Dry Rot

by S. L. Stoner

  Sage interrupted. “Sergeant Hanke is here merely to sign as a witness, without reading your affidavit, and to observe that a break-in has occurred. That’s in case the validity of the affidavit ever becomes an issue. Mr. Gray is going to notarize the document without reading it, although he will take the affidavit away with him in a sealed envelope.”

  Bittler dithered a moment before reluctantly uncovering the papers and pushing them forward. Sage took them, read them quickly and handed them back to Bittler. Bittler signed each page before watching with dull eyes as the other two affixed their signatures. Sage folded the pages and sealed them in an envelope. He gestured for Bittler to sign across the sealed flap. That done, Gray accepted the envelope, stowing it in the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. The two men departed without another word.

  s s s

  Hanke and Gray sat at Mozart’s kitchen table, shoveling in a hearty breakfast. They both looked up as Sage and Fong entered and demanded an immediate explanation for their crack-of-dawn summons to the Bittler house. They also wanted to know just what actually transpired that morning in Bittler’s parlor. Sage told them.

  The Bittler family, meanwhile, was gone. By now they were traveling down country roads, jouncing around inside an enclosed produce wagon. He doubted that the driver, one of Fong’s tong members, was making much of an effort to avoid the potholes since Bittler regained his arrogance just in time to object to being driven to safety by a “Chink.” Sage was certain the city engineer also wouldn’t be pleased with his destination—a Mennonite farm south of the city.

  To ensure the family’s safety, Sage and Fong trailed the wagon through a fine mist until it rolled across the Willamette River and onto the Milwaukie farm road. Once there, the driver clicked up the horse’s pace. It appeared the family’s departure from their fancy mansion had been unobserved and nobody seemed to be trailing the fleeing family. Most likely, the kerosene-toting intruders had abandoned surveillance outside the house just in case Bittler called in the police.

  So, for now, the Bittler’s lives were safe. Sage knew from past experience that the Mennonite, Brother Jonas, would open his home to the refugees. Sage would settle up with him later. Mae’s description of Mrs. Bittler as a “good woman trying, without success, to act above herself,” made him think that rustic farm life might be the calm she needed after the stress of the past weeks. The unpretentious Mennonite farm house, with its scrubbed white oak floors, hand-turned chairs and domestic routine, should give her peace and something useful to do.

  Bittler, now, he was another kettle of fish entirely. Sage wished he had a front row seat when it came to watching Mister City Engineer heft a pitchfork of cow manure. And heft he would. Brother Jonas believed every decent man had a duty to work hard every single day except Sunday. The Mennonite was fiercely unforgiving of sloth, even in privileged folk like the Bittlers.

  Ida quickly slid heaping plates in front of Sage and Fong. The cook cheerfully filled a plate for Mae Clemens when she arrived minutes later. Mae thanked Ida and said, “I rolled up the rug, put it outside, closed up the house and headed back as soon as Mr. Fong’s cousin arrived to watch over things. He’ll go for help if anything untoward happens,” she told them as she discarded her dripping cloak, hat and gloves. Evidently, the mist had turned into rain. She snugged a wool shawl around her shoulders before sitting down to eat.

  Once everyone finished eating, Hanke cleared his throat to say, “One of you better give me a good explanation as to why I violated my duty to report crime in this city.”

  “Maybe we best continue our talk in the dining room,” Mae Clemens said, standing abruptly. “Ida needs this table to roll out her dinner rolls. You know, the ones you like so much, Mr. Gray. Anyways, we’ve delayed her work long enough.” She headed through the dining room doors without a backward glance.

  Once settled in the privacy of the empty dining room, Sage related the entire story.

  Hanke rolled his eyes heavenward before giving vent, “So, not only am I staying silent about the attempted arson but I also witnessed an affidavit that details a long-running bribery scheme. Are you sure you don’t want me to ignore a murder or two while I’m at it? You need to tell me everything. Just so I have a complete list of reasons of why I am going to get fired or maybe jailed my own self.”

  “Sergeant Hanke, answer me this. If they convict Leo Lockwood of killing old man Mackey, what chance is there that they won’t hang him by the neck in the courthouse yard until he’s dead?” Gray asked, his question demonstrating that he, at least, grasped the situation.

  “Well, I guess they will probably hang him if he’s convicted,” Hanke conceded.

  Gray nodded at Sage, who took up the explanation, lowering his voice as he leaned closer. “I’m thinking that those two men who tried to set fire to Bittler’s parlor know who killed old man Mackey.” He held up his right hand, four fingers splayed, his thumb tucked against his palm. “Four things make me

  think this. First, after they trussed me up in the cooperage like a Christmas goose, I heard those two talking. They made it clear that old man Mackey and his son didn’t see eye-to-eye on some important things—like the strike.” Sage curled a finger. “Second, Bittler’s affidavit establishes that son Mackey paid the bribes, not the old man—so the father and son maybe also fought over how to raise their profits.” Another finger curled. “Third, those two are working for Mackey and they don’t hesitate to kill—they seem to enjoy it. Fourth, they slung kerosene around Bittler’s parlor just like it was slung around the Mackey construction office.” His hand was now a fist.

  “Oh, and,” here Sage waggled his thumb, “fifth, someone is going to a lot of trouble to frame Leo Lockwood for old man Mackey’s murder. If the frame works, it will kill the strike right along with Leo. Only son Mackey has the wherewithal, motive and vindictiveness to pull that little scheme together.” Sage sat back in his chair.

  Hanke shook his head, “All you did, Mr. Adair, was give me five good reasons why we ought to arrest those two ruffians and not leave them free to endanger other people, yourself included.” “But think, Sergeant Hanke. I didn’t see them good enough to identify either one of them as being at either the cooperage or Bittler’s house. Even if Eich can identify them as both my kidnappers, and his attackers, no one’s going to believe a ragpicker. You know that, don’t you?”

  Mae Clemens jumped in. “You slap them in jail now, and I guarantee they’ll both be free on bail before the sun sets. After that, faster than rats out a burning barn, those two will either high-tail it down the railroad tracks or someone will send them from this world of woe to make sure they can’t spill the beans. Isn’t that right, Philander?” she asked.

  Gray nodded and she continued, “Mr. Adair, you took the right actions. We need a chance to question those two thugs before anyone else does.”

  “Problem is,” Fong said, “we searched all over town and we never find them. We not know where they pillow their heads so we must wait until they appear again.”

  For a moment silence reigned. Fong and Sage exchanged calm, clear-eyed looks.

  Mae Clemens caught the exchange. “Oh, no you don’t. Mr. Adair has been varmint bait too often already. His luck won’t last forever. We nearly lost him in the underground.”

  Silence ensued. Their shared recollection of Sage as a captive in Portland’s underground, surrounded by shanghaiing killers, felt like a tangible something in the air. That had been a near disaster.

  “It’s the only way to draw them out, Mrs. Clemens,” Sage said softly. “We know they want me and Chester dead. And, we know that if they want to get paid, they have to kill the two of us. Chester’s hidden away. That leaves me to draw them out. We can’t let Leo die for something he didn’t do. You know we can’t.” He looked at Fong, Hanke and finally Philander. “If Leo’s going to make it through this, we need to find those two and queeze the truth out of them.”

  Before anyone responded, a crash sounded from the ki
tchen. The swinging doors flew open and two men burst into the room, Ida huffing close behind, flour smeared across one of her rosy cheeks. When she saw all of them gathered there, she merely shook her head and returned to her baking.

  Sage leaped to his feet. “Stuart! What’s happened to you?

  Where’s Chester?”

  Stuart stood a moment, fist resting on the back of a chair, chest heaving, his face dirty and bruised, one coat sleeve hanging in its armhole by a few threads. “Jesus, Mr. Adair, I am so sorry,” he said.

  “What, Stuart? What’s happened to Chester?”

  “They burst in right after we walked through the door. First thing I know, these two men are shoving Chester around. One of them hit me. It happened so fast that the boy, there,” Stuart gestured toward the young Chinese man standing a few steps behind him, “There wasn’t enough time for him to dash up the stairs and tackle them. He sure the hell tried, I’ll give him that.”

  Sage saw that the young man wasn’t looking at Stuart, Sage or any of the other Occidentals in the room. Instead, he gazed only at Fong from beneath the eyebrows of his lowered face.

  Fong spoke softly, his rapid Chinese words having the effect of relaxing the young man’s stance. The young man answered in the same tongue, speaking for a time. When he finished, Fong smiled and said something that made the young man dip his head modestly.

  Fong looked at the rest of them, explaining, “My young cousin thinks men hid on second floor until Mr. Stuart and Mr. Chester come back from surveying bridges. At the sound of cries, he run up stairs. He arrive too late. Mr. Chester was gone, taken by two men down back stairs.

  “He,” Fong nodded at the young man and smiled again, “trailed after them very quiet. They reached cellar and from there, hauled Mr. Chester into underground. He followed, until he has no more match sticks. He thinks, I send men right away, they see tracks in dust. It looks like Mr. Chester deliberately drag one foot. His dust marks helpful only if we hurry. This is busy part of underground. Other feet brush away marks if we don’t hurry.”

  “Clever thinking,” Sage said to the young man who smiled shyly. “It makes sense to follow those tracks. I’ll happily pay every man who looks for them,” Sage offered quickly.

  After Fong said a few words to him, the young man nodded and disappeared back through the kitchen’s swinging doors.

  “He go to round up Chinese posse,” Fong said. “I lead them.” He clapped his damp hat back onto his head and exited through the kitchen.

  s s s

  Later that night, Sage made sure his boots thudded hollowly on the wooden sidewalks as he moved south along the dark street. From out of the small houses came the sounds of ordinary life—voices, laughter, the clatter of cookstove lids being settled back onto replenished fireboxes. Sage’s human shadow moved along the opposite side of the street, with cat-like stealth. One of Fong’s “cousins” was keeping watch.

  He was on his way to attend O’Reilly’s saloon meeting. Part of him hoped that he never made the meeting. He wanted those two thugs to grab him again giving Fong’s men an opportunity to follow. Surely they’d take him to the same place they had Chester. He tried to think of where to find Chester, yet came up with nothing. The city was too big with so many empty buildings, as well as shady operations, in which to imprison a man with no one the wiser. Their greatest likelihood of success lay with Sage serving as bait. Meanwhile, the underground was Fong and his band’s search area and above ground was where Hanke and his men were looking. It was a grim task. Both groups of searchers knew they might find a dead body rather than a live man. And Philander, well, Philander was thinking—always a good thing.

  Sage’s thoughts drifted to the meeting ahead. If he made the meeting without being kidnapped, the next best thing would be somehow diverting a disaster on the strike line. Tonight, what little flame remained of the strikers’ spirits needed a good fanning. At the same time, O’Reilly’s rabble-rousing needed kiboshing before that flame flared into an uncontrollable conflagration.

  A broken board caught his boot and nearly sent him onto his face. Damn. As his mother would say, he was “dithery as a yellow jacket buzzing fried chicken.” Where was Chester? Was he still alive? Had they trussed him up and left him lying somewhere that was exposed to the elements, just like they’d done with Herman? What if Mackey’s thugs didn’t try to snatch the “Sage” bait? He felt sick at the thought. Sage slowed his steps, turning his back on the street to stare into darkened shop windows—doing everything he could to make it easier for them.

  TWENTY TWO

  Entering the saloon, Sage waded into thick tobacco smoke, the pungent smell of workingmen’s woolens and men’s voices thundering bravado. Henry’s little group of supporters stood glumly bunched in one corner while the Irishman O’Reilly, and the men he was goading into action, filled the room’s center.

  Sage and Henry exchanged looks as Sage took up a solitary position against the plank wall. A few of the men around O’Reilly cast curious looks or nodded toward Sage before their attention returned to the boisterous Irishman.

  As if Sage’s arrival was the signal, O’Reilly climbed atop a chair and spread his arms wide, patting the air with his palms to quiet the room. After a few fits and starts, the voices at last stilled and O’Reilly began speaking.

  His voice was rich with the Emerald Isle’s musical lilt. That alone drew you to him, Sage thought. There was, however, more to the package, like the mischievous dancing of his light blue eyes. Certain men possessed that characteristic others called a “magnetic personality.” O’Reilly had it. Sage had seen that personality before and didn’t trust it. It appeared to be a gift outside its possessor’s control. Those who possessed it, when you came to know them, seemed to be uneasy in their skins. Maybe to many unearned successes left a fellow anxious waiting for that inevitable evening-up-the-score failure. Regardless, Sage’s experience told him that these so-called “magnetic” people rarely measured up to the promise of their personality.

  O’Reilly’s voice had softened into a tone of cajoling sympathy, “Well, boyos, ‘tis up against the wall we are. Your stomach’s mighty tired of making acquaintance with your backbone, doncha’ know? For sure now, we’re nearly done in. What say we take a little bit of Mister Boss Man Mackey for ourselves before we go? Give him a wee lesson that he’ll think on in the dark hours of his night.”

  The men cheered while Sage wondered exactly what “bit” of Earl Mackey’s anatomy the cheering men thought appropriate to claim.

  O’Reilly supplied the answer.“Your labor made the Mackeys rich even before you pulled your guts together and struck the bastards,” he said. “Each one of you knows at least one comrade who came to harm because he fell from a bridge or maybe he just fell from a life too hard to endure.” There was vigorous nodding all around. O’Reilly raised a fist to punch through the smoke that swirled above his head and thundered, “That yon lumber mill is yours by right. Its walls are soaked with your sweat, tears and yes, even your blood. That mill is not Mackey’s birthright, it is his reward for squeezing the life out of men like you! It exists by the sweat of your body and your brow! It is yours by all that is right!” Hoarse cheers rang out and the men began murmuring excitedly to each other. Not all of them, though. Frowns creased the faces of Henry and his stalwarts.

  The words are right enough, Sage mused, but the direction he’s aiming the men is all wrong. Was O’Reilly hoping they’d storm the mill and take it over? Or, burn it down? Did St. Alban or some other labor leader send O’Reilly to the strike line? Nah, no way. St. Alban, and the other leaders he knew, would see right through to the danger posed by a man like O’Reilly—personal magnetism or no.

  If the Irishman was not a labor movement man, it raised the question, “Just who the hell was he?” One of those fairweather labor agitators who reveled in excitement only to vanish whenever things became tough or boring? Folks like that were just another form of dry rot. Fair weather supporters and glory hounds we
re no different from the rotted bridge timbers he and Chester discovered. Lean against them in a time of need and you’ll find yourself falling. They would always save their own cowardly butts first.

  Sage studied the man, his eyes squinting at a sudden thought. Of course, O’Reilly might be playing another, more dastardly, role. Figuring that out, however, would require more time and investigation. Sage stepped away from the wall and headed toward the center of the room. The men moved aside to let him pass.

  O’Reilly, his eyes softening with sympathetic warmth, called, “Hey now, here comes a man who carries a heavy, heavy burden. It being his uncle, a fine man, indeed, who might swing from the courthouse gallows. One more victim of the Mackeys and their greed. Let Leo Lockwood be the last! Let us act for the future!” With that, O’Reilly stepped down off the chair and gestured for Sage to mount it.

  The men clapped and cheered at O’Reilly’s sentiment only to begin muttering once they saw Sage’s grim expression.

  Sage climbed onto the chair and took the time to briefly lock eyes with every man in turn. The room fell absolutely silent. He began speaking in a low voice, one devoid of O’Reilly’s oratory flourishes, “Men, you know me as Leo’s nephew. I don’t know most of you all that well. Like O’Reilly here, I’ve never had the pleasure of working beside you in the driving rain or blistering sun so I can’t pretend to know your exact hardships. That said, for weeks now, I have stood beside you in this damnable wet muck. I’ve listened to you talk of your families and their hard times. Mostly, I have come to know each of you through my uncle’s eyes and through the words that came from his heart. I know he’s thinking of you now as he sits in that dark cell. I sent