The Detroit Electric Scheme (12 page)

Between the buildings, I could see stars poking out of the black sky. I checked my watch. It was eight thirty. Three hours had passed since the boy took the envelope.

I kept shouting Wesley's name while I walked through the streets, now too tired to run. My voice was a hoarse croak. “Wes! Wes!”

A muffled groan filtered up from below me.

I was standing next to a stairway leading to a downstairs apartment. I leaned over the metal railing. A man in a torn gray coat lay facedown at the bottom of the concrete steps, his body sprawled across the stairs, his head on the landing. I recognized the coat.

“Wes! Oh shit, oh shit.” I vaulted the rail and ran down the steps. Carefully, I pulled Wesley off the stairs, turned him over, and cradled his head in my lap.

His nose was bent to the right and swollen grotesquely. Blood covered the lower half of his face, and his collar and shirt were stained red. His eyes were slits between bulging masses of flesh. His lower lip was swollen and split open. Blood oozed from a dozen cuts and scrapes on his face. Had I not known this was Wesley, I would never have suspected it.

“Will?” His voice was barely a whisper.

I leaned down close to his face. “Yeah, Wes, I'm here.”

A tear squeezed out of his eye. “They're all dead.”

 

Over the protests of the nurses, I spent the night at Grace Hospital with Wesley. They drugged him before stitching his deeper cuts, setting his nose, and splinting his broken fingers. There was nothing they could do for the cracked ribs or the concussion. He was in the middle of a ward that smelled of iodine and soap. All twelve beds were occupied. The metal bed frames and the sheets were stark white, the walls a dingier tone. The night passed with one or another of the men groaning, crying out in pain, shouting for a nurse, or cursing God. It would have been a difficult place to sleep for anyone not on morphine, but for me, sleeping wasn't on the card anyway. Though I was tired, my guilt kept me awake to watch over Wesley from a chair pulled close to his bed.

Mr. Doyle and his sons had been in my apartment only a few hours ago. Now they were dead. It would be weeks until Wesley could sing, and it was unlikely he'd ever play the piano well enough to perform again. I had destroyed four men's lives by including them in this mess.

It was obvious now the blackmailer and killer were the same man. The thought that two men in Detroit were capable of such brutality was too much to believe.

Perhaps it was partially because of exhaustion, but I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't real. None of it. Not John's or the Doyles'
murders, not the blackmailer, not Wesley beaten half to death. This was all some gruesome dream from which I needed to awake.

But the evidence was right in front of me. Gauze was wrapped around the top of Wesley's head. Most of his face was covered in bandages. Only his swollen mouth and the mottled purple bulges hiding his eyes were visible.

Around 6:00
A.M
. he stirred and began to roll over. His body went rigid, and he cried out.

I put my hand on his arm. “Wes, stay still. You need to rest.”

His eyes opened a crack. The irises slid across the red to look at me. “I couldn't do anything,” he mumbled, his voice thick, words slurred.

“I'm so sorry, Wes. I didn't know . . .”

He nodded for me to come closer.

I leaned in.

“Did you get the clothes?”

I shook my head.

Wesley's tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and his eyes opened a little wider when he felt them. “We followed the boy to Adelaide Street. He went down an alley. Robert and Andrew followed him, and Mr. Doyle and I looped around the back.” Tears began to spill down the sides of his face. “Doyle told me to stay behind him. We went into the alley. He grunted and just collapsed. The boys were piled up in front of him. I . . . couldn't move.” His eyes, pooled with tears, searched out mine. “I just stood there, Will.” His body shook as he sobbed. “I just stood there.”

I touched his shoulder. “You couldn't have done anything, except maybe get killed with them.”

His eyes closed. “The man said he was keeping me alive to give you a message.”

“Do you have any idea who he was?”

“No.” He winced from a pain deep inside him and looked at me again. “He was huge, but his face was covered and the alley was dark.”

“Is there anything you remember about him?”

Wesley thought for a moment. “No.”

“What was his message?”

He wet his lips again. “When he says come alone, he means it.”

A Detroit policeman in a wool overcoat and bobby hat ambled up to us a few minutes later. He looked me over for a moment, twisting the ends of his waxed mustaches, before nudging the edge of the bed. “You awake?”

Wesley's eyes cracked open. “Eh?”

“What happened to you?”

Purely by instinct, I cut in. “He was jumped by a street gang. Young hoodlums.”

The cop glared at me. “I didn't ask you.” He turned back to Wesley. “What happened to you?”

Wesley groaned weakly and shut his eyes. He was going to let me take this.

After the policeman studied him for a moment, he shook his head and looked at me again. “All right. Where was he?”

“Over off of Second Street by Peterboro.”

“What was he doing there?”

“He lives near there. On Peterboro.”

“And who might you be?”

“I'm his neighbor.”

“And does the neighbor have a name?”

“William. William Anderson.”

“Were you with him when he was attacked?”

“No, I came by after.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was coming home—from work.”

He eyed me carefully. “Don't suppose you could be mixed up on where you found him, do you?”

“No.”

“You boys weren't looking for some fun down on Adelaide?”

“No.”

“So you wouldn't know about three dead bodies down there?”

“No.”

He kicked the bed. Wesley grimaced. “You weren't down on Adelaide?” the cop said.

“Nossir,” Wesley slurred.

It was obvious the policeman wasn't satisfied, but a nurse came to give Wesley a shot and shooed the officer away. Wesley sank into a deep sleep.

I leaned back in the chair and considered whether I had done the right thing. It seemed important to distance ourselves from the Doyles, even though their murders were my best evidence there was another suspect. I needed to puzzle this out, but I was so tired.

I had to go to Riordan. I had to tell him I was at the factory that night. I had to tell him about my clothing, about the blackmailer. It didn't matter what happened to me now. The police had to catch the son of a bitch who had done this to John, to the Doyles, to Wesley.

But I couldn't go to Riordan. If I admitted I was at the factory, they would lock me up—forever. They wouldn't even try to find the real killer. Elizabeth needed my help, and I couldn't provide it to her from prison. I had to help her before I went to Riordan. Otherwise, it might be too late. But first, I had to get hold of Frank Van Dam.

At eight thirty I took the elevator down to the main-floor lobby and sat at the table of one of the polished mahogany telephone booths. I dropped a nickel in the coin slot and asked the operator for the Employers Association of Detroit.

After a few rings, a man came on the telephone and said in a flat voice, “Employers Association.”

“Is Frank Van Dam available, please?”

“He doesn't work here anymore.”

“Really?” That didn't make sense. “Did he quit or get fired?”

“I'm afraid I can't comment on that.”

I tried my most commanding voice. “This is William C. Anderson, Jr., from the Anderson Carriage Company. I need a forwarding address or telephone number.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson. I don't have any information about Frank,” the man said. “I'll put you through to Mr. Whirl, if you'd like.”

“Yes, please.” J. J. Whirl was the secretary and spokesman for the EAD. I didn't know him well but thought he'd cooperate.

A few minutes later another man picked up the telephone. “I'm sorry, Mr. Whirl is unavailable. Should I leave a message for him?”

After asking him to have Whirl return my call, I rang off and leaned back against the wooden wall of the telephone booth. Frank loved his job. The only reason he would have quit—and likely the only reason he would have been fired—was if he was somehow involved in John's murder.

But he followed John around like a little puppy, hero worship in his eyes. Frank wouldn't have killed John or let anyone else do it. It just didn't make sense.

Frank had to be running from the killer. Whoever killed John was a threat to him as well. And he likely knew who that was.

I had to talk to Frank.

 

At nine, I stood in front of the Humes' door and took a deep breath before knocking. Alberts answered the door. Not hiding his irritation at seeing me, he looked me up and down, finally telling me to wait in the parlor.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Hume, who looked as if she could be Elizabeth's older sister, came down to speak with me. Sunlight beamed into her face, illuminating her delicate features and dark curls. “William.” She spoke softly. “You know this is a difficult time for Lizzie. She really can't see you right now.”

“Please, at least listen to me.”

She squinted into the light, staring at my midsection, then raised her hand to block the sun. “What's . . . what's that on your coat?”

I looked down. My coat was blotched with Wesley's blood. I started, but tried to act calm. “Oh, nothing. Just dirty from working on cars.”

She hesitated. “All right. What do you want?” She didn't ask me to sit.

“The night John was killed, he called me to say that Elizabeth was in trouble. He didn't say how, but he was panicked. She's in danger, I know it.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Will.” It sounded like an admonishment. “Why would
John
have called
you
?”

“I . . . I don't know. It didn't make sense to me, either.”

“I'd suggest you go home. This is a difficult time for all of us.” Her tone softened again. “Lizzie is hysterical.”

I took a step closer to her. “Please. She's in trouble, and I want to help her.”

“I'm sorry, Will.” She put her hand on my arm. “I really am. I always liked you. But you need to understand that Elizabeth has no interest in seeing you.”

Shaking my head in frustration, I said, “Look, I'm not trying to trick you. I think someone might want to kill her.”

Mrs. Hume jumped back from me like I was charged with an electrical current. “Don't be stupid,” she snapped. “The only trouble Elizabeth has is dyspepsia. Perhaps brought on by you abandoning her.”

“Abandoning her? I didn't—”

“Go. We're really much too busy for your imagination.”

“I'm not leaving until I speak with her.”

She glared at me a moment longer, then spun and stomped out of the room. After ten minutes of pacing the parlor floor and still not seeing Elizabeth, I climbed the sweeping walnut staircase to the second floor and knocked on her door. There was no answer. “Elizabeth?” I knocked again. “Elizabeth?”

A door banged open on the first floor, and Judge Hume shouted, “Where is he? Where is that bastard?” A few seconds later his footsteps slapped against the stairway, and he roared, “Anderson, get the hell out of my house!” The judge ran up to me and stopped, quivering, a foot away, his fists clenching and unclenching. He was bearded and balding, perpetually red-faced, heavy in the fashion of prosperous men. Though he was about my height, he always stood ramrod straight, giving the impression he was taller. Now he spoke in a low, trembling voice, like the rumble of thunder. “Get out.”

“Judge Hume, sir, I just want to help Elizabeth. You know—”

“Get out of here, you no-good son of a bitch.”

“Please, sir, if I could just explain!”

He grabbed me by the collar and dragged me down the stairs to the front door, ignoring my protests. When he threw open the door, it rebounded off the wall and hit him in the side, knocking him off balance, which made him angrier. With one hand on my collar and the other on the back of my coat, he threw me down the porch steps. I tumbled down the stairway, landing in a heap at the bottom. A sharp pain shot through my right knee.

The judge stood at the top, breathing like a steam locomotive. The thin strands of hair normally pasted over the top of his head were fanned out to the side. He pointed his forefinger at me. “Don't come back. Ever.”

“Please, sir, I think someone wants to kill her. Let me explain.”

He glowered at me. “No. I don't want to hear your explanations.” He gathered himself and pointed to the front gate. “Out!”