The Mangle

by S. L. Stoner

  In no time, the coach was rumbling along the dirt road that skirted the swampy morass of Guilds Lake north of the city. The coach was rolling at a trot. Since the glass windows wouldn’t raise, Sage opened the side door and leaned out to consider the horses. They looked in fine fettle, heads up and manes flying. Slamming the door shut, he settled back onto the bench seat next to Sinclair. Lucinda sat across from Sage, while Fong occupied the corner, across from the stranger, surveying all of them with heavy-lidded eyes.

  “New coach?” Sage asked Lucinda.

  She shrugged then smiled and answered, “Brand new. It was our first outing in it. The ladies are going to be upset with me.”

  “Since you’re their boss, they’re not likely to complain.”

  Her lips twisted in a faint smile but she said, “Maybe so. But they will be disappointed.” Her regret was genuine. The realization came to him that everything was genuine about Lucinda.

  Sage studied the interior of the vehicle to take his mind off the woman across from him. Tufted and buttoned leather covered the two seats with plenty of foot room between them. Glass insets filled each side opening to keep rain out. The coach’s strong springs made for a smooth ride—as smooth as it could be on a rutted and potholed dirt road. Their fast pace had to be raising billows of dust.

  He glanced to his side and saw that the stranger was staring at Lucinda, his eyes calculating. “Just who are you, Mister?” Sage’s voice sounded harsh and overly loud despite the incessant road rattle.

  That question tore the man’s eyes away from Lucinda and he answered readily, “Name’s Paul Sinclair. I’m out here from Chicago.”

  “What do you do in Chicago?” Sage’s question made Sinclair stir uneasily and turn his face away, so that he was staring out the side window. When he turned back, all the life was gone from his face and his voice was dull as he said, “I’m a panderer, a white slaver, a seducer of innocent girls.”

  That candor took Sage off guard and in the pause that followed he looked toward Lucinda. She had stiffened and somehow withdrew from them all.

  “What are you doing here in Portland?”

  “I was hired by a man named James Farley to kidnap Rachel Levy.”

  Once again, the candor gave Sage pause then he said, “So, why are there three women aboard the Maggie Jane if Rachel Levy was your only target?”

  Sinclair rolled his eyes to the ceiling, clearly exasperated with what had transpired. “I didn’t know there were two sisters who were identical twins. I grabbed the wrong one, Rebecca. Then I tricked the second one, Rachel, to come to the aid of Rebecca.”

  Sinclair’s voice seemed to soften when he said the name “Rebecca” but Sage couldn’t think about that now. “So why did you grab Mae Clemens?”

  “I did that early this morning. I panicked.” He heaved a sigh. “She was snooping around the Maggie Jane. I was afraid she’d call for help before the steamer sailed. So, I grabbed her.” He held out a hand that had been severely scratched as if demonstrating the task had not been easy.

  Sage smiled but still asked, “Did you hurt her? Did you hurt Mrs. Clemens?”

  Sinclair chuckled softly. “I only hurt her pride. She was mad as a wet hen, as my mother would say. Me, on the other hand, got scratched and stomped. I’ll be limping for a week. She barely came to before she was telling me to take a long walk on a short log.”

  Lucinda snorted and even poker-faced Fong’s lips twitched. “Where is the Maggie Jane taking them?”

  “San Francisco. From there, they’ll be taken to Panama to work in the houses there.”

  Lucinda gasped and, for the first time, she spoke to Sinclair in a voice raspy with anger, “You despicable, disgusting human being. They’ll never survive working in a Panama whorehouse!”

  Sage saw that her hands were balled into fists and quickly intervened to touch upon his greatest fear. “Mae Clemens is too old to be a prostitute.”

  Sinclair’s face tightened and his lips formed a thin line. “That’s why we have to intercept the Maggie Jane before she crosses the bar into the Pacific. I’m afraid the captain will just throw her overboard,” he said.

  Caroline settled onto the rail car’s seat and for the first time relaxed. It had been a frantic run to the Union Station. What a picture they must have presented, the big Sergeant, towing her along by her elbow, a Chinese man running on her other side close enough to grab her other elbow should she stumble, the three of them trailed by four beehive helmeted policeman and the shabbily dressed older fellow. Lord knew what people on the street made of their odd little parade..

  While Hanke talked with the engineer, she’d waited beside the huffing train engine with steam clouds billowing around her knees. It had been touch and go whether the engineer would comply with the sergeant’s orders.

  “This train has to go straight to Astoria, no stops,” Hanke ordered as soon as the engineer appeared at the top of the iron-rung steps.

  “I am sorry, sir. I am not authorized to take that action,” the engineer spluttered in alarm.

  “Three women have been kidnapped onto a ship. They’re going to take them out into the ocean, maybe kill them by dumping them overboard. This train needs to beat that ship to Astoria so we can rescue them before it crosses the bar. There’s not much time.”

  The engineer’s brow wrinkled. He took his cap off to run stubby fingers through sparse hair. He turned toward his fireman who’d left off shoveling wood into the burner to listen. “Well, how about I find the station boss and get his okay?” he asked, turning back toward Hanke.

  The big police sergeant shook his head and raised both hands to halt the engineer’s descent from the engine. “We don’t have time. The ship sailed, under steam, over an hour ago. We need to leave right now!”

  “But my passengers will raise a ruckus if we just blow past their stop. And what about all the folks at the stations waiting to board?”

  “I’ll go back and explain to the passengers once we are underway. And I’ll have one of my men here explain to the station master so he can telegraph ahead to any waiting passengers and tell them what’s going on. They can catch the next train, there’s at least six a day.” Caroline marveled at how rapidly the sergeant countered the engineer’s objections.

  The engineer straightened, squared his shoulders and turned to the fireman, “Better step up the pace there, Davy. We’re going to be running real hot, straight through to Astoria. No stops.” He saluted Hanke and returned to his controls.

  Hanke’s broad face broke into a smile. He gestured for one of his men to ride on the engine and said to another, “You run off and tell the station master what’s going on. Make sure he telegraphs ahead to the stations. You telegraph the police chief in Astoria. Tell him about the coastal steamer and that we’re heading his way.” The fresh-faced young police officer nodded and ran off.

  The engineer called down from his open window. “You better get yourselves aboard because this train’s pulling out in one minute.”

  Hanke grabbed Caroline’s elbow and they ran alongside the train to the first passenger car. Once they all climbed aboard, Hanke began his announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, this train is now operating under the orders of the Portland Police Bureau. It will be proceeding directly to Astoria without stopping.”

  Gasps, cries and angry shouts greeted that pronouncement. Hanke held up a big palm to halt the outcry, saying, “Three decent women have been kidnapped by white slavers. They are on a boat heading downriver to Astoria. We need to get there ahead of them in time to arrange for their rescue.”

  Hanke’s explanation triggered excited murmurs. Caroline knew there’d be no problem when one of the male passengers shouted out, “Well, what the heck are we doing sitting here? Let’s get this goldarn train a-going.” The other passengers’ cheers echoed his sentiment.

  And so it went in the next two cars, as the train rocketed down the tracks, taking the curves at speeds that caused Caroline to stagger in the aisle an
d grab for handholds.

  Finally seated, Caroline studied her surroundings. Across the aisle, the older man had pulled a small book from his capacious coat pocket and was thumbing through it. She could have sworn it was a book of poetry from what she could see of the words’ arrangement on the pages. He looked familiar. Then she had it. Without his cart, she hadn’t recognized the ragpicker who’d been hanging around outside the laundry. Come to think of it, lately, he’d been outside the union hall as well. Who the heck was he? Why was he going with them?

  As if feeling her eyes on him, the older man looked up. In those dark brown eyes she saw an intensity of worry but also the shine of kindness. He smiled gently and she returned the smile. Leaning across the aisle, he said softly in an accents she knew as belonging to New Yorkers, “How do you do, Miss Stark. My name is Herman Eich. I am a friend of Mae’s and Sergeant Hanke’s.”

  He reached out a gnarled hand and she shook it, noticing how rough and large it was. “Nice to meet you Mr. Eich. I surely hope that Mae’s alright,” she said.

  For a moment, his brow furrowed. “That is my hope as well,” he said before turning back to his book.

  That conversation at an end, she turned her attention to the big police sergeant across from her. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings as he stared out the window. “Are you looking for something?” she asked. The question turned him to face her.

  “Yup. I am thinking that Mae’s other friends will be racing to Astoria along that road we can see whenever there’s a break in the trees. I’m trying to spot their carriage.”

  “Are you going to get in trouble for commandeering this train?” she asked.

  That question brought a smile to the broad, placid face. “Probably. Astoria’s way outside my jurisdiction and the railroad company’s going to raise holy hell. If we don’t rescue those women, I probably need to think about becoming a farmer, again.” Hanke’s face was rueful before he shrugged off the worry. “On the other hand, if we do rescue them, folks will be so impressed that they might forget I broke a few rules to do it.”

  Hanke’s eyes sharpened and Caroline found herself wriggling under that look. He gazed around the railcar which was only about half full. Gesturing to a collection of empty seats at the swaying car’s rear, he said, “How about you and me move on back there where we’ll have a little more privacy.” She understood he intended it as neither a suggestion nor a question. She immediately stood and, using seat backs to keep her on her feet, she led the way.

  Once seated again, Hanke focused his intent blue eyes on her face. “Okay, Miss Caroline Stark, suppose you explain exactly why you’re hanging around the laundry workers. You needn’t spare the details. We have plenty of time.”

  Caroline heaved a sigh. She should have known that this determined fellow wouldn’t be distracted long from getting the answers he wanted. So, after taking a deep breath, she began to answer.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  When he reached the hotel’s u-shaped driveway, hastily stuffed valise in hand, James Farley was disappointed to see other guests already taking the only hansom cab in sight.

  “Wouldn’t you know it,” he muttered to himself. After pacing back and forth for a few minutes, fruitlessly hoping for another cab, Farley set off down the drive. He glanced at his pocket watch, “Thirty minutes to departure,” he told himself both as a warning and a promise.

  Farley tried not to break into a run. It would be too conspicuous and the police had no reason to suspect he was involved. Of course, he’d performed his share of skullduggery in the past. But when he pulled something off, he made damn sure the evidence disappeared. He should have known this whole operation was doomed to fail when Sinclair grabbed the wrong woman. Nothing went right after that. Not that it was Sinclair’s fault. Who knew they were twins? That twit he was paying money to, probably knew. Just didn’t think it was worth mentioning. And, why would he have said anything? It’s not like Farley told the informer about their plans to kidnap Rachel Levy.

  Women. He should have known this job would have problems. Damn women were scrappers and most of the operatives he used hesitated to lay a hand on them. That’s why he’d hired Paul Sinclair. The Chicago man was supposed to be the best when it came to sweet-talking a woman into going wherever he wanted her to go. For sure, Sinclair got that one laundry gal to blab but that had been the extent of his sweet-talking success. And the success had been short-lived since she’d clammed up right quick.

  Farley irritably shifted his valise to his other hand and again looked for a cab on the street. All he saw were pedestrians and that electric trolley. Maybe he should grab a ride on that. It was heading the right direction. The trolley stopped at the corner and he hopped aboard, handing the conductor a few coins. “Keep the change,” he told the uniformed man.

  Once settled onto a wood slat seat, Farley mulled over his failure. “Where were those damned operatives, anyway? The last few days he’d been working blind. It wasn’t like he could slink around, buying drinks for the drivers and wheedling information from them. That was the job of the two missing men.

  Farley’s face twisted in a sour smile. Old Cobb was going to have his hands full the next few days. He’d have to make his own deal with the strikebreakers. They were an unruly bunch. A bit too fond of head thumping, even women’s heads. Liked to show they were tough. Without him there to control them he doubted they’d hold back just because the picketers were women.

  The late morning heat was raising sweat on his brow. Farley glanced at his watch. He’d reach Union Station in another few minutes. That would give him fifteen minutes to buy his ticket and hop on the eastbound train. What could they trace back to him? He feverishly tried to remember all he’d done.

  He’d had nothing to do with the fire and murder. But he’d been stupid. He was so sure that it wasn’t his operatives that burnt the laundry down that he’d stepped in to push the police investigation in the right direction. All he’d done was draw attention to himself.

  He was also clear on the kidnappings because he knew that the coastal steamer was long gone by now. It wasn’t stopping until it reached ‘Frisco. That hop-head Sinclair wouldn’t say anything. In fact, once he realized Farley was gone, Sinclair would leave town.

  The two operatives were a loose end if they ever turned up but he never asked them to do anything illegal. Nothing wrong with asking them to spend time with the delivery drivers to pick up bits of information.

  By the time Farley climbed down from the trolley he felt reassured. He had nothing to worry about because he was just a few minutes away from leaving Portland, Oregon. He planned never to return. This was one job he wouldn’t be bragging about.

  Farley was standing in the ticket line, his valise at his feet, when someone tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Farley, isn’t it?” said a somewhat familiar voice. Farley glanced around and was horrified to see the same police officer to whom he’d spoken at the laundry fire scene.

  “Why, umm, it Officer Bingham isn’t it?” he spluttered in surprise and fear as sweat popped out on his brow.

  “That’s right,” said the police officer. “Are you leaving our city, then?”

  “Yes, yes, business calls. I’ve enjoyed my stay but I’ve been summoned back to the home office,” Farley said while silently cursing himself for sounding overly jolly.

  “And what business might that be, Mr. Farley? My sergeant was a bit miffed that I forgot to ask you that question.” The police officer’s face communicated only polite interest in Farley’s answer.

  Farley mentally flailed about before finally saying, “Well, I hardly think my business should be of any interest but, that said, I was here in your fair city trying to locate an outlet for a line of parlor organs my company sells.”

  The police officer’s eyebrow arched quizzically below the rim of his helmet. “And were you successful?”

  Farley thought quickly. He couldn’t think of the name of any establishment that might sell parlor organs. Wh
y the hell had he picked something as unusual as parlor organs? If the plod asked any questions about organs he’d be fumbling for an answer. “Nope, no such luck. Afraid I’m heading back to Chicago an utter failure.” He tried to shape his face into one of disappointment.

  “Hmm,” was the police officer’s only response as he stood looking at Farley, who soon shifted uneasily beneath the gaze.

  Then the officer’s face hardened. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me to the police station,” he said, taking hold of Farley’s elbow and drawing him out of line.

  “What!” Farley spluttered. “I’ll miss my train. It’s leaving in just ten minutes!”

  The officer nodded. “Yes, you certainly will miss your train.”

  “But, why? I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t have anything else to tell you.”

  That answer caused the policeman to smile grimly and pull a little more forcefully on Farley’s elbow. “Well, that’s not exactly true, is it Mr. Farley? We’ll probably begin by discussing why you just lied to me about your business here in Portland and go on from there.” The police officer gestured toward the floor. “You might want to pick up your valise and bring it along. You won’t want to leave it here on the floor. Someone might steal it. We don’t want to encourage crime, do we?”

  Lucinda was staring out the coach window, her face softly lit by tree-dappled sunlight. She was lovely to look at with her honey-colored hair, cornflower blue eyes and curvaceous figure. Today she’d certainly dressed to impress. No one in either street or shop would have failed to admire her. But, he preferred seeing her without the face paint and wearing plain gingham. Whoa, don’t go there he told himself. He turned his attention toward their prisoner, Paul Sinclair and was not happy to see the white slaver openly admiring Lucinda.

  “Miss Collins, perhaps you would trade seats with me? That way I can keep a better eye on our guest here,” he said, nodding toward Sinclair. “And, you won’t have to ride facing backwards.”