Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) (4 page)

Detective Simon Porter

May 25, 1914

Smythwyck Estate

Winston-Salem, North Carolina

“Detective Simon Porter from Pinkerton Detective Agency is here to see you, Mr. Hamilton,” Mr. Humphries said from the door to the study.

“Send him in,” Hamilton snapped, sitting behind his desk in his high-backed wooden wheeled chair with the Smythwyck crest etched over his head.  His dark hair was pomaded tightly against his head, and he wore a perfectly tailored charcoal wool suit and black tie. 

The detective’s black suit, vest, and matching tie had no trace of lint or dust.  His perfectly angled bowler hat hiding dirty blond hair refused to shift as he slowly walked to the chair in front of Jonathan Hamilton’s desk.  After he sat down, the ebony grip of his revolver handle became slightly visible in a cross-draw holster on his belt.  The only things of contrast on his suit were his bright silver watch chain perfectly festooned across his vest and a small golden broach attached to his lapel - the all-seeing Pinkerton eye, the infamous symbol of the nation’s largest private detective agency.  At first glance, Detective Simon C. Porter may have looked youthful and inexperienced. A more careful analysis, however, would reveal a man almost 40 with finely etched wrinkles around his eyes—the result of constantly focusing them, spying and recording the minutiae of human existence.  He folded his hands across his lap.  He quickly catalogued the number of game animals that surrounded them and then recorded Mr. Hamilton.

“I asked your Washington bureau for the best.  Are you the best, detective?” Jonathan Hamilton III asked.

“I am,” he replied.

“I also asked for someone who understands discretion.  Do you understand discretion, detective?”

“I do,” he replied.

Hamilton slid a large envelope across the desk in Detective Porter’s direction.  “In here, you will find a recounting of the incident, as well as witness statements from all those who encountered the gentlemen you are looking for, Captain Wage Winchester Pascal.”  The stolid detective took the envelope and peered through the contents as Mr. Hamilton recalled the story about the mysterious, Cajun-sounding man claiming to be a Rough Rider and looking for work from the wealthiest families in tobacco country.

“In addition to crippling me, this Pascal took something very dear to me,” Hamilton continued. “A medallion of great value that I wore about me.  It is that medallion I need returned.  Find this man, find my medallion.”

“Your report says there were more items taken from you.”

“Yes,” Hamilton said. “This criminal took my pocket book containing thirteen dollars cash and a silver pocket watch, much like yours.”

“Do you suspect him a petty thief?” the detective asked.

“Truth be told, I cannot be certain.  What I do know is, I need that medallion back,” Hamilton replied.

Detective Porter put Hamilton’s report on the desk and pulled out a small sketchbook and pencil from his interior pocket.  “Could you describe the medallion?”

“About a quarter inch thick, round stone, roughly the size of your palm with a small hollow center, and an ancient script written about it.”

“What kind of script?” the detective asked, furiously sketching.

“It’s nothing.  Artistic.  Made to look like script with no real meaning.”

“What is its significance?” the detective asked as he continued to draw

“It is a family heirloom, one that I am embarrassed to have lost, which is why I require your . . . utmost discretion.” Hamilton replied.

“Would Captain Pascal know the value of the medallion to you?”

“No.”

“Forgive me for asking, but what exactly is so concerning about a stone?”

“Discretion, Detective.  All you need to know is that it is priceless to me, and I do not want anyone,
anyone
, to know it’s gone.”

“Does this look accurate, Mr. Hamilton?” the detective asked as he turned his sketch around.

“Accurate enough, yes.”

“You were married once.  Long ago,” the detective announced, replacing his sketchbook to his inner pocket.

“Yes.  That’s correct.” 

“The first room on the right from the staircase, a hobby room, containing a loom and studio camera coated in dust.  These were your wife’s?  She died during childbirth roughly 20 years ago, yet you still wear your wedding ring?”

“I don’t believe I mentioned that in the report, Detective.  Nor do I see how that matters to this case,” Mr. Hamilton replied.

“Every photograph I observed on the way to your study was a picture of you, and you alone.  They were all taken by your wife, who had a passion for photography as well as weaving, but the thick dust covering her equipment suggests it hasn’t been used for years.  The fact that there were no photographs of your daughter Cynthia, the one you mentioned in your report, leads me to believe your wife died giving birth to her.  A tragic event that you never recovered from.  You never remarried, and you keep her memory alive by still wearing your wedding ring.  A wedding ring that any fool can see is made of gold.  A wedding ring that would fetch a rather handsome price if stolen.  Yet it was not stolen.  It was left behind.  But your pocket book and watch were not.  A pathetic attempt to conceal the real impetus of the crime: pilfering your seemingly worthless medallion.  This Captain Pascal may be a mindless-idiot thief, but that would make it difficult to infiltrate your daughter’s engagement party.  Furthermore, it is my experience that thieves generally don’t confront their victims as forwardly as this one did.  It is more likely that he is a calculating middle-man who targeted you for your medallion.  A medallion he may not know the worth of, but perhaps the man who hired him does.”

“Amazing,” Mr. Hamilton proclaimed. 

“Seeing as you were targeted, and Captain Pascal was allegedly a military man, I am quite certain he spent a great deal of time gathering intelligence.  Weeks.  Perhaps a month.  So tell me, Mr. Hamilton, where do the ne’er-do-wells find recreation in Winston-Salem?” the detective asked. 

Jonathan Hamilton III reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a smaller, thick envelope and slid it across his desk.  “Here is your advance,” he said. “Five thousand.  And another 15 when the medallion is returned to me.  Enough to retire for half a lifetime after Pinkerton gets its cut.  As for the ne’er-do-wells, try the June Bug.  Horas runs the place, though he may not be of any help on account of his blindness.  But nevertheless, it is a start.  I am quite certain someone with your impeccable deductive skills will find a few clues.  Mr. Humphries can take you there.”

Detective Porter stood and took the cash advance and report before he tipped his hat.  “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton.  And rest assured, we at Pinkerton never sleep.  I will find your man,” he said before abruptly turning around and walking toward the door.

“Detective,” Mr. Hamilton added, “If at all possible, ensure Captain Pascal does not survive, or at the very least, has difficulty walking for the rest of his natural life.”

The detective put his hand on the doorknob before he replied, “I am not an assassin, Mr.  Hamilton, and nobody will get in my way of fetching your property.  I will be in contact.”

The gray-haired Mr. Humphries stood upright and quiet in the hallway, awaiting a command.  The droplets of sweat on his ebony skin reflected the faintest of light in the dark hallway.  “Mr. Humphries, I shall require a ride into town,” the detective announced.

Detective Porter sat in the passenger seat of the Model-T Touring Car as Mr. Humphries sped down the dirt road, leaving the white mansion behind them.  “Excuse me for asking, Detective, but you have a rather unique accent for a northerner,” he said, his eyes focused on the road.

“My father was from England; I spent nearly every summer there as a child,” the detective replied.

“And your mother?”

“New Jersey, where I grew up,” he answered.

“Well how’s-bout-that.  That explains it, it sure does.”

“Mr. Humphries, pull over immediately,” the detective ordered.  The hawk-eyed investigator hopped out of car and approached the side of the road.  He knelt by tiny plots of dark soil surrounded by dried tire tracks.  “Mr. Humphries, did anyone see if Captain Pascal drove an automobile to Miss Cynthia’s engagement party?” he yelled.

“Not that we know of, no sir.  Seemed to appear right out of thin air, he did.” replied Mr. Humphries from the car.

The detective fingered the dark soil and smelled it. 
Oil.  Plenty of it.  An engine without proper amounts of oil smokes and sputters.

“Very good, Mr. Humphries.  Let us continue to town,” the detective said, getting back into the car.

Two- and three-story buildings arose from the horizon as the dusty road turned to cobblestone streets that traversed the city.  “The June Bug ain’t exactly a high-end establishment anymore, but you will find it about two blocks up 6
th
Street,” Mr. Humphries said as the car came to a stop. 

The detective thanked and dismissed Mr. Humphries and walked down a few secluded blocks off the main street. He found the June Bug, a tall dilapidated building shedding gray paint flakes, flanked by a boarded-up private residence on one side and on the other, a condemned monstrosity that seemed to be the source of whatever ailment spread to the June Bug.  A round, orange painted bug graced the sign above the swinging shutter doors.  The detective entered the building and noticed that the inside of the building was in much the same shape as the exterior.  The few patrons, including the piano player asleep on his bench, did not seem to fare any better.  Detective Porter approached the corner of the bar and called over the bartender, a heavier-set, balding man with pale eyes wearing a dirty white apron.  The wad of tobacco in his rotted mouth was obscenely large.

“The name’s Horas, stranger.  How’s about a whiskey to cure what plagues ya,” the bartender said as he spit tobacco a mile off from the brass spittoon at his feet.  Suddenly the putrid smell of the establishment made more sense.

“I am looking for someone who may have frequented your establishment over the past few weeks,” the detective said.  “A military man, perhaps, and charismatic.”

“Well, I don’t see much at all these days, but lucky me, the good lord blessed me with four other senses.  Heroes and has-beens describe all my patrons, and unfortunately, they both sound the same to me.”

“He most likely spoke with a Cajun accent,” Detective Porter continued.

“AH! Captain Wage Pascal!  Sure ‘nough,” Horas replied.  “He kept this place boomin’ for a few weeks or so.  Best profits we seen in months.  Times been tough since that Temperance Movement started up.  I am sorry to say I haven’t seen him in more than a week, though.  I can’t say it wasn’t on account of our liquor, lodging or ladies though.  If you find him, be sure and thank him for me.”

“Yes, I will.  Tell me, did you inquire as to how he came about all the money he spent here?” the detective asked.

“Not really.  ‘Ol’ French money’ is all he ever said.  He did boast a few tales, though.  Him and his companion, Black Vomit Bill I believe they called him.  He was a kind fellow, too, by the sound of him, and from what I hear, quite the pugilist.  He took a few fellas outside for some prize-fightin’.  Don’t remember hearing him lose much, though,” Horas said. 

Black vomit
. 
Too much bile
.
Improper liver function
,
common in patients with Yellow Fever
, a
tropical disease. Tropics such as Cuba, San Juan Hill. Rough Riders.

“But he was always kind enough to buy ‘em a drink afterward.  You may want to ask Amber Rose, though; she . . .” Horas cleared his throat, “spent more time with Captain Pascal than I did.”  Horas flashed his rotted smile and, as if on cue, an enthusiastic scream came from upstairs.  “Now, how’s bout a drink, partner?” he asked.

Detective Porter glanced about the bar again.  Noting the piano player shifting on his bench, three unsavory characters sitting at a nearby table huddled around a near-empty bottle, snickering at the constant moaning upstairs.  “Whiskey,” Detective Porter said.

He carried his warm tumbler of cheap whiskey to an empty table across from the three men, who immediately began staring and whispering.  The detective sat down and began recording. 
Yellow-stained fingers.  Rolling tobacco.  Old clothes, lots of patchwork.  Hand-me-downs.  Second, possibly third-generation field workers.  Uneducated.  Unhappy.  Poor.  Drunks.  Volatile. 

The moaning and screaming finally subsided and a door opened upstairs.  A younger gentleman with sweaty, straw-like hair came out adjusting his suspenders.  He strutted downstairs and joined his friends.  The young man took the last swig from the bottle and began his boasting.  Another figure appeared in the open doorway upstairs.  A disheveled beauty with strawberry-blonde hair, a sleeveless, low-cut blouse, and can-can skirt, pranced downstairs in dirty bare feet.  A small curl of hair bounced in front of her left eye as she descended.

“How’s bout another tussle, Amber Rose?” one of the gentlemen said.