Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (14 page)

Chapter Sixteen

He walked. His intention had been to find a quiet spot to do as the priest ordained, but once moving, he felt compelled onward. He paid little attention to where he was, following sidewalks and roads and paths around the city, up and down hills, skirting construction and ditches whenever he came upon them. He allowed himself just two thoughts, two scenarios, and he alternated between them, paying attention to his physical reaction.

The first scenario, life without the Church, enveloped him with a feeling of disorientation akin to his intermittent vertigo. This knotted his gut, tightened his chest, and made him feel as if the road were a tightrope.

The second scenario, life without Missouri, enveloped him in melancholy. His energy vanished, panic vanished, all feeling vanished. His steps turned plodding, and he knew with certainty he became the definition of dour.

One reaction was not sustainable, the other he had lived for a decade. It was familiar. Hated, but familiar. He looked up and around, and saw that he was on Broadway. His legs were taking him home. He arrived at 1204 Gallagher with aching feet and a decision. It was a relief to know what he was going to do. It was like coming home again, to himself, after a terrible bout of insanity. And perhaps that’s what it had been.

He’d been insane to think he could traipse through life in blissful uncertainty. For him, uncertainty meant panic. He was a man who required structure to his day, to his thoughts, and to his beliefs. It was enough for him that he set a portion of his mind, the scientific portion, free to explore possibilities, disregarding presumptions, assumptions, and established facts, in order to delve into the future of invention and into his investigations. But to have his entire life be in such a state? No. Impossible. Not just for him, but for his son. Children needed guidance and structure, as the priest said. Someday, Justin might question certain aspects of life, perhaps even his religion, but he would do so from a position of stability. One step at a time. Not hurled off a cliff into an abyss.

He had no appetite, but maybe the priest had forgotten to tell him he would experience a period of mourning upon his decision. He thought of the diamond ring locked away in his wall safe at the office. It would have to stay there for now as a reminder of his moment of giddy madness. The ghost of Vernon Doyle had much to answer for, but all of Seattle would not be seeing Bradshaw dancing down Broadway come Christmas morning.

He opened his gate and marched up to his porch, determined to put his mind fully on his case. He would not crawl in a hole or go back to bed. He retrieved the sample of Mrs. Adkins’ sewing and brought it to the kitchen to show Mrs. Prouty. She was in the beginning stages of her holiday preparations. From now until Epiphany, when she wasn’t cleaning or decorating, she would be cooking and baking as if their household consisted of an army and their visitors far greater in number. He was always grateful that her skills with foods that were sweet or spiced were far better than her recipes for fresh vegetables, which she tended to boil to death. Anything that required delicacy lost tenderness and texture to her heavy touch, but Bradshaw never had the heart to complain. Today it was to be candy—butterscotch, molasses, and peanut, from the looks of the tins and jars on the table. She loved the season, frequently sang carols as she worked, and glowed as she presented her concoctions. She was now at the sink, washing up the large bowls she used for mixing while humming “I Saw Three Ships.”

When Bradshaw asked for her opinion on Mrs. Adkins’ handiwork, she wiped her hands, put on her reading spectacles, and held the cuff in the light of the window.

“Pshaw,” she said.

“Not good?”

“Well, not very good. Not bad enough for most men to notice, but it’s nothing to go boasting about.”

“She has a reputation for inseams and cuffs, I’m told. Customers ask for her.”

Mrs. Prouty lowered her spectacles to the tip of her nose and looked over them at him. “Male customers?”

“Primarily, yes.”

“Well, there you are.”

“Where am I?”

“She’s offering more than stitching.”

“I thought that may be the case, but not in the usual way.”

“If there’s a new way, I don’t care to hear about it.”

“I mean, I believe money may not be the medium of exchange. She is known to enjoy going out to restaurants and theaters and the like.”

“Where is Mr. Adkins?”

“Often out on a fishing vessel. She has no children.”

“Henry will likely get the sordid details. What has this to do with your case? Did she kill the electrician?” She handed him back the cuff, pocketed her spectacles, and returned to her washing.

“She was seen with him at a hotel. She’s a suspect, but she claimed she was home alone the night Doyle died.”

“You don’t sound too keen on her being your killer.”

“I’m not keen on anybody. That’s the problem.”

He sat at the table, staring at the patterns in the oak, unable to summon the energy to move. The sounds of Mrs. Prouty’s washing blended with the ticking of the wall clock and the soft simmering of the kettle on the stove.

A steaming mug of Postum appeared before him, and Mrs. Prouty laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You saw your priest this morning,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“And you didn’t get the news you’d hoped for. I’m sorry, Professor, but—”

He silenced her with a look. He did not want to hear her say it was for the best, that it was not meant to be. He was not a proponent of difficulties being blessings in disguise or pain being part of some divine master plan or test of faith. And no, he’d not developed this attitude because of Missouri and her freethinking ways but from his own bitter experience with life. If it differed from the Catholic Church, so be it. Father McGuinness could not blame all of Bradshaw’s heretical ideas on Missouri Fremont.

The telephone rang, and he got determinedly to his feet and marched down the hall.

“Professor Bradshaw speaking.”

“It’s O’Brien. Henry is here at the station. We have a lead on Tycoon Tommy, the second-story man. Meet us at Maddock’s office. We’re on our way.”

***

He arrived at the Globe Building in time to see a pair of uniformed patrolmen emerge with a handcuffed auburn-haired man in a fine tailored suit. The patrolmen greeted him, and he asked if he might see the back of their prisoner’s hands. The cuffs were none too gently gripped, and a pair of freckled hands presented.

Bradshaw lifted his gaze to the prisoner’s green eyes, which gleamed with amusement. He thought of Mrs. Doyle lying in Seattle General, fighting for her life. He thought of the look of fear on his son’s face when he realized a burglar had been in his room. He was not a proponent of police violence, but he did hope the cuffs hurt.

“Thank you,” he said to the patrolmen, and they tugged on the cuffs, moving their prisoner down the street. The police possessed but one patrol wagon, and transporting a mobile prisoner was not a priority for its use. He would be walked the six blocks to the station.

Detective O’Brien and Henry emerged with J. D. Maddock, who was not in cuffs, but was looking distinctly annoyed.

“We’re heading down to headquarters for a chat,” O’Brien said lightly, but the look he gave Bradshaw told him events had not unfolded as he had hoped.

Maddock didn’t argue. He held his mouth tight, practicing his Fifth Amendment right. His drooping eye looked to be plotting another lawsuit.

O’Brien said, “Sorry you missed the excitement, Ben. Henry will give you the scoop.” He turned to Maddock and grinned. “Let’s catch this car.” He sprinted into the road to hop aboard the Madison cable car, forcing Maddock to scramble after him. O’Brien would likely be even more daring than usual as he hopped the cars, weaving them to Third and Yesler, in hopes of arriving at the police station with Maddock’s reserve sufficiently rattled.

Bradshaw looked at Henry. “Well?”

“I’ll tell you as we walk. You need to go to the Bon.” They turned north, eschewing the cars in order to talk more freely. “O’Brien wants you to nail down that shoe salesman. Neither of us can find a thing to back up his claim. We think he’s got something against Olafson. He could be bitter against getting passed over for promotion, but if he doesn’t recant or continues with the gossip, he’ll ruin Olafson and young Billy, too. If O’Brien challenges him, he says it’s got to go in his notebook and I take it that means it becomes official police business. Do you want me with you? Help put the scare in him?”

“No. I’ve got it.” He needed no help today finding sufficient anger. “Tell me about what just happened. Did Maddock hire Tycoon Tommy?”

“Hard to tell. I told O’Brien about Tommy and he knew right away who he was, but hadn’t known about his habit of writing luring letters so hadn’t connected him to the burglary at your house and the Doyle place. I’d no sooner got to the station, when the patrolman on duty near the Considine made his regular report from the call box on Yesler and said he’d just spotted Tommy, dressed dapper as usual, whistling a tune and carrying a package, so O’Brien told the patrolman to follow him, and he did, to Maddock’s. That’s when O’Brien called you and we set out. I’ve got one of your microphones on me.” Henry patted his coat. “We were gonna try to listen in, but it was all over by the time we got there, Tommy was coming out and he still had the package.”

“What was in it?”

They found themselves unable to move, heading upstream against a tide of women intent on shopping, burdened with straggling young children, or baby buggies, or packages too precious to have delivered home. They stepped into the street, preferring to dodge horse droppings and freight wagons.

Henry said, “Daulton’s journal was in that package, one of your cigar boxes with melted sulfur, and two lousy sketches that looked like a drunk did ’em. Figure those were Doyle’s.”

“That’s all?”

“What’s missing?”

“One more cigar box and several of Doyle’s better drawings.”

“Maddock let O’Brien search his office, and the patrolman said Tommy and Maddock never left it. It doesn’t look like a deal was made. Tommy claims he found the stuff in an alley behind the Considine, and being a businessman who keeps up with the news, he suspected the items might be of some value to Edison’s representative.”

“And Maddock?”

“He said he smelled a rat and refused to deal with him, declared that’s all he had to say, then called his lawyer. The secretary with the sourpuss and tight bun said Tommy refused to let Maddock examine anything without up-front payment, and Maddock refused to buy a pig in a poke.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Miss Sourpuss didn’t strike me as being the protect-the-boss type. If that’s how it went down, then maybe Tommy was acting on his own and it backfired. O’Brien will get that kid who saw Mrs. Prouty’s letter being typed to look at Tommy’s hands. Not that it’ll prove anything in court, but he’s all the eyewitness we’ve got. Tommy was found with stolen property, so O’Brien can charge and hold him. He’s at least off the streets until we get this case sorted out.”

If they ever got it sorted out. Everything about this case was connected but only tangentially, indirectly, obscurely. Was it that obscurity that kept his instincts from kicking in? They’d unearthed deceit and theft and sordid behavior, but all their efforts had brought them no closer to naming a killer. These thoughts spun depressingly in his mind until Henry grabbed his arm and held fast. Bradshaw pulled himself from his thoughts and realized they’d arrived. They were across the street from the Bon. The windows glowed and twinkled with lights and merchandise, and the constant flow of customers kept the doorman busy.

“Henry, while I do this, find out who Mrs. Adkins has been seeing lately when her husband’s out of town. Mrs. Prouty said her stitching didn’t justify her reputation. She may be using her job here to meet men who will take her out on the town.”

Henry put his nose in the air and said haughtily, “I did not know Mrs. Prouty’s good clean mind could harbor such thoughts. I shall start with Mr. Smith, with whom Mrs. Adkins recently shared a room at the Washington.”

“Maybe the hotel staff will know his real name. They knew Doyle’s.”

Henry shrugged and resumed his usual manner. “Maybe it’s really Smith this time.”

“For your sake, I hope not, there are eleven pages of them in the city directory.”

***

Mr. Olafson kindly offered his office for Bradshaw’s interview of Lewis Latimer, the shoe salesman, but Bradshaw declined.

“He may be more cooperative if I take him outside.”

Olafson’s eyes grew wide.

“He won’t be harmed, but I’m glad to know I look capable of it.”

***

Lewis Latimer was a mouse of a man. Normally, Bradshaw didn’t hold a man’s size against him, but in his current mood, and given the insinuations Latimer had been making, he wasn’t feeling affable. Latimer was small, beady-eyed, and his greasy black hair produced a powdering of white flakes on the collar of his dark coat.

“This is the busiest season of the year,” Latimer complained as he stepped out into the alley where Bradshaw stood waiting. “And it’s cold out here. Why can’t you say what you have to say inside?”

“Because the nature of our conversation is not suitable for indoors and I didn’t want Mr. Olafson to hear.”

Latimer scowled and looked away.

“A matter came to light during our recent investigation into Vernon Doyle’s death, and it’s now time to move forward with prosecution. I’ll need names and dates and all the sordid details.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor. And what’s this got to do with you? Weren’t you here just to see about the electricity?”

“You confided in Detective O’Brien that you know Ivar Olafson to be a man of unnatural perversions.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Come now, he can’t hear us. That’s why we’re out here. I must warn you that you will be called to testify. It is obviously your moral obligation to protect the children employed by the Bon Marché.”

“Now hold on there, I never said I was willing to testify.”