by S. L. Stoner
“If we limit the search to those around the rail yard, we’re only talking about six.”
“How soon, would you need me to conduct these interviews?” she asked.
“Our fear is that they will transport her out of town. If that happens, she’ll be lost to us. Maybe forever.”
Lucinda was nodding as he spoke. “Alright, I’ll do it,” she said. “Tell Mae I will begin tomorrow. Have someone send me a list.” She stood, signaling an end to their discussion. Seconds later he found himself standing on the front step with Elmira softly closing the front door behind him. Had that been pity in Elmira’s eyes? Certainly they’d shone with more friendliness than did her mistress’s cornflower blue ones.
Mae’s steps had the vigor born of desperation. She had only this afternoon and tomorrow to figure out exactly what Miss Caroline Stark was doing working in a steam laundry and positioning herself to become a leader in the labor dispute. She’d seen too many so-called labor leaders exposed as turncoats. There’d been that Irish fellow at the bridge carpenters’ strike last fall. She hadn’t met him but Sage said he’d been quite a charmer. Nearly led the men right into disastrous action. And then, of course, there’d been her own husband. That scoundrel was coming to mind too darn often lately.
Mae forced herself to focus on the woman who strode rapidly ahead, her shoulders purposefully squared. Obviously, this was no saunter home after a hard day of work. Caroline was definitely up to something. They were on Davis Street. Ahead, Caroline paused, seemed to extract a small watch from her dress pocket and after replacing it, doubled her pace. Obviously, she wasn’t headed for a casual drink of tea or home to rest.
Fewer pedestrians and less traffic forced Mae to drop farther back. Finally, Caroline turned off to mount the stone steps of the St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Once she’d entered through the big oak doors, Mae hurried forward. Slipping inside, she stood in vestibule, waiting for her eyes to adjust. It was dim inside the empty church, lit only by light filtering through the painted windows. Caroline was kneeling in the front pew, her head bowed. So, the girl was religious. Not surprising since Caroline always wore a gold cross—tucked into her dress so that only the chain showed when she was working but, otherwise, openly displayed on her dress front.
Humph, Mae thought. What am I supposed to think of this? If she’s religious, does that mean she couldn’t be a spy? Does seem less likely. But, Ma always said there were more hypocrites in church pews than there were fleas on a yard dog. Mae couldn’t disagree.
A door opened and closed near the church’s altar, the sound echoing high in the rafters. Caroline rose and moved into the aisle to greet the dark-haired priest who’d entered. The two exchanged a few words and then turned to cross the altar. Caroline glanced behind her down the aisle. This sent Mae dodging behind a big, fluted column. Seconds later, she peered around the column just in time to see the two of them disappear through the altar door which again shut with an echoing bang.
Mae left the church, chuckling to herself. “Maybelle Clemens, in all my days I never thought I’d see you skulking around a Catholic church like an egg-sucking hound.” Mae wasn’t a church goer but her mother had been, despite the hypocrites. She’d given her daughter respect for the church in earthly matters.
As Mae trudged the long miles back to the boarding house she pondered over what she had seen. Maybe the girl really was religious. But, why would the priest take her into his private office? Gloom settled over Mae like a dingy shawl so that she couldn’t appreciate the bright blue of the early evening sky. One more day, that’s all she had to find out exactly who Caroline Stark was and exactly what she was doing.
Chapter Twenty Four
“You’ve got to eat and drink something,” Sinclair told her. She mutely shook her head. “Come on,” he coaxed, “it’s not going to help anyone if you get sick.”
His statement lifted the corner of her mouth and she looked directly at him, eyebrows raised, a tiny smile on her lips, “Well, I don’t know, Mr. Kidnapper. Sounds like a good idea to me. Just how are you going to explain carrying a dying woman through the streets? I’m sure my sister has told the police I’m missing and they’re looking for me. Someone will notice.”
She had a point; he had to give her credit. He scratched his smooth chin. “Well, at least drink some water, Miss Levy. Your mouth’s got to feel like the inside of a cotton boll.”
She licked her lips, but shook her head when he offered a cup of water poured from the bedside pitcher. “No, thanks. I drink that and it’s my head that feels like the inside of a cotton boll. I refuse to let you drug me anymore.”
Sinclair set the cup down and considered the situation. If she didn’t drink, she might get really sick. And, she was right. It would be darn hard to move her from this whorehouse to the ship if he had to carry her through the streets. The North End had a cop standing on practically every corner.
He studied her. She’d been cooped up in this room for over two weeks. They’d been hot days and she had to want a bath. Maybe they could make a deal.
“How about this,” he proposed, “you drink the water and I’ll see that you get a tub of water in here for a bath.”
He saw her considering the offer. She raised her chin and looked down her nose at him.”I will drink the water, but only if you go get me fresh water with no drugs in it and I get a bath and a clean, decent dress to wear instead of this skimpy shift.”
She had moxie, this Rebecca, he’d give her that. “Where are you from?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise at the question but answered readily enough. “Rachel and I came here from Chicago. We had an aunt living here in Portland. When we arrived, we learned that she’d died of typhoid. We decided to stay. We didn’t have any money to return to Chicago and no one there to return to. Our parents are dead. So, we both got jobs right away. We’ve been here about a year.”
“Chicago? That’s where I’m from,” he said.
“Well, there’s lots of different kinds to be found in Chicago,” she commented drily.
He felt his face flush. To hide it, he stood. “Okay. I’ll go fetch you a glass of pure water. And arrange for a tub and hot water to be brought up.” He raised a finger, “And a clean, decent dress.” She responded with a dignified nod.
He carefully locked the door behind him since he’d ordered Stella to leave Rebecca untied. Heading down the stairs, he’d heard women’s voices in the front room of the house. Glancing through the archway, he noticed a well-dressed woman conversing with the house’s madam. On the way back upstairs, carrying a full glass of unadulterated pump water, he paused to look at the woman in the parlor. She noticed, her cornflower blue eyes calmly examining him in return. He sent her a smile, not surprised at her interest. Women usually gave him a second look.
As Sinclair climbed the stairs he pondered why such a high-class woman would be sitting the parlor of one of the most rundown whorehouses in the city. Then he forgot her, his mind focusing instead on the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman waiting in the locked room at the top of the stairs. He’d told her his name was Paul but she insisted on calling him “Mr. Kidnapper”.
“She’s something else, that Rebecca Levy. She’ll probably toss this water on me.” he thought and smiled.
It was a beautiful day. For the first time, it wasn’t sweltering though the pleasure Sage felt carried a bit of regret as well. The recent heat wave was likely summer’s last blast before the weather cooled into fall’s crisp days. Fall was glorious with its colorful leaves, though after fall came the wet, dreary, gray winter. Sage shrugged off that thought, instead focusing on the fragrant summer roses and cheerful pedestrians who strolled with light steps beneath a cool, blue sky. Lucinda had sent for him. He couldn’t tell if the ripples of excitement he felt came from the hope that she’d discovered where they were hiding Rebecca Levy or the anticipation of seeing Lucinda again. A combination of both, he decided.
The house was quiet. Likely everyone was out
and about. Probably shopping since the women who worked in this parlor house were well-paid. This time, Elmira showed him into the small back parlor where he took a seat on the familiar red velvet settee. Gazing about, he saw that not much had changed in this room either. There was still the polished woodwork, subtly patterned wallpaper, small piano and tasteful, understated scattering of figurines and other whatnots. Thankfully, Lucinda didn’t go in for the curio cabinets, draped tables and the other smothering touches considered fashionable these days. In fact, the only thing she’d changed in here was to exchange the gas lamp fixtures for incandescent electric bulbs. He wondered if, in the evening hours, the light made the room as white and glaring as he’d seen in other electrified establishments. Probably not. One of the things he admired about Lucinda was her balanced taste for both the elegant and the comfortable.
“No, Sage. Not much has changed. I’ve only been back in Portland a few months, though I do plan on making more changes than just the lighting,” she said from where she stood in the archway.
She moved into the room, still continuing to talk. “When I was in Chicago, I spent some time with an architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. His houses are changing everything. He made me realize that this room, “she swept an arm, “is too fussy, the colors are too unnatural, the wallpaper annoying.”
Sage had stood as she entered. He said honestly, “I’ve always considered this room one of the most attractive in town.”
Lucinda dipped her head, acknowledging the compliment but said, “Maybe in this town but it is still too old-fashioned.” She took the armchair across from him, gestured for him to retake his seat, tucked her long skirts close in and asked, “Do you want anything to drink?”
He shook his head, “Elmira already asked. I’m fine. What did you learn?”
Lucinda’s smile faded as did the sparkle in her eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t learn anything at all. I went to the six houses. Of the six, four were interested in selling and let me look around. I saw nothing to indicate a girl was being held prisoner anywhere in the houses.”
“What about the other two houses?” His spirits plunged at the thought of facing Rachel Levy and again telling her that Rebecca was still lost.
“Neither of the women wanted to sell, so they obviously didn’t take me on a tour. I couldn’t very well ask for one either.”
Sage sat back, releasing his breath in a gust. “Damn, now what?”
Lucinda leaned forward, sympathy in her face. “At least you can eliminate the four houses. That means she might be in one of the other two.”
“Yah, but how can we find out?”
“One of the houses down there caught fire a few days ago. A madam told me that everyone poured out into the street to watch the firemen. If everyone’s in the street, maybe that would be enough distraction to let someone slip in the backdoor and take a look around.”
“Well, I sure can’t start a fire. That neighborhood’s a tinderbox,” Sage said thoughtfully. In the silence that followed, the mantle clock’s ticking sounded loud.
Sage snapped his fingers, “That’s it. I know exactly what we’ll do.” He jumped up, leaned over and kissed Lucinda firmly on the lips. She was too shocked to respond before he blurted, “You are absolutely brilliant, my girl,” only to flush when he realized what he’d done.
“I mean, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I know you have a beau. I just got carried away. It’s just the relief of figuring out what to do, you know.”
She tilted her head, her forehead wrinkled. “What ‘beau’?” she asked.
“That fellow from Chicago? I saw you with him.” By this time, Sage had moved back to the settee.
“What do you mean, ‘you saw me with him’?” Her face showed confusion.
“I saw you out front, on the stoop. You were kissing him.”
“When?” she asked, still looking perplexed.
“In late July, the day after I got back from Prineville.”
Lucinda sat back in her chair, the confusion gone, replaced with the clinched cheek. He knew that look well—she was feeling exasperated. “You mean that you haven’t come by these last six weeks because you saw me kissing a man on my front porch?”
“Well,’ he said and couldn’t continue.
“John Sagacity Adair, you are the most annoying man I have ever met. I have been sitting here wondering why you were avoiding me. All these weeks.” Pain shadowed her normally bright eyes as she recalled those lost days.
“That means, ah, that maybe,” Sage stuttered but she cut him off.
“That means I am so angry at you right now I’d like you to leave.”
He looked at her in disbelief, but her chin was thrust forward and a very long, straight finger was stabbing toward the door.
“Um, okay,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll come back and let you know what happened—with Rebecca Levy, I mean.”
She shook her head and kept pointing, “Out,” she said loudly, as if he were a dog who’d tracked in mud.
When he reached the door, Elmira appeared with his hat and opened it for him. The last thing he heard coming from the parlor was Lucinda’s voice saying, “Damned idjit.”
He smiled. Whenever his mother called him an “idjit” it meant she was softening. Lucinda Collins was a lot like Mae Clemens.
“Shoot, this is my last day of trying to figure out what that Caroline gal is up to. Rachel’s getting antsy and I promised her,” Mae told herself as she put on her hat to follow Caroline out onto the late afternoon street. Once again Caroline headed toward Northwest Portland. So, it was either home or back to church, Mae surmised.
She was wrong. Caroline returned to the tea shop. When Mae peeked through the window, she noticed the young woman once again had her writing pad and pencil out. But this time, she was sitting at a big round table. Mae scooted away before being spotted. She took up a post halfway down the block, on someone’s front steps, partly concealed by an overgrown bush that couldn’t decide whether it was green or yellow.
As she watched, a few people entered the tea shop door. After twenty minutes, Mae got up to sneak another peek. This time Caroline had company at her table. There were three other young women sitting there, each with paper and pencil, each leaning earnestly across the table toward Caroline who was talking and gesturing emphatically, a fist pounding the palm of her hand.
Mae ducked out of sight and headed back to her steps to think. Those other young women didn’t look like management spies. Maybe they were classmates of Caroline’s. But how could Caroline be going to school? Before the lockout, she was working the same long days as the rest of the laundry women. A body was too tired to even think once that workday was done. And, since then, Caroline turned up faithfully every day, either at the picket line or the union hall.
Mae put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. She thought best that way. Maybe, Caroline and her friends were studying some kind of Catholic thing on their off hours. That could be since Caroline always wore that small cross. Though Mae was raised Catholic, she’d never heard of any religious class like that. Darn it! Not a dad-burned thing about the girl made sense.
Mae squinted up at the brilliant blue sky. “Dagnabbit,” she grumbled, “that fire hydrant will spout wings and fly before I figure out what that girl is up to. I’m tired of figuring. It’s time to find out.”
She rose from the steps, smoothed down her skirt, straightened her hat and strode to the tea shop door, a totally fake smile on her lips when she opened it.
Chapter Twenty Five
Sinclair slipped between two houses to reach the street. Sure enough, that ragpicker was back at his post before the boarding house. It had been a long day—most of it spent waiting outside buildings. First, he’d lurked down the street from the Levy woman’s boarding house until he’d seen her leave with Mae Clemens at her side. He’d followed them across the river to the union hall. So had the ragpicker and a Chinese man. Once the women entered the union hall, Sincl
air loitered farther down the street for a number of hours.
Finally, he got lucky. In late afternoon, the Clemens woman left the union hall alone. The Chinese fellow started following her. That meant for the first time, only the ragpicker guarded the Levy woman. He’d followed as the ragpicker trailed her home, across the bridge, right up to her boarding house. Now the older fellow was in his usual spot, hunkered down beneath the low-hanging limbs of an ancient cedar. The good news was that the Chinese fellow was nowhere around. He was probably still following the Clemens woman. Sinclair’s forehead wrinkled. Sure was an uncommon combination of folks. He shook off that thought. It was time to get down to business.
Patting his pocket, Sinclair confirmed he still had the envelope. He slipped away down the street. Half an hour later, he was back to peer once again around the house corner. Minutes later the young boy he’d just hired trotted up to the boarding house door and knocked. The door opened and the landlady took Sinclair’s envelope inside.
Sinclair slipped down the street and across the ravine bridge. He made his way to a spot across the ravine from the boarding house. There he found what he’d hoped. The Chinese man was still absent from his usual post.. If Rachel Levy believed the note, she’d soon be slipping outside and down into the ravine. Why wouldn’t she believe it? His instructions had been clear and the enclosed proof irrefutable:
I know where they are keeping your sister. If you want to see her, you must follow my instructions carefully. First, you must evade your watchers. I know who they are. Exit the back of your boarding house, go down into the ravine and follow it for a block. Then climb out and walk to Hawthorne Park at the corner Ninth and Hawthorne. Once there, go to the blue spruce tree. At its base, you will find a rock. Underneath that rock will be further instructions. If you are followed, you will never see your sister again. Just so you know I am serious, I have enclosed your sister’s lapel pin, I am sure you will recognize it. You have just one hour to make it to the park.
