Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  “And the whip. Is it the one Biddle used to horsewhip Pettis?”

  “The very same.”

  “Does it have a curse, too?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Monday, November 21, 1898

  Jemmy hoped turning in two articles—a feature on the police department’s wall of weapons and a review of Fiquette’s lecture—would win her editor’s good will. That didn’t happen. Still, neither Turnipseed nor Hamm gave her a tongue lashing to start her day.

  Buoyed in spirits by her not-overly-icy reception at the office and by the fresh start of a new week, Jemmy set out to interview the coroner. She feared he wouldn’t speak with her. She was right. He sent his nondescript assistant to tell her so.

  “Dr. Wangermeier says he’s too busy to see you, and, even if he had nothing better to do than smoke a pipe and drink rye whiskey, he still wouldn’t talk to you.” The assistant wrung his hands. “I’m sorry for the insulting words, but he told me to quote him exactly. He said you’d know why.”

  Jemmy hung her head. “I do know why. I had hoped he’d forgive me, but I see my attempts to make amends are useless.”

  “I can’t imagine what you did to set him against you. He’s well known as a gentle and generous man. I’m sure he’ll reconsider in time.”

  “Alas, time is a precious commodity, and I have none to spare.”

  “Might I be of assistance?”

  “I’d be eternally grateful if you could confirm the cause of Quisenberry Sproat’s death.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot. The coroner hasn’t listed the cause as yet.”

  “Then Sproat wasn’t whipped to death?”

  “No. The welts caused only a little bleeding, and they were too new to have festered. Dying from sepsis would take much longer—many days.”

  “Did the coroner suggest a cause of death?”

  “No. But he’s determined to find one. He mumbles to himself when he’s working. Keeps saying, ‘Young men, healthy as spring colts, don’t just up and die.’ ”

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  “I hesitate to tell you because it is mere speculation on my part.”

  “Please, I promise not to use anything without your consent.”

  “I know very little, just that the coroner is trying to discover what kind of whip was used in the beating.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep what you’ve told me to myself—and I’ll be back.”

  “Glad to be of help, Miss McBustle. I hope you and I might accompany Dr. Wangermeier and Miss Patterson to a future theatrical production—along with your aunt and uncle, of course. I quite enjoyed our last outing, despite my distressing attack of indigestion.”

  Not until that very moment did Jemmy associate this drab, gray soul with her colorless escort on the night Quisenberry Sproat met his maker. A journalist is supposed to take note of her surroundings at all times. How could I be so mindless as to completely forget my escort at such a newsworthy event? And just now, why didn’t I have the presence of mind to ask him one single question?

  With a clearer head, she found her way to the city jail. To her surprise, she had to make an appointment to interview Frank James. A handsome woman of middle years in a tan gabardine suit introduced herself. “I am Frank’s wife, Anna. Today Mr. James is allowing only family members, agents of the press, and his attorneys. Admirers may come back tomorrow. I’d be happy to take your name and offer you a specific time.”

  Jemmy’s press credentials surprised Mrs. James. “I can give you 1:15 this afternoon. Will that be agreeable to the representative of the Illuminator?”

  With an hour to kill before the interview, Jemmy wandered across the street to a diner where police, lawyers, and newspaper men on the crime beat spent their leisure. Except for the scuffling of chairs on the wooden floor, the place fell silent. All heads turned in her direction to examine the only female patron in the place.

  The sole empty table stood in the middle of the room. Jemmy marched there, plunked herself down, and peeled off her gloves.

  Before the waiter could say a word, she said, “Bowl of beef stew and a cup of coffee as quickly as you can manage. I have an important appointment.”

  The server scuttled off to fill the order. Chatter resumed. Apparently the novelty of having feminine company faded fast.

  Jemmy recoiled at the sight of the coffee. It looked like coal cinders in a mud puddle and tasted like ground-up walnut shells. With the addition of enough cream and sugar to coat a small dog, she turned it almost drinkable. The stew made up for the coffee. The fragrance of thyme and celery caressed her nose. The meat was tender; the carrots and onions savory.

  She had lifted the spoon for a second mouthful when a figure loomed over her. “I’m surprised and delighted to see you here, Miss McBustle.” The speaker was none other than the color-ofoatmeal coroner’s assistant.

  “Do sit down. I’m delighted to have a luncheon companion.”

  “Thank you, Miss McBustle. I hoped you’d invite me.”

  “Do have the stew. It’s quite delicious. Though I’d avoid the coffee if I were you.”

  “I believe they make non-potable coffee in an attempt to sell more beer.”

  He motioned his order to the waiter and urged Jemmy not to wait. “Please don’t stand on ceremony, Miss McBustle. I’d hate to upset your digestion with cold stew.”

  “You’re most considerate. Has the coroner discovered anything since our last conversation?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “He’s having jars and bottles tested.”

  Jemmy already suspected as much. She’d packed up the jars and bottles herself. “What is he testing for?”

  “I have no idea.”

  After Jemmy finished her food, she felt desperate to leave the restaurant. Good manners kept her in her seat while she listened to the bland man drone on.

  “I wish to apologize for my inability to escort you on Saturday last. My mother is an invalid, and I was unable to find someone to stay with her.”

  “Your mother is blessed to have such a devoted son.”

  “I want to assure you I wished most desperately to attend the play, to see you again.” He put his hand over Jemmy’s.

  “Put it out of mind. Family comes first.” The smell of something sweetly cloying with an undertone of acid slid up her nose.

  “But I have offended you.”

  “No, no. I’ve lost track of time and must rush to an appointment. I regret I cannot stay until you finish your luncheon.” She slid her hand out from under his and pulled on a glove.

  He stood with napkin in hand. “I hope you’ll allow me to make amends.”

  Jemmy threw him a wan smile. She could feel him watching her as she left.

  Outside in the crisp November air, she shuddered. The memory of the same sweet-acid smell of embalming fluid brought back an undertaker’s cellar. The vision of her grandmother—a horror she still had not the stomach to describe to her own family—made the evil coffee rise in her throat. Only by concentrating on Frank James could she keep from embarrassing herself. It wouldn’t do to lose control of her stomach in front of the city morgue.

  Back at the jail, Anna James was not in the place she’d held when Jemmy first saw her. Jemmy paced and fidgeted until she nearly lost her temper. She had raised her fist to knock on the warden’s door when Mrs. James swooped in carrying a picnic hamper. “Sorry to be delayed, Miss McBustle. I was eating lunch with the Mister.”

  “Do the authorities allow you to bring him food?”

  “They’ve been even more gracious. Mayor Ziegenhein himself provided this hamper filled with roast quail, German-style potato salad, corn muffins, apple cake, and a fine bottle of Riesling.”

  “A far cry from bread and water.”

  “Mr. James has no reason to dislike prison. Wardens always attend him kindly. In St. Joseph, he was allowed to spend untold hours conversing with his friends. On his first day there, f
ive hundred people from Jefferson City came to visit him.”

  “No more than his due. The most famous outlaw in the nation, probably in the world, merits special consideration.”

  Mrs. James arched an eyebrow. “I’m glad you appreciate his qualities, though I’m appalled to hear him called ‘outlaw.’ My husband is a law-abiding, upstanding citizen. Please come with me.”

  Anna led Jemmy down cold corridors of rough-surfaced yellow limestone. She stopped at one branch and signaled the officer at the far end of the hall. He opened a massive iron door and waved Jemmy inside.

  Jemmy had visited jail cells before, but none decked out like this one. Luxury abounded—Brussels carpet on the floor, one wall covered with family pictures, and one decorated with landscapes. The furniture could have graced the abode of a dapper man about town. It consisted of two upholstered chairs, a highboy desk and stool, a game table, and a bedstead with headboard of bird’s-eye maple.

  “Welcome to my current home, Miss O’Nimity. I believe that is your name?” He smirked almost imperceptibly.

  “Ann O’Nimity is my pen name, Mr. James. My real name is Jemima McBustle. My real name is true and serious, not the stuff jokes are made of.”

  “If I offended, I offer an apology—a true and serious apology.”

  Jemmy looked around the room. “I was just admiring your quarters. Except for the stone walls, this room would not be out of place in a grand home in Compton Heights.”

  “Jails have always been kind to me while I awaited trial. I’m sure prisons would have been another matter had I ever been forced to spend time in one. Please have a seat and tell me what your readers at the . . .”

  “Illuminator. The St. Louis Illuminator.”

  “St. Louis Illuminator would like to know about Frank James.”

  “I was going to ask you if you have been well-treated, but I can see you have.”

  “ ‘What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide.’ Words from the bard himself.”

  “An apt quotation. I’ve heard you’re quite the Shakespearean scholar. Which play?”

  “King Henry the Sixth.”

  “If I may ask, how did a farm boy come by such education?”

  “My father was an educated man, a minister of the church and a brilliant orator. A graduate of Georgetown College with honors and a master’s degree. He held education in high esteem and was a member of the first Board of Trustees of William Jewel College. Naturally, he saw to the education of his sons.”

  “How interesting. And how surprising to find such scholarship in one reputed to be a criminal.”

  “Please remember I was tried twice but never convicted of any crime. I take umbrage at being lumped into the criminal class.”

  “Of course. I must choose my words more carefully. Might I ask how you feel about your current imprisonment?”

  “Politics, Miss McBustle. Pure politics. The powers that be expect having Frank James in their custody to bring them importance and fame. What better way to seek money for more guards or new construction? What better way to launch a political career than to lure journalists like yourself to quote them in the newspapers? Pardon me if I sound cynical.”

  “Do you expect a quick release?”

  “Not necessarily. I imagine they’ll hold me as long as possible. Of course, they’ll have to let me go sooner or later. I didn’t kill Quisenberry Sproat.”

  “Have you any idea who might have beaten him?”

  “No. I have no idea who might wish him harm. I met him only once, but I will say he seemed a brash young fellow—the type who would rather challenge than befriend the men he meets.”

  “Did he challenge you?”

  “He made a coarse joke about outlaws who get away with murder.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Merely suggested the obvious. If he believed me to be a murderer, he was flirting with the hereafter.”

  “Very shrewd. I’ve heard many tales of the James brothers’ sharp minds. I confess I borrowed all my neighbor’s dime novels. My favorite is the James Boys in a Fix, by D. W. Stevens. The cover shows you on horseback trapped in ropes slung between two trees. It had to be your likeness. The mustache is a true replica of your own.”

  Frank scowled. “Young ladies shouldn’t read foolish trash riddled with lies.”

  “I apologize for offending. Still, the stories portray you as brave and heroic.”

  “Please, say no more about those cheap thrill books.”

  “I’d be remiss not to ask if the rumors are true. Did you kill seventeen men in cold blood?”

  “No doubt I killed many more than that. I am proud to say I was a soldier for the South in the War of Yankee Aggression. That is the last question I mean to answer about my early days. Have you anything further regarding the case at hand?”

  “After you put him in his place so cleverly, did Quisenberry Sproat stop making offensive jokes?”

  “I believe so. I heard nothing more—not even from the backstage crowd. Perhaps you know their love of gossip.”

  “Could your threat to Mr. Sproat have caused the police to suspect you in his death?”

  “Only if they’re misguided. As I said: the man stopped his foolish behavior. What reason would I have had to take further action?”

  “What words did you use? They may have been misunderstood.”

  “It would be unwise of me to air them in the court of public opinion. I won’t help anyone use my own words to condemn me. Most particularly, I will not repeat to the press words uttered in the heat of the moment.”

  “I quite understand. How did your whip come to be found in Sproat’s dressing room?”

  “The whip disappeared from my rig while it sat in an alleyway. Anyone could have stolen it.”

  “Is the whip the only actual evidence they have against you?”

  “If not, they have yet to inform me.”

  “Who do you believe might have killed Mr. Sproat?”

  “I know just one thing. I heard an argument as I walked by his dressing room. A female was screaming at him.”

  “Did you know he shared the room with another actor who also played Tom Loker?”

  “Yes. I suppose some woman might have exchanged hot words with the other Tom Loker.”

  “Might I ask why you were in the basement where the dressing rooms are? Do ticket takers usually go there?”

  Frank blinked his eyes a dozen times. “I visited one of the cast members.”

  “Which would that be?”

  “I wouldn’t care to involve anyone unless it becomes unavoidable.” He stood. “And now I regret I must dismiss such delightful company as yourself. It’s time for my next appointment.”

  “Have you any words for my readers?”

  “Frank James doesn’t, but Will Shakespeare does. Tell them I’m feeding on ‘Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy.’ Romeo and Juliet, act three, scene three.”

  Mrs. James had a message for Jemmy. “Before you leave, Mr. James’s attorney would like a word with you.”

  Frank James’s lawyer was a big man, round faced, barrel chested, and sweating despite the chill in the dank jail. Black eyes in a pink-red face reminded Jemmy of the watermelon feast on Labor Day.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss McBustle. Mrs. James tells me you write for the Illuminator, a splendid newspaper in a city filled with fine newspapers. The warden has offered me the conference room. I’d be grateful if you would accompany me. Mrs. James will come as well.”

  “I regret I must leave. We journalists have deadlines to meet. If you have information for me, please be brief.”

  “I merely wished to reassure you that Mr. and Mrs. James and I are confident he will soon be released. We will do everything possible to bring the true murderer to justice. I regret I cannot tell you the name of the culprit until the felon has been arrested. You see, Mr. James knows who killed Mr. Sproat.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Nove
mber 21, 1898

  The lawyer’s words excited Jemmy to the point of frenzy. “Frank James knows who killed Quisenberry Sproat?”

  “So he tells me.”

  “And the name of the murderer is . . . ?”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  “Have I permission to quote you in my article?”

  “So long as you don’t speculate any further. No naming names.”

  “Of course.”

  Jemmy left the jail with new purpose. Frank’s lawyer had unwittingly given her the clue to scoop every newspaper in town. The place to go to uncover the truth had to be in the basement of the Crystal Palace Theatre.

  On the trolley ride, she practiced a speech to convince the doorman to let her in. She didn’t need it. With no doorman in sight, the unlocked stage door opened to her touch. When her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, she slipped down to the basement.

  In the “Tom Loker” dressing room, she turned a switch and thanked the management for installing electric lights. Mother McBustle had no faith in them, but Jemmy reveled in the liberation they brought.

  Thomas Alva Edison freed everyone from the need to carry matches. Better still, the glass bulb that insulated glowing bits of metal also insulated people against man’s worst horrors—the two opposite terrifying fears, fire and darkness.

  An imposing steamer trunk, probably belonging to Handsome Harry Benson, dominated the room. The trunk stood three feet tall in unblemished leather with polished brass fittings, McBride’s finest theatrical model freshly minted as a julep on race day. Jemmy ignored it—or tried to—as she searched the room and the wardrobe. The other Tom Loker’s trunk with its dozens of hotel and train stickers looked well used in comparison.

  She opened and sniffed every jar and bottle on the dressing table—bay rum, greasepaint, dry coffee grounds for that unshaved look. Nothing bespoke murder.

  She examined everything except Harry’s trunk at least twice. She retraced her actions from Thursday night—still nothing. Should she leave, or give the new trunk a quick check?

  The big steamer chest could tell her nothing about the night of Sproat’s death. It was a new arrival to the clutter in the dressing room. At length, curiosity won out over common sense.