THE DEVILS DIME (12 page)

Intrigued, Jess watched as Birdie crossed the open hall leading to the staircase. Two more furtive glances before she disappeared into the stairwell had Jess laughing right out loud and shaking his head.
Amateur.

He counted to thirty, the number of steps it would take a girl with her stride to cross the lower lobby. Three counts later, Jess pushed off from his desk and rolled, chair and all, to the window.

Sure enough. There she was. Just stepping down off the last step of the main entrance. He was a count or two off, but close enough that he could gloat.

She turned to her right, slipped a look back over her left shoulder, then began walking north toward the end of the building. Jess swept the sidewalk a few yards ahead of her and stopped grinning when he recognized the smartly tailored coat of the man who’d just left his office.

If he’d waited two seconds longer to look up the street he would have missed the Chief entirely. But there was no mistaking the owner of the pristine white spats that marked the man’s progress away from the building. And at the same instant that Jess realized who he was watching, the Chief stepped off the sidewalk and into the alley.

“Son of a gun,” Jess moved to the south edge of the window for a better angle and unconsciously counted steps as the corker moved up the street. At the corner of the building she slowed, cast another look over her shoulder, and without missing a beat, swung into the alley.

“Son of a gun!” Jess repeated, as he stared unblinking at the empty shadows between his building and the next. Either he’d just witnessed a clandestine meeting between the Chief of Police and the blonde corker from the typing pool, or she’d had some reason to risk following him on her own.

Jess had his answer a moment later when a sleek, enclosed gentleman’s brougham eased out of the alley behind a perfectly liveried dappled bay with braided mane and tail. Better even than the mayor’s personal conveyance, this carriage bore the official-looking trademark of Chief Deacon Trumbull on its leather siding. The clever modification that narrowed the undercarriage was hard not to admire. This devil could really slip through traffic.

As it rolled onto the thoroughfare, the carriage window revealed exactly what Jess had expected. The blonde head that bobbed above animated hand gestures told him Birdie was already chattering the man’s ear off.

And beyond her, in the darkened corner of the brougham, flashed the red and gold embers of a flaring cigar.

Why, you old dog.

. . .

The fact that a man — even if he was the precinct chief — had easy access to his office made Jess uneasy. There would, from time to time, be papers in his possession that he would not want anyone, even the Chief, to see, lest it reveal the name of someone who wished to remain anonymous. Before he left his office again, Jess stowed his files in the large bottom drawer and locked it. He found a small ledge on the backside of the buffalo painting’s frame to stow the key, then grabbed the union folder he’d brought with him and headed down to the stacks.

“Twickenham?”

He called out as he strolled the lane that passed for a main corridor into the newspaper’s morgue.

“Ollie? You around?”

“Out! Now! You goons want these files you better come with a warrant or I’ll—”

“Shut up, old man.”

The hackles on the back of Jess’s neck were still responding to the cold warning when a burly cop knocked past him and charged back up the aisle toting a box half-filled with morgue material.

“Why, I’ll—” Ollie Twickenham came flying around the corner and collided with Jess. His fists pummeled with the vengeance of a much younger man until Jess caught his wrists and pushed him off.

“Ollie! Hey, cut it out!”

“Pepper?” Ollie stilled immediately, slid his hands down to clutch Jess’s, then slumped against the bookcase behind him. “Sorry, son, I thought you were one o’ them goons.”

“Whose goons?”

“One guess. And I gather he just paid you a visit.”

Jess processed the thought but couldn’t buy into it.

“Maybe they were cops, but I’m betting someone else sent them. What did they want?”

Ollie gave him a quizzical look and shook his head.

“It seems your initial column got somebody in a tizzy. They wanted everything I had on those old cases,” the angry librarian growled.

“He had a box...was it anything important?”

Ollie Twickenham looked at the floor and shuffled a chunk of loose mortar back into the brick with his toe. “All this stuff is important, Jess. You of all people oughta know that.”

“You know I do, Ollie, but—”

Ollie Twickenham snickered, raised his chin and signaled with his eyes for Jess to follow him around the corner. He paused beside an empty spot in the shelving and gestured toward it as if he were pointing to the empty seat of a favored child.

“They have absconded with my brothel beauties,” he whispered.

“Your what?”

“My brothel beauties. Best collection of whorehouse tintypes in the city.”

“What would they want with those?”

“Hussy stuff? Oh, it won’t do them one iota of good. But it’ll for certain distract them from remembering what it was they were looking for in the first place!”

Twickenham could no longer hold back a delighted chuckle. “And when the Chief asks them if they got any good information from the files they lifted from my morgue, you can bet your sweet self they are not going to fess up to this!”

Twickenham spread his arms and rested his elbows on the highest perch his short stature would allow. He swung his hands down and patted some of the remaining boxes with a satisfied grin. “What I did, you see, was draw them off guard. I moved real surreptitious-like in front of the box of whores like I was protecting the box, you know. So naturally, that’s the box they wanted, heh, heh.”

Ollie Twickenham was thoroughly pleased with himself.

Jess felt his mouth go dry. “Ollie,” he choked, “were they looking for the file you gave me?”

Ollie waved a dismissing hand. “Maybe so, maybe not. Most all of that was in the papers already.”

Jess huffed in relief and clapped Ollie on the shoulder. “Well then, hang it all, Ollie,” he moved past Twickenham and fingered the edges of boxes and folders that remained. “What else do you have here that you were so willing to sacrifice the brothel beauties for? Hmm?”

“What do I have here, he asks? What do I have here?” Twickenham’s cocky grin turned a bit sheepish. “Actually, I haven’t figured that out just yet.” He turned and ran his thumb across the dusty boxes. “But whatever it is, it’s here, Jess. I’m sure of it. And when I find it, you’ll be the first to know.”

Jess had no doubt the little fellow would find what he was looking for. But he was taking a great risk deceiving a policeman like that.

“You be careful, Ollie.”

“I will, son. Believe me, I will. Now you find a place to lock up what I already gave you, and I’ll plant some decoys here, just to be on the safe side.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Ollie.” Jess pulled the list of union dock workers from his file and held it out to Twickenham. “You recognize any of these names?”

Ollie studied the list, mumbling as he read. He squinted, clucked, and finally shook his head. “Nope, can’t say as I do.” He handed the page back to Jess. “Now you remember what I said. Lock up your papers. Or hide ’em where the devil won’t find ’em.”

Jess grinned and tucked the page back into the file. Ollie waved farewell and scurried about in a fit of industry, cackling over his choices as he pulled bogus documents from defunct files. Whatever Ollie was doing certainly tickled his funny bone. But Jess knew that anybody taken in by it was not going to react with similar good humor.

The wheezy giggles echoed off the water pipes that traced the ceiling as Jess retraced his steps to the front of the morgue. The sound went a long way toward dispelling Jess’s anxiety over the troubling episode he’d witnessed when he entered the morgue.

But the unease that prickled behind his ears refused to be banished quite so easily, and Jess decided to stop in the bundling room before continuing on his mission. He pulled an old newspaper from the surplus pile and laid the union folder out on the worn maple counter.

Making certain no one was watching, he wrapped his folder and notes in the newsprint and tied the bundle well with twine.

As he left the
Times
and headed for home, his bundle looked no different than those carried by half the men in Battery Park. An ordinary fellow carrying an ordinary item from an ordinary market which—like every other market on the square—wrapped inexpensive purchases in day-old newspaper.

Chapter Eight

Addie ended the Sunday afternoon violin lesson for the hotel manager’s daughter and slipped into the hallway. The lesson had become part of her contractual obligation with the Warwick. But anticipation of an afternoon with Jess Pepper had wreaked havoc on her concentration.

He’d shown up at the dining room minutes before the closing number again a few weeks ago and walked her home. Now she could practically count on him being there at least a couple of nights a week.

And of course there were Sundays. She coveted these Sundays that had become a regular engagement after the little girl’s lesson. When Addie had casually mentioned her performance in the park set for this afternoon, Jess had wasted no time in wangling an invitation to accompany her.

It seemed at first there was always something to thank him for—the poultice, the article that had brought hordes of diners to the hotel. But now she looked forward to time with Jess in a way no other friend had ever commanded in her. She actually craved every moment with him. She’d had ample opportunity to get past the shyness the article—and the mystery surrounding the poultice—had prompted in her. She had easily discerned his embarrassment at having administered the poultice unchaperoned in her private room. His discomfort had eased her mind completely, and allowed her to shower her thanks upon him for his heroic measures.

And now they’d settled into the best possible arrangement. Neither needed a reason to be together. They just knew the other one wanted to be close.

As she neared the front of the manager’s living quarters, she slowed, hearing familiar voices ahead. Quietly, Addie stepped around the corner and discovered just yards away two male figures sitting side by side on the top step of the entry to the manager’s private area.

She recognized the small figure as the little chap who helped the bus boys in the hotel dining room. She saw him now in profile. He chewed his knuckle as he intently watched the bigger fellow mumbling while he read from a crumpled piece of paper.

“Well my, my, Tad, this is excellent.” Jess ruffled the boy’s hair with one hand as he continued to read. “And I see you’ve been working on your signature, too. It’s looking very good, very...distinguished.”

The boy beamed, and Addie smiled at the respectful tone she heard in the voice of the man she’d been waiting all weekend to see again.

“Yes, sir. I practiced writing Tad Morton and Thaddeus Morton. But I decided on anything official I should write Thaddeus.” The boy blushed at his own pomposity. “Ma’s the onliest one that calls me Thaddeus.”

“No such word as onliest, Tad.”

Jess delivered the criticism with such a benign indifference that Tad accepted it gravely but with no visible embarrassment.

“This is good, Tad, it’s quite good. You’ve got a feel for words, son. Was it hard work?”

The boy dropped his gaze and studied his hands, and Addie sighed involuntarily at the child’s reaction. Tad didn’t hear, but Jess cast a look over his shoulder toward Addie and welcomed her with a wink.

“Well, sir,” the boy finally spoke. “I will have to say it was work. Because the onliest...the only...one that has time to help me with the spelling lives next door to us. And I interrupted her three times before I got it right. So, for her, yup, I guess it was work, all right.”

Jess and Addie laughed in unison. “For you, son! For
you
! Was it work for you?” Jess asked, raking a large hand through the boy’s longish hair.

“Fer me? Heck, no. Most fun I had in a month o’ Sundays.”

“Well, then.” Jess stood and carefully smoothed the crumpled paper against the wall. With deliberate moves he folded it into a tidy square and then dipped his free hand into his vest pocket.

“It appears I owe you one silver dollar.” A shiny coin somersaulted out of Jess’s hand and the boy’s eyes followed every twist as Jess snatched it back and reached to drop it into the front pocket of the boy’s Sunday tweed.

But just before Jess could drop the coin, the boy’s hand whipped out like lightening and covered the pocket opening.

“What’s this? You can’t use a brand spankin’ new shiny silver dollar?” Something in Jess’s tone drew Addie’s ear, and she studied his face. She could see now that the silver dollar hadn’t been a bribe. It had been a test.