wife’s forgiveness. Guess what his first name is.”

  “Not John.”

  “He thought it was a good trick, signing John Smith in the hotel register.”

  “Not good enough. So what has all this to do with what’s happening in our office?”

  The voices had lowered to a menacing hum.

  “Well, her husband wasn’t the only man besides Doyle who’s spent the night at the Washington with Mrs. Adkins and signed his name as John Smith. The hotel staff knew the real names of the other men. All five of them.”

  “Are you telling me there are six women in there, all of whom have just learned their husbands have cheated on them?”

  “Seven. Mrs. Adkins is in there, too.”

  “Henry!”

  “Now, don’t blame me. I sent them messages, saying to come see us at their earliest convenience. How was I to know they’d all show up at once?”

  The voices exploded into shouts again, and a crash preceded the shattering of glass.

  Bradshaw pushed Henry aside and opened the door, ducking as a black-leather heeled shoe came flying toward his head.

  “Ouch!” said Henry.

  “Enough!” Bellowed Bradshaw, using his most intimidating professorial voice. Seven sets of eyes glared at him from beneath furbelowed hats quivering with fury. One of the women stood upon his desk, her back to the window, another shoe poised and ready to throw. She was a petite woman with an ample figure and elaborately coiffed brown hair under a particularly ugly black hat. She was rather an attractive woman, with rounded cheeks and arched eyebrows. A flush of anger enhanced her beauty. A fact he felt sure added to the fury of the other women in the room. This was Mrs. Adkins, he presumed. He crossed the room, putting himself between Mrs. Adkins and the six angry women.

  “Henry, please escort these women downstairs to the Cherry Street Grill, ask for a private room. Ladies, Mr. Pratt will see that you are served your choice of food and drink in exchange for your cooperation. I assure you, any information you relate not pertinent to our case will be kept in the strictest confidence.”

  “What about her?” shouted one of the women, and a chorus of support rang out.

  “Mrs. Adkins will remain here to be questioned by me.”

  Complaints and vicious names aimed at Mrs. Adkins rose and swelled around him, drowning out his calls for calm, ceasing only when a high-pitched, oscillating whistle had them all clapping their hands over their ears.

  Henry grinned, holding up the torpedo siren whistle. “Told you I’d find a use for it. Come on gals, lunch is on the Professor.” He tossed Bradshaw the leather shoe that had struck him in the chest.

  When they’d gone, Bradshaw gave Mrs. Adkins her shoe then offered a hand to help her down. She sat in his chair and slipped her slender stockinged feet into her shoes like a stage actress knowing she was being watched.

  Bradshaw looked about and discovered the broken glass he’d heard belonged to the frame of his private investigator’s license, now on the floor, downed by his bronze inkstand which luckily had contained a near-empty bottle of ink. Henry could deal with the mess when he returned. He pulled up a chair and sat before Mrs. Adkins.

  “I am aware of your stay at the Washington Hotel with Mr. Vernon Doyle.”

  “So you know. And your partner knows I was not anywhere near Vernon the night he died, I was with Mr. Smith. If you don’t believe me, you can ask his wife.” She had a husky yet feminine voice, and he could see she likely had no trouble finding companionship when her husband was out to sea.

  “I believe you. I know you did not kill Vernon Doyle, but I need to know everything about his personal life in order to thoroughly investigate his death.”

  “Why bother? Have you spoken to a single person who’s upset he’s gone? Not even his wife is distraught, is she? Dowdy little thing. Mrs. Dowdy Doyle, I call her. Not to her face, of course, I might be an immoral woman, but I’m not cruel. As for Vernon Doyle, he was a pig. A slobbering, swaggering pig.”

  “Then why were you having an affair with him?”

  “I wasn’t. It was blackmail. He found out I sometimes go out on the town with the men I meet at work, and he said he’d tell Mr. Olafson and get me fired if I didn’t go out with him. I went just once and decided I’d rather be fired than do it again.”

  “He didn’t follow through? You still have your job.”

  “I turned the tables on him. Told him I’d tell his wife what we did. Oh, he kept pestering me, but he didn’t dare risk me telling Mrs. Dowdy.”

  “Do you have any other admirers at the Bon Marché?”

  She shrugged and tossed him a small smile that he was sure she had mastered before a mirror. “I have admirers everywhere, Professor. But unlike most women, I don’t flirt unless I mean it.”

  He kept his features impassive. Was she flirting now?

  “Are any of your admirers as persistent as Mr. Doyle? Or possessive?”

  “You mean did any of my admirers kill Vernon to protect me from him?”

  “Or to keep you for himself?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t stir that sort of passion in men. I’m a plaything, not worth killing for.”

  “You never know how a man will react when his heart is captured.”

  She lifted her lovely arched brows and gave h
im a knowing smile. “Not you, Professor, surely. A buttoned up man like you? Has a woman ever driven you to mad impulses?”

  He knew he flushed. He felt the heat rise up his neck as he recalled stepping into that jewelry store and purchasing the glittering gem now locked in his safe, then dashing up to the courthouse on a mission he couldn’t fulfill.

  “Well, well,” she said with a laugh. “I’m glad for you, Professor. Life’s awfully short, and I don’t think we’re meant to live like dullards.”

  He cleared his throat and tried to settle his flushed face into a dignified countenance. “We’re talking about murder, Mrs. Adkins, not some flight of fancy. When a man’s life is taken from him, even a man no one appears to miss, society suffers until the killer is brought to justice.”

  “Oh, pooh. Sometimes a man’s death is a blessing. Mrs. Dowdy would agree with me. But you can rest assured none of my admirers did Vernon in. Besides, I never went out with any men employed at the Bon, other than Vernon. You’ll have to find another reason why somebody killed him.”

  “Can you think of any reason someone would kill Mr. Doyle?”

  “I make a point of never dwelling on anything ugly, upsetting, or dull. Other than lifting a glass of wine to celebrate his demise, I’ve not given Vernon Doyle another thought. Now, if we’re through here, I’m late for an appointment.” She rose with coquettish grace, and licked her lips. “I can see you aren’t a man who believes in a casual dalliance, but keep me in mind if whoever put the color in your handsome cheeks doesn’t make you happy. I’ve got medicine for a broken heart.”

  She left, but a hint of her rose scent remained. He thought of the perfume card he’d found in Doyle’s home desk. A man doesn’t keep such reminders of a woman he’s only casually involved with. The affair might have been brief and unwanted for Mrs. Adkins, but Vernon Doyle wanted more. Had that desire led to his demise? Should he and Henry track down every man in Mrs. Adkins’ life? The idea didn’t inspire or appeal. Passion could kill, it was true, but removing all the men from Mrs. Adkins’ life would necessitate a string of murders, not just one.

  With a sigh, Bradshaw got to his feet and crossed to the wall safe. He spun the combination, opened the door, and stared at the small velvet box inside. Why, he wondered, did life have to be so complicated? Here he was, battered by restrictions about love and marriage, and there was Mrs. Adkins, called the foulest of names because she chose to ignore all the rules.

  Had Henry been in the safe recently and seen the ring? He’d not mentioned it. Should he lock it elsewhere? He considered doing so but knew it was no good keeping anything from Henry. Not just because Henry was clever, but because Bradshaw would eventually tell him about the ring and his subsequent conversation with Father McGuinness.

  He closed the safe and spun the dial, then retrieved his graph of The Case of the Bon Marché from the file cabinet, spreading it upon his desk. With a bold lead pencil, he made a check mark beside Billy Creasle, then Mrs. Adkins.

  So there it was. If he didn’t consider Mrs. Adkins’ many admirers, or any of the other hundred thousand Seattle residents Doyle may have encountered, then only J. D. Maddock remained a suspect. But even if Tycoon Tommy pinned his thievery on Maddock, for Doyle’s death there wasn’t a shred of evidence against him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The Wright Brothers did it,” Bradshaw told Professor Taylor. “I had a wire this morning from Miss Fremont.”

  “No! They flew? Powered flight, not just gliding?”

  They were weaving their way around traffic, through a corridor of grocery and freight wagons on Marion Street, just above Railroad Avenue, heading for the West Seattle ferry. Bradshaw carried a wicker picnic basket. It held not food but his locating device and telegraph batteries.

  “At half past ten, eastern time,” Bradshaw said. “They got off the ground successfully three more times, then crashed and had to quit. Hold on a minute.” He’d spied crates of Justin’s favorite winter treat, Japanese oranges, and he crossed to see the name on the grocer’s wagon: Louch, Augustine. “Is he on First?”

  Taylor agreed. “In the eight hundred block.”

  The same grocer was also loading a barrel of Italian chestnuts and crates of bananas from New Orleans, which had arrived by way of San Francisco on the Sunset Route.

  They continued on, and Taylor said, “They really did it? Controlled flight, steering and landing? Not just a dramatic hurl into the air and a lucky slow plummet to the ground?”

  “Real, controlled, powered flight.”

  Taylor grinned, and so did Bradshaw.

  “I’m getting hungry,” said Taylor. “All this food, and nothing to eat!” They were surrounded by wagons and hand trucks loaded with onions, garlic, potatoes, cabbage, and squash. Butter, eggs, honey, figs, cranberries. Fresh, iced smelt, flounder, sole, cod, crab, clams, oysters, and Alaskan halibut. Taylor said the abundance was torture, but Bradshaw had no appetite.

  At Railroad Avenue, they were stopped by empty, unmoving rail cars.

  “There,” said Taylor, pointing to a stream of pedestrians disappearing between the cars. They followed, making their way through a narrow gap and across a half dozen tracks, and finally to the terminal of the West Seattle ferry. Bradshaw bought the tickets and they stood on the dock to wait. Out in the bay, the City of Seattle ferry trailed a plume of black smoke. Near the wharf, a tug outfitted with cranes and pumps idled. Bradshaw lifted a hand and waved, and a figure aboard waved back. The tug, called the Beverlee B, belonged to the Seattle Salvage Company and was positioned to follow the ferry at a safe distance.

  Taylor shook his head. “Flight! I can’t hardly believe it! Why isn’t there a special edition out? Where are the bold headlines?”

  “The test wasn’t open to the public. Miss Fremont’s wire gave few details. I’m sure the news will eventually emerge. They’ll want to officially establish their success.” As thrilling as the idea of powered flight was, Bradshaw had been more concerned with the rest of Missouri’s news. She was now on her way home. His stomach tightened.

  “So how goes your case, Bradshaw?” Taylor asked, pulling Bradshaw’s thoughts to the elimination of all suspects save Maddock, on whom they had no evidence. He thought of Mrs. Adkins and the six angry wives, and he thought of Billy Creasle, in jail after two nights. O’Brien said the boy was still belligerent.

  Bradshaw said, “You said to me the other day that troubled young men could be turned around if caught early enough.”

  Taylor cocked his head. “I did.”

  “Is eighteen too old? There’s a young man with the ability to go far, but his moral compass is off. Would you consider counseling him?”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “His name is Billy, and he works at the Bon Marché.” As the ferry neared, Bradshaw told Taylor all he knew. “I don’t know if his father passed away, or abandoned his family, but Mr. Olafson tells me Billy has no father. Olafson has filled that role for the boy to some extent, but he was unaware of Billy’s devious behavior until now.”

  “We do often turn a blind eye to those we care about. Mr. Olafson likely didn’t want to see it. The boy’s heroes are the giants of industry, I suppose? Rockefeller, Astor, Hill?”

  “Indeed. His list also includes giants of department stores. Wanamaker, Macy, and Marshall Field. I don’t know their personal histories or how their stores came to be so successful, but I have no doubt Billy Creasle does. He worships success. He has fully embraced the doctrine of the survival of the fittest, and feels no compunction at hastening the process along.”

  “There are aspects of that doctrine I find downright immoral when applied to mankind.”

  “Capitalism and morality are often at odds. Oscar Daulton wrote of it in his journal, and it was one of the few things about which I agreed with him.”

  “Anarchy was certainly not the answer.”
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  “No. But in a country that equates democracy with capitalism, he felt he could never win through the democratic process.”

  “What did winning mean to him?”

  “I don’t think he truly knew what he wanted to achieve. He was miserable, he wanted justice, he wanted respect. Oddly enough, I think he wanted kindness.”

  “Noble goals sought through heinous means. Well, we can’t let this young Billy abandon the path of goodness without a fight. With you and me and this Mr. Olafson rallying around him, maybe we can realign his compass. And here is our ride.” The ferry had arrived with a blast of her whistle and a whoosh of white foam.

  Passengers disembarked, then came a wagon, a hansom carriage, and a farmer leading a cow by a rope.

  “I’ll act as a buffer,” said Taylor, “and keep curious passengers out of your way. While I take measurements, you retrace your steps and recall the conversation that took place. What was the weather like that day?”

  “Clear, mild, gusty. The water was mildly choppy. Much like today only much warmer.”

  “Good. The timing of the tides and currents were different in the spring of ’01, but my calculations show this time of day most closely matches them.”

  Taylor had spoken to the ferry captain by telephone the previous night and asked permission to conduct an experiment by throwing the basket overboard, emphasizing they would not need the boat to slow or stop.

  They boarded and positioned themselves at the back deck. Bradshaw opened the picnic basket and removed the cigar box. He inserted a key to set the internal clockworks ticking, then firmly pressed a rubber stopper into the hole, plugging it so that seawater couldn’t enter.

  Then he mentally transported himself to that May day and his emotional state. He’d woken that day knowing, yet not yet able to prove, that Oscar Daulton had killed three men. He’d gone up to the university and found the proof he needed. When he then went in search of Daulton, he learned that he’d left his dorm room with a picnic basket and was heading to West Seattle with a friend, Artimus Lowe. Bradshaw had instantly understood the terrible danger of that basket. Lowe had been considered a suspect by the police, and if he were to die, if it were to appear he took his own life by leaping off the ferry, then his guilt would be presumed and the murder cases closed. And Daulton would remain free.