Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  When he gave Sassy an exaggerated wink, Sassy retreated behind her fan. Aunt Delilah seated Heathcliff behind Jemmy on her right and Sassy on her left—as far from Heathcliff as possible.

  Jemmy didn’t need to peek behind her to know the boy was panting over the tendrils of dark curls caressing the nape of Sassy’s luminous neck. Sassy didn’t have to turn a finger or smile a single time. Even when she stayed cold as oysters packed in ice, she captured the heart of the thirteen-year-old piss-alley boy.

  Jemmy turned back to whisper to Heathcliff. “Did you overhear what happened in the hall?”

  He winked and grinned.

  “Tell me.”

  “Pay attention to the play.”

  “Please tell me.”

  “You’re scotching the fun of everyone at Aunt Delilah’s theatre shindig.”

  “I have to know.”

  “Shush now. You’re rude.”

  “Do I have to come back there and box your ears?”

  “You’re welcome to try.”

  Auntie Dee whispered, “Jemima, you may chastise Heathcliff after the play. Do turn around.”

  “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  Jemmy gave up threatening the boy in favor of a straight-forward bribe. “I know what you want—money. I’ll pay you.”

  “I might tell you one thing now. And more when you come up with, say, three dollars.”

  “Three dollars? I don’t make that much money in three days.”

  “Two, then.”

  “Twenty-five cents.”

  “One dollar. That’s my final offer.”

  “Fifty cents, or I’ll find the information some other way.”

  “Deal.” Heathcliff spit into his hand and stuck it out to her.

  Jemmy declined to shake but said, “Deal. Now, what happened in the hall?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Saturday Night, November 19, 1898, into Sunday, November 20, 1898

  Heathcliff said, “Policemen arrested Frank James for the murder of Quisenberry Sproat.”

  Jemmy turned that line over and over in her mind. Why arrest Frank James, of all people?

  After the play, the theatre party trooped to Tony Faust’s restaurant for a late supper. While the others pored over menus and exchanged tales of other meals at the best restaurant in town, Jemmy wrote her review of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  When the waiter took their order, she was still distracted. “I’ll have whatever Miss Patterson is having.”

  Before she’d finished the review, a platoon of servers arrived with dinner. When they lifted the covers from their dishes, savory aromas of garlic and roasted meat wafted across the table. Jemmy’s mouth watered. She put her article aside.

  Over beefsteak with bordelaise sauce, she tried to get Heathcliff’s attention. Conversing with him should have been easy, since he was her escort. But the fellow who was supposed to hang on her every word and indulge her every whim had eyes only for Sassy.

  Heathcliff sat sandwiched between Jemmy and Aunt Delilah. Three times Auntie Dee kicked him in the shin. Jemmy couldn’t hear what she whispered in Heathcliff’s ear, but she could guess: “Stop gaping at Miss Patterson. Your face looks like a pair of long johns with the flap down.” Alas, Auntie had no power to stop Heathcliff from ogling the stunning Miss Patterson.

  Neither did Jemmy’s bribe for information. Nonetheless, she tucked the promised quarters into Heathcliff’s hand and demanded fifty cents worth of information. “What else did you hear in the hall?”

  “The police found new evidence in Sproat’s dressing room.” No sooner did the words leave his mouth than he leapt to his feet and reached across the vinegar caddy to give Sassy the pepper shaker. His hasty action wreaked havoc on the table. His arm brushed the wine carafe. The falling crystal splashed Chablis on Auntie Dee, though Heathcliff himself got the worst drenching.

  “Not again, Heathcliff.”

  “How can you be so clumsy?”

  “You must learn to pay attention to what you’re doing.”

  “I can’t take the boy anywhere.”

  “The boy will smell of fermented grape the rest of the night.”

  A troupe of waiters fussed around, dabbing up wine, offering clean napkins, and resetting the entire soaked tablecloth. Auntie Dee took Heathcliff aside and gave him a tongue lashing. Jemmy couldn’t hear the words, but she knew the substance. She’d bet a week’s pay Heathcliff had forfeited his good behavior bonus.

  At length, the table gleamed with fresh dry linen, and dinner could resume. Heathcliff, though wine-wet, was just as obnoxious as before. He butted into every conversation with a new compliment for Sassy. He praised her eyes, her hair, her voice, even her discerning tastes. Discernment? Sassy couldn’t tell a peccadillo from an armadillo.

  Everything the boy did set Jemmy’s teeth on edge. Still, she’d paid him and expected to get her money’s worth.

  “What else happened in the hall?”

  “Not much.”

  Jemmy punched his arm.

  “Ow. I’ve a good mind not to tell you.”

  “Give me back my money.”

  “OK, you win this one time, you great cow. The police found a jar of something in Sproat’s dressing room.”

  “A jar of what?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Is that all?”

  Heathcliff bobbed his head in a “maybe yes—maybe no” gesture.

  “You little weasel. If you know why they arrested Frank James, you tell me this instant.”

  “Or you’ll do what?”

  “I’ll think of something. Count on it.”

  “They found Frank James’s buggy whip in the dressing room.”

  “Why would a buggy whip—Frank James’s or anyone else’s—be in Sproat’s dressing room?”

  “Doesn’t she look swell?”

  “How do they know the whip belonged to Frank James?”

  “Has his name tooled on the handle.”

  “It wasn’t there Thursday night.”

  “That’s what Dr. Wangermeier said.”

  “But the police arrested Frank James anyway.”

  “Guess so. Isn’t that a swell perfume she’s wearing?”

  Jemmy gave up asking questions of the infatuated boy. She had her fifty cents’ worth. Barely aware of the pleasant company at the table, she alternated between silent pondering and writing her review through the rest of the meal.

  On the way to the Illuminator to turn in her piece, she said even less. Auntie Dee prodded. “Jemima, dear, you haven’t told us your assessment of the play. Did you find it enjoyable?”

  To herself, Jemmy said, Read my review tomorrow and you’ll find out. Aloud, she said, “Yes, Aunt Delilah. You’ve taken great trouble on my behalf. I’m deeply grateful.”

  Heathcliff popped in. “I thought it was double stupid. Why did they have two fellows playing Uncle Tom? One would have been stupid enough to bore everybody in the place.”

  Auntie Dee thwacked him across the knuckles with her fan. “When one’s view has not been sought, one should keep one’s opinion to oneself, especially if one cares to remain in the vehicle belonging to persons one might offend.”

  Heathcliff sank into a sullen silence, which lasted from that moment through Jemmy’s turning in her review to the night editor and all the way to Jemmy’s home. Heathcliff handed her down from the carriage and yanked her at top speed to the door at Bricktop.

  “Did you found out anything tonight you haven’t told me?”

  “Maybe one more thing.”

  “What else?”

  “Miss Isabel Patterson is the swellest girl I ever saw.”

  The next morning all during church, Jemmy mulled over events surrounding the death of Quisenberry Sproat. She sat through the pastor’s usual “Bounty of the Lord” pre-Thanksgiving sermon without finding any real answers. The Sproat problem would have to wait. Even maids got a day off each week. And this was Sunday.

  Jemmy looked forward t
o Sunday—a day when factories ceased blowing coal cinders into the air; a day when commerce was suspended and no beer trucks rumbled over the brick streets of St. Louis.

  Young people treated themselves on Sunday afternoons. They whiled away the days with picnics in Tower Grove Park in the spring, boating trips on the Meramec River in the summer, ice skating or sledding down the big hill in Forest Park in the winter.

  With the end of summer, fall in St. Louis tended to be less pleasure filled and more educational. That particular Sunday the Mercantile Library scheduled a speech by a famous police officer from France. His topic was anthropometry. The French system of criminal identification held great fascination for Jemmy.

  At one o’clock, Hal called for her on his garish chartreuse tandem bike. As they pedaled up Broadway toward Locust, she probed for more information on the Sproat case. “Have you spoken with your uncle?”

  “Took his picture with Frank James. Exclusive for the Illuminator. I think that will make Hamm happy.”

  “I guess you deserve to gloat a little. Does your uncle think Frank James killed Quisenberry Sproat?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “But what do you think he thinks about Frank James?”

  “Just that he was mighty happy to have his picture taken with the prince of bank robbers.”

  “Couldn’t you pump him for a little more information?”

  The edge in Hal’s voice sliced like icicles in the frosty air. “Do it yourself. He’ll be at the lecture.”

  The program promised the speaker would unveil a monumental step forward for police, a method to revolutionize crime control across the globe. Frenchman Alphonse Bertillon, Fiquette’s teacher and mentor, had spent two decades perfecting his plan. Finally, he was ready to introduce the Bertillon system to the world. He sent Fiquette on an international tour to share the French secrets of criminal identification.

  The Bertillon system promised recognition with odds of one hundred-forty-three-million to one that no two people would share the same results.

  Fiquette was a petite, dandified fellow with a nasal voice and heavy accent. With dark hair parted in the middle and slicked down around a bald spot, his head looked like an eight ball on a pool table.

  Jemmy watched Fiquette spend more than an hour taking measurements with tapes and calipers. Fiquette’s secretary wrote down fourteen key measurements including foot size, nose length, ear lobe extension, and the more mundane height and weight.

  Fiquette kept up a running commentary of the crimes Bertillon had solved. “Modern technology will one day catch more criminals than old-fashioned knocking on doors. The tide is turning even as I stand here today. The world’s most noted criminologist, Alphonse Bertillon, is not and never has been a police officer. He began as a humble clerk.”

  Jemmy wondered why go to all the bother when a photograph would show exactly what the criminal looked like.

  After the lecture, Hal’s uncle invited the pair to police headquarters to enjoy a pumpkin pie and coffee reception for Fiquette and his secretary.

  Jemmy tapped her pencil on her little notebook. “I find your identification system most intriguing. Might it not save time and effort to use photographs without those other measurements?”

  Fiquette bristled. “I believe a Mister Thomas Byrnes in New York City had some success with his rogues’ gallery. However, there is simply no comparison to the Bertillon system. What we do goes far beyond merely identifying criminals after they’ve committed crimes. We strive to identify the criminal type. Would it not be better to know which people are likely to commit crimes even before such people succumb to temptation?”

  “Do you mean to imprison people for looking as though they might commit crimes?”

  Fiquette didn’t deign to answer. He simply stuck his nose into the air and stalked off to speak with the chief of police.

  Hal said, “Thanks, Jemmy.”

  “What for?”

  “Sticking up for photography.”

  She’d asked the question because photographs seemed the clearest, cleanest way to identify people. She had not intended to soothe Hal’s feelings; but if he wanted to believe she was trying to make up for her earlier gaffe, she’d let him.

  When Hal’s uncle joined them, she asked, “What is your view of the Bertillon system?”

  “Hogwash. Nothing will ever replace leather—shoe leather and sap leather—for getting to the bottom of crime.”

  “May I quote you?”

  “Fourteen key measurements—what a waste of time. Police should be on the street preventing crime, not measuring snotty noses. The man is an idiot. In the demonstration today, he identified a pickpocket as a wife beater. What’s more, the man he labeled as a potential bank robber was desk sergeant at the Lafayette Park station.”

  “May I quote you, and would you please spell your name so I can get it right in the paper?”

  “Deputy Chief Michael D-W-Y-E-R. You may quote me if you leave out the cussing.”

  While Hal took a group picture of the dignitaries, Jemmy drifted through the open door of the office belonging to the chief of police. She itched to look in his files. Before she could open a single drawer, a white-gloved lieutenant took her elbow and steered her out of the room.

  “Lt. Sorley O’Rourke, at your service. Let me show you our weapons wall. I hope you won’t be too frightened. Some ladies swoon, so I hear.”

  Soon they were standing before a glass case containing a fearsome array of weapons fastened to a wall or propped up on pedestals. One section showcased firearms, from Gatling guns to pepperbox derringers and everything in between. At least twenty of them were homemade guns—some with handsomely carved wooden handles. Others were no more than lengths of pipe and bits of black rubber.

  “Everything in the case was donated or confiscated from a criminal. Everything here has a story, Miss McBustle, a dark story.”

  “Which do you find the most intriguing, Lieutenant? It might make an interesting feature story. I am a reporter for the Illuminator, you know.”

  “Look at the case with the pair of dueling pistols—the case on the center pedestal with the horsewhip coiled below it. Miss McBustle, you are looking at the most famous dueling pistols in history—at least that’s their reputation.”

  “Handsome weapons, aren’t they?”

  “Yes indeed, Miss. Fifteen inches long with silver fittings. Cursed pistols used to kill no fewer than eleven men. Fifty-sixcaliber pistols—bigger and deadlier than the more usual fifty caliber. See the bullets in the lid of the case? Fifty-eight-caliber Civil War bullets. The entry point is the size of your thumb. The exit wound is the size of your fist.”

  “Why are these two pistols famous?”

  “You are looking at the Pettis-Biddle dueling pistols.”

  Jemmy scribbled notes as he told the story.

  “Spencer Pettis was an important man when Missouri was a brand new state in the 1820s. Has a county named after him. Just twenty-seven when he became Missouri’s only member of the United States House of Representatives.

  “He hated banks. The federal government took over all money printing during the Civil War. Before that, banks or insurance companies—anyone at all—could print up paper money that might or might not be worth something.

  “Pettis was a Bentonite. He wanted hard money—money folks could trust. Pettis spoke out against banks that didn’t have gold bullion to back up every dollar they printed. In particular, he blasted the Bank of the United States, a bank owned by Nicholas Biddle.

  “Nicholas Biddle’s brother was stationed at Jefferson barracks. Major Thomas Biddle wouldn’t sit still for insults to his brother. He called Pettis ‘a dish of skimmed milk.’ Pettis questioned Biddle’s—er . . . manliness. The major would never let that pass unanswered.

  “Early one summer morning Spencer Pettis was ailing. Major Biddle busted into his room at the City Hotel and beat him with that rawhide whip while the man was lying in his own sickbed.”


  The lieutenant nodded toward the whip on the pedestal. “By thunder, he would have beat Pettis to death if other guests hadn’t come in to hold him back.

  “A peck of Christian ladies couldn’t have stopped those two from dueling. August 27, 1831, a thousand people gathered to watch the men and their seconds row to Bloody Island in the middle of the Mississippi.

  “Biddle demanded they shoot from just five feet away—so near, the gun barrels could touch.”

  “Why so close?”

  “Smoothbore flintlocks are so inaccurate, a fellow would be lucky to hit the broadside of an elephant at ten paces. Biddle and Pettis were serious about settling the score, and Biddle was nearsighted.”

  “It’s hard to imagine both so eager to be killed.”

  “I heard that Pettis stooped a bit to make himself a smaller target, but Biddle’s bullet killed him—slowly. He died the next day—at twenty-nine and still a bachelor. Pettis’s shot hit Biddle in the stomach, so he lived a few days longer.”

  “Two men killed each other all because of a few insults. Why couldn’t they forgive and forget?”

  “They did forgive each other—when both lay dying.”

  “What did the newspapers say about the duel?”

  “The newspapers praised it. Called Pettis noble and honorable. Spencer Pettis had a bang-up fine funeral, the biggest up to that time in St. Louis.”

  “I must say I do not understand why men fight duels.”

  “ ‘Death before dishonor,’ so the saying goes. Some good came of it. In less than five years, Missouri put a law on the books against duels—made dueling a felony, even if no one was hurt.”

  “Do you know the year?”

  “Indeed I do. 1835.”

  Jemmy peered at the pistols. “The placard calls them ‘Church’s amazingly accurate smoothbore flintlocks.’ Who was Church?”

  “Alexander Hamilton’s stepfather, John Church. He brought from England this grand pair of Wogdon dueling pistols. He and Aaron Burr had already fought one duel with them—though neither was killed. Church lent them out for many duels, including, by thunder, the most famous duel ever fought on American soil. Aaron Burr killed Alexander Hamilton with one of those two pistols.”

  O’Rourke rocked on his heels. “Yes, Miss McBustle, Church’s pistols are the star of our collection.”