A Study in Revenge (25 page)

Lean looked around and thought he really should be getting home But he was not yet willing to reject the urge to conduct an immediate search of the house, even though the setting sun now made that idea difficult. Half a minute later, the solution to his dilemma presented itself in the guise of a uniformed patrolman carrying a bull’s-eye lamp. No doubt alerted to trouble in the park by the displaced lovebirds, the
patrolman was relieved to find Lean sitting on the bench. The two men marched over to Vine Street, where Lean inspected every inch of the floorboards until he arrived at the door to the small closet in the back room. There was no visible trapdoor in the floor, so Lean got down on his hands and knees to inspect the boards all along the edge of the walls.

“Hah! I think the whole damn floor in here is actually a door,” he said.

He borrowed a non-standard-issue knife that the patrolman carried and wedged it into a gap along the baseboard. Though the area within the closet was cramped, Lean and the officer managed to pry up the trapdoor enough to get their fingers under the edge, then tilt it up. Cold, dank air came wafting up from belowground. The two men maneuvered the trapdoor out of the closet space and set it aside. Lean took the lamp and held it down into the cellar space. The floor was only about six feet below them. A collection of old scraps of wood below the trapdoor showed that some form of steps had once existed but had rotted away.

The earthen floor was dug up in four different areas to reveal a wide rock ledge just inches below the dirt. The remainder of the floor was dotted with uniformly spaced holes, identical to the ones he’d seen in the cellar beneath the tailor shop.

“Someone’s been digging down there. What in the hell for?” asked the patrolman, who was craning his neck to see past Lean.

“Whatever they were digging for, they didn’t find it here. Nothing but solid ledge the whole space through.”

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
L
EAN WATCHED
P
ERCEVAL
G
REY
crouch down close to the dirt floor in the basement beneath the house on Vine Street. He’d assured Grey that no one had entered the space since the pattern of auger holes was discovered. This was followed by a lengthy and detailed study of the footprints left in the cool, damp earth. Grey replaced his tape measure into the dark leather case that he wore strapped over one shoulder and across his chest. He jotted down several notes into a small pad, then retrieved a magnifying glass. With a lantern close by, he began inspecting several different samples of footprints.

Lean had been through this process before and knew enough to simply stand by and wait should Grey have a question. Another minute crept by before Grey motioned Lean over.

“This is the best section of earth for detailed samples of the men’s footprints,” Grey said. “The slight slope in the ground funnels moisture here.”

“Men? I’d have said a solitary man was involved. The prints all look identical.”

“At first glance,” Grey said. “Which is why I’d recommend you develop a habit of always taking more than a single glance. No, the men wore the same size work boots. Identical pairs, in fact. Likely purchased together and recently.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“It’s not an idea. Look closely at the imprint. The edges on both sets of prints are very sharp. The boots haven’t been worn long enough to even begin to wear down or develop identifying nicks or marks in the soles.”

Lean bent for a closer look in the lamplight and saw that Grey was
correct. He glanced at Grey’s footwear, fine black leather shoes that were splattered with fresh grass clippings. The cuffs of his pants were likewise sullied.

“Looks like you’d have been better off with a pair of work boots yourself. What have you been up to so early this morning?”

Grey followed Lean’s stare down to his shoes, then waved off the question, a touch of annoyance in his voice. “A foolish errand. Not worth talking about.”

Lean didn’t press the issue, returning to the matter at hand. “So then what makes you so sure these prints are two different pairs?”

“Compare where the men set their feet while each manned his auger. This fellow set his squarely, shoulder width apart.” Grey took several steps away and motioned to the ground again. “Whereas this fellow planted his right foot forward, closer to the auger, while keeping his left back half a step for greater leverage. He likely possesses less physical strength than the first man. He also smokes cigarettes—traces of ash accompany his prints on several occasions.”

“Seems odd to think they might have bought new boots, specifically to hide their number or identity.”

“Very odd, given that the entrance to the basement was so well hidden and none of the neighbors dare to even set foot in the building anymore. It’s likely their footprints could have remained undiscovered for a long, long time.” Grey began to pace, making quick turns in the confined area.

“In fact,” he continued, “it’s such an odd thought that we can comfortably dispense with it as the true motive for the recent purchase of these identical work boots. We can instead replace that idea with one that is far simpler and, therefore, much likelier to prove true: Upon determining that they’d need to be mucking about in dirt cellars, each man realized he didn’t own any serviceable footwear. In all likelihood this type of physical, dirty work is foreign to them and they have been pressed into service by sheer necessity.”

“So our mysterious pair of burrowers will not to be found among Portland’s common laborers.” Lean gave his mustache a few strokes while he ruminated. “Yet it’s not exactly the type of thing you can look up in the city directory and hire out: ‘Clandestine hand-auger operators
needed to sneak into basements around town to perform tedious wall-to-wall search for missing object. No questions asked.’ ” Lean chuckled at the thought while Grey stood by in silent contemplation.

“I suppose it makes sense for there to be a pair of diggers,” Lean added. “After all, they left two augers at the end of the tunnel they used to get into the tailor’s basement. No tunnels into this place.”

Grey nodded. “In that instance they left their tools belowground so as not to be noticed leaving the place. But here, with the overhead building abandoned, they could come and go under cover of darkness without having to worry about being seen.”

“Only vagrants and neighborhood kids ever came here anyway, and not even them since Cosgrove’s ashy corpse was found above. Do you suppose that’s it? Putting the corpse here was a means to scare people off? So these fellows could go about their digging unseen?”

Grey stared at the ground beneath his feet while he pondered this. “It stands as the only clear motive for selecting this particular location to dump Cosgrove’s disinterred corpse. But, more important, why this location? What is it that they’re looking for underground here, and at the tailor shop?”

“There’s no connection to be seen between the two spots,” Lean said.

“Precisely: none to be seen. Each of the two sites is hidden underground.” Grey started pacing again. Now that he’d gleaned what information the earth would reveal about the men who’d left the footprints, there was no need for the cautious placing of his own steps such as when he’d first entered the cellar.

“What have you learned about the site of the tailor shop? The history of that property—what used to occupy that space?”

Lean gritted his teeth and scratched at his forehead with a thumbnail.

“You mean to say you haven’t pursued that glaringly obvious avenue?” Grey asked.

Lean could tell that Grey was struggling to limit the amount of disdain that came through in his voice. The truth of it was that he knew he should look into that very question but just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

“I’ve been busy with matters other than the seemingly pointless break-in to a dirt basement, one that resulted in nothing actually being
stolen. Cosgrove’s murder, for example. Besides, before seeing the digging repeated here, there was nothing to say that the tailor’s basement was particularly significant. Could have just been some bored kids with nothing better to do.” He regretted the last bit as soon as he said it.

Grey’s face took on an incredulous look. “Kids with nothing better to do than systematically drill holes throughout a dark rat hole of a cellar? Just how bored do you think this pair of anonymous scamps is, Lean?”

The deputy put on a straight face, as if seriously considering Grey’s barb. “Just so you know, the neighborhood boys and I would often pass a fine summer’s day, shovels in hand, crouched low in some root cellar, digging holes for no good reason. Great, wholesome fun, as I remember it.”

A short chuckle escaped Grey before he regained his composure. “What I’d prefer you to remember is that the exact site of a crime, the ground upon which it is actually committed, can inform the motive for the crime. As you certainly know from personal experience.”

“Just because that was true in one instance doesn’t mean I’m to assume it’ll be true in another case entirely.” Lean saw that Grey was about to say something further when a memory of one of Grey’s earlier, and slightly patronizing, lectures on criminal investigation flashed into Lean’s mind. The deputy raised a finger, punctuating the air.

“After all,” Lean added, “aren’t you the man who once warned me not to allow myself to be ruled by preconceived notions? Careless comments or even memories of similar crimes can infiltrate the mind and plant seeds of what you expect the solution to be. They take hold and strangle out other, newer, better theories.”

“Yes, preconceived notions are to be guarded against—when
the evidence
provides no support for the presence of such a notion.” Grey spoke more slowly than usual, as if addressing a novice rather than one of Portland’s higher-ranked policemen. “However, that premise is not intended to blind you to the relevant evidence in a current investigation. Past experience will be a guide, not a distraction, if one always maintains a strict adherence to the evidence. And in the case of the tailor’s shop, the evidence shows that the trespassers went out of their way to avoid the location above street level. They had no interest in the
current building. It stands to reason they were there because of what used to be in that location. What did that ground hold in the past, before the Great Fire?”

“Fine, fine, you’ve made your point,” Lean said, then added in a low voice that was still meant to be heard, “After the fact, of course, when the discovery of a second, identical occurrence makes it all seem obvious.”

A
T THE END OF THE THIRTY-ODD-MINUTE RIDE NORTH FROM
Portland, Rasmus Hansen pulled the horse up to a stop at the edge of the dirt road. Other carriages were parked there, near the path that led off toward two buildings that made up the office and the cutting house of the Webster Granite Quarry. Grey stepped down from his seat and took in the scene. Off to one side was the quarry, where a thin haze of stone dust hovered above the massive pit. Apart from the dust, occasional shouts and the constant chiming clangs of metal on granite also littered the air.

“If you closed your eyes, you might think you were being called to church,” Rasmus said.

“You would be very much mistaken, I’m afraid,” Grey answered.

Grey moved ahead, following the path toward the building that served as the operation’s headquarters. He passed by several wagons hitched to teams of powerful draft horses. The loads consisted of rectangular slabs of granite longer than the men who’d cut them. Each one with wooden planks strapped on at the top and the upper sides, like a makeshift box cover, to prevent any unsightly chipping of edges during transport. Drivers and lumpers in dust-covered overalls and shirts milled about making various preparations for hauling and loading the blocks. Though it was not yet noon, the workers’ shirts were already wet through by the heat. Their broad-brimmed hats, worn to fend off the sun, showed old white salt stains across the foreheads.

Before Grey reached the building, the door opened and Jason Webster emerged and greeted him with a raised hand. Jason looked as if he should have been stepping out of a salon in the city. His slicked blond hair was topped by a white hat tilted at a rakish angle. He wore a
tan linen frock coat and light checked pants, as well as buttoned suede gloves.

“There you are, Grey. Nice to see you again. Though I wish it could have been under more pleasant circumstances.” Jason wrinkled his nose at the thick air and drew out a silk handkerchief, into which he offered a small, forced cough.

“Your brother seems to be a very busy man. He let me know how fortunate I should feel even to get a few minutes of his time here.”

“Oh, yes, he’s a terribly important person,” Jason announced in a lilting tone. “As he’ll no doubt remind you.”

As they talked, Grey became aware that the clanging had stopped. Several workers readying to go down into the quarry had paused in their tracks near the lip of the pit. One carried a hand plug drill, while others set down or even leaned on a variety of striking or bushing hammers, as if waiting for something.

“Fire in the hole!” shouted a distant voice. Seconds later a small explosion in the quarry sent a shudder through the ground that Grey felt up through his legs. A plume of brownish smoke rose from the pit.

“You and I could have met in the city, in a more relaxed location,” Grey said.

“Perhaps some other time, but for business Euripides insisted I meet you here. I don’t believe he trusts me to discuss the family’s personal or business matters outside of his earshot.” Jason chuckled, as if his elder brother’s low estimation of his tact and propriety didn’t offend him in the least.

“Besides,” the man continued, “the documents for the operating structure of the quarry require that, as a partner, I attend and oversee the works at least once a month. This visit of yours satisfies the bill.”

“The quarry’s a joint family business, then?” Grey asked.