by S. L. Stoner
The boarders were sitting down to breakfast when they arrived. It was a fine meal of fresh bread, eggs, potatoes, sausage, and plenty of coffee to wash it down. Terry took a seat beside Matthew, a slightly dazed look on his face as he surveyed the bounty and realized some of it was for him.
Sage joined the group and ate heartily, his gusto coming from the fact that he’d found a safe place for Terry. Next, he had to get the boy away from Speedy and find Glad. Despite the way it looked, he was certain those two aims were “twined like the strands of a braided rope,” to use a phrased coined by a cowboy friend. If they were, it meant that once they found Glad, Terry would be free to leave Speedy.
In the meantime, he hoped Matthew would learn more from Terry. And, perhaps Lucinda and Henry Russell had uncovered some helpful information. Spirits high and stomach full, he set off for Lucinda’s. He was looking forward to seeing her and, not just because he was interested in what she might have to tell him.
Elvira answered the door still in her robe with a scarf wrapped around her head. His John Miner outfit didn’t surprise her. She’d seen him wearing a variety of disguises, John Miner’s being only one of them.
Her answer to his first query stunned him. “Why no, Mr. Adair, she didn’t come home all night. I thought she was with you.”
“What?” Alarm stiffened every cell in Sage’s body. “You haven’t heard from her or anything?”
Elvira stepped forward and grabbed his arm. “No, I’ve heard nothing since she left with you yesterday afternoon. Where is she?” Alarm had now seized hold of her as well, creasing her dark-honey face and tightening her grip.
Sage patted her hand, turned on his heel and threw the words, “I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’ll find her,” over his shoulder as he raced back down the stairs.
Heading to Mozart’s, Sage kept going over what he knew. Fong, Lucinda, and Henry Russell had left to stake out Vera Clark’s house. The plan was to take pictures of the young messengers entering the house and see if the mystery man Sage had followed to the Imperial hotel returned. Lucinda’s task was to signal Russell to photograph any monied man she recognized entering Clark’s.
Could all three of them have been kidnapped? “No! No way that could happen with Fong there,” he told himself in fierce tones that caught a passerby’s attention. He clamped his lips together the rest of the way and tried to calm himself by breathing deeply, like Fong had instructed.
He reached the trap door in the alley, flung it open and moments later was running up the hidden stairs to Mozart’s third floor. When he burst into his room, he found his mother already there, standing beside someone stretched out on his bed.
“Who? Lucinda?” he demanded.
“It’s that man named, Henry,” his mother replied. “He got hit in the head and is unconscious. Fong brought him here last night.”
“Why didn’t you come to get me? Where’s Lucinda?” Sage demanded.
“Fong’s out hunting for her,” Mae said, putting a placating hand on Sage’s forearm only to have him angrily shake it off.
“You should have come got me,” he repeated.
“Fong and his cousins are out looking. You couldn’t have done anything more.”
As if her words summoned him, Fong appeared in the doorway. Sage whirled toward him and said, “What the hell happened? Did you find Lucinda?”
Fong paused, seeming to draw on inner strength because he calmly gestured to the table in the alcove and said, “Best you sit down, Sage. Then I tell you.”
Sage took a seat. Mae left the room while Fong checked on Henry. He took the chair across from Sage, saying, “We wait for Lady Mother. She has not heard story either. I drop Mr. Russell at kitchen door and leave quick to find Miss Lucinda.”
Sage took a deep breath, again fighting for calm. Wild emotion was the last thing they needed in such a dire situation.
Mae entered with coffee and biscuits. Setting the tray down, she took the third chair. The three of them were silent as she filled cups and passed the plate. Sage accepted the coffee but shook his head at the food. After taking a swallow and a bite, Fong began to speak.
“We wait outside Clark houses. Mr. Russell, he across street taking pictures. I also stand across street to protect him. Miss Lucinda stay in carriage to watch for boss man. Plan is Russell take his picture and then we jump in coach and follow him. Meantime, Russell, he take pictures of boy messengers going into houses.”
Fong swallowed a sip of coffee and a bite of biscuit. “Next thing happen, two men run, grab Mr. Russell camera and start hitting him with clubs. I go to help. We fight. Then Miss Lucinda scream.”
Shame filled the Chinese man’s face, “I could not save her. Big man with gun push her into cab. He yell he kill her if I follow. I watch cab drive away.”
“Meantime, two men run away also. Mr. Russell on ground knocked out, camera broken. I put him in coach, bring him here.”
“My God, what are we going to do?” Sage asked of no one in particular. He rubbed his face with both hands as if he could scrub away the awful news.
“One bit of helpful information,” Fong said.
Sage looked up sharply. “What?”
“Cab driver have big knife scar on side of face. Cousins looking for him now.”
“Tell me about the man with the gun,” Sage said.
“He is very tall. More tall than you. Big shoulders, like ox,” Fong answered promptly.
That description rang a bell. It sounded like the fellow who’d grabbed Glad and turned him upside down. And, the cab. That night the big man had thrown Glad into a cab. It could be that the scar-faced cabbie was part of the gang. He’d have to be. No honest cabbie would help kidnap boys and women off the street, especially at gunpoint.
“Okay, then,” Sage said. “Did any of Russell’s attackers look familiar?”
Fong nodded. “Two who attack Mr. Russell same ones who attack at Miss Lucinda’s house.”
“Where’s my camera?” came a croak from the bed. Russell was struggling to sit up.
Mae rushed to his side, picking up a partially crushed Brownie camera to show him. “I’m afraid your camera’s ruined,” she said, holding it out.
Russell took the box in his hands and turned it around. “Whew! I don’t think they damaged the film cassette. Just the aluminum casing is dented. That means I’ve still got the unexposed pictures,” he declared, as he flipped back the blanket and swung his feet to the floor. “Got to get this film developed.” He swayed on the edge of the bed and turned a light shade of green.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Mae said, taking the camera out of his hands and gently pushing him onto his back. “You need to rest a bit. You’ve gone green around the gills.”
Sage crossed to the bed and said, “Mrs. Clemens is right. You can’t get up just yet. Besides, your pictures of the kids can wait.”
“Kids, hell,” responded Russell. “When I saw those two galoots run at me, all ugly-faced, I snapped their damn photograph."
Eighteen
“Sage, you need to sleep,” Mae said, as she stood behind him as he shaved.
“I tried. But every time I close my eyes I see Lucinda’s face.”
“What do you think you can do that Fong isn’t already doing?”
He rinsed his face, patted it dry with a towel and turned to ask, “Where is he? I need to speak to him.”
“He’s downstairs. He’s as bad as you are. I don’t think he’s slept a wink since yesterday morning. Hanke’s down there, too.”
“Where’s Henry?”
“He’s shut up in Ida and Knute’s bathroom developing his pictures. He limped in there right after you delivered that suitcase from his hotel.”
‘Cameras have come a long way since glass plates,” Sage remarked. “I hope he got a good picture of those two thugs
.”
The three silent and glum men sitting in the kitchen were oblivious to the noon meal commotion.
“Mr. Fong, I forgot to ask you whether you and Lucinda saw that strange man around Vera Clark’s house,” Sage said.
Fong frowned in concentration, clearly trying to recall something. “Maybe Miss Lucinda saw him. Just as men attack and I run to help Mr. Russell, I hear her say very loud, “Good Lord, I didn’t expect to see him.”
Sage edged forward on his chair. “Who?” he demanded.
Fong shook his head regretfully. “I not see. Too busy fighting.”
Sage turned to Hanke. “Sorry, Sergeant. I should have said, ‘hello’.”
Hanke waved the apology away. “Don’t worry about it. And, sad as it is, I have to thank you. Our little carrot-top fellow in the mortuary is Doug Spencer. His pa identified his body this morning. He might be an old sot, but I believe he loved his son. Terrible business.”
“Was he able to explain anything, like the marks around the boy’s wrists and ankles?”
“No, though if the perpetrator had been there, I believe the father would have killed him on the spot. All Mr. Spencer knew was that Doug was working for Speedy Messenger and that he and another boy wanted to start a messengers’ union.”
“The other boy was Terry Tobias, Glad’s older brother,” Sage told him.
“I can’t believe they’d kill a kid over that. The newsboys have had a union for a few years and it hasn’t caused any problems. Mostly, it’s just a safe place for them to gather and socialize.”
“That’s the problem with power. It leads to arrogance and the mistaken belief that only the powerful know how the world should work,” Sage said, and added bitterly, “Of course, that means they always make sure the world works to their, and their offsprings’, benefit.”
Mae entered the kitchen followed by Henry who looked vigorous and excited despite a whopping black eye. He was waving a piece of paper as he declared, “Got ‘em!”
He came to a dead stop and tamped down his enthusiasm when he caught sight of Hanke in his brass-buttoned uniform. Sage was quick to reassure. “Henry, this is Sergeant Hanke. He’s a friend. He’s the one you need to show the picture to.”
Hanke stood and shook Henry’s hand as the photographer said, “Henry Russell, Sergeant Hanke. I’m glad to know you’re a friend. Unfortunately, my back and shoulders have felt a policeman’s billy club more than once. I’ve learned to be cautious.”
“Sorry to hear that, Mr. Russell,” Hanke said. “You have a picture to show me?”
“I do,” Henry’s enthusiasm had returned. “These are the fellows who attacked me,” he said, handing the Sergeant a picture.
Hanke stared and then a slow grin spread across his face. “I’m pretty sure we’ve arrested these two before. I’ll need to ask the arresting officer but I know who he is. He just might know where to find them.”
Sage jumped in, hopeful for the first time that morning. “You’ll look for them and arrest them? Lucinda was grabbed at the same time as those two attacked Russell here. I’ll bet anything their attack was a diversion so the big man could snatch her.” He pointed at Russell’s picture in Hanke’s hand. “Those two know who’s behind all this messenger uproar, I’m sure of it.”
Hanke stood and donned his tall beehive helmet. “I’ll do my best. I’ll send word when we have them in custody.” He turned to Russell. “Any chance I could get more copies of this picture? I can send it down the rail lines just in case they’ve skipped town.” At Russell’s nod, Hanke said, “Send them to me at the station. He turned to Sage, saying, “I presume you’ll want to be there for the questioning once we catch them?”
“You’d allow that?”
Sage’s question drew a rueful smile from the big Sergeant who said, “I suspect it would be hard to keep you away. Besides, I know how much she means to you.” With that, he was out the kitchen door and heading down the alley.
Fong cleared his throat. “We maybe soon find cab driver. Cousins have seen him. They know places he goes. They looking for him.”
“If they find him, I want to know. I don’t care whether I am working or not.”
Fong nodded. “We find cabbie, you want me to deliver him to Sergeant Hanke?”
“Hanke can deal with Henry’s attackers. You and I will take care of the cab driver.”
“We use crimp cell again?” asked Fong.
“You’re not going to kill him, are you?” Henry piped up for the first time since handing over his picture. The distress on his face said he feared he was hearing a murder being planned.
Fong and Sage turned mystified faces toward the photographer and then Sage laughed. “Lord, no. We might make him think that, but don’t worry, what we plan usually works without touching a hair on his head.”
It was pitch black and smelled dusty. At least the thug hadn’t drugged, knocked out or otherwise interfered with her. It had all happened suddenly. One minute she was watching the photographer, then there’d been the fight and then she’d been forced into a cab. They’d ridden around for at least an hour with the big lump beside her saying nothing and ignoring all her questions. Canvas rain flaps hid the street and they’d made so many turns that she’d lost track of their direction. When the cab finally stopped and the door had opened, she expected to see a rural scene. Shockingly, the cab had stopped across the street from where they’d grabbed her. A frantic peer into the dark surroundings, as the big man yanked her out of the cab, yielded the disappointing fact that Fong and the small coach were nowhere in sight.
A few jabs with the gun barrel got her across the boardwalk and into the middle house of Vera Clark’s brothel. Before the man could knock, the door was snatched open. A dirty, scraggly-haired old slattern shooed them inside. “Hurry up. We don’t want anyone to see. The customers are all upstairs but who knows when someone will come down,” she said.
The big man grabbed Lucinda’s elbow and shoved her down a narrow hallway. Lucinda opened her mouth to yell but snapped it shut when the gun barrel jabbed painfully into her ribs. Seconds later, the three of them were swiftly descending cellar stairs. At the bottom, stood a door with a brass padlock holding it shut. The woman slipped past them and unlocked the padlock. At the man’s nod, she lifted the padlock from the hasp and pushed the door open. It was pitch black on the other side.
Before Lucinda could say anything, a firm hand on her back shoved her forward with such force she fell to her knees onto a dirt floor. Even as she struggled to rise, the door slammed shut. Seconds later, she heard the padlock rattle in the hasp and snick shut. Footsteps mounted the stairs and the upstairs door slammed.
Lucinda carefully rose to her feet. She reached out but it was so dark she couldn’t even see her hands. She touched nothing. Slowly she turned in a circle and still there was nothing. There was a smell though. Besides dust, there was the unmistakable stink of a slop pail. That meant she wasn’t the first person imprisoned here.
Fear made her sway on her feet. She pushed it down. Sage and Fong are coming for me, she told herself. I just have to figure out how to help them find me.
Slowly she slid a boot forward, her hands outstretched. Eight steps forward and her fingers encountered a rough plank wall. She stepped to her right, trailing her fingers along the wall. A few steps more, she felt a door frame. Frantically, she felt for the door and eventually encountered a knob. She turned it and pulled. Nothing happened. She kept feeling and found the hasp and padlock that held it shut. “Damn it,” she said aloud.
This second door might open into a larger basement space or to the outside. No light leaked from under the door so the first option was more likely. Given they were in the heart of the North End, the underground could be on the other side.
She stood thinking. First things first. She had to
get that padlock off the door. Once inside the underground, she could stumble around until she found a Chinese home, gambling den or opium parlor. She’d find help there. All she had to do was say Fong’s name.
She started groping through the pitch dark again and soon reached a corner. She turned and kept going, vowing to systematically search every inch of the cellar. There must be something helpful down here. Just as she had that thought, her boot smacked a wooden crate. Its lid was off and she plunged her hands inside. She encountered fabric. Burrowing deeply, she felt only more fabric until something sharp pricked her finger.
She jerked her hand out of the crate, sucked on the finger, and then gingerly began feeling for whatever had pricked her. Something sharp lurked in these clothes. Something that could come in handy. Encountering the rigid felt of a lady’s hat she carefully fingered its surface and, at last, encountered the cool metal of a forgotten hat pin.
She drew it from the hat and her exploring fingers told her that it was long and sharp. With a grim smile only a ghost could see, she carefully pinned it inside her bodice. Her spirits rose. She had a weapon.
Further rummaging revealed the crate held nothing that she could use against the padlock. She continued moving along the wall once again. And, again, her foot encountered something interesting, another crate. This time, the crate’s contents were the opposite of soft fabric. It held tin cans. Picking one up, she shook it. Something sloshed inside. “If I find a can opener, I won’t starve,” she said aloud.
There was nothing in the second crate she could beat against the padlock. She continued along the wall until a faint rustle froze her steps. “Who’s there?” she demanded. Only silence greeted her question. Nothing moved in the deep silence.
She stepped out again despite sensing that something alive was inside this cellar with her. Probably just a mouse or rat, she told herself only to shudder as her imagination conjured up a beady-eyed, sharp-toothed rat eyeing her ankles. She was glad she wore walking boots. Taking a deep breath, she stepped off again. Five paces later, she stumbled into the room’s second corner. She turned and moved along this third wall. It held the door to the upstairs but she didn’t bother messing with it. An escape into the upstairs would be no escape at all.
