The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

“Hello, Freddie boy!” Mason said when he looked up over the rim of his reading glasses and saw Freddie standing in front of him. “Where’ve you been? I was about to ask the coppers to drag the river for you.”

“Personal business, Bill. There’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s confidential.”

Mason’s attention had been snagged by the utterance of the magic word “confidential.” He crammed his glasses into a vest pocket and took his cigar out of his mouth. He then nudged the brim of his dented, ash-streaked derby farther back on his head. This gesture, Freddie knew from experience, meant that Bill was all ears. “Well, this ought to be good, if it’s confidential. Anything fit to print?”

“Since when did you ever cavil over whether a story was fit or not before throwing it on the front page, Bill? In answer to your question, I’m here to get information, not give it.”

“What’s it worth to you?”

“How about a free lunch at Hennessey’s and all you can drink?”

“For a deal like that, Freddie lad, I’d tell you where the mayor keeps his streetcar-concession bribe money!” Unceremoniously handing his galley proof to one of the typesetters standing nearby, Bill sauntered out of the print room with Freddie trailing along behind him.

While great age has sometimes been described by the term “before the flood,” Bill Mason was considered an ancient journalist having been a
Chicago
newsman since “before the fire.” Because he had single-mindedly pursued the life of the mind, the life of the body had been sadly neglected. He drank too much, slept too little, and failed to note that his shirt collars were only white on the day he first bought them.

His
deshabille
notwithstanding, Mason was very good at his job. He maintained an intricate network of contacts among
Chicago
’s political community, which had the same membership as its criminal underworld. As a result, he was able to receive information impossible to get through more formal channels of inquiry. For some odd reason, Bill had taken a liking to Freddie—odd, not because Freddie was an unlikable fellow, but because Freddie seemed the last sort of person that a man of Bill’s satiric disposition would be expected to like. Even more odd was the fact that Bill actually took Freddie’s aspirations as a reporter seriously.

The two left the
Gazette
building and headed down Madison Street to Hennessey’s saloon—a nearby tavern frequented by newsmen from one or another of the city’s papers. The place was relatively empty but ready for the lunch crowd to arrive; the corner of the bar was piled high with platters of cold cuts, cheese, bread, and pickles. Doc Hennessey, the owner of the establishment, stood presiding with great dignity behind the bar. The hazy light streaming through the tall front windows reflected off his bald head like a cherub’s halo. When he saw Bill and Freddie enter, his mild expression turned to a scowl. Spitting expressively on the floor, he said, “I didn’t think you’d be showing your ugly mug around here anytime soon, Mason.”

“Tut, tut, Doc. Is that any way to treat one of your best customers?”

“My best customers are my paying customers. You’re a leech!” Hennessey pointed to the wall behind him. “It’s mainly on account of you I put up that sign just yesterday!” In bold Gothic letters, a sign above the bar warned: “NO TRUST!” As if the message might need additional emphasis, another sign flanked it: “Pay TODAY or Thirst TOMORROW!”

Spitting again to emphasize his displeasure, Hennessey leaned forward over the bar, presumably the better to reach Bill’s windpipe. Before the dispute could take a physical turn, Freddie intervened. “How much does he owe, Doc?”

“Five bucks and two-bits!” The proprietor was clearly incensed by the enormity of the sum.

“I’ll settle his account.” Freddie took a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket. “That should cover for today and then some. Fetch us a bottle of whiskey, Doc.”

As the proprietor walked out of earshot to bring the requisite item, Bill muttered under his breath, “A whoreson
Achitophel
! A rascally yea-forsooth knave! To bear a gentleman in hand, and then stand upon security!”

Freddie recollected Bill’s penchant for quoting Shakespeare. The reporter had a particular fondness for Falstaff, which surprised Freddie not at all.

“My young friend!” Bill patted Freddie’s shoulder. “I am greatly obliged to you. I always knew you had character.”

“And I always knew you were a character! How long did you think you could go on like this, Bill?”

“Till payday, my boy, only till payday,” Bill responded with aplomb.

“And what will you do when your paycheck isn’t enough to cover your tab?”

“I’ll hurl myself off that particular precipice, lad, when I arrive there.” Bill apparently took note of Freddie’s solemn expression. “Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not love me, nor a man cannot make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no wine.”

This had the effect of making Freddie smile in spite of himself.

“There, that’s more like it.” Bill’s voice expressed satisfaction. “Now let’s change the subject. You have bought my time for the next hour or for as long as it takes me to become incoherent from demon whiskey, whichever comes first. Ask your questions.”

“All right.” Freddie wasn’t quite sure his hints on the value of temperance had been persuasive, but he was unready to be lured away from the topic.

At that moment, Doc returned with a bottle and two glasses, placing them on the bar with a loud thud to announce his displeasure at not being able to crack Bill’s skull for nonpayment. He growled, “The food’s there. Help yourselves,” as he stalked back to the other end of the bar to polish some glasses.

Before Freddie had time to pour himself a drink, Bill had already downed his first shot. The reporter then unfolded his handkerchief and meticulously dabbed at the corners of the bushy moustache that completely obscured his upper lip. He nudged his empty glass in Freddie’s direction. The young man sighed and poured his friend another drink before filling his own glass. “Let’s get something to eat and move off to a table on the side.”

“It’s your ten-spot.” Bill complied with Freddie’s request.

When the two were seated, Freddie leaned across the table so as not to be overheard by the few other patrons of the establishment.

“I need some information about the murder you covered over a week ago.”

Bill tilted his chair against the wall and fished in a vest pocket for a match, presumably intending to light one of the foul-smelling fire sticks he defined as a cigar. Freddie watched the operation, noting silently that the only reason Bill’s mouth perpetually drooped at the right corner was because it had been a cigar perch for so many years.

It took three matches before the operation was complete. When Bill had succeeded in igniting the tobacco and creating enough smoke to obscure the air around his head, he picked up the thread of the conversation. “The girl at the Templar House? That’s old news, my boy. A suspect has already been arrested. What’s your interest in it?”

“As I told you, it’s confidential.” Freddie glanced nervously over his shoulder.

“That won’t suit, son. You’ve piqued my curiosity. I smell a story here.”

“All right, all right. I’ll tell you a few things about it just to shut you up.” He took a large bite of his ham sandwich. “Do you know a lady named Evangeline LeClair?”

“The railroad heiress? Don’t know her personally, but I’ve heard a few things about her from the high hats who write the society column. She’s said to be a bit odd. Inherited a fortune from her parents. Seems to be sworn off matrimony, though I hear she’s still trailed around by a few young fools who keep proposing to her. You wouldn’t be one of them, would you, lad?”

Freddie stopped chewing abruptly and gulped down his mouthful of food. “Not exactly. We grew up together. She’s a friend of mine.”

“I see.” Bill puffed on his cigar. The cryptic expression on his face reminded Freddie of Alice’s caterpillar. To the young man’s relief, he changed his line of questioning. “I’m assuming there’s some connection here with the murder at the Templar House?”

“Yes, there is. Miss LeClair knew the girl who was killed. The lady teaches classes at Mast House and this was one of her students.”

“Oh, ho!” Bill laughed. “An heiress and a blue stocking! That’s a deadly combination if ever there was one. So she’s taken a personal interest in this business, has she?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m assuming you want to play the hero by finding out for her what she wants to know?”

“Something like that.” Freddie gave up the pretense of eating entirely and squirmed in his chair.

Bill eyed him for several moments through the smoky haze without speaking. “All right, my boy. You’ve satisfied my curiosity. Now I’m ready to satisfy yours. Present your questions.”

Freddie was all eagerness now. “Did you get to see the room where the girl was found firsthand?”

Bill snorted derisively. “You ought to know by now, lad, the coppers try to keep us out, but we’re usually there before the body hits the floor.”

Freddie winced at the image. “What shape was the room in?”

Bill tilted his chair forward before replying. He lifted the corner of his sandwich skeptically to peer underneath the rye bread. He picked up the dill pickle perched on the side of his plate and scrutinized it with the same cold detachment. Apparently not finding anything to whet his appetite, he made no attempt to eat. Instead, he poured himself another shot of whiskey. “It didn’t look like anything was out of place. The furniture was all arranged. I asked the chambermaid if anything had been moved. She was scared and shaking, but she said no.”

“Did she notice if the door had been forced open?”

“It wasn’t. It was just locked from the inside. The maid knocked, and when there was no answer she used her passkey to let herself in and... saw what she saw.”

“Hmmm.” Freddie thought for a few moments. “Was there a window?”

Bill nodded. “Just one. The window leads out to a fire escape and then down to the alley below. It was a cheaper room at the back of the hotel. I overheard one of the coppers say that the window had been shut, but it wasn’t locked.”

“What else did you see?”

“Only the girl. She was lying face down on the floor. Her head was tilted to one side, almost as if she’d fallen asleep that way.”

“Any sign of a struggle?”

“Not that I could see.” Bill swallowed the remainder of his drink and poured another. Freddie waved away an offer to refill his own glass. “There was a cut in her back just below the nape of her neck and a trickle of blood. Her left hand was thrown up behind her head as if she’d tried to reach for the spot where she’d been stabbed when she fell. That’s all, no bruises—nothing like that—no ripped clothing. But I got the impression she’d been crying.”

“How?”

“When I bent down to look closer at the corpse...” Freddie winced again. Bill noted the young man’s reaction and corrected himself. “... at the late Miss Bauer, I saw she had a damp handkerchief wadded up in her right hand and there seemed to be traces of crusted tears around her eyes.”

“Hmmm, interesting.”

Bill eyed his sandwich suspiciously. He turned the plate clockwise and lifted the opposite corner of the bread, presumably under the impression that the contents had changed since his last inspection. “Anything else you want to know, lad?”

“Yes. I want to know the name of the doctor who examined the body. It wasn’t in the article.”

“Well, the official examination was performed by one of the medics from the Coroner’s Office. But that wasn’t good enough for the Templars. Maybe they were afraid that Jack the Ripper had crossed the pond and started attacking guests at their hotel. For whatever reason, they insisted that one of their cronies in the medical profession check the remains as well.”

“Can they do that?” Freddie was shocked.

Bill grinned sardonically. “In this town they can do anything they want, lad. Their doctor friend is named Doyle. Archibald Doyle. He has a high-toned practice north of the river.”

“If I wanted to talk to this Dr. Doyle, where would I find him?”

“Probably at his office during the week. It’s on
Dearborn Parkway
. You can check the address yourself since I don’t recall it offhand. You’re on your own with that one though. I couldn’t get much out of him.”

“Nothing? No scrap of information that wasn’t mentioned in the news article?”

“Not a thing. For once, what you saw in print was all I knew. Doyle backed up what the Coroner’s Office said. She was stabbed, end of discussion.” Bill shrugged. “Seeing as how I’m a gentleman of the press, I don’t think he told me all that he knew.”

“If he won’t talk to you, what makes you think he’d speak to me?” Freddie felt worried at the prospect of a dead end to his investigation.

Bill meticulously tapped the ashes from his cigar tip onto the floor. “I don’t know, son, but you may be able to get your society friends to back you.”

Freddie was silent for a moment, puzzled about how to proceed. Then an idea occurred to him. “Evangeline’s part of the golden circle. She gets invited to Mrs. Templar’s parties. Maybe if she were to intervene...”