Dry Rot

by S. L. Stoner

  The coffee tasted perfect. Sage relented.“Of course we’ll pay Daniel ourselves. It looks like he is being careful with the paint. Still, I don’t like it. It’s damned uncomfortable having strangers around when we are in the middle of a job for the Saint.”

  She nodded. “Unsettles me a bit, too. No matter, Daniel’s not involved with the strike and the poor man is really beside himself with grief. I don’t think he knows what’s going on around him half the time. He’s a painter by profession, so it’s good for him to work. Anyways, we’ve needed that grimy stair rail painted. So, it’s not like it’s charity. In a day or so he’ll be painting lower down and be out of our way more or less.”

  Sage raised a hand to halt her rush of words, “Maybe. Still, though, I can’t help but worry whether this is just the beginning where Mr. Eich, oops, I mean Herman’s, charitable impulses are concerned,” he said, grinning widely at her blushing discomfort.

  s s s

  Sage exited Mozart’s using the hidden staircase, descending from the third floor into the cellar and passing through the tunnel to reach the trap door that opened into the alley. It had been tricky to slip noiselessly behind a tapestry hanging less than ten feet from the stairs where Daniel was painting. The man’s persistently silent presence was unnerving. Fong’s task was to signal Sage that the hallway was clear and then to remain puttering about in case the strange painter decided to wander about the third floor. Not that Sage was really worried about that happening. Daniel seemed too far sunk into the depths of his own despair to have much curiosity.

  Dressed as “Sam,” Sage trudged down the street beneath a downpour as random thoughts pelted him with equal ferocity. He replayed his last night’s discussion with Philander Gray. As usual, the lawyer shoveled in the food like a starving logger, his unsuccessful efforts on Leo’s behalf apparently working no ill effect on his appetite. That was good news, Sage told himself. When Philander lost interest in food, the outcome was looking bleak. As it was, Gray parsed out his information without slowing his intake.

  Once he’d stowed his first fork of beef roast, Philander spoke, “Shortly after twelve midnight, the watchman employed to keep things secure at the Mackey lumber mill observed red flaring behind the construction office’s windows. He looked in the window, saw the flames and raised alarm with the fire company.”

  A fork piled high with mashed potatoes followed the roast. “Ordinarily, a fire consumes a building like that within minutes. However, not surprisingly, it was raining hard. Quite hard, they tell me. That downpour greatly assisted the fire company in its efforts to extinguish the blaze.”

  Gray swallowed wine and continued, “A creek also flowed handily nearby so there was no lack of water for the fire hoses.” A fork-load of green beans, another of mashed potato and a large bite of biscuit followed this morsel of information.

  “Once they extinguished the fire, they discovered Mackey the Senior. Apparently the evidence showed whomever was responsible neither burned nor bludgeoned Mackey to death. It is

  the fire chief’s expert opinion that Mr. Mackey died of breathing smoke or perhaps his heart gave out from the terror of his perilous situation.”

  Sage felt real regret as he recalled the rather benign and befuddled face of Abner Mackey. The men on the strike line believed that the elder Mackey functioned as a brake on the more brutal excesses of his son. From Sage’s perspective, if a Mackey was going to die, fate had chosen the wrong one.

  Gray’s empty fork stabbed the air before him for emphasis. “Two circumstances led to the inevitable conclusion of murder. Foremost is the fact that they found Mackey securely tied to a wooden desk chair. The location of the knots in the rope mean it is impossible that Mackey tied himself up. Secondly, someone flung kerosene all over the office and, while some of it caught and burned, generous amounts of it remained pooled about. One of the company’s kerosene cans is missing. The fire chief’s report states that there is no way a falling lamp started the fire accidentally. It was deliberately set.” Gray began eating again.

  During the relative silence of Philander’s mastication, Sage ventured a question.“Even if they murdered Mackey, why do the police think Leo is responsible? I mean, other than the fact Leo was in a dispute with the Mackey Company over the men’s wages and hours of work?”

  Philander leaned back with a heavy sigh. His doing so was not a sign of satiation since his plate remained a third full. “There’s where I encountered a problem. Quite a serious problem, I am afraid.”

  Philander leaned forward, his face grave. “Before I arrived at police headquarters, the police questioned Leo. I protested, of course. Too late. The damage was already done. He told the police that he departed the strike line that afternoon and that he thereafter remained in the loving bosom of his family until the next morning.”

  “So what’s the problem with that explanation?” Sage asked. “Unfortunately, he lied,” Philander said. “At least two individuals came forward to swear to the fact that, about the time of the fire’s outbreak, they’d seen Leo in the vicinity of the road

  leading down to the construction shack.”

  Sage protested. “Wait a minute, Philander. You know from our experiences together that there are witnesses who’ll swear to anything.”

  Philander dipped his head to one side signifying only partial agreement. “Ah, yes. That is true. The problem John, is that once they confronted Leo with the claims of these two witnesses, he confessed that, yes indeed, not only had he been in the vicinity of the construction office but that he was going there to meet with Mackey, only to reverse direction when he caught sight of the construction shack in flames and the fire wagons clanging down the road toward it. He claimed this sight sent him home at a sprightly pace. He feared he’d be accused of setting the fire.” “That doesn’t make sense! Why was Leo meeting Mackey that late at night? The whole scenario unwinds like one of those penny dreadful stories.”

  Philander smiled faintly. “Does it not? Leo says Mackey set the time and place. He claimed that about 10:00 o’clock, a bicycle messenger delivered a verbal message from Mackey requesting a private meeting. Not only is there no written note, but Leo can’t even provide an identifiable description of the messenger boy.” With that, Philander finished up, wiping his plate clean with the basket’s last biscuit before pulling his napkin from his collar and tossing it onto the table.

  s s s

  Following the lawyer’s departure, Sage decided one piece of Philander’s information needed immediate follow-up. He’d summoned Matthew, Ida’s nephew, to his room. The boy appeared with alacrity. As usual, the sixteen-year-old’s red hair, freckles and earnest, blue eyes brightened the room like a rainbow.

  “Matthew, take a seat, please.” As the boy moved awkwardly into a chair at the table, Sage studied the boy’s open, earnest face and thought that while it might be possible to take a boy out of the country, it was a lot harder to take the country out of the boy. Not a bad thing, all in all, although it made city life a more dangerous proposition for the boy.

  For a long moment, Sage said nothing, mentally wrestling with how to approach the situation. He needed to obtain Matthew’s cooperation without giving him information that would spur him into finding trouble.

  “I need you to find something out for me . . . , “ he began. “I’m surely happy . . .”

  “Wait a minute. Let me finish,” Sage snapped. The boy looked abashed, immediately opening his mouth to apologize.

  Sage cut him off. “Before I tell you what it is I need, promise me something. The boy nodded eagerly, his eyes bright with anticipation. Keeping his tone serious, Sage said, “Promise me Matthew, that you will do exactly what I ask and that you will not ask or try to find out why. If you won’t give me your solemn promise on that I can’t, and I won’t, use your help.”

  Matthew blinked and the flush traveling up his face said he knew exactly why Sage was setting those conditions. The boy’s curiosity about Sage’s surreptitious activ
ities a few months prior had led to Matthew being shanghaied. He’d triggered an elaborate rescue by Sage, Fong, Mrs. Clemens and a host of others. He clearly recalled that harrowing escapade and the dangers associated with being too inquisitive.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he continued, “You tell me what you want and that’s exactly what I’ll do. And, I promise you on my honor, I won’t never, ever, even think of it again.”

  “All right, Matthew,” Sage said, smiling gently. “The night before last, sometime after 9:30 p.m., a boy on a bicycle delivered a message to a man named Leo Lockwood, who resides at 425 Clay Street. Tomorrow, I need you to find the boy who carried that message and nothing more. Tell him there’s money in it if he’ll talk to me. Are you willing to undertake that task?”

  “Yes, sir.” Matthew’s chair scraped backwards as he jumped to his feet. “Us bicycle errand boys fool around together sometimes, doing stunts and stuff. I bet one of those boys carried the message. I’ll ask around.”

  “Don’t bumble yourself into any fixes,” Sage cautioned as the boy clumped from the room. It was for certain sure that Ida would never forgive Sage if her only surviving nephew came to harm.

  s s s

  Sage’s ruminations about his previous night’s exchanges with Philander and Matthew abruptly halted. Less than five feet in front of him, Herman Eich was bent over the trash barrel that stood near the entrance of the dirt road leading down to the strike line. Before Sage had time to avert his face or change direction, Eich straightened and his penetrating brown eyes locked on Sage’s. Then those eyes widened. Inexplicably, Eich whirled around and rapidly shuffled away from him. Sage only had an instant to puzzle over the ragpicker’s strange behavior before being suddenly trapped, his arms pinned to his sides. Someone slapped a cold wet cloth across his nose and mouth. Startled, he gasped, started to jerk his arms free and then knew nothing.

  ELEVEN

  With a nauseating swoop Sage returned to consciousness. Fortunately, this time, no stabbing headache accompanied the swoop but an unmistakable medicinal smell wafted into his nostrils from his mustache hairs. That smell, coupled with the memory of cold wetness being slapped against his face, answered the “what happened?” question. Chloroform. He was face down, his nose squashed against rough flat planks. Cramps seized his arms and legs and as he muzzily tried to shift position, he found movement impossible. Cords held his wrists behind his back and tied his legs together from his ankles to his thighs. Splinters pricked his face everywhere the tight rag across his mouth didn’t cover. He groaned. Not again. Someone had trussed him up like one of Ida’s tightly rolled pork roasts.

  He twisted onto his right side. The surface beneath his body felt uniformly flat down his whole length. He was lying on floor. Fortunately, it wasn’t rolling like a ship’s deck. And, he wasn’t blindfolded. That last was maybe not a good sign. It meant that his captors weren’t worried that he’d be around to describe either them or this place.

  He craned his neck, trying to get a good look at his surroundings. Light glimmered between the horizontal planks of the wall before him. Even as he registered this fact, he also realized there was a distant rhythmic clang of metal hitting metal coming from beyond that wall. So this was not a ship nor an isolated hut. That noise meant he was some place where people worked. Maybe he was somewhere inside a factory? He relaxed his belly to quiet his breathing and felt his bonds loosen slightly as tension drained from his limbs—another of Fong’s lessons. Of course, if he were Fong, he’d have escaped by now.

  Sage’s ears strained to pinpoint the direction of the clanging sound. It seemed to come from beyond the wall and somewhere to the side and below him, meaning that he was in a room above a factory floor. That question answered he rolled over to face the opposite direction. Another wall. This one was blank except for the outline of a door. He fish-wiggled over to that wall and listened. His heart stuttered when a voice suddenly started speaking from a point almost directly over his head. A frantic roll of his eyes established that he was still alone in the small space. The words were coming from other side of the wall.

  “He still out you think?” a voice asked in a distinctive nasal whine. The voice was unknown to Sage.

  The answer also came through the wall, “Hell, there was enough chloroform on that rag to bring down a moose. He’ll be out till Sunday. Deal another hand.” The second voice wheezed as if issuing from a chest overburdened by age, drink, fat, or all three.

  Shuffling, the snick of playing cards slapping onto a hard surface and the faint swish of the deal told him how they were passing the time.

  “Once we’re done here, I don’t intend to play cards for a week. We’ve been waiting here for hours,” said Whiny.

  “Stop complaining. It ain’t like nuthin’ better is out there waiting for you. He said we’re supposed to wait until the operation shuts down and by gum, that’s what we’ll do.” Wheezy’s phlegmy chuckle carried a nasty edge that made Sage twitch despite his bindings. “You oughta be happy you won’t be digging a hole with the damn mud up to your knees. Stuff ‘em in, add some iron, down goes the lid and roll ‘em off. It’ll be easy as unloading beer kegs off the wagon. He’ll bounce along the river bottom for a bit and be gone for good. Nothing easier.”

  “Yes siree, I know that’s right.” Whiny agreed. “That other guy, Chester, he’s next, right?” The eagerness in Whiny’s voice was as chilling as Wheezy’s throaty cackle.

  “Too bad we lost our chance to nail all three,” Whiny said. “That means we ain’t gonna get paid as much now. If old man Mackey hadn’t turned stubborn after they run down that striker, we woulda taken out their leader too. Ah well, Lockwood is about to meet the hangman—too bad the boss won’t pay us for him, ‘specially since he’s there ‘cause of us. At least, now that the old man’s out of the way, we got the go-ahead to scoop up this one. Piece a cake, doncha know.”

  Wheezy sounded his breathy cackle in response before saying, “Boss sez if we finish our job with that Chester guy tomorrow night, we leave the next day. Me, I’m looking forward to riding the cushions out of this God-awful damn dripping town. I’m sick of all this rain. Few days from now, I’ll be holding a cigar in one mitt while a prissy black porter pours me a jigger of Kentucky bourbon for the other mitt. Heh, heh. ‘Frisco here I come!”

  Sage twisted against his cords. He planned to interrupt ol’ Wheezy’s travel plans, if given the chance. Sage understood Wheezy’s references to rolling someone off a dock. Drop someone in the rain-swollen Willamette now and there was a good chance he’d never reappear. Or, days later and miles down stream, his decomposing body would bob to the surface and give some fisherman a scare.

  Sage twisted around, searching for a way to cut the cords. No way he was going to lie here waiting for them to drown him like a kitten in a gunny sack.

  The room was about ten by six feet. Stacked crates filled one end, otherwise it was empty. He stared at the opposite wall, the one separating this room from the factory floor. If those two in the next room needed the shop below to close down, that meant the men working on the other side of that wall offered his best hope for rescue. How to attract their attention with no window or door in that wall? He spotted a circular thread of light near the floor. It was a loose knot in a wall plank. Sage wriggled over, twisted around and used his elbow to jab at the knot until it broke free and fell away.

  Swiveling, he pushed his face against the wall to look through the hole. His whole body twitched against the cords. So that’s what Wheezy meant when he spoke of “stuffing him in,” and “lids” and “rolling.” Below him, a number of workmen engaged in constructing large, man-sized, wooden barrels. He was above a cooperage.

  Sage surveyed the grimy workplace. The soot blackening the rafters and skylights high above the shop floor came from small fires smoking inside half-shaped barrels, the heat making the staves pliable. Freedom lay beyond a high, wide doorway opening onto the dock. Beyond the doc
k, the winter river glistened gray beneath a dim winter sun. Unless the chloroform was confusing his reasoning abilities, the river’s debris flow meant the cooperage was on the river’s west bank.

  Below, the cooperage floor was a jumble of men, materials and equipment. Willamette Valley white oak staves lay stacked in neat rows, ten feet high, looking like a gigantic lattice. Piled against the far wall, metal barrel hoops were in staggered piles so that they looked like coins poking from between the knuckles of a closed fist.

  Men bustled about the various work areas. On the wharf outside, a stooping man deftly wielded a short-handled axe, de-barking and splitting rounds of white oak into bolts. A shop boy was pushing wheelbarrow loads of these wood bolts inside to tumble them off onto the floor. Another man was branding finished barrels with a hot iron, sending an aroma like baking spice cake drifting upward toward the tin roof. Meanwhile, a brawny fellow, his bare arm muscles bulging, augured tap and bung holes into the nearly finished barrels.

  The fierce clanging began again as the master cooper placed a heavy chisel atop a hoop, and slammed the big-faced hammer down. He was efficient. With each blow, the hoop jumped further down the barrel, the barrel’s hollowness amplifying the sound.

  The high screech of metal on stone snapped Sage’s attention in another direction. A young boy of twelve or so sat at a grinding wheel sharpening tools. He was evidently doing a good job because, when a knife fell from a nearby bench, the man using it sprang back, letting it clatter onto the concrete floor rather than try to catch it. Sage groaned aloud with frustration. Just two seconds with that knife and he’d be a free man.