by Fedora Amis
Turning pages for the pianist was none other than the homely shoe salesman for Barr’s Department Store. In fact, John Folck wasn’t turning pages. He was standing at the piano not turning pages. Pervia knew the piece by heart.
While Pervia took her bows, Folck left the stage. When he seated himself next to Sassy, Peter said, “Who the devil is that man next to Miss Patterson?” Jemmy shushed him with a finger to her lips.
A succession of fresh-faced schoolgirls entertained. First came a dramatic scene from Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida. Next on the bill was a tableau of the three fates, with Lachesis pointing her staff toward a globe to represent birth, Clotho spinning the thread of life, and Atropos with a sundial to remind us of the shortness of human existence. Leave it to schoolmarms to make sure people couldn’t have a good time without at least a little subtle preaching.
Poem recitations, sentimental songs, and nostalgic letters from alumnae in faraway places led to the grand finale. In tribute to soldiers newly back from winning the war in Cuba, the audience stood to sing the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
After that thrilling end to the matinee, performers and audience alike mingled in the hall over milk punch and lady fingers. Peter Ploog trotted off in Sassy’s direction.
Jemmy pushed her way into the circle around Pervia. “I wanted to wish you good luck in Cincinnati and to say how deeply I admire your skill at the pianoforte. Might you have a few words for the Illuminator?”
“I suppose I should say what everyone expects, ‘Practice makes perfect.’ ”
“But that’s not what you want to say to me, is it?”
“No. I’d say this: a person who spends as much time practicing as I do should be quite sure her dedication is not misplaced.”
“Could you explain what that means?”
“No. I’ll leave it to you to figure out. Do you have news for me?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as you satisfy my curiosity on a few matters.” Jemmy burned to ask one question: why did Pervia deny knowing any fighters other than Harry Benson? This place was far too public to ask. She’d have to maneuver Pervia away from her admirers.
The item in brown paper Hal had thought important enough to bring to Jemmy’s house on Thanksgiving Day was a picture—a photograph of Quisenberry Sproat seated in a chair. Pervia Benigas stood behind him with her hand on his shoulder. The pair posed like couples in many formal photographic portraits—formal wedding portraits.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thursday Afternoon, Thanksgiving Day, November 24, 1898
“Miss Patterson doesn’t want to hear anything you have to say.” With everyone else at the reception, Jemmy turned to see the drama at the far end of the hall. John Folck had taken Peter’s arm and was forcing him towards the door.
Peter called back to Sassy, “I could understand losing out to Duncan McBustle or Tony von Phul, but to a shoe salesman? I thought you had better sense and better taste.”
At that, Folck swung Peter around and raised him off the floor with an uppercut to his jaw. Ploog hit the floor with a dull thump. With Randy close behind, Jemmy picked up her skirts and ran toward her fallen escort.
On the way, Jemmy handed her hanky to her sister. “Wet this, Randy.”
Jemmy pushed her way through the girls and their families gawking down at Peter.
Blood trickled onto Peter’s vest as he struggled to prop himself up on one elbow. He dabbed his handkerchief at his nose. “I’ll have the law on you, Folck.”
“Prissy rich boys should think twice before they insult grown men.”
“Shoe salesmen should think twice before they insult their betters.”
Folck raised a foot and seemed about to land a kick square on Peter’s cockiness. An audible intake of breath swished through the crowd. In the hush, Folck changed course. He backed away from Peter and offered his arm to Miss Patterson.
Jemmy looked at Sassy, the cause of all the trouble. The lovely Miss P. had her hand over her mouth as if to hide her shock, but her twinkling eyes told a different story. With a sinking feeling in her midsection, Jemmy saw the truth. Sassy relished her role as bone for these two dogs to scrap over.
Sassy didn’t speak to poor Peter. Instead, she clung to Folck’s arm as he led her toward the exit.
Jemmy raised her voice over the murmurs of the crowd. “Please return to your refreshments. Mr. Ploog is fine. He just needs some air. The set-to is over.”
Randy returned from the water fountain with the damp hanky. The girls bent down to help Peter sit up.
Peter managed a hoarse whisper. “Did you see what he did, the bully? I couldn’t fight back. He held my right arm while he belted me a good one.”
The girls each took an arm and pulled him to his feet. Jemmy said, “Let me wipe the blood off your face.”
Peter stood with his arms at his side and his lips trembling like a five year old letting his mommy fix a boo-boo.
Jemmy cooed, “There, there. That John Folck is no gentleman.”
“He didn’t give me a chance to fight back.”
“And a good thing that is, too. You can charge him with assault. Everyone here will bear witness that he struck the only blow.”
“Don’t talk such garbage. I’m not about to parade my feebleness in a court of law. After all, the damage isn’t too bad, is it?”
“Not too bad. Let’s take inventory. Bloody nose—not broken though . . . at least I don’t think so, bloody vest, swollen jaw. All in all, about the amount of pain you’d have if you ran into a door.”
Peter touched his puffy jaw and winced. “Let me take you home. Cold air will be good for the swelling.”
On the way, Jemmy tried to make small talk. “Pervia played brilliantly, don’t you think?”
Peter grunted.
“On the Liszt piece, I mean.”
Peter grunted.
“Mother says Franz Liszt deliberately composed complicated music so no one else could play it.”
Peter grunted.
Jemmy quit trying to make conversation.
Back at Bricktop, Randy and Dora made turkey sandwiches while Mother dictated her mayonnaise recipe to Jemmy. The boarders picked at their cold supper—all but Mrs. Hendershot, who had a splendid appetite. Mrs. H. even praised the sweet potatoes with maple syrup and pecans. She said they tasted better cold than hot.
After clearing the dishes, Jemmy felt ready to fall into bed despite the early hour, but this eventful day had still more incidents in store.
Hal was back, this time without Lucy Leimgruber—and with his camera strapped to his ugly, yellow-green bicycle built for two.
Jemmy made a feeble attempt at a joke. “I had no idea I had such a magnetic personality. You’ve come back to see me twice on your day off.”
“Now you’re playing the fool. My reason for coming is purely professional. I came to give you a ride.”
“A ride to what?”
“Frank James has called a meeting of newspaper journalists for this evening. We’d better not miss it. He says he’ll announce who killed Quisenberry Sproat.”
“Pretty clever, that Frank James.” Jemmy nodded knowingly. “Tomorrow’s papers will be short on news because not many journalists have been out digging up stories. Breaking news about the Sproat murder would rate the front page on every newspaper in town.”
“Hurry up. And you’d better do your share of pedaling if you want to be there when he starts talking.”
By the time Hal set up his camera outside the city jail, Frank James was walking out the door wearing manacles. An escort of two burly policemen bracketed the famous bank robber like the back wheels on a tricycle.
The three stopped on the top step. Frank raised his arms. “Do you see these chains? I won’t be wearing them much longer.”
The audience chatter stopped.
Frank talked for a good five minutes about his innocence and about the district attorney’s lack of evidence against him. Jemmy was in the middle of
a yawn when he sprang his humdinger surprise.
Frank took a white paper from his pocket and held it up in his shackled hands. “Sealed in this envelope is the name of the person who murdered Quisenberry Sproat. I am going to give it to Miss Jemima McBustle for safekeeping until after the police have arrested the true culprit.” He motioned for Jemmy to come forward.
He handed her the letter and said loudly enough for all to hear, “Miss McBustle, I am relying upon your discretion. I know these reckless men of the press. They wouldn’t hesitate to meddle in police business—and possibly come to harm or allow the killer to escape.
“However, a nice young lady with high moral standards would never open a forbidden letter—not even for the grandest news story since Hamlet killed Laertes and Laertes returned the favor. So I charge you not to break this seal until the police have arrested the real murderer. Then you may read the letter and reveal all.”
To the crowd, he said, “I’ll leave you with these words from the great poet and dramatist William Shakespeare in Richard the Third. It describes my situation perfectly. ‘True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.’ ”
Murmurs of discontent rippled through the crowd. “Giving the killer’s name to that upstart girl—what’s Frank James thinking?”
“I suppose you think he should give it to you.”
“And why shouldn’t he give it to me?”
“He probably knows you’d read the letter.”
“Well, so would you.”
“Damned straight. That’s why he gave it to her.”
One fellow tried to snatch it from her hand. Jemmy stuck the folded letter down her bosom—much to the delight of the crowd.
Frank James chuckled. “See there. I entrusted my secret to the right person.”
The disappointed crowd disbanded. “What a waste of time. I wish I’d stayed home in front of the fire.”
“Have you got something better for the front page tomorrow?”
“No. Guess I’ll write the story—not that it is much of a story.”
Hal found the perfect angle to take a picture of Jemmy holding the letter by the City of Saint Louis Jail sign.
While he strapped his camera gear on the bicycle, he asked casually, “So, are you going to open it?”
“Don’t you think I have the moral fiber to resist?”
“I think you’re the most curious female I ever met. I bet wondering what’s in that letter is just about driving you insane.”
“I’d greatly appreciate it if you would drop the word ‘insane’ from your vocabulary.”
“Sorry, I forgot.”
Jemmy had often warned Hal not to mention anything about madness or insanity. That same summer, she’d tried to copy Nelly Bly by going undercover in a local asylum. That plan nearly met disaster. It was not an experience she recalled with pleasure.
Hal prodded again. “I’ve heard steaming is the preferred method for snooping in mail. A little glue and no one can tell.”
“I can’t steam this one open.”
“I bet you put the kettle on the minute you get home. I want to watch.”
“I’ll admit I’m tempted, but I’m not going to try anything underhanded.”
“Come now. I know you.”
“I don’t dare open it. If you don’t believe me, take a look.” She shoved the letter toward him. The letter J rose from a quarter-sized seal of red wax. “You can see for yourself. Steaming won’t work.”
On the way to Bricktop, Jemmy tried not to smile as she planned what to say in her Friday article. She couldn’t help feeling smug. Frank James had chosen her from among all journalists in St. Louis.
Did Mrs. James have a hand in the decision? Why did he pick me? A sly thought that he might be mocking her because she was female sneaked into her consciousness. She shoved it away. He had chosen her because she was more trustworthy than the others. Frank James probably didn’t know how useful a little deceit could be in the newspaper business.
Of course, a little deceit might also come in handy in the outlaw business. She decided to stop asking herself questions and think about how to open the letter when the time came. Perhaps another ceremony on the steps of city jail would show the grand opening to its best advantage. A little drama makes even a humdrum news story come alive.
All of a sudden, the bicycle stopped. Hal put a foot to the street as the tandem heeled over. He barely kept it from hitting the bricks of Chouteau Avenue.
Jemmy half fell, half skittered off. Her skirts and petticoats saved her from serious injury, but she landed in an icy puddle that dragged at her hems.
Hal rescued the lantern and placed it on the street while he unfastened the straps on his satchel.
“What happened?”
Hal didn’t answer right away. He was too busy checking his equipment.
“Did we run over broken glass?”
“Not to worry, the photog plates are fine.”
“Leave it to you to rescue little bits of glass instead of your partner.”
“You need rescuing about as much as an earthworm needs a derby hat.”
“This little earthworm would like to know what happened.”
“Hold up the lantern while I take a look.” Jemmy picked up the lantern to reveal the sad facts. The front wheel was wrenched out of shape and the tire punctured.
“For one thing, the tire is flat. New tire, too. But a flat tire wouldn’t stop the wheel from turning.”
“Did you hit a rock?”
“Would you look here? The spokes are all bent around a metal rod.”
“Where did that come from?”
“I can’t imagine. I guess it was just sticking up from the street. Either that, or someone stuck it in the wheel on purpose.” Hal laughed a little nervous giggle and took the lantern from Jemmy. He turned in a full circle as he pointed the light into the gloom.
“Must have been the boogeyman.”
Two sets of eyes searched the darkness for attackers as the pair walked the rest of the way to Bricktop. Is Sproat’s killer desperate to get his hands on Frank James’s letter? Jemmy shivered—and not just because her skirts were cold and soggy. She was glad she’d worn her sturdy new Storm Queen boots. They’d come in handy for walking home in the slush.
Jemmy felt a stab of fear and imagined the boogeyman leaping out from behind each tree and hedge. One thing was clear: she wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until Sproat’s killer was tucked up in St. Louis city jail.
As they trudged along, Jemmy said, “Hal, do you think you might stay near me? As long as I have the sealed letter, I mean.”
“I guess that’s what I’m getting paid to do. I’ll have to go home for a sidearm though.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Friday Morning, November 25, 1898
Jemmy dreaded meetings with her editor. Still, she marched straight up to Suetonius Hamm’s office the minute she’d hung her coat on a cloakroom peg.
He answered her knock with, “Vita brevis est.” Hamm had the annoying habit of tossing apt Latin phrases into every conversation.
Jemmy stopped in the doorway to translate each word, “Life—short—is.”
“Well, don’t just stand there wasting time.”
“Mr. Hamm, please look at this.” Jemmy handed him the iron rod that had wrecked the tire on Hal’s tandem bicycle. “Do you know what it is?”
“Looks like a bar from an iron fence.” He pushed his glasses to the top of his bald head and turned the rod over in his hands. “Why show it to me?”
“It ruined the front wheel on the bicycle you gave Harold Dwyer.”
“Can’t see that running over this bar would destroy the whole wheel.”
“We found it inside the tire—caught in the spokes.”
“Must have been sticking up.”
“Why would it be sticking up through the bricks of Chouteau Avenue?”
Hamm heaved an exasperated sigh. “
Well, why don’t we ask it?”
He held the bar in a vertical position. “Hello, iron fence bar. Would you be so kind as to tell us why you were sticking up through the bricks on Chouteau Avenue?”
He cocked his head as if to listen to the bar’s reply. He nodded and said, “There you have it, Miss McBustle. Heard it with your own ears if you listened closely. Knocked out of a fence and dragged through the snow by a sleigh until it stuck between street bricks. Mr. Dwyer with his unerring sense of irony—if you’ll pardon the pun—found it. That’s how this little iron bar came to wreak havoc on Illuminator property.”
“So you don’t think someone threw it at us?”
“Why would I think that?”
“Because of this.” She held up Frank James’s sealed letter.
With a quick dip of his head, Hamm plopped his eyeglasses on his nose. “Ah, yes, the letter naming Quisenberry Sproat’s killer.”
“Might the killer have thrown the rod at us to get the letter?”
“Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“You’re here this morning—with the letter. If the killer had been determined to get the envelope, wouldn’t he have bashed the pair of you on your empty heads? Then he could dash away with the letter.”
“I had it hidden.”
Hamm chuckled. “I understand everyone at the jail saw where you secreted the missive.”
Jemmy gasped. “Do you think a man would—”
“I imagine a desperate killer would do just about anything. You must admit your bosom—while marginally effective against gentlemen—is not comparable in security to the big safe at Boatmen’s Bank.”
All this talk of her bosom made Jemmy decidedly uncomfortable. “Nonetheless, Mr. Hamm, I want the world to know that I am not in possession of this letter.”
“What do you propose?”
“You say the safest place is the vault at Boatmen’s Bank. Let me lock away the letter. Hal can take a picture of me handing it over to the bank president. I’ve already written the story.”
“Far too late for this morning’s paper.”
“You could put out an extra edition.”
Hamm snorted. “Wishful thinking is a petty indulgence no true reporter would condone. Ad praesens ova cras pullis sunt meliora ad quem ad quod.”