Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (3 page)

It was a rhetorical question, but Bradshaw found it curious that Olafson immediately blamed the designer. The window was easily accessible; anyone could have entered. A designer would, before he left, step back and inspect his work and surely see a kerchief out of place.

“The window lights were turned on at seven?”

“Yes, at seven.”

“What time was Mr. Doyle found?”

“At half past seven. I had Andrews turn off all the lights almost immediately, even before summoning the police. Is that important?”

Past experience had taught Bradshaw to add as little information as possible to a crime scene, and the scorched cloth proved to him that this was a crime scene. How severe the crime, he didn’t yet know. The heat of an incandescent lamp would set a linen cloth ablaze within minutes. If the handkerchief had indeed been on the footlight when Mr. Andrews turned on the power, then someone must have entered the window display shortly after seven and moved it, deliberately leaving it behind. That someone could not have missed seeing Doyle lying dead.

“Who removed the cloth from the light?”

“Who? Oh, that I don’t know. It was there nearby, as I said, when I placed the screens. It was Billy Creasle, the assistant window dresser, who found Mr. Doyle and reported to me, but he said nothing of preventing a fire. Of course he was so upset, it might have gone clean out of his mind, too.”

“I’d like to speak to him.”

“He was unnerved by his discovery, as you can imagine. He is young, just turned eighteen. One of my most promising workers, but still a boy. I sent him home.”

O’Brien reached for the scorched cloth, but Bradshaw carefully tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’d like to keep it until I can perform some tests.”

“Don’t forget, it’s evidence.” O’Brien made note of it in his book. The Detective Department of the Seattle Police, and thus Detective O’Brien, had recently come under the command of Captain Tennant, who had established more rigorous procedures for recording and preserving evidence. O’Brien was ambivalent about some of the new requirements, such as regimented note-taking. While he’d always been careful with evidence, and he’d been championing for the routine use of modern methods such as fingerprinting and the Bertillon Anthropometric System, O’Brien had been investigating crime on the streets of Seattle long enough to have established his own system, which was based more on common sense than on strict adherence to procedural rules.

O’Brien snapped his notebook closed. “So what was Doyle doing?”

“Joining festoons.” Bradshaw got down on all fours to peer closely at Doyle’s hands. He then saw that the cord had been supplied with a junction plug to make joining easier. This plug was in Doyle’s grip. The few inches of bare copper he’d exposed, and that he’d intended to join within the junction plug, was pinched between his fingers. The charge had left telltale evidence of its deadly passage. A slight swelling and blistering of the fingertips and palms that must have at first been red were now turning gray against bloodless white. The skin was not burned, indicating exposure had been of short duration.

Whoever had thrown that “special” knife switch must have almost immediately turned it off. But it had been too late.

Bradshaw got back on his feet to make an inspection of the automatic time switch.

O’Brien watched over his shoulder. He asked, “Is the clock to blame?”

“No,” said Bradshaw. “Doyle hadn’t yet wound the clock mechanism or set the time. The festoon is properly attached, however, completing a circuit to the special switch in the cabinet.” He drew another deep breath. “I’ve seen all I need here. Let’s speak to Mr. Andrews.”

***

Bradshaw and O’Brien and Mr. Olafson met up with the chief electrician on the second floor, where he was inspecting an electrical panel situated in a hat stock room, lit by lamplight. Martin Andrews was a man of fifty-odd years, with sandy hair going to gray. He shook Bradshaw’s hand firmly, and readily offered all he anticipated Bradshaw might ask.

“I arrived just before seven as usual, lit up the show windows from the main box, and at half past was summoned by Mr. Olafson to the Men’s window. It looked just as you found it. I touched nothing, other than to cut off power to all the lighting from the mains. Vernon Doyle was our window man. His duty was to install and maintain all show window lighting, and the lighting in the department display cases. I have two other electrical men working for me. An apprentice, who changes out lamps, cleans the globes, and trims the arcs, and a skilled man, who troubleshoots and handles major repairs. Professor, from what I saw, I know you’re looking for whoever threw that special switch in the cabinet and energized that wire when it was exposed in Doyle’s hands. I know you’ll be wanting to know pertinent facts. Doyle worked hard and was respected as an electrician. I was not his friend, nor were the others, but there was no dislike between us. I’d say it was a matter of having no common interests, other than electricity. I was home with my wife all last night. Her parents are visiting for the holidays, they can attest to that.”

O’Brien jotted down names and addresses in his little notebook.

“My apprentice works from ten in the morning until eight at night, and he is staying at the YMCA. My skilled man has been in Portland since last Monday. His mother passed away. He’s due back tomorrow.”

More names and information went into O’Brien’s notebook. He gave Bradshaw a look that said he wished everyone were so easily interviewed.

Bradshaw said, “Thank you, Mr. Andrews. If you think of anything else, let me know.”

“I will.” He closed the panel door and said, “If you’re done examining the window downstairs, we’re safe to turn the lights on.”

“As soon as the scene has been cleared,” said O’Brien, who took charge of removing Doyle’s body to the morgue. A few minutes later, the store and show windows erupted in light. A cheer sounded outside, but the employees within, who were aware of the cause of the delay, simply hurried to their positions.

Bradshaw and O’Brien fought the tidal surge of incoming shoppers and finally gained the street, turning toward Yesler and police headquarters, hunched into their coats against the cold wet wind.

“Notebook’s shut up in my pocket, Ben. What didn’t you say back there?”

Bradshaw didn’t answer immediately. In another half block, he stopped, facing the new brick home of the Seattle Tent Factory.

O’Brien shook his head and implored with a whine that would have done Justin proud, “Not with Christmas coming. Make it a simple accident, Ben. Or at least keep it inside the Bon. Lorraine will kill me if I miss another holiday.”

“Vernon Doyle worked here in the spring of 1901 with Oscar Daulton. He was here the day the old factory burned to the ground.”

“Well, that’s just a coincidence, not a connection.”

“I spoke with Mr. Doyle after Daulton’s arrest and he told me all he knew about Daulton, which was very little.”

“See there, you’re worrying for nothing.”

“After Thomas Edison paid me a visit, Doyle began saying he knew the secret to Daulton’s invention. Not to me. I did not socialize with the man, but to others in the electrical trade. Gossip of that sort spreads.”

“Son of a—is it true?”

“Does it matter?”

“Aah, Ben. The notebook’s gotta come out of my pocket.”

“I know, but it’s not my fault. Blame the Wizard of Menlo Park.”

Chapter Four

“We hanged Oscar Daulton two years ago,” Chief Sullivan said after hearing Bradshaw explain the possible connection between the death of the Bon Marché’s electrician and the young man convicted and executed for murder. “And you’re telling me he’s still causing trouble?”

“It’s the search for his lost invention that may be to blame. As I said, it’s only one theory, but one I feel must be explored.”

“It’s out in the bay, isn’t it? Didn’t you chase Daulton onto a ferry?”

“I did.”

Sullivan scowled, but Bradshaw felt no need to defend himself. He might help the police, but he didn’t play the games of power that at times crippled the department. His single-minded goal was to find the truth of the matter. His methods would not be swayed by police or city politics. Rumors were flying that Mayor Humes might soon give Sullivan’s job to a new man, and an upcoming mayoral election had the names of potential chiefs and mayors flying. Sullivan’s wasn’t among them. Some of the men on the force had been quoted as saying a new chief would clean up the detective office, which rankled Sullivan and angered O’Brien. The city of Seattle had never seen such tight control over gambling and the Tenderloin District.

The realities of policing a modern city of over one hundred thousand citizens with a force of eighty-some men clashed daily with the idealists who wanted the city squeaky clean. Seattle was not the wide open city it had once been, yet it was true that below Jackson Street, in the section of town designated for such businesses, parlor houses and dance halls thrived and continually attempted to crawl back up toward Yesler.

Bradshaw knew that the public didn’t cringe at news of a murdered gambler or drifter, but murder at the Bon Marché, the store that had become a beloved institution to Seattle residents, was different. Chief Sullivan would be facing intense scrutiny from all factions, from the mayor in city hall to the mothers who visited the Bon daily, taking advantage of the free child care provided to shoppers.

“I’ve seen the articles about the hunt for Daulton’s contraption,” the chief said. “And the ads.” He thumbed through the newspaper on his desk then flipped the paper around for Bradshaw and O’Brien to see. They were both familiar with the quarter-page advertisement:

“Wanted: Information about the inventor assassin Oscar Daulton. $5,000 reward offered to those who provide information that leads to a patentable invention. See J. D. Maddock, the Globe Building.”

The chief said, “You think someone killed Doyle over what he knew about the invention? Seems like a coincidence to me.”

O’Brien said, “Our professor doesn’t trust coincidences, assumptions, or presumptions.”

Chief Sullivan snorted. “I’d never close a case if I had to work like that. But I want the truth here, and speed. Vernon Doyle was a respected electrician working in an establishment women and children frequent. I want them to feel safe. I want them to
be
safe.”

Bradshaw said, “The chief electrician examined the lighting system throughout the store and found it sound. I examined the wiring in and around the show window, and there is no doubt that Vernon Doyle’s death could not have been accidental. It was deliberate. Someone intentionally energized a wire in Doyle’s hands, but the shoppers of the Bon Marché are safe. You can assure the press of that.”

“You may be right, but there will be many who say otherwise until Doyle’s killer is caught. O’Brien, Captain Tennant is in court today. Get back to the Bon, but report to Tennant first thing in the morning. And Professor, just so I can honestly say every single avenue is being explored, I’d appreciate you looking into the possibility of this being tied to Oscar Daulton. Usual terms, but the minute you decide there’s no connection, you let me know.”

“Agreed.”

***

When they were back on Third Avenue, the blustery morning stole hats and threatened umbrellas. Detective O’Brien jammed his Roosevelt hat low as Bradshaw clutched his own derby atop his head.

O’Brien said, “Do you want to talk to the boy, the assistant window dresser who found the body?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind, but the chief made it clear what my role was to be in this investigation.”

“How do we know the boy isn’t a closet inventor or treasure hunter?”

Bradshaw grinned. “We don’t. I have his address. Shall we meet up in an hour at the office of Edison’s representative?”

“Present a unified front to the good attorney? Yes, indeed.”

They discussed the case as they trekked to Pike Street. There they parted. O’Brien turned down to Second Avenue and the Bon Marché while Bradshaw headed up the newly regraded street to Sixth Avenue. The regrade had removed the steepest portions of Pike for several blocks, and most buildings had been preserved by jacking them up on stilts then constructing new stories beneath them. The row houses that were his destination now sat above businesses that had set up shop in the newly created spaces.

At Sixth, Bradshaw waited for the streetcar to pass, then dodged horse droppings on the fresh brick pavement to hike the stairs up to a wooden walk running the length of the row. He knocked on the front door of the third house.

The door was opened almost immediately by Mrs. Creasle, who replied to his request to see Billy, “Must you see him today? He’s had such a shock.” Mrs. Creasle was a slight woman of late middle age, with silvering fair hair, and a pretty but forgettable face. This feature had been passed on to a number of daughters who all came to the door at his arrival, one after the other, eyeing him curiously, and asking if he was the famous Professor Bradshaw they’d read about in the newspaper. He said he supposed he was.

“I won’t keep Billy long,” he said to Mrs. Creasle.

She sighed in resignation and led Bradshaw, not into the parlor as he expected, but to a room she called Billy’s “storeroom,” at the back of the house.

It turned out not to be a room for storage, but a small room dedicated to the past and future of the department store, its walls covered in posters of Macy’s, Harrods, Woolworth’s, and Bloomingdale’s. On a round table backed by a dark curtain, miniature homemade mannequins in doll clothes were arranged like a store’s show-window display, complete with descriptive signs. Billy, a young man, small and pale like his siblings, stood beside the table, turning a handle that made the tabletop slowly spin.

Mrs. Creasle departed after introducing Bradshaw to her son, but she left the door ajar and he suspected she was listening from the next room.

“How does it work?” Bradshaw asked, hoping to put the boy at ease for he seemed nervous, keeping his attention on his display and glancing often toward the open door.

“I, uh, built it like a giant butler’s assistant.” He rubbed his palms on his trousers. “Do you know the device? A large round tray that sits on ball bearings and spins around? I read a description of one in a newspaper. It’s for serving meals. The writer called it a ‘Lazy Susan.’ Mine is for turning window displays and spins the same way, only with a hand crank, and the full-size model will have an electric motor. On my next design, the mannequins will stand on inset bases that spin separately.”

“Like the figures in a music box?” Bradshaw was dismayed to learn that O’Brien’s comment about the boy possibly being an inventor was true. He had no wish to discover another young man, who obviously had the potential for a successful future, to be guilty of murder.

“Yes, like a music box, only motor-driven, not spring. I’ll be able to control them separately, and I’ll install a clock mechanism, so all the products are fully rotated in about five minutes. You can’t have it longer than that without losing a customer’s attention and risking them crossing the street to the competitor.”

“I dare say such a display would keep shoppers entertained. Where’d you learn to do this?”

“Oh, I picked it up here and there.” Billy shrugged, but a grin revealed his pleasure at the compliment. “I think the novelty of it would at first draw a crowd, but people soon get used to things, you know, and you must keep presenting new attractions.”

He was a fidgety young man, unable to keep still, moving about his display with a tape measure. He met Bradshaw’s eye openly enough, though, when he spoke, and while eager to show off his display, he wasn’t so self-absorbed as to be unaware of Bradshaw’s reactions. Indeed, Billy seemed to adjust his presentation in response to Bradshaw’s comments. Billy Creasle was a born pleaser, a showman, with a feel for his audience.

“Can you take a break for a minute? I need to ask you some questions about this morning.”

Before sitting, Bradshaw quietly closed the door. Billy was eighteen, old enough that his mother could not demand a presence at his interview. With the door closed, Billy seemed to relax a bit, although he fidgeted with the tape, unspooling a short length, then reeling it back in. Up close, dark smudges were visible under his eyes, as if he needed sleep.

“What time did you arrive at the store this morning?”

“At six. I signed the register. We all do.”

“Can you walk me through your morning, everything you can remember up until you found Mr. Doyle?”

“I did what I usually do when I arrive, which is to see to all the window displays, replace any merchandise that was sold from them, and change out any merchandise that we no longer have in stock. I didn’t get to that window in the Men’s Department until half past seven, and it was then I found Mr. Doyle and called for Mr. Olafson.”

“Did you see anyone unusual in the store this morning? Anyone unexpected?”

“No, I can’t say I did.”

“Did you see anyone near that window before you entered it?”

“No, no I didn’t. I passed through the department a couple times this morning, collecting things I needed for displays. There wasn’t anyone on the sales floor near the window that I can remember. The stockroom was busy, and the clerks were at their counters doing inventory and cleaning fingerprints off the glass cases, but nobody was over by the window.”

“Do you know anyone who didn’t like Mr. Doyle? Or who had been arguing with him?”

“I didn’t work much with him. His shifts usually began just as mine were ending. He was a bit full of himself, but I don’t think anyone at the store had anything against him.”

“Full of himself?”

“He was always saying, ‘In the beginning, God said, “Let there be light,” then He created the electrician to distribute it.’”

Bradshaw was familiar with the expression, except the standard version had God creating linemen, not electricians, to distribute light. Practical electrical work took intelligence, skill, and a certain amount of self-confidence that bordered on bravado, especially for the men who restored downed power lines after storms. It was an amusing quip coming from a swaggering lineman in climbing hooks who carried a fifty-pound crossarm up a pole with the ease of a mother carrying her child, but it could seem boastful from an electrician climbing a ladder in a department store to change out an incandescent lamp. Doyle’s job had been far more complicated and potentially dangerous than changing bulbs and trimming arc lamps, but the environment of the Bon Marché, with its ferns and finery, did not lend itself to such statements of bravado.

“Do you know of anyone not employed at the Bon who had argued with Mr. Doyle?”

“Funny you ask because I’d never heard anyone arguing with Mr. Doyle until yesterday. A man named Maddock, that attorney in town that represents Thomas Edison and has all those advertisements in the papers offering a reward for information about that lost invention. He was in the store last night, arguing with Doyle.”

“What time?”

“About nine, I’d say. No, more like half past. Mr. Doyle had just started his shift.”

“You work long hours.”

“They don’t make me. I love my job. I plan to be a manager one day of a place even bigger than the Bon. Why, do you know that at Marshall Field in Chicago—a store ten times the size of the Bon—their manager, Mr. Henry Gordon Selfridge, began as a stock boy in the wholesale house? If he can do it, so can I. I’m on salary at the Bon, not hourly. It was my idea so I could work as much as I wanted without costing them overtime.”

“What did Mr. Doyle and Mr. Maddock argue about?”

“I didn’t hear enough to follow. They kept their voices low, but I could tell they were angry. When Mr. Maddock left, he said to Mr. Doyle, ‘You know where to find me if you change your mind.’ Then Mr. Doyle muttered some unrepeatable words and I told him the Bon Marché didn’t condone such language, and he gave me a nasty look, but held his tongue. I get that a lot because of my age. No respect, even when I’m right.”

“What time did you leave the store last evening?”

“About midnight, maybe a little after.”

“You started at six in morning? Eighteen hours, Billy? And back again at six today?”

“Like I said, I enjoy my job. During the holidays, there’s a lot to do and it’s easier when the store isn’t packed with customers. I came home at noon yesterday for a few hours then went back.”

“You say Mr. Doyle was liked well enough. Do you know if he had particular friends among his coworkers? Anyone whom you feel it would be helpful for me to speak with?”

Billy blushed a bit, and spooled out a foot of tape. “I wouldn’t want Mrs. Doyle to learn this, Professor, but I’m fairly certain there was something between Mr. Doyle and Mrs. Adkins. She’s one of the store’s seamstresses.”

“Anything you tell me in confidence won’t get back to Mrs. Doyle unless absolutely necessary.”

“It’s not a matter of knowing but seeing, seeing them together, I mean. At the store, he’d corner her somewhere while she was working, hemming a skirt on a mannequin or something, and I could tell he was flirting with her, and she was mad about it. I don’t think she wanted anyone to know about them.”

“Perhaps that’s all it was, he flirted and she rebuffed him.”

“Except I saw them together at the Washington Hotel. They stayed in the same room President Roosevelt stayed in last May.”

Bradshaw lifted his brow.

“Silly to take a room like that and then not be able to tell your friends you slept in the president’s bed.”