As Henry reeled him in, Bradshaw wondered if he could have avoided his dramatic ascent if he’d simply adjusted the relief valve when he felt the pressure begin to build. Well. Nothing like a moment of insight a minute too late. Henry dragged him up onto the deck. He began to unscrew the faceplate, and the last of the air rushed out. Bradshaw now knew what it felt like to be inside a deflating balloon.
“Ben!” Henry shouted into the opening.
Bradshaw wondered if his own faced looked as pale and frightened as Henry’s. He said, “I believe you mixed up the signals.”
“I thought you were in trouble. You were down there so long, and you said five minutes was all the air you had if something went wrong, and then I couldn’t tell if you were tugging once or twice, and I thought maybe the hose was pinched off.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I can see that.”
“Is my hand holding a net?”
“Huh?” Henry tore his gaze away to look at Bradshaw’s side. Then he looked back at Bradshaw with a grin that returned color to his face.
Gregor’s shadow moved over them. He said something in Russian, and Henry laughed, shaking his head. “He wants to know if he can see that again.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Oscar Daulton’s mysterious cigar box sat on an oilcloth covering Bradshaw’s desk in his locked office in the Bailey Building. The once handsome wood was slimy with decay and exposure to oil, tar, and other pollutants in the seawater of the waterfront.
“Will it explode?” Henry asked.
“No.”
“Then what’re you waiting for? Open it.”
An inspection of the exterior had revealed several cracks, and scars around the lid indicated it had been pried off at least once. With a small chisel, Bradshaw eased the lid up slowly. Small nails squeaked as they let go of the wet wood. Inside was a pile of yellow sulfur crystals. A putrid smell rose up to them.
“Well, you got that part right,” said Henry, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow. Henry knew Bradshaw had guessed that Daulton had used sulfur to insulate his invention.
“It’s shattered,” said Bradshaw. Sulfur was insoluble in water, but it was brittle, and it had reacted chemically with the polluted seawater. The only way to see what the sulfur had insulated was to dump out the contents, so he did. With his letter opener, he carefully searched the foul yellow rubble. He found bits of glass, clumps of mushy paper, a few copper wires, and flecks of metallic paint. Were these remnants of a small Zamboni pile? Possibly. But the materials represented absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Daulton had designed his invention cheaply, which made it ideal for anarchists. The materials would be fairly easy to come by, and the entire device very easily destroyed if it fell into enemy hands. Even without spending years underwater, the fragility of the sulfur meant attempts at examination would lead to internal damage and destruction.
Had this been the fearful ultimate weapon Daulton had written about? Or a piece of the weapon? A key component? Whatever it had been, it was no longer. Further examination would reveal no more. Still, he sat down and sketched what he’d found, listing materials, noting all he could think of.
Henry said, “So what now?”
Bradshaw rubbed his jaw.
Henry said, “Do we put it back so O’Brien can find it? Does it prove Galloway killed Doyle?”
“No, it doesn’t. It proves he cheated a good many people, including Doyle, but it’s not evidence of murder. I fear we will never have evidence of murder.”
“We should still put it back so Galloway gets caught with it.”
“No. We surely had witnesses. Galloway could say a pair of lunatics broke into his business today, used his equipment, and planted the box, then shot one of them into the air in celebration.”
Henry laughed. “You should have seen yourself flying up like I don’t know what. I thought my heart was going to give out from the shock.”
“So did I.”
“Someone might tell Galloway what they saw us doing today, Ben, but he can’t come forward and claim we took the box from underneath the dock without admitting he had it in the first place.”
“That’s true.”
“So O’Brien gets him for cheating his customers. How long will they lock him up for that? Can we just go to the police and tell them what we found? He doesn’t own the underside of that dock.”
“He’d probably just have to return his customers’ money, maybe pay a fine. And there’s a chance he can claim he’s got rights to the box. He did find it, and he was under no obligation to report finding it. He could still sell it to Edison. I don’t want him profiting from it.”
“Then you keep it. He can’t do a thing about it without admitting when he found it and how he’s been hiding it.”
“But if I keep it, then the madness will continue. The search will continue, even without Galloway. I want it to end. No, it must be brought to light. But in just the right way.”
“Why not have that window dresser find it? He’s a nice kid. You wouldn’t have a problem with him making money selling it to Edison, would you? Now that you know no one can use what’s left of it to make a weapon? It’d help him win that girl he’s sweet on.”
“That wouldn’t be fair to the other diver or the crew. But you’ve given me an idea. I can sell the box to Mr. J. D. Maddock, and Captain Donovan and his crew and divers can split Edison’s cash bonus.”
“That’s mighty noble of you.”
“Not in the least. I will demand one more thing in exchange.”
Henry frowned, then his eyes popped wide open. “Drop the lawsuits!” He got to his feet. “What’s the plan?”
Bradshaw also rose and Henry helped him scoop the sulfurous mess into the box and secure the lid. “Now,” Bradshaw said, “we smuggle this onto the Beverlee B.”
They headed for the waterfront where Henry knew a place at the King Street dock they could buy a ride out to the Seattle Salvage dive site. As they passed by a small drugstore, a gaily decorated window caught Bradshaw’s eye, and he stopped. There beneath a glowing tree was a box of Edison’s holiday lights. He thought of Galloway’s old diving dress, which was now back on display in Galloway’s office, dripping onto the wood floor. He thought of the shudder that had run through Galloway when he mentioned having once seen a ghost.
“Henry, wait. I’ve got something I need to do. You hire the boat and I’ll meet up with you. Take this.” He handed Henry the burlap sack that held Daulton’s box.
Henry glanced at the window display, then back at Bradshaw.
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
Chapter Twenty-three
A few hours later, Professor Bradshaw, Henry, Captain Donovan, Joseph Taylor, Troy, Charlie, and Berto and his five cousins pushed through Miss Finch’s tiny office and into the presence of J. D. Maddock himself, who sat behind his desk with a look of annoyed astonishment. There was not an inch of free floor space remaining in the room. Miss Finch stood on tiptoe at the open door.
Captain Donovan set a small open crate on Maddock’s desk, and Maddock half rose to peer inside, his nose crinkling. He sat down again, his eyes darting to Bradshaw, then back to the captain, who had been elected to speak.
“I am Captain Donovan of Seattle Salvage and approximately one hour ago, a diver under my command, Mr. Troy Ruzauskas—” Troy lifted a hand in acknowledgement, “—surfaced with this object in his possession.” The captain then backtracked, explaining about Bradshaw’s reenactment of the toss from the ferry, the white-painted ticking box and batteries, the microphones mounted to the Beverlee B. “We easily located the professor’s ticking marker sitting at sixty-two feet, and his batteries very nearby. As this was an area previously searched, we speculated the original items must have been hidden or buried. We found Oscar Daulton’s batteries buried in a
bout eight inches of mud.”
Charlie, near the window, held up the sea-scarred cylindrical batteries that were still strapped tightly together. He passed them forward, and Bradshaw set them on the desk.
“Later, the cigar box now before you was discovered, not sunk in mud, but in a bed of bull kelp, in the same general vicinity.” He didn’t say right beneath the boat, and Bradshaw knew that Captain Donovan and Professor Taylor were keeping quiet about their suspicions as to how the box suddenly appeared beneath the Beverlee B at the dive site. Henry stared at his feet, biting his lip to keep from smiling. As promised, Henry had easily found them a lift out to the dive site. He’d hidden Daulton’s bulky cigar box under his jacket, giving him a rather rotund figure which hurt his ego but did the job. Bradshaw had instructed Henry to make his way to the stern, and when no one was looking, toss Daulton’s box some distance away. But with so many on board, and being positioned so near the shore in the busy bay, such a moment had not availed itself. So Henry had simply stood at the stern rail, pulled the box from beneath his coat, and let it drop straight down.
Maddock steepled his fingers. “Am I to assume this foul-smelling item is something I want?”
“You’ve been advertising about it since you arrived in town. It’s the invention Oscar Daulton threw overboard the ferry in the spring of ’01.”
“Do you have proof?”
Bradshaw spoke up. “You have my word. That is the box Oscar Daulton threw from the ferry, and the very one he demonstrated at the student exhibition, and the box which I discussed at length with your employer, Mr. Edison.”
Maddock peered in the crate again. “Will somebody please open a window?”
Charlie obliged, letting cold air into the stuffy and increasingly malodorous office.
Bradshaw said, “In exchange for the box, we are asking for a monetary reward of ten thousand, and for the immediate withdrawal of all lawsuits you have pending against me and my patents.”
Maddock chuckled. “You do have nerve, Professor. Five thousand, and nothing else.”
Bradshaw reached for the crate. “Then we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
Maddock put a firm hand on the crate. “Now, now, don’t be so hasty. This is called negotiation, Professor.”
“I will not negotiate. There are plenty of others interested in this device. Mr. Westinghouse is but one.”
“Has it been opened?” Maddock asked.
Although Bradshaw believed in justice, and he knew that at times a lesser evil prevented a greater one, up until now the sins he’d committed—deception, breaking into a locked office—had been minor and intended to expose a liar and catch a murderer. But knowingly selling a worthless box to Thomas Edison was pushing the boundaries of what he considered moral.
He said, “If you look closely at the box, you will see it has been cracked. You will also notice if you compare its condition to that of the batteries that it has weathered differently. There are no barnacles growing on it, and it has a slick feel, as if exposed to oil or other contaminants. The box was found where Captain Donovan stated, but its condition shows it has not been there for the entire two years and nearly seven months since it was tossed overboard. I myself opened the box and made an examination of the contents. I found nothing I wished to keep to myself, and it sits before you as complete as it was when found.” He knew he lied through the sin of omission, but he couldn’t say more without undermining the case. It was enough to ease his conscience.
“Are you absolutely certain this is Oscar Daulton’s lost box?”
“I am.” At last, a question he could answer in complete honesty.
“What proof have you?”
“None, other than my word.”
“Given what you say, and I appreciate your candor, Professor, especially considering what’s at stake for you, I would like to have twenty-four hours in which to examine the box and to speak with Mr. Edison.”
“No, sir. I’ll give you an hour to consult with Mr. Edison, but you will not examine the box until the agreement is made.”
“You surprise me, Professor. That’s the underhanded method of the thief that tried to sell me stolen goods. This could be worthless.”
“Yes, it could. As I said, I found nothing that compelled me to keep it myself. And that’s exactly why I’m sure you’ll understand my insistence, and why this sale is not contingent on the contents leading to a patentable invention. I can assure you it is Oscar Daulton’s lost invention. Its value has yet to be determined. If you decide against our offer, I will take the box elsewhere. Nikola Tesla, for instance, is likely to understand the value far better than I ever could.”
“Excuse me a moment.” Maddock squeezed through the crowd to get to his secretary’s office.
“Miss Finch—” he said.
“Mr. Edison is on the line, sir,” she said, a rare smile lighting her face.
Henry nudged Bradshaw. “Hey, she’s not so bad when she smiles.”
Maddock picked up the candlestick base and carried the telephone out the far door, dragging the cord behind him. His voice carried to them as an indistinct murmur. A moment later, he returned, handing Miss Finch the telephone. He squeezed his way back to his desk and stood, looking directly at Bradshaw.
“Mr. Edison has authorized me to comply with your offer.” He held out his hand, but Bradshaw placed not his hand but a document into it. “My attorney has drawn up what we need. Let’s get our signatures on paper, shall we?”
Henry let out a whoop and a holler, and the others followed with shouts of joy. A few minutes later, the straightforward document was signed by all parties, and Bradshaw waved toward the door, leading the rambunctious group out. When they got to the lobby he turned to them all, and for the first time in his life said, “Let’s go get a drink. The first round’s on me.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The headline of the Seattle Post-Intelligencer the next morning said, DEEP-SEA DIVER HAUNTED BY GHOST OF CHRISTMAS! and the Seattle Times ran with DOYLE SPOOKS HIS KILLER!
Bradshaw sat at the kitchen table, reading the articles through squinted eyes and a throbbing headache. He’d lost count after the fourth round, and he couldn’t clearly remember coming home, but he was fairly certain Henry was upstairs, feeling even worse. Or perhaps not. It could be that his rapid rise from the depths yesterday was adding to the pounding in his brain, but luckily, he manifested none of the warning signs of the bends.
The headlines came as a surprise and a relief. He’d hoped to put a good scare into Galloway, but he hadn’t expected Galloway to confess.
A knock at the back door didn’t wait for a reply. The door opened, and in came Detective O’Brien, chipper and alert. He poured himself a mug of coffee from the percolator then helped himself to a seat.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“Whiskey.”
“Celebrating, eh? Congratulations. I heard about the great find. Is it true Maddock paid ten thousand for it?”
“Yes. And he’s dropping the lawsuits.”
“You don’t say? That is a bonus.”
Bradshaw sipped his coffee and tried to open his eyes further.
“Well, go on, spill.”
“Spill?”
“I know you must have had something to do with Galloway’s confession. That had to be you.”
“It was a ghost, the papers say. Vernon Doyle’s ghost.”
“I can’t figure out how you did it. Galloway said he kept Daulton’s box under the dock where his boat is moored, so how did you get it? How did it get out to the dive site where you had your ticker locator?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Oh, come on. You must have arranged it. You hired someone to dive at Galloway’s dock, right? Then you slipped the box out to the Beverlee B? Who’d you hire? Or did you get Henry to do it?”
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“No, Henry didn’t dive.”
“Well, somebody did. I’ve been getting all sorts of reports of some diver near Galloway’s dock yesterday, shooting up into the air like a rocket. Too much air, I’m told. But you can’t tell me it wasn’t your idea to pose that wet diving suit holding the Edison festoons. Pure genius, Ben. You should have seen Galloway when he came to my office last night to confess. It took me a half hour to get any sense out of him. He kept going on about Ebenezer Scrooge and Doyle’s ghost of Christmas present. He kept saying Doyle’s ghost had Daulton’s box, and that he hadn’t meant to kill him.”
“What did happen the night Doyle died? The papers didn’t have those details.”
“Oh, it was an argument gone bad, like we speculated. After Edison came to town and Doyle started bragging he knew more than he actually did about Daulton’s invention, Galloway heard about it, and they struck up a secret partnership. Doyle had Galloway convinced that if they found the box, he could figure out how it worked, and they’d get rich. So Galloway one day pretended he’d just found the box—he actually found it a few days after Daulton tossed it overboard—and he showed it to Doyle. They took the lid off and partially removed whatever was inside, but there wasn’t anything to see. It had all crumbled and rotted. Doyle said it would simply take him more time. He’d get it figured out.”
Had they removed anything from the box? Bradshaw wondered. Or had they dumped the crumbled contents back in as he had done? He thought of Doyle’s inadequate drawings.
O’Brien continued. “A little time passed and Galloway got impatient. He began to fear Doyle was full of it. When Edison’s man, Maddock, began offering a big reward to anyone who found Daulton’s box, Galloway decided he’d go for a sure thing rather than wait for Doyle. He held out for a big offer, and when Doyle learned he’d signed a contract, he got mad. He threatened to tell Maddock that Galloway had already found the box. Galloway was scared he was going to lose the big contract as well as his good reputation. After fretting about it one night, and drinking too much, he went down to the Bon at two in the morning to try to convince Doyle to keep his trap shut. He tapped on the window, and Doyle let him in.”
Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Page 24