THE DEVILS DIME

by Bristol, Bailey

  “But, doctor, surely they know...” Jess waved a hand in the direction of Williamsbridge hostel and the village.

  He just smiled and shook his head. “Lizzie swore her brother to secrecy. Of course, he was the local undertaker, so it was a simple matter for him to fake my burial. I even have a nice tombstone over there in Fairview.”

  “But surely when things calmed down...”

  “I know. We thought of it from time to time. But, you know, it was almost three years before that hired gun showed up to silence Jeremiah. They must have had something pretty huge going on by then if they persisted for three years to track him down. Lizzie and I figured it was just best that everyone thought I was dead.”

  “But you’re right across the road!” Jess was incredulous at the magnitude of the deception the two had carried out.

  “That we are. But then, you don’t know my Lizzie. She’s one of the finest actresses you’ll ever hope to meet.”

  “Well, now, that I can believe. I surely can.” He’d had quite a fine taste of her acting ability. And at the wrong end of the barrel, too.

  Jess looked at the former doctor, who’d been tucked into the daybed and tended by his sweet Lizzie for twenty years. Had it been Jess, he was certain he’d have looked for a way out, a way to end it all.

  “The answer is yes.”

  “What?”

  “You were wondering why I didn’t kill myself rather than stay in this bed for twenty years.”

  “I...yes, I suppose I wondered how a person could do it.”

  “A person can’t. Not alone. I begged Lizzie time after time to end it for me. But she wouldn’t hear of it. And after a year or so, I realized my days with Lizzie here in this little bungalow were more fun than any days I could remember in my whole life. And so I’m still here.”

  Jess had the answers to the greater part of his questions now, and thanks to this good man who’d waited twenty years to tell his story, Jess had what he needed to clear Ford.

  “Doctor Haberman, you said you felt the brother-in-law was a good man, that he did what he could to help Jeremiah.”

  “Oh, absolutely. I’ve wished many times I could meet him again, tell him how Jeremiah saved my life.”

  “Well, it looks like you’ll get a chance. To save his, I mean.”

  “But how—”

  “Ford’s been falsely accused of having committed those crimes, and while you and I know he was the one who actually saved those women, the Precinct Chief in Battery Park is anxious to hang him. And I think I know why.”

  Haberman’s eyes grew wide. “You mean...”

  Jess nodded. “I think our Chief Deacon Trumbull and your Preacher are one and the same.”

  “But that’s monstrous! Then, how will you get around the authorities?”

  “I’m quite sure the State’s Attorney General will be very interested in what you’ve revealed to me today. And with the files to back it up...?”

  “Say no more. Lizzie? Lizzie dear? Would you bring those files, sweeting?”

  The loving tone that passed between the two as they called to one another was not lost on Jess. If not for Jeremiah, these two might have spent the rest of their lives on opposite sides of the road.

  There was a great deal of risk ahead, but with the files that Jess had tucked inside his shirt as he stepped out into the afternoon sun, the end of Addie’s nightmare seemed very, very near.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Addie woke in stages, coughing, the smell of ether in her hair and clothes. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and her mind kept approaching and retreating from a wakeful state.

  Piles of once-bright fabric lay all around her, and a loose spring poking through frayed upholstery not far from her shoulder told her she was on some sort of discarded furniture.

  She struggled to focus on the wall that kept moving before her, and realized at last that it was a low-hanging curtain. It seemed to be all that separated her from the rest of the room, and the voices that echoed in it.

  At first she thought that she was to answer when they spoke. But her words came out as yips and moans. Soon, though, she realized they didn’t hear her. It was two men. And they were talking in low tones.

  She knew the voice of one. The one that belonged to the shiny patent leathers. It set her shaking, knowing how she’d taunted him just that morning. In his own office.

  But the other she couldn’t place.

  “Look. She knows me. I can’t take the chance.” The man with the hushed uptown tone sounded worried. He began to pace, his expensive shoes hardly making a sound though he was just on the other side of the curtain. “I’m leaving. And don’t get me up here again.”

  “Well, someone’s got to find out what she knows.”

  “Get the bastard who brought her up here. He looked plenty eager to me.”

  The man with the quiet shoes walked past the curtain and seemed to leave. But then his voice came again from farther away.

  “Did you take care of Magee?”

  “Tonight, Cash. Taking care of him tonight.”

  . . .

  Much of the jailhouse was already deserted as Sergeant Coombs made his way up the labyrinth of halls to the death row cell where Ford Magee had been moved to the previous night.

  “Evenin’, Rogers,” he said to the guard at the check point.

  “Evenin’, Coombs.”

  He knew Rogers crossed himself when Coombs passed. They all did. He’d gotten used to it.

  And he’d gotten used to doing the dirty work no one else would touch. Most henchmen did, he supposed. But he wouldn’t do it tonight.

  “Gonna have t’ let me into the cell, Rogers.”

  “What for?”

  Coombs pulled a long knotted string out of his pocket and showed it to Rogers. It was the one he used to measure a man for a coffin.

  Rogers recoiled, and tossed his key ring hard enough that Coombs had to walk a few feet ahead to bend and pick it up. He walked on into the block and stopped at the heavy door behind which he knew he’d find Ford Magee.

  It took minutes to locate the right key, but eventually he dragged the heavy door open and entered the cell.

  “Magee.” He touched the sleeping form with his foot. “Magee. Wake up.”

  Ford struggled awake and looked at the man who hunkered near his face. “Who are you.” His voice sounded disinterested, defeated, and he had fresh splits around his lips and eyebrows.

  “I’m the man who’s takin’ you home tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Wake up, Magee. You got ta play along if this thing is gonna work.”

  Coombs heard steps in the hall and put his fingers to his lips for Ford to stay quiet. “Hey, Rogers, you sure this fella ain’t dead already? I cain’t hardly get ‘im t’ move.”

  “Magee!” Rogers bellowed through the grill in the door. “Do what the man says.” He lowered his voice and growled at Coombs. “And you. Be quick about it.”

  Technically, Coombs and Rogers held the same rank in the police department, and Coombs gritted his teeth at the insolence Rogers showed him.

  As Rogers walked away, Coombs reached across Ford and picked up his left hand. He felt along the bones of the palm, and then isolated Ford’s stiff, second finger, his compass finger. He ran his own fingers along it, testing its deformity, and a slow smile crept across his face.

  By now, Ford had come to full alert and tried to draw his hand away, but Coombs held fast.

  “Listen, Magee. Trumbull has given orders for a midnight hangin’.” Ford’s eyes flew wide and he tried to sit up.

  “Take it easy, now, Magee. Hear me out. I rigged the scaffold so you can fake it. But you gotta do it right. When that trapdoor goes, don’t squirm, don’t wiggle, don’t bat so much as an eyelash. There will be planks under your feet within thirty seconds. All you have to do is hold yer breath thirty seconds. I’ll take care o’ the rest. You can do that, cain’t ya?”

  Ford nodded slowly.
<
br />   “Good. Remember now. No squirmin’.”

  Coombs stood to go, but Ford stopped him with a hand.

  “Why?”

  “What now?”

  “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”

  Coombs pushed a skinny strand of hair out of his face and checked the hall for Rogers. Slowly, he turned and squatted again. “February 12th, 1876. I think you know the date. A young girl was attacked, ’bout t’ be kilt, but some fella come outta nowhere and saved her life. You remember that? That first one when the guy they call the Samaritan showed up?”

  Ford nodded cautiously.

  Coombs turned and spit out into the hall, then turned back. “That pretty little thing, she was m’ baby sister.”

  “Mariah Elanore Coombs.”

  “Eye fer an eye. You’re the man with the funny finger. She told me all about it, every detail. You saved her. I return the favor.” He stood and moved to the door. “You gotta help, though, y’hear?”

  Again Ford nodded, and Coombs tipped a finger to his forehead in salute before locking the door on the last man on earth who deserved to be in jail.

  . . .

  Plain old earth felt good beneath his cavalry boots as Jess traipsed back through town. The files Doc Haberman had waited twenty years to pass along jostled inside his shirt with each step he took.

  And each step brought him closer to Addie, and the difficult things he was going to have to tell her.

  The end of the day in Williamsbridge was unlike any Jess had seen in years. Folks walked home from shops they’d just closed up, stopping on porches for a chat along the way. Around the block a childish hand worked the piano keys. It sounded like a lesson.

  Every yard spilled flowers into the next, and the only things fenced were the vegetable gardens. No one knew him, yet he got a smile, a lifted finger, or a tip of the head from nearly everyone he passed.

  He wasn’t usually drawn to tranquil things, but the village had charmed him, made it somehow hard to leave behind. Maybe it was simply the calm he felt now that the questions had been answered.

  Jess picked up the pace once he realized no one was going his way. People were coming home to Williamsbridge rather than heading into the city. If he wanted a ride, he clearly was going the wrong direction. Jess accepted the fact that he’d have to walk quite a distance before he found transportation.

  More and more pieces of the puzzle revealed themselves in small bursts of clarity as Jess logically pursued the information he had so far. He still wanted to know how Ford had known what nights Jeremiah would go on his murderous sprees.

  And he wanted to find out who this man Cash was. And where he’d hidden his seedy heaven.

  Three miles disappeared behind him as Jess mulled over the information he’d gleaned from Dr. Haberman, and meshed it with what he’d already known. He’d been so certain that the union hall played into the scheme. Now it looked like he’d been whistling up the wrong tree on that one.

  Unless.

  The name Jemmy Carnello had definitely appeared on the union rosters on every date when an attack occurred. He’d verified that to his satisfaction. But did the name appear any other time? He hadn’t checked that out. If not, it could have been just a cover, an alibi for Jeremiah if he were ever suspected. The rosters would show he couldn’t have been the burglar because he was at work at the time.

  It made sense. It’s how he would have done it.

  Now you’re thinkin’ like a criminal, Pepper.

  Jess looked up to gauge how far he had yet to go, and grinned a little when he spied the towers on the trolley barn in the distance. Just beyond it lay the track that would roll him straight home to Addie.

  In ten minutes he’d reached the barn at the end of the trolley line. He sped up as he rounded the barn, and groaned when he discovered he’d have to wait for one of the red-roofed, open-air cars to arrive, make the round-house turn, and be readied for the return trip to the heart of the city.

  But it was the quickest way home. And so he waited.

  By the time he stepped off the trolley six blocks from Sutton House, he’d begun to get accustomed to the stares of people who didn’t expect to see a farmer ride the trolley through mid-town.

  Jess reached for his pocket watch, then remembered he was in disguise and didn’t have it. It had to be after six, he reasoned. Addie would be in the middle of her performance at the hotel. It was no use checking the stoop, because if Tad followed the plan, he wouldn’t be leaving a message ’til after she was done at the hotel.

  Even though the weight of resolving what remained of Ford’s dilemma was ever-present in his mind, Jess found himself smiling as his plan for the next few hours took shape.

  “Ma’am! Wait a second if you would, please.”

  Jess hurried toward a middle-aged woman who was just wheeling her barrow of flowers back into the store. She turned at his voice, and when she saw a disheveled bum coming toward her, she seemed alarmed. Jess held his five dollar bill up and smiled his most innocent smile. He pointed at the nosegay on the top of her load.

  “Flowers, ma’am. I’d like to buy those flowers.”

  The woman eyed him, then the five dollar bill, then eyed him again.

  “And those chocolates,” he added.

  She looked him over, as if considering his worthiness, then pulled the box of chocolates from the back of her pile.

  Having been deemed worthy of her flowers and chocolates, Jess completed the transaction. With the chocolates under one arm and the flowers curled into the other, Jess turned toward home. The silly grin on his face was a far cry from the sober lines that had creased his brow when he’d slipped out of the city less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  But then, this time, he was headed home with treats for his lady.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Psst. Miss Addie.”

  Tad laid a hand on Addie’s shoulder, and she opened her eyes with a start. She’d been crying.

  “Mmph!”

  “Miss Addie! It’s me! Tad Morton! Don’t be scared.”

  Carefully he pulled the gag from her mouth and she looked up at him with both relief and fear.

  “Tad, you shouldn’t be here! What are you doing?” She struggled to sit up, but Tad saw that her hands and feet were tied. He slipped her feet to the floor and braced her as she raised to a sitting position.

  “Miss Addie, I could see that man was making you leave with him, so I got on your cycle and I followed you here. Those two men were here until just now, so I been hidin’ behind those trunks.”

  Addie looked in the direction he’d nodded and shivered. He’d been that close when Deacon Trumbull had been just on the other side of the curtain? It was too frightening to think what Trumbull would have done if he’d found the boy.

  Not too far away a door scraped open.

  Addie and Tad froze.

  “Tad,” Addie whispered. “Get out of here now. Hide quickly. Then get out of the building. You hear me? Out of the building!”

  Tad was already scrambling across the piles of fabric. But before he pulled the cover over his head, the man in black stepped through the curtain. His big hand flashed past Addie’s face as he grabbed Tad by the scruff of his collar.

  Tad hollered, squirmed, flailed at the man, until the man cuffed him. Hard. Addie saw the whites of his eyes as the brave boy lost consciousness. She screamed, lurching about in her ropes to take a swipe at him, anything to draw his attention away from Tad.

  But she failed. The man threw Tad across the floor, then turned on her, and in two menacing strides he reached her with a backhand that sent her into a whirling, sinking world of black.

  . . .

  A man never pays much attention to his shadow, until it’s the only friend walking ahead of him into the unknown. Tonight, his long shadow that stretched across the floor and up the wall, taking every step with him, was a comfort to Ford. He could not even comprehend what this would feel like if he hadn’t been w
arned.

  It seemed an insult to require his shadow to shuffle along with him, keeping the chains just far enough apart that he wouldn’t trip. And as if his shadow felt the same way, it left him when Ford stepped awkwardly down into the chamber of horrors.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Deacon Trumbull stepped out of the darkness and watched Ford from the other side of the room. The noose hung between them, threatening in its stillness.

  One of the two guards that had brought him this far gave him a shove and Ford stumbled onto the planked deck. The trapdoor was clearly visible just a yard away, and Ford felt his knees tremble at the thought of what lay ahead.

  “Get going, boys,” Trumbull called to the guards. They wasted no time heading back where they had come from.

  Trumbull strutted slowly around the stone perimeter. “I’ve waited a long time for this, Magee. A long time.”

  “Get it over with.”

  Trumbull laughed, and his taunting jeers seemed to do battle with his own echo.

  “All in good time, Magee.”

  Sergeant Coombs climbed up from the pit below the deck and moved behind his victim, as if to hurry things along.

  He took Ford’s arm and looked at Trumbull for the signal to continue. It was the same way every time. Trumbull taunted the victim, pulled the lever, then left Coombs to do the rest. He hoped tonight would follow the same ritual.

  “So be it.” Ford’s voice was husky from a week in the damp cell, but his presence was strong.

  “Nothin’ like watchin’ a brave man die. Ain’t that right, Coombs?”

  Sergeant Coombs let his face churn into a ghoulish expression he knew Trumbull would appreciate.

  “Right as usual, boss.”

  Suddenly, Trumbull’s face fell and he paced the perimeter behind them. “What the hell is that?”

  “What?”

  “That...thing down there?” He was pointing with his unlit cigar into the pit below the trapdoor.