Authors: Richard E. Crabbe
Suspension (17 page)
“Didn't ask,” Earl said with a squirt of tobacco for emphasis. “Besides, there was a few of us. Mentzer was there, me and Bucklin, an' maybe three or four more.”
“Notice anything strange?”
“Strange? No. Bucklin went home early, but nothin' strange about that. Mentzer had about two pints too many, but nothin' strange about that neither,” Earl said.
“He went home early, huh? You see him leave?” Tom asked, scribbling notes on his pad.
“Not âzactly. I recall him sayin' he had to go, then I think he went to the jakes, but I can't be sure. Sure I didn't see him after that, though.” Tom watched them both closely, noticing how Earl fidgeted with the hammer that hung at his belt.
“You didn't see anything? Think back. Did he argue with anyone? Maybe even a little fracas could have gone bad.”
“Nothin' to pernt to. Terrence was not the kind of fella to get into a fracas. Hell, I just thought he went home early. Who found 'im?” Earl asked, hoping to divert the questioning.
“Can't say.” Tom gave back a blank stare.
“Wish we could help ya, Detective, we really do,” Matt said sincerely. “Hate to see that sort of thing happen. Damn shame ya ask me.” Matt shook his head. “Dangerous town, New York.”
“Well, I thank you men for your time. Oh ⦠here's my card. If you think of anything, you can contact me at 300 Mulberry.”
“Sure will,” Earl said, extending his hand with a politician's smile. “Hope you find your man.”
Tom walked slowly toward Watkins. He could see the man watching him out of the corner of his eye.
“Simon Watkins?”
“Yeah. Who's askin'?” Watkins answered defensively, casting a wary eye over Braddock's shoulder at his friends.
“Detective Tom Braddock,” Tom said, showing the shield. He didn't extend his hand as he had with Earl and Matt. “I'm looking into the murder of Terrence Bucklin. I'm told you knew him.”
Watkins cast a quick glance up at the cables to his left, as if imagining what to say, Tom thought. “I knew him; knew him well enough to drink with now and again. Nothin' wrong with that.”
“Didn't say there was. You don't seem particularly surprised to hear about Bucklin. Now, why would that be, I wonder?” Tom readied himself for whatever might follow. Something about Watkins had his ears at attention. Watkins's Adam's apple bobbed.
Simon thought fast for once in his life, saying, “Overheard you talkin' to Hightower. Dead, huh? How'd it happen?” He said this as matter-of-factly as he was able, rather proud of himself for carrying it off.
Tom eyed him closely. “Yeah, dead. Body found behind Paddy's yesterday. Your friend Earl says he sometimes went drinking with Bucklin there Friday nights, which reminds me, can you account for your whereabouts this past Friday?”
“I wasn't nowhere near Paddy's Friday night. I was up on fourteenth Street, at Bryant's theatre with a lady friend.”
“I see. Who was playing that night? I hear they have some good acts. Might want to take in a show.”
“Let's see ⦠there was a singer name of Lynn McCloughic. Great little voice. There was juggling and tumbling Italians, name of The Rotinis, or Rotellis ⦠something like that. They were somethin'. And a few others doin' comedy and such.”
“Uh-huh ⦠what'd you do afterward?” Tom asked, not trying to hide his skepticism.
“Went for a late dinner at the Monument Restaurant, right across from the
statue ⦠you know, the one of Washington? Then me and her, we went and had a little fun.” Watkins spat a fat stream of tobacco juice over the edge of the approach and winked lewdly.
statue ⦠you know, the one of Washington? Then me and her, we went and had a little fun.” Watkins spat a fat stream of tobacco juice over the edge of the approach and winked lewdly.
Tom just nodded. “Uh-huh. Well, I suppose I can rule you out as a suspect, can't I? You having such a busy social calendar and all. And when did this golden evening end for you two?”
“Stayed the night,” Watkins said, grinning. A chipped tooth did nothing to improve his smile.
“I suppose you can give me the name and address of this lady friend?” Tom said with his pencil perched over his pad.
“That's right, it's Miss Clora Devine. She lives on Hester, number 340, but you can find her easier at Watley's dance hall on the Bowery.”
“I'll pay her a call if you don't mind,” Tom said, looking Watkins in the eye, but not for permission.
“Suit yourself. She'll tell ya the same thing, âcause it's the truth.” Watkins spat again for emphasis. “Listen, Bucklin was all right to my way of thinkin', and I sure as hell wouldn't want to go bash his head in or nothin', so ⦔
“What'd you say?” Braddock asked, looking off distractedly. “Say ⦠Watkins, who's that woman over there by the north side of the tower?” Tom had seen her an instant before, recognizing her from the Astor library. Even from this distance it was plainly her. It was her carriage, he decided, the way she held her head, the way she walked. It was the same woman.
Watkins turned to look. “Oh, that's Mrs. Roebling. She's always around the job, mostly over in Brooklyn by the office though. Don't see her over this side much.”
“Hm, thanks Watkins,” Tom said over his shoulder as he walked away. “I'll contact you if I need any further information.”
Watkins just snorted and watched him go. Last night he'd thought that maybe Braddock was the answer to his situation with Captain Sangree. But as he watched the detective walk up the bridge toward Mrs. Roebling, that idea took a different twist.
“Maybe I don't have to say a damn word to that fuckin' Braddock,” he muttered under his breath. “Hadn't thought o' the Roeblings. Don't have to be Braddock that finds out what Cap'n Sangree's up to.” Watkins stood stroking his chin in thought. Matt and Earl watched too, but they weren't watching Braddock, they were watching him.
E
mily was with Charles C. Martin, checking on the roadwork. Wash had been very specific about the materials and methods of construction, and she
had thought it necessary to go up personally to check. Reporting back to him that she had seen to such details herself always set his mind at ease.
mily was with Charles C. Martin, checking on the roadwork. Wash had been very specific about the materials and methods of construction, and she
had thought it necessary to go up personally to check. Reporting back to him that she had seen to such details herself always set his mind at ease.
“What will you do when the bridge is done, Charles?” she asked the assistant engineer as they walked together.
“I've had offers from three different railroads that I'm considering,” Martin said. “But I'm not sure whether I'll be taking any of those positions. Not challenging enough, I suppose.”
Emily gave a knowing shrug. “I know what you mean. After this, everything else will seem trite by comparison. Whatever you do, you'll be measuring it against this bridge. That's a measure that's sure to come up short, Charles. There will be no more Brooklyn Bridges,” Emily said, looking up at the cables. “Regardless of what comes after, your name and Wash's and the others will always be known for it. Anything else you do will seem an afterthought.”
Martin nodded slowly. “True. I've thought a lot about what to do after, but I can't seem to see an âafter.' It's as if I can't really accept that it will be over. It's been everything for me for the last thirteen years almost, and I can't seem to get my head around the notion that it will end.” They both stopped and looked out over the Manhattan skyline. “And then what can I possibly do that will come near this?” Charles C. Martin turned back toward Brooklyn, taking in the sweep of the bridge. “It soars!” he said with a tinge of wonder in his voice. “We've built a cathedral, Emily. What can compare with that?”
T
om wasn't sure how to approach Mrs. Roebling. He hesitated, not sure if he should go over to her directly. Then he thought of Hightower.
om wasn't sure how to approach Mrs. Roebling. He hesitated, not sure if he should go over to her directly. Then he thought of Hightower.
“Mr. Hightower?” Tom said as he approached the foreman. “I wonder if I could trouble you to do me the favor of an introduction?”
“An introduction?” Hightower asked with a grin. “I don't think you need be so formal with the roughnecks on this job.”
“Oh, no, that's not what I'm after. I'm talking about that woman over by the tower.” Tom pointed her out.
“Had me goin' there for a moment. Thought another sightseer was wanderin' around the job. Have a dickens of a time with them. Nothin' but trouble ⦠but that there's Mrs. Roebling. Come on, I'll do the honors.”
They walked together toward Emily and Charles C. Martin, who were so deep in conversation that neither of them noticed their approach.
“Mrs. Roebling? Good morning, ma'am. I have someone here who would like to meet you. May I present Detective Braddock, of our New York City Police Department. Detective, Mrs. Emily Roebling.” Tom had the advantage
of her, he knew. He watched closely as the surprise, then recognition, washed over her features.
of her, he knew. He watched closely as the surprise, then recognition, washed over her features.
“Mr. Braddock. A pleasure, sir,” she said with perfect composure. Her voice was like honey. It ran off her tongue thick and sweet. Tom could almost taste it.
“And this is Charles C. Martin, the assistant engineer,” Emily said gracefully.
“Honored, I'm sure, Detective,” Martin said.
“I'm delighted to meet you both, and grateful for the introduction, Mr. Hightower,” Tom said, turning to the foreman.
“Think nothing of it, Braddock. You do me the favor of findin' Bucklin's murderer and I'll call us more than even.”
“I'll do my best. Thanks.”
As Hightower excused himself and walked back to his crew, Emily looked Tom over with an appraising eye. He was a bit taller than she had estimated from across Lafayette Place. Older too, but the laugh lines around his eyes and the thin line of a scar on his right temple lent him an air that was more compelling than youth. There was a small streak of gray in his hair, near the scar. She guessed him to be maybe thirty-five. He had an anxious, almost boyish air about him that she found charming, flattering even. She liked him immediately.
“So, Mr. Braddock, what's this about murder? Has there been foul play on the bridge?” Martin asked.
“No, no. But one of your workers has been murdered, I'm afraid; a Mr. Bucklin, Terrence Bucklin?” They both looked blankly at him. “At any rate, I was just questioning the men he worked with. I'm afraid I haven't found out much.”
“You'll find, I fear, that not all the men we hire are Harvard graduates. Lack of breeding, refinement, and education have rendered some of them slaves to their baser instincts,” Martin said with a shrug.
“I must ask one question of you, Mr. Martin, if I may,” Tom said.
Martin raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Do you recall anything odd going on during the construction process?” Tom asked, knowing it was far too vague a question, but before he could rephrase it, the assistant engineer replied.
“âOdd,' you say? Sir, there have been any number of things both odd and unbelievable on this job. I wouldn't know where to start.”
“The fact that a woman is here on a construction site, let alone helping to oversee the work, is about as odd as things get these days, Charles.” Emily said this with a twinkle in her eye that was both pride and humor too.
“Well, I'm thinking of something more sinister, I'm afraid,” Braddock said. “You see, Mr. Bucklin was reported to have said to his father that there was something odd going on at the bridge, something dangerous perhaps. His murder only seems to put an exclamation point to that.”
“You have no idea of just how sinister it appears in some circles for a mere woman to be in the position I am, Mr. Braddock.” Emily looked at Tom evenly. “It undermines the notion, held dear by most men, I'm afraid, that women are made for child rearing and social ornamentation. Oh, I am sinister indeed and proud of it. But I realize, of course, that's not what you were referring to.”
“It would appear that you have much to be proud of, ma'am.” Tom's gaze followed the cables and stays up to their apex at the top of the towers. When his eye came back to earth it locked with hers. “If all women were as sinister, Mrs. Roebling, what a world we would live in.”
Martin cleared his throat. “The sinister Mrs. Roebling aside, I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Detective.” He twisted his mouth. “There have been no incidents aside from those well documented in the press that could be considered a threat to the bridge. I refer of course to things such as the wire scandal and the caisson fire. Do you have nothing more concrete to go on than that? An old man's rumor of something suspicious is hardly cause for alarm,” Martin said smugly.
“I'd agree, not by itself, but the coincidence of Bucklin's murder lends the story more weight. It has to be checked out, no matter how wide of the mark it may be.”
“Of course you must, Detective. You strike me as a man not given to dereliction of duty, and I urge you to investigate to the fullest extent you find necessary,” Martin said brusquely. “Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I must see to some minor details down by the terminal. Emily, I'll be back in a few minutes. Do you mind being left in the care of the dashing detective?”
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