Not Quite Dead (14 page)

While clergymen smoothed the ruffled feathers of their terrorized flock, policemen were urgently needed to calm the secular population; to maintain order in the streets and to provide reassuring copy to
The Inquirer
,
The Gazette, The Woman’s Advocate
, thereby to mollify outside speculators who might put their money elsewhere.

The predicament was mightily complicated by Philadelphia County itself—a series of semi-independent boroughs, each with its own council and bylaws. There existed no officer with a mandate to deal with threats that crossed constituencies. That is why Mayor Swift, at the fag end of his term, and with little support from the county bureaucracy, created the post of inspector.

To date, Shadduck had no physical headquarters, no precise duties, and most galling of all, no uniform. As a militiaman and a soldier for most of his life, he felt out of whack in mufti. This prompted his adaptation of his dragoon kit, with the shoulder patches removed and the chest piece replaced by a six-pointed constable’s star, made of copper and containing the state seal. It later came out that his effort at so distinguishing himself had caused shock and scorn among his colleagues, but it was a price worth paying for the sake of his own morale.

To his own surprise, in the first months of service Shadduck discovered within himself an unanticipated interest in policework. His mind cottoned mightily to the task of gathering facts, arranging them into a plausible tale, then testing a prediction, like a scientist and a swami combined.

At a minimum, it gave him something to think about beyond the headaches, a constant companion since the war.

At Monterey, while he crouched behind a line of flying artillery awaiting the order, a bullet from a comrade’s .577 Enfield glanced off his skull, putting a hairless stripe in his scalp. The shot knocked him unconscious and later he found that it had affected his thinking in small but disturbing ways. Besides the headaches, he had difficulty putting a name to colors, and would sometimes say one word when he meant another, especially when angry or confused.

Happily, his injury had had no effect on his ability to cogitate. Having no description of his job and no approved procedure to follow, Shadduck’s approach to the problem of gangs and rioting was to mimic the innovations of other police forces. He persuaded the commissioner to use paid informants as they had in Boston, so that they might nab ringleaders beforehand on some pretext. As for the riots themselves, he imitated Chicago and Detroit, with their wagons of flying strong-arm squads, who sped to the scene, waded into the crowd with their batons, and proceeded to break heads until the crowd became discouraged. Having no force at his disposal within official circles, he took to employing thugs for this purpose, which raised more hackles in the constabulary.

Nonetheless, these tactics had produced sufficient reassurance among the public that Shadduck now stood in line for the position of commissioner—if he survived the next few months. On the other hand, Philadelphia was now teeming with veterans of the Mexican War eager for his job, not to mention an endless tide of foreigners, with pocketbooks of false credentials and a two-hundred-dollar contribution to the candidate of their choice.

And now this mess. Just the sort of thing to ignite public hysteria, it was only a matter of time before the call went out for a sacrificial goat.

Meanwhile, the press had gone completely out of control. With a new publication surfacing every month or so, there was simply too much appetite for sensation to hold a lid on something like this.

Shadduck was at the crux, the pinch of the game. To survive, he was going to have to puzzle out who did it, or find an acceptable explanation.

In this effort he would require the support of Councilman Grisse, the closest thing he had to an ally now that Commissioner Clark had resigned in disgrace. Shadduck disliked the councilman, but when
you are about to fall off a cliff, that is no time to quibble over a helping hand.

It occurred to him that the crime might actually prove useful if it distracted the press from the riots at the ironworks, which were breaking out with the regularity of a steam clock. For once, here was something for reporters to chew on that had no political significance. To get the ball rolling, Shadduck planned to drop a hint to a reporter with
The Inquirer
, that the murder may have been a product of jealousy, revenge, cannibalism—anything to keep the Irish and the Negroes out of it.

But where to begin?

Shadduck turned to face his two coppers, former Leatherheads and as thick as gobs of mud, gazing moon-eyed at the carnage. “Do we have an, an inclusion, rather an inventory, of body parts?” he asked, as though it were a munitions tally.

“Not really, sir,” answered Smit, for the thought of counting something had not occurred to him.

“Do so. Coutts, you are to secure a notebook. Take down everything

I say.”

“I’m naw secretary, sir,” said the copper, who was from Herefordshire. “I can naw do shorthand. I can naw write at aw.”

“What of you, Smit? Can you put a pencil to paper and make words?”

“Somewhat so,” replied the punctilious Smit, who was Norwegian and almost willfully unimaginative.

“In future, everything is to be writ down. In order. For later use.”

“Wery good. And who will pay for my notebook and pencil? Already it is out fifteen cents, I am.”

Shadduck resisted an urge to stamp on the copper’s foot. “Requisition writing supplies from riot patrol, they are always making lists.”

Remain logical, that is the ticket
, thought the inspector as he shuffled about the room, somewhat more stooped than usual, hands clenched in the small of his back.

“Fellers, take a gander at the mutilation of the victim. The body bears every sign of having been torn apart in a rage. A wolverine might have done it. Yet the murderers made sure we wasted no time in identification.”

His two assistants said nothing, because they understood none of it.

With a gesture of his cigar, Shadduck indicated a set of hanging shelves in a corner on which rested the severed head of Henry Topham, of Topham & Lea, the most prominent publisher in the city, like an objet d’art.

“See how the eyes are missing,” he said. “But not in the way of a raven. A raven will pluck out the eyes of a cow as preparation for dinner. Here they were taken neatly from their sockets. See also that the teeth have been pulled …”

Coutts excused himself. Shadduck paused while the copper went outside for a drink of water.

Uppermost in the inspector’s mind was the thought that the victim was in publishing. The book business! If Henry Topham were mixed into any other racket in Philadelphia, Shadduck might have devised a theory by which a colleague or a rival might do for him in such a way— But a
publisher?

“What do you reckon?” he asked Smit, without in the least expecting an answer. “Who might murder a publisher in such fashion? A failed writer in a pucker over the rejection of his life’s work? A dispute over a payment of royalty?” By the expression on Smit’s cubic face, even to him it made a weak incentive for such an act.

“Or consider,” continued Shadduck, “that the murder might have dirt to do with business. That the answer rests in Mr. Topham’s private affairs.”

Coutts, looking wan, returned from the street to resume his tally of flesh and bone.

“Observe the decor of the room, Smit,” said the inspector. “What do you make of it?”

“It is expensive,” offered Smit.

“Note—what would you call it—a
quality
to the furnishings. What word would you put to it?”

“Like a whorehouse,” said Smit.

“My word exactly. Mr. Topham was a bachelor. Did he lead a private life that, by, er, some, some … well, that is to say, some
sequence of events
…” Shadduck worried when he had trouble finding words.

“Sequence of events?” replied Smit, not eager to explore the subject.

Shadduck stood opposite the lantern-jawed Norwegian; the eyes had the comprehension of a cart hoss. “Smit, I want you to find out where the victim has been. What he has been up to. Consult our informants in
the free-and-easies along the river, and ask among the Irish. And write it all down. I want a full report.”

“Sure, and what am I to ask them for?” asked Smit.

Shadduck sighed deeply. A cart hoss, with blinkers on. No wonder the Norse were known for their toleration—they see so little in the first place.

Interrupted Coutts: “If ye’d care to see, Inspector, I noted something just at this here moment, sir.”

“What is it, Mr. Coutts? Something about the color red?”

“No sir, it is the man’s shins.”

“The shins?”

“There’s naw any. They been hacked off and taken.”

“How the heck have you come to that conclusion?”

“Me uncle were a butcher, would take me on in busy season. Ye learn to see the animal as the sum o’ the parts, so to speak—see? There be the upper leg and knee, there be the feet—but there be naw shin between ‘em, don’t you know? Yet the arm bones is intact. It beggars understanding what might possess a man to cut a man’s legs off and take them away. What might he do with them?”

“He might sell them,” replied the inspector.

The Editors
The New York Tribune
Philadelphia

Gentlemen
,

Allow me to commend your writer Mr. “Lionel” on his obituary of the late Edgar Allan Poe, for it outdoes in malignancy and injustice all that its author dared to inflict upon Mr Poe during his lifetime
.

By “Lionel,” I refer of course to the Reverend Rufus Griswold, who seems to believe that by hiding beneath a pseudonym he can bear false witness against his neighbor without penalty to his immortal soul
.

It is common currency among literary circles that Mr. Griswold’s hatred for Mr. Poe arises from the latter’s refusal of a bribe offered to puff Mr. Griswold’s anthology
.

Out of charity, this writer prefers to excuse Mr. Griswold on the same grounds that Mr. Griswold explains the work of Mr. Poe: that these are the symptoms of a sick man
,
for which he cannot be wholly blamed
.

I refer to the generally known fact that Mr. Griswold is a consumptive
,
a disease he contracted years ago in France, resulting in bleeding at the lungs, weakened eyesight, and a weakened mind
—
symptoms Mr. Poe would well recognize, having lost his beloved wife to the same disease
.

For years Mr. Griswold has attempted to foist his bitter future upon the living. Now it seems that his malice and envy extends even beyond the grave
.

Truly yours,
R. A. Perry, Esq
.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

Baltimore

I
read the rebuttal, which had been reprinted in the
Baltimore Sun
, and another penny dropped. It was now obvious that Eddies staged death had less to do with newspaper clippings and teeth, and more to do with the desire on the part of an artist to revenge himself upon his critics. It seemed sickeningly clear that Eddie would continue to do so until he was discovered and I was ruined.

In the meantime, how did he expect to earn a living, when he had scarcely been able to do so as one of the most famous authors in America? Then I remembered his mention of a “commitment”—a job of work he found distasteful but remunerative. Clearly he had something in reserve—another, less high-flown means of making a living as a writer.

One thing seemed clear: It was most urgent that I find Eddie and stop him from pursuing his present course. By wringing his neck, if necessary.

Mrs. Elmira Shelton (nee Royster)
Exchange Hotel
City of Baltimore

Dear Mrs. Shelton
,
I trust that I am not out of order in introducing myself, absent of a living intermediary. I am Dr. William Chivers, formerly of Norfolk
,
where I believe we occupied the same classroom as schoolmates of the late Edgar Allan Poe
.

I was very surprised to see you at the interment of our mutual friend yesterday afternoon. I would be grateful if you were able to take tea as my guest, tomorrow afternoon
.

Yours in remembrance
,
Dr. William Chivers
Washington College Hospital
City of Baltimore

Love
,
n
. A temporary insanity curable by marriage.

—Ambrose Bierce

I
DO NOT
know if Elmira Royster was a woman that other men would find attractive. Though she had skin of a pleasing color and consistency, her nose was far from classically straight. Her lips, though delicate, were not entirely symmetrical, but set in what appeared to be a faint, lopsided half-smile. As for her form, there was no telling what lay beneath all those layers of silk and linen. Nonetheless, from the moment we met across the linen tablecloth at the Exchange Hotel, I viewed Elmira Royster through a haze of imagined copulation.