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

by Bernadette Pajer

  “I was diving off the docks.”

  “And I was robbing a bank.”

  “Well, today you’re robbing a diving company. Have you got any clothes here that will make you look like a longshoreman?” As he asked, Bradshaw strode into the storage room and opened Henry’s trunk of clothes. Neatly folded inside were various pieces of clothing that could be assembled to resemble any number of professions, from priest to hobo. Bradshaw pulled out a pair of blue denim trousers and tossed them to Henry.

  Henry grinned. “What are you going as?”

  “Myself. Hurry. We only have a few hours. And iron me one of those, I’m starving.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The secret to a daylight robbery, Bradshaw knew all too well, was in arriving when no one was paying much attention and looking as if one belonged. The waterfront was a hive of activity, and they simply looked like two more men doing business. When they arrived at Galloway’s shanty of an office, they knocked and waited. This not only told them if any employee was within, but gave the impression to anyone paying attention that they were honest men paying a call. Behind the protection of Henry’s bulk, Bradshaw tried the door and found it locked. Unlike his Capitol Hill neighborhood, theft was rampant on the waterfront.

  On their way there, Bradshaw had caught Henry up on all that had happened, from his finding Daulton’s hidden journal and the dry stack battery and what they portended, to his diving yesterday, to his instincts now finally working and telling him that Jake Galloway was their man.

  “You’re telling me Jake Galloway found Daulton’s box years ago and has been capitalizing on the hunt for it all this time?”

  “That’s my belief.”

  “And you think Galloway was the man Vernon Doyle let into the Bon Marché the night he died?”

  “I do.”

  Henry issued a string of comments worthy of a longshoreman.

  “Why is he waiting so long to pretend to find it for Maddock? Son of a gun, now he’s lost the contract!”

  “He had his reputation to protect. He had to make it look like it was lack of the very latest equipment, the compressors that allow for deeper dives, that kept him from finding it all this time, not his skill.”

  Now, they went around the shack, to the bayside door. It was also locked, but not bolted, and the latch retreated easily into its casing when Bradshaw slid a slim metal card down the jam under the noise of the Great Northern, rumbling into town with a blast of her whistle.

  Once inside, they began a systematic search.

  An hour later, having searched every inch of the office, including storage space upstairs, they hadn’t found Daulton’s box, but they had located in a locked cabinet, which had yielded to Bradshaw’s picks, the items missing when Tycoon Tommy was arrested—several of Vernon Doyle’s better drawings, and the second cigar box stolen from Bradshaw’s basement.

  “Evidence!” Henry said.

  “We’ll leave it all here for Detective O’Brien.” Bradshaw stood by the meager warmth of the woodstove, down to a few embers, and looked around.

  “It’s on his boat,” said Henry. “He lives on the boat, makes sense he’d keep it there.”

  It was a very real possibility. Galloway could hide the box easily on his boat, and it would be convenient to slip into a diving sack when the day came for him to pretend to find it. But it would be much more difficult to search his boat, to somehow lure him off and keep him away. And where aboard would it be? Not where any of his crew could find it. In his bunk? Bradshaw pictured it, that big cigar box, wrapped in burlap, tucked under a pile of clothes, or wedged into a cubby.

  The image didn’t feel right. He began to pace. How long had Galloway had it? Over two years? Less? Bradshaw imagined he was Galloway, finding the box everyone wanted, making the decision to keep his find a secret because so many were willing to pay him to search for it. He’d already established a respected reputation as a treasure seeker. He could afford to pretend as if this one treasure eluded him, especially if he spread the rumor that it must be in difficult-to-search deep waters. In fact, time had turned Daulton’s box into a much more treasured object, and when he did pretend to find it in deep water, his reputation would be that much more enhanced.

  Had he intended on keeping it this long? Or had time gotten away from him, and then interest declined, and he figured the box had more value for him if it remained missing. Why not sell it? Had he not known until Maddock came to town that it could possibly be worth so much? And where did Vernon Doyle fit into it? And if he planned to someday claim to have found it, how could he present a box that was dry? That had clearly not spent over two years at the bottom of the bay?

  Bradshaw stopped pacing.

  Henry said, “What?”

  “It’s in water. It’s underwater. Or it has been most of the time.”

  “Where?”

  “Nearby. Where no one else would be looking. Easy for Galloway to get to. Hard for anyone else.”

  “For a diver, that could be a million places.”

  “On the day I met him, he’d been testing out his new suit, right here, off the pier.”

  “You don’t think—under the dock?”

  “Why not? It’s the most ideal location. Why put it elsewhere? Here he could check on it. Here he could walk with that cocky self-assurance telling clients only he could find it.”

  “It’s not still here, is it? You said he was about to claim to find it.”

  “Tomorrow, he is.”

  “Maybe he already brought it up. Maybe he was bringing it up the day you met him? Getting ready to find it for Edison.”

  “Maybe. Or it could still be down there.” Bradshaw looked at the diving suit standing in the corner.

  Henry guffawed. “You’re not!”

  “I am, and you’re going to help me. And we need one more man. Someone strong and able to hold his tongue. Do you know anyone like that? In a hurry?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  ***

  A quarter hour later, Henry was back with a toothless giant who mumbled in Russian and reeked of fish and tobacco.

  “Meet my friend Gregor. Former lumberjack. We met in a bar in the Klondike.”

  Bradshaw was told no more, nor did he ask. If Henry trusted Gregor with this misadventure, then so did he.

  With Gregor standing by watching with amusement, and Bradshaw giving instructions, Henry helped get him into the diving dress and lead boots. The weight belt wasn’t on display, but they found one in the diving storage closet. With a minimal amount of cussing, Henry sorted out the straps and cinched the heavy belt snugly. The copper helmet was secured in place last of all, and Bradshaw stood before Henry and Gregor, unable to fully enjoy their awe at the sight of him because of his rising apprehension.

  “Someone’s going to see us,” said Henry.

  Through the small open window—which he still could not think of as a “light”—Bradshaw said, “Act like we belong, like we know what we’re doing. This is a diving business, we’re simply going for a dive. It happens all the time. But you should both put on one of those slickers with a hood so your faces can’t be seen.”

  Henry donned the slicker, but Gregor was too large for any of them, so he pulled up his coat collar and pulled his hat low over his ears. They tromped out to Galloway’s empty slip. A small orderly shed housed a pump, hoses, and ropes, ready for dive training and the testing of equipment. Too restricted in his cumbersome gear to move within the shed, Bradshaw pointed out what they needed and talked Henry and Gregor through the connections and operation. He hadn’t been trained yesterday at the pump, but he’d operated similar machines over the years. Once hooked up, Bradshaw gave Henry a quick lesson in tending and Gregor in pumping.

  They practiced, Gregor spinning the wheel providing air, slowing down to provide less when Bradshaw tu
gged the lifeline and Henry relayed the order to Gregor.

  “They usually have several men at the pump, Henry, and fresh men to give breaks at intervals. Once Gregor starts pumping, and I start descending, the resistance will rise and it will get harder and harder for him to turn the wheel, but he won’t be able to stop for a rest. You may need to assist him. Pressure must be maintained the entire time. The air can’t stop until I return to the surface. Can you do it? Is your back up to it? Be honest. Don’t tell me what I want to hear, tell me the truth. My life depends on it.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “You can’t do it? It’s too much?”

  “My back can take it, I’m not sure about my heart. You sure this is a smart thing to do?”

  “It’s a ridiculous thing to do. But we’re doing it. Now, let’s review one more time. One tug means give me less air. Two means more. Three means pull me up. Got it?”

  “One less. Two more. Three up. And you say if something goes wrong, that helmet holds five minutes’ worth?”

  “Yes. More than enough to get me back to the surface if you haul me up with the lifeline. The weight holds me down. I can’t get up by myself.”

  “I’ll get you back up, you don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “How much slack do I give you with the rope?”

  “I’m not sure. Use your best judgment.”

  “I’ll pretend I’m fishing, casting with weights. I’ll lower you until I feel you bobbing up and down in the mud, then reel you in a notch.”

  It sounded like a fair method to Bradshaw, so he nodded. He donned the gloves Troy had given him. Then it was time. Henry held up the round faceplate.

  “Ben, I’m telling you, I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  “Say no more or I’ll lose my nerve,” he snapped. His heart thudded painfully, and his hands were beginning to shake. “Signal Gregor to begin.”

  Henry pointed skyward and shouted “Give him air!” Bradshaw heard air moving into the helmet. Down and up. That’s all it was. Down and up. Quick. He could do this. He’d done it yesterday.

  “Now screw on the plate and I’ll start down. You must pay attention to both the air hose and the lifeline. Feed them out as I descend, and keep your hands on them to feel for tugs. Remember the signals?”

  “One less, two more, three up.”

  Then the glass plate was in front of Bradshaw’s face, and metal rasped as Henry twisted it on tight. Bradshaw moved to the ladder, turned around, and carefully began to climb down a few rungs. Henry’s face appeared at the round window with a lopsided grin, then disappeared as he stood to man the lines. Bradshaw began his slow chant. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

  And he began his descent down the ladder.

  All went as before, only this time he didn’t pause. The cold water enveloped him and bubbled over his helmeted head. He reached the last rung, and he let go. As before, the weights pulled him down while the air in his suit made the movement slow and gentle. But he didn’t have Berto’s guiding assistance. He had Henry’s inexperienced feeding of the lifeline. In turns, the line would slacken then tighten, as Henry tried to get a feel for what it was like to have a diver floating at the other end.

  Soon, Bradshaw’s ears cracked, but his feet did not touch bottom. When he’d dived with Troy, he was certain his lead boots had touched down soon after his ears cracked, but now he was still descending.

  Down, down, down. The water grew murkier and darker. He could see nothing. He heard himself whimper as he continued to drop. What if he never stopped? What if—and then his lead feet struck the bottom. He stood for a moment trembling and resisting the urge to tug frantically on the lifeline. He could breathe. He breathed.

  As he stared out the little window into the darkness, the water pressure and bubbles roaring, he forced his thoughts to be analytical. He’d descended far lower than yesterday. Why? What was different here at Galloway Diving? It was an older pier, not one of the newly built. The pilings had not been bolstered with twenty to thirty feet of rocks and sand as the new ones had, and so the water was much deeper. When these piers had been built, sawdust and rocks had been poured around them, but that material had long since rotted and settled. He was down perhaps fifty feet. Or more. It felt like more. Captain Donovan said sixty feet was doable for some beginners. But was it so deep he should come up more slowly than yesterday? He’d not discussed timing at all with Henry, and there was no way he could communicate anything like that with the rope. He and Henry knew only the basic signals.

  Pressure sickness was time related, he knew. If he did this quickly, then maybe the depth wouldn’t cause a problem. But how was he to find anything in the dark? His eyes were beginning to adjust to the lack of light, but even so, the world beyond his faceplate was as dark as late evening. He could make out only a few shapes near him. A pile stood within arm’s reach, looking like a giant black cylinder. He touched it with his gloved fingers, but he had very little sensation through the felted rubber. He removed a glove and tucked it under the weight belt but didn’t reach yet for the pile. He dreaded what he might feel. He told himself he would spend ten minutes, no more. If he didn’t find it, if Jake hadn’t stashed it somewhere a blind novice like him could find, then so be it. Ten minutes, and this would be over.

  The air came steadily and well into his helmet and he thanked heaven for Henry and his old Klondike pal Gregor.

  He reached out to the pile, swallowing his repulsion at the crusty and slimy things his fingertips met. The old timber was riddled with sea life, with barnacles and seaweed. He moved his hands as high as he could reach, and down as far as he could without bending over, but he felt nothing that indicated anything was tied or secured there. He could just make out the next piling, two feet away. He hesitated. He could so easily get lost down here, and he needed to stay near the ladder. He’d brought nothing to mark his way.

  He leaned back as far as he dared and looked up. The bubbles from his helmet percolated up through darkness, to greenness, and then light. The shining light of the world above. The sun must have broken through the clouds, for the light suddenly pierced the water, sending down shafts of glittering light that faded long before reaching him. A small dark shape began to descend toward him. A mere spot at first. As it dropped, the shape became oval with stick legs, then it distinguished itself as a crab. In the green section of water, it grabbed hold of Bradshaw’s lifeline with a big claw and scuttled down it expertly, like a huge angular spider, until it disappeared in the darkness.

  Was it still on the line? Would it soon be crawling over him? He couldn’t shake the line without sending confusing signals to Henry.

  Don’t panic, he told himself. It’s a crab. You like crab. They’re delicious with butter. No crab in the history of the world has ever eaten a man.

  A fish-shaped shadow zipped past Bradshaw’s faceplate, and his breath caught. He coughed, and gulped air, nearly choking on the knowledge that should he truly gag, he was trapped within the helmet.

  So do not gag, he demanded. Stop gulping. Breathe through your nose. He closed his eyes and replayed Troy’s instructions and thought of the young man’s delight in being in this godforsaken place. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, several minutes at least, before he quelled his panic and was able to turn once again to the task.

  With iron determination, he studied the silhouette of the pile before him, then turned to look at the next one. About ten feet above the seabed, an irregular shape disrupted the straight line of the timber.

  He moved toward it, then realized he would need to rise to reach it. To rise, Troy and the others had taught him, he would need more air. He gave the lifeline two firm tugs, and almost immediately he felt the increase in air pressure and his suit puffed. He felt more buoyant, but not light enough yet to move up to inspect the shape on the pile.

  H
e tugged twice again, and this time the increase lifted his lead feet from the seabed. He reached out as he rose, and his cold fingers clasped netting. He moved his hands over the netting, and when he felt the corner of a box, his elation overwhelmed his fear.

  Quickly, he moved his fingers to the top of the netting and found where it was attached to the timber with a bolt hook, but it was tied fast. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a knife? He put pressure on the bolt hook, pushed and pulled, back and forth, and he felt the bolt give ever so slightly. The timbers of Seattle’s older piers, he’d once read, were being eaten by things called teredos and gribbles. He couldn’t now recall their size, and he hoped they were too small to feel and that their appetite had sufficiently deteriorated this timber so that he could free the bolt. He grabbed hold of the neck of the netting and gave it swift pull. It didn’t come free, but he felt it give, so he tugged again.

  And he felt increased air pressure in his helmet. Henry must have interpreted his movement as a signal to send more air. He moved his hand carefully on his lifeline and gave it a single tug, telling Henry less air.

  But more air came. Bradshaw’s suit began to swell, and he felt himself rising. He signaled again, a single strong tug. But it was no use. Henry must have signaled Gregor to increase the air again, and Bradshaw was floating upward. He grabbed for the net with both hands, kicked his lead feet until he had them braced against the timber, then pulled with all his might. The net came free, and Bradshaw flew backwards in a torrent of bubbles.

  From there, it was a blur. Before he’d stopped moving, before he could reach for his lifeline to signal Henry to haul him up, the air pressure increased again, bloating his suit, sending him upwards. He kicked his heavy feet and paddled with his free hand to get himself out from under the dock as the suit continued to fill. Just as he emerged into green water streaked with sunbeams, some magic number was reached, the air pressure in the suit overcame the pressure of the water, and he felt himself being shot upward like a torpedo, up out of the water, into the air, and for a moment he could see the sky, and the skyline of the city, and a tumbling red crab, through his little window. And then he crashed back down into the water, feet first, bobbing up and down like a cork. The relief valve in the helmet hissed like a steaming kettle.