Seattle Noir (21 page)
Skippy turned pale. “Autry?”
Mel nodded gravely. “There was an escape clause. Something about a change in your appearance being grounds for nullifying the contract.” Mel sighed.
Skippy began sobbing.
Mel said, ”What you need, sport, is a cocktail. Now, come on inside, let me fix you a daiquiri. And if it’s any comfort, we already have enough stashed away for retirement. The world is not coming to an end.”
Skippy turned and ran out of the driveway. He ran all the way to Joy’s house. Joy met him in the front yard. A hose in Joy’s hand sprayed water on her geranium bed. Joy’s long feet were bare and her hair had new extensions. She leaned down and kissed Skippy’s cheek, and the first thing she said was, “Skips, are you wearing those platform shoes again?”
“What makes you say that?”
Joy wrinkled her nose, looked him up and down. “You seem taller.” She stood beside him and compared Skippy’s height to hers. “Yep,” she declared finally. “You’re growing, Skips.”
Skippy cursed and, pushing Joy aside, stormed into her house, raided the liquor cabinet, and locked the gin and himself in her bedroom. Joy heard the door slam and the lock snap into place.
At 10 p.m., Joy finally managed to convince Skippy through the barricades that under no circumstances would she spend the night on her own living room couch. Skippy unlocked the door. Once inside, Joy cleverly displayed her still-considerable charms and Skippy soon succumbed. Just for old time’s sake. Around midnight, loud voices in the foyer interrupted them. Joy lit a cigarette and said, “Amy’s got a new tattoo.”
“So?”
Joy drew on the cigarette, watched it burn. “It’s on her tush,” she murmured, but Skippy wasn’t listening. His bright eyes darted in the semidarkness, faster and faster, until Joy quipped, “Skips, you’re plotting again. I can tell.”
That night, Skippy Smathers hung himself from the chandelier in his bedroom.
VI
On opening night, Mel the Diminutive Man played the lead in
Standing Tall
, played it deftly, with brilliance and flair. Critics praised Mel’s grace in the face of losing his friend, Mel’s courage in walking the Great White Way for Skippy Smathers. In the wink of an eye and at long last, Mel’s star skyrocketed.
He was in the backseat of a limo, coming home from the airport. He was alone because, besides the late Skippy Smathers, he didn’t have any friends. Not the kind you’d want to be seen with in public anyway, with all the Hollywood kleig lights on full blast. Mel was drinking the whole split by himself and basking in his celebrity when suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of Skippy’s walking cane.
The house in God’s Chosen Neighborhood seemed inadequate, pathetic, really, no place for a meteoric star like Mel. At long last he would move to L.A. Maybe snap up that cool house he’d always coveted on Mulholland Drive. The orchids would love it.
The limo’s headlights washed the patio. A car was parked in the driveway. Mel paid off the limo service and walked up the drive. Joy Smathers greeted him.
Joy was lounging on the patio chaise, reading a newspaper. When she saw Mel, she looked up and smiled. “Mel, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Joy stood up, folded the newspaper, and tucked it neatly under her arm.
Mel stared.
Joy’s smile twitched. “Why, Mel, aren’t you glad to see me?”
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“I wanted you to know.”
“What? Know what?”
“I figured out how you whittled Skippy’s walking cane down little by little. To make him think he was growing. When all the time his cane was getting shorter. It fooled everyone. Even me. You figured that sooner or later, what with Skippy’s fragile psyche, it would drive him over the edge. Sooner or later Skippy would despair, maybe commit suicide. That was your plan, wasn’t it, Mel?”
“What are you… ?”
As if suddenly inspired, Joy blurted, “Did you know that Captain Vancouver named Magnolia Bluff erroneously?”
Mel shook his head.
“Aren’t you curious why he did?”
“No.”
Ignoring him, Joy explained: “Captain Vancouver discovered this part of the world, you know. And he hated everything about it. Hated the rain and the fog and the Indians… I’ll bet he hated dwarfs too.”
“Make your point.”
“Because Captain Vancouver mistook the bluff’s madrona trees for magnolia trees.” Joy broke into a wide smile. “It all comes down to wood, doesn’t it, Mel?”
Mel placed a hand to his forehead.
“This might interest the media,” said Joy. “Or the gossip columnists. I mean, about these cherrywood shavings I found in your orchid plants. Oh, I almost forgot to mention…”
“Can it, Joy.”
Joy shuffled around, a tap dancer at heart, then froze. “To be frank, Mel, it mortifies me to catch you doing something so despicable.”
Sweat bathed Mel’s brow.
Joy said, “See, I took the rubber cup off the bottom of Skippy’s cane. And I saw. It’s locked up in a safe place now. I mean Skips’s cane. Or what’s left of it. See, I figured out what happened underneath that little rubber cup—”
Mel came at Joy, but swift Joy produced another talisman that drew him up short: the
Seattle Times
, tomorrow’s early edition. Joy had folded the front page to emphasize a small headline:
Second Autopsy Reveals Star Dwarf Smathers Was Growing.
Skippy’s photograph accompanied the story.
Joy touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what she was going to say. From her regular-sized heart.
“If only you’d been patient, Mel. If only you hadn’t whittled down his cane. See, I talked to Skippy’s doctor and figured it all out. You didn’t believe him, but something had gone wacky with his pituitary gland. It sometimes happens to a dwarf, you know. So the tightrope had already been greased.” Joy smiled ever so gently. “You didn’t need to push him.” Joy stretched to her full height, reached down, and plucked Mel’s house keys from his trembling hand.
“Come,” said the woman in control of Mel’s destiny, “let’s go indoors and decide on a price for this sweet little Dahl house. I think we should put an offer on the Pierce-Arrow estate, don’t you?”
I
t was a quixotic message carved into the side of one of his cows that drew Sherlock Holmes from his farm in Sussex, England to Seattle. The cow tended to move during the carving, so I had removed its head. The carving read:
Jacob Moriarity.
I’d rigged the cow to explode upon examination, but having faith in Mr. Holmes, I knew he’d not only survive, but would eventually dissect the cow to find a somewhat wet edition of the
Seattle Daily News
.
Of the several newsagents I had perused in America, the
Seattle Daily News
possessed the most colorful attention to lurid details.
Within the pages there appeared pictures of bewildered policemen and well-to-do couples dressed in morbidity and curiosity. The over-bright exposures of the corpses provided a nice touch. Given both the allusions to the supernatural and the country’s fascination with Ouija boards and charlatans, I thought the piece more than worthy.
Confederate Colonel Seeks Revenge!
Seattle police are urging the good citizens of the city to stay indoors after dark. A killer, with a more voracious appetite than this writer’s Aunt Cecile, has been dining, quite literally, on the citizens of Seattle. No one is saying so officially, but several witnesses report seeing a ghostly figure, dressed in full Confederate uniform, fleeing the alleyway behind John McMaster’s store on Oak. A partly devoured body was found there the next morning by Oliver Prindle in his disreputable milk wagon. On the evening of February 4, a similar occurrence was reported, nearly a mile away on 1st Street behind the livery stables. Again, the Confederate ghost was observed hiding like a dog in the shadows. The body found there wasn’t whole either; it was missing both legs! From what your trusty reporter has discovered, similar murders occurred earlier in the year. But we, The Public, were not informed of these heinous crimes by our city policemen.
What do you suppose Mr. Sherlock Holmes did after drying off the article and reading it? I imagine he clamped his teeth around his pipe stem, nearly biting it in two. Coarse language would have been on the tip of his tongue, but being the Victorian gentleman, I assume he refrained. The name Moriarity was enough to ruin his digestion for days. Not to mention the cow’s.
But to business. Within a day, he would have used his dunces at Scotland Yard to gather information on the Seattle killings. He would have heard of the useless efforts to catch the killer. How many policemen would enjoy chasing fanatical ghosts? One in ten? Three in fifty?
Certainly within the next two days he assembled various disguises, acquired a quantity of cocaine for the road, and headed off to the docks in Liverpool. Once there, he would have boarded a ship bound for New York. He doubtless inquired about recent departures for America, and then spent an inordinate amount of time in his cabin pouring over the manifests of other ships. He also would have brought along all his files on John Moriarity, his arch enemy. To be sure: in some dark and filthy corner of his mind he could admit to himself his crimes! He had pushed my brother over the Reichenbach Falls to his death (it was
not
suicide, Mr. Holmes!).
The celebrated sleuth would then have turned his attention to the other family members.
Would there be a photograph of me? Perhaps the American authorities in Boston (that hellhole) could find one. But the best likeness could be found in Moriarity’s effects, if Sherlock Holmes cared to investigate. He would hear of my early genius (a doctor by the age of twenty) and the jealous comments concerning my experiments. The mystery of my public disappearance should tantalize him like the scent of an unseen wisp of tobacco.
Finally, on a stormy day in March 1889, the afternoon train steamed into the station on Railroad Avenue, bearing confidence men, Bible-thumping preachers, prostitutes, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
I almost missed him. For years, I had been aware of his finesse at disguise and mimicry. Once, I’d seen him masquerade as a woman, albeit a rotund woman. And I’d of course heard of his famous frolic of impersonating a dance hall performer. Sometimes I wish I’d spent a more active role in tracking the man. But back to the story—I will try to avoid further digressions.
Propped against the wall just to the right of the ticket counter, I held the
Daily News
in front of my face. Like one of the casualties of the recent Indian wars of the West, I appeared to be missing a leg and the will to live. Occasionally I would groan to demonstrate my pain. A tin cup before me awaited donations.
Thin slits in the paper, between an advertisement for Murberger’s Hair Oil and an anatomically incorrect article on gout, allowed me to track Mr. Holmes as he meticulously made his way across the crowded boards toward the street. My, what an impressive disguise. I whistled an aria under my breath, ascending and descending in minor keys. Celebration, celebration! The cymbals clamored and the violins rejoiced. My prey passed by so close, I could have gripped his ankle. While the music whispered within me, I admired his disguise.
In a bushy white wig and matching Mark Twain eyebrows, Holmes shuffled along tapping a gold-tipped cane from side to side. He peered through thick spectacles as if examining the ground for ants.
Music, sweet music. There, he has bought a newspaper.
I crawled around the corner of the building. To the consternation of several prim citizens, I reversed my coat and put both legs into their respective pant legs, then hurried to the street. Following Mr. Sherlock Holmes to his new lodgings would be exquisite. I brought him here, after all.
As I strode by, Holmes tucked the newspaper under his arm. The headline blared:
Prohibitionist Mary Jones Cartright Latest Cannibal Victim!
Holmes hailed a cab. I faded into the crowd and watched until his carriage rounded the next corner.
Would he read of last evening first? A most logical killing it was.
Insanity and music. How many times have I heard that refrain?
Music is a rainbow of color born of undeniable honesty. Have you ever bathed in a melody that caressed your senses until your skin tingled and you forgot to breathe? The music would release you, each tone fluttering, alive. The notes would bow, complimenting each other, joining in a blood tie of temporary harmony. In playful ecstasy or destructively lyrical, the notes have substance. Whenever the music demands, I obey.
It rained heavily that night, drenching me in anticipation. The raindrops fell like bullets in a fast staccato, drowning out the boulevard traffic. But in the alley behind the Orpheum Theatre, the music could still be heard.
Minor keys bled aloud, speaking of human misery. Each time the notes would tremble and wail, I felt their pain, always connecting, never holding.
The air held a winter chill that seemed alive in its own right. I leaned against the dirty wall and waited. Steam rose from the heating grates. Rats with hot eyes scurried for dry places while the blues wallowed in the darkness, asking me to stop the pain.
The woman entered the alley like a cat sniffing cream. Her steps hesitant, she drew closer. When she saw me, the caution vanished. Mary Jones Cartright, angel to the downtrodden, had spent years working with the whores and demented relics of the war. The music lamented with impatience. Soon, she stood before me smelling faintly of roses.
Without a word, I obeyed, thrusting the knife upwards, carefully avoiding the kidneys and liver. Drink had never passed her pristine lips.
Into the dark passages the music rushed, sinuously sliding and scheming, violating the walls of reason.
I heard a saxophone bleat from a saloon across the street.
Yes, I accept applause.
The next morning dawned blurry, like peering through a veil of snow that would never melt. I wallowed in the luxury of knowing that time had conspired to bring my emotions and desires to this day. If I knew my brother’s nemesis, he would be awake. Heavens! He might even be afoot already.
I arrived too late at the Tate Hotel. A tall man in a disreputable tweed coat and reeking of pipe tobacco had hailed a carriage not five minutes ago. Holmes had assumed his natural appearance, although the doorman did not know it as such.
“Which direction did he go?” I asked, with a coin visible between my fingers.
The doorman snatched it away, flipping it into the air. “You mean the hop-head old Limey? He told the cabbie to take him to the Orpheum.”
Ah. I dropped an extra coin between his shoes and disappeared.
From the other side of the brick wall, I could see the top of Orpheum’s sign. With peeling paint and broken windows, the theater looked as frayed as an elderly dance hall queen in the light of early morning. I lay still, able to hear quite clearly the conversation from the other side of the wall.
“…Certainly I did, Mr. Holmes. The chief heard from the mayor too. Bless his heart.”
Sounds of footsteps, then a match scratched the bricks and lit. The smell of sulfur is pleasant in the morning.
“Sergeant Gordon?” Holmes asked. The man must have nodded, because he continued, “In the envelope in your pocket, you’ll read of my credentials. You’ll also read why we are most likely not dealing with a cannibal.” His voice turned disdainful. “No matter how romantic the thought.”
“I’ve read them,” came Gordon’s grudging reply.
A cockroach crawled from an empty tin in the refuse at my feet. When it reached the ground, I plucked it like a blueberry. Did you know their legs tickle and wiggle all the way down?
Holmes’s voice sounded dry as he continued: “Moriarity is dead. But his brother is not. Jacob Moriarity is a highly trained scientist. He has lived in Seattle for years. Are you aware of that, sergeant?”
“Humph. I’ll take yer word for it. We’ve never collared him for anything.”
I could imagine Holmes’s shrug as he answered, “I doubt that he will give you a chance. He is… By the way, would you be so kind as to ask your men not to trample the area leading to the doorway there?”
“Why?”
“Footprints.”
I smiled and the music soared. Holmes was taking the bait perfectly.
Gordon grumbled, “Maybe so. I’m not so convinced that tells you anything.”
“Tell me about the victims. Specifically their backgrounds,” Holmes requested.
In the pause that followed, I could hear the traffic from the street, the squeaking wheels of the carts, and clop of horses’ hooves.
“What are you doing there, Mr. Holmes?” Gordon asked.
“Examining the body. The other victims?” Holmes prompted.
“Well,” Gordon hesitated, or perhaps he was just observing the great detective. Either way, it was a careful moment before he spoke. “There’s been two college boys. One local, strong as an ox. Captain of the track team—”
“If I remember correctly, his legs were missing?” Holmes interrupted.
“They were, and half his ass too.”
“Ah ha!” Holmes exclaimed quietly. I could barely hear him as he said, “Give me that bag, would you?”
“Here. What is it?”
“A clue,” Holmes replied, probably to Gordon’s consternation. Holmes added, “It’s half of a pay bill from Fisher’s Butcher Shop.” He grunted. “Where is that establishment located?”
“Southwest of here, over by the docks.”
“Interesting,” Holmes murmured.
Gordon retorted, “I am sure it is to you, Mr. Holmes.” After a moment, he added, “I’m more interested in where our fool photographer has got to.” I heard Gordon walk up the alley a few steps, then return in time to hear Holmes’s remark.
“No matter. The body speaks, as it were, from the grave.”
“Pardon me?”
“Observe,” Holmes said. “No, don’t block the light… There.”
“All I see is where an animal tore this woman’s guts out.”
“It was not an animal. Look under this flap,” Holmes instructed. “Do you see the precise cuts? The liver and kidneys were removed. Surgically.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sergeant Gordon murmured.
“Perhaps,” Holmes commented.
I felt a brief flash of rage. Then the music soared once more; a beautiful distraction to dispel the anger.
Holmes continued: “He used something to tear the flesh and other organs, camouflaging the ones he removed.”
“I can see that now,” Gordon replied. “Like what you dig with in the garden?”
“Possibly. Hand me that bag, would you?”
“Never saw anyone really use a magnifying glass,” Gordon said. “What do you see?”
“Particles of rust. Excellent observation, sir. This could have been done by a garden claw,” Holmes said. “Now, I’ll hold back the flesh. The tweezers are in my pocket… Ah. Thank you.”
Silence. Then I heard them get to their feet.
“Satisfactory,” Holmes announced. “I want to go over the ground here. Would you be so good as to ask your men to obtain dirt samples from along the alley and the other side of this wall? Have them beware of footprints. I would like to know if he entered the alley any other way than from the street.”
I had deliberately dropped the other half of the pay bill from Fisher’s where I hoped a bleary-eyed copper would find it.
Following clues like a bloodhound with blinders, Sherlock Holmes entered the docks later that day.
I followed him, driving a coal cart and blending in with the neighborhood roughs. By the time he approached old Wayland Billings, chief gossip and drunk of the neighborhood, I had urged my nag into a trot and arrived before him.
Shoveling coal down the shoot next to Billings’s shack, I bent my ear to their conversation. Doubtless, the owners of the residence next to Billings would feel fortunate at their unexpected windfall.
“Good afternoon, my dear sir,” Holmes addressed the disgusting form of Billings as if he were the mayor.
Billings grunted at him and scratched his privates.
A fine dusting of snow blurred the scene between us as Holmes removed a pint from his pocket. “No matter the afternoon, if we can warm it up, eh?” He offered the rye to Billings. Faster than he could blink, old Billings guzzled half of it. Then he cast a doubtful eye on the detective. I resumed shoveling coal as the sweat on my face froze in the air.
