Solve by Christmas

by Amber Schamel

  Biting his lip, Jasper rocked back on his heels. “I was hoping it wouldn’t be serious enough to alert you, that my hunch would prove wrong.”

  “What hunch? Get to the point. I knew last night you weren’t telling me something, but I demand you spill it now.” Mr. Rudin waved at the leather chair opposite his desk. “Sit down.”

  Jasper obeyed and waited for Mr. Rudin to settle into his chair as well. “Yesterday morning, the janitor alerted me to the fact that the lab door was found ajar. I inspected the room, but as far as we can tell, nothing was stolen. I thought perhaps it had been you checking in on things, and we had nothing to fret about. After you denied it, I decided to take a turn about the factory once everyone left. Just to ensure everything was in order. That’s when I discovered a sack in the Crystallization Room. Someone had brought it in and deposited its contents into the machine. Whoever it was must have heard us coming and fled. Must have gone straight for the newspaper office, too. I called Charlie in to clean it up. We were here half the night to see to it.”

  “Atrocious. Who would do such a thing to old Rudin’s sugar?” Mr. Rudin leaned back in his chair, his hands clenched into fists. “I never wanted to have enemies, Jasper. Why does everyone hate me?”

  “Sir, there are many who love you. I personally haven’t met a single person who hates you.” Too bad Denny wasn’t here. He’d do a better job at making the old man feel better.

  “Now just look at this article. All my clients will refuse to buy my sugar. They’ll take their business somewhere else, and I will be cheated out of every penny I’ve worked for all these years.”

  “Please, sir, don’t get worked up. We’ll correct this with another article in tomorrow’s edition about how it was a mistake or potentially a sabotage. Your clients will understand.”

  “Sabotage? Oh, my reputation is ruined. Just like everything else. I don’t want to die penniless. I’ll shoot myself before they can take it from me.”

  His wrinkly hands shaking, Mr. Rudin jerked open a drawer and rummaged through it.

  Jasper jumped up and caught his wrist. “No, Mr. Rudin, please. No need for that. I won’t let these people take your business. We’ll get to the bottom of it, but I need your help if we are to succeed.”

  “How am I a help? It seems every problem comes back ’round to me. Everything I touch turns into a muddle.”

  Jasper crossed to the drink bar and poured his employer a glass of brandy. “Here now, perhaps this will calm you.” He pressed the glass into Mr. Rudin’s hand.

  Thankfully, the old man downed it. He relaxed, his breaths heavy gasps ruffling his white mustache.

  “That’s it, sir. We’ll get the facts and this whole situation ironed out just fine.” Jasper settled back in the chair, watching every tick of Mr. Rudin’s jaw. He needed to gain the man’s insight, but he couldn’t get far with him in the midst of a conniption fit. “I don’t think you understand what your life has meant to me.”

  Rudin’s eyes rose to meet his.

  “I was too young to remember, but my mother told me many times about the first night she met you and your wife. She was so terrified that somehow she’d be tracked from Chicago and my father’s murderer would finish us both. She feared that till the day she died. But when you took her hand during those last few, ragged breaths, when you assured her I would have a place here at the company, all fear left her eyes in a single tear that coursed down her jaw. Do you remember?”

  Mr. Rudin stared at nothing as if a trance had fallen over him. “I wiped it away.”

  “Yes, and with it, every fear my dear mother harbored for twenty years.”

  “She smiled then. Like she was glimpsing an angel.”

  Jasper leaned forward and touched the man’s hand. “I believe she was.”

  “I never had a baby sister. But your mother brought such joy to our house, as if she was what I never had.” With a sigh, he withdrew his hand and pursed his lips. “But she’s gone now. You and I are left with the problems and ugliness of the world.”

  “Yes, sir, but amidst all the darkness and ugliness, your kindness to me and my mother stands as a candle burning in a window. Don’t snuff it out.”

  Mr. Rudin stood with a grunt. “So, who broke into my factory, Jasper? An employee?”

  “I had thought so initially, but anyone could have come in through the lab window. Anyone with knowledge about the refining process could have brought in contaminants.”

  “What about the key? How would they take it from my office without knowing where to find it?”

  Rubbing his chin, Jasper eyed the door. It was cracked open. Hadn’t he closed it behind him? He tiptoed over and jerked it open to Mr. Stosch standing at a filing cabinet next to the door, one wrinkled hand hovering over the drawer.

  Jasper’s eyes narrowed. “No newspaper to keep you busy, Mr. Stosch?”

  The secretary tilted his chin upward and sniffed. “I have plenty on my list today, detective. So don’t be asking any favors.” He strode to his desk and sat.

  Jasper clicked the door closed and switched the lock. He approached his employer and lowered his voice. “Has Mr. Stosch given you any reason to suspect him of ill will?”

  “Stosch? Why no. He’s as great a fellow as any could ask for.”

  Somehow, Jasper doubted the description. “Who else would know where your key is?”

  “Not Stosch.” Rudin’s expression fell. “Let it be anyone but him.” He covered his face with his hands, muffling his words. “Can’t I trust anyone?”

  Taking a deep breath, Jasper gulped down his frustration. Did he have to cast a shadow of doom over everything? How would he ever get the man to see a reason for living when all he could see was hopeless?

  “Well, perhaps the thief simply snooped until he found it.” Not likely. The thief would’ve had to be expertly quick given the space of time between Mr. Rudin’s departure and Jasper’s discovery—less ten minutes. “But, Mr. Rudin, does anyone else possibly know where you kept the key?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps someone observed me taking it out at some point.”

  Jasper gave a nod. He wasn’t gaining any ground here. He strolled to the window and looked out. It would be difficult for someone to see from the street into his second-story office. “I hate to ask, sir, but can you think of anyone who would have a reason to threaten your business?”

  The man was quiet for several moments, twirling his mustache around one finger. “Not living, anyway.”

  Jasper turned. “Not living?”

  Rudin gave him a weak smile. “Never mind. Let the dead rest, shall we? No need to dig up what’s been buried.”

  Maybe. But burying something alive never worked out, and it sounded like this issue wasn’t as dead as Mr. Rudin wanted it to be.

  Mr. Rudin folded his fingers into a steeple. “So, what do we do now?”

  “First, the newspaper. I’m going down there to find out who was behind that article, and I will make them run another story to expose the facts, while not yet exposing our suspicions.”

  A hint of the old sparkle returned to Mr. Rudin’s eyes. “I’m glad that’s your job, not mine.”

  No fooling. Right now Jasper was wishing he did have a “sidekick” to handle some of these tasks. But he’d need someone more experienced than a seventeen-year-old errand boy. “In the meantime, I will continue to search for any ties to the Wobblies.”

  Especially concerning Mr. Stosch.

  Besides all that, Jasper desperately needed to make a call on Mrs. Rudin and get some answers before her husband decided to leave her running the factory. He pivoted toward the door. “Do let me know if you remember anything else of importance, sir.”

  *****

  Jasper yanked the door open and entered the newspaper office, a copy of the article under his arm. He slapped the paper on the receptionist’s desk and pinned it with his finger. “Detective Jasper Hollock of Rudin Sugar Company. I need to speak with the reporter responsible for th
is article immediately.”

  The girl’s eyes widened as she leaned forward to read the headline. “Oh…” She swallowed, her eyes darting over her left shoulder.

  “First door on the right?” Clenching the paper, he started in that direction.

  “W–wait. He can’t see anyone without an appointment.”

  “He’ll make an exception, miss. This is an emergency.” He threw open the door, startling a heavyset man with his feet propped up on the desk. His surprise threw him off-kilter, and he toppled backward, disappearing from Jasper’s sight with a thud.

  Papers, some held down with iron horseshoes or golf club heads, piled high atop his desk, ready to avalanche the brass nameplate reading Alan McCracken. A portrait of Shakespeare clung cockeyed to the white wall behind him.

  McCracken scrambled to his feet, his plump face growing redder. “Who in Drake’s crew are you? You can’t just storm into my office.”

  Jasper dipped a bow, waving the newspaper article like a royal fan. “Detective Hollock of Rudin Sugar Company, at your service.” He slammed the paper atop the rubble. “Are you the author of this article?”

  The flush drained from the reporter’s face. “I—uh—well…”

  His receptionist lingered outside the doorway. “I’m sorry, Alan. I tried to stop him.”

  Alan straightened and, with a sniff, leveled his gaze at Jasper. “Yes, I am. What can I do for you, detective?”

  “Where did you get this information?”

  The reporter tugged at his sleeves and righted his chair. “My sources are confidential.” Snatching his pen from the desk, he replaced the cap.

  “Confidential? Perhaps. Reliable? Not a chance.” Jasper looked closer and braced his hands on the desk. “What kind of intelligent reporter publishes a report of a contamination without contacting the factory where the supposed incident took place?”

  The pen dropped from McCraken’s ink-stained fingers. “My job is to report facts quickly.”

  “Quite so. Facts. Tell me then, Mr. Expert Reporter, what time did this said incident occur?” Jasper lifted his brows awaiting an answer.

  “Sometime y–yesterday. Evening. The exact time is not important.”

  “How much sugar was affected? What was done with it? How did the contamination occur?”

  Rather than reply, McCracken raised his beefy thumb and chewed the nail.

  Jasper pointed to the chair. “Sit down.” The chair creaked as the reporter plopped down. “Now, Mr. McCracken, be very helpful and cooperative, and I may reconsider my decision to report you to the sheriff for fraud, slander, and exploitation.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Which doesn’t appear to be much, but will be a start.” Jasper pulled a notepad and pencil out of his coat pocket. “Where did you get the information?”

  “A message was delivered to my office. The message contained the information published in the article.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  McCracken surveyed his mountains of paper. “Um…somewhere.”

  Jasper sighed. “Never mind. Did the person sign the message? Who was it from?”

  “The anonymous tip claimed it would be all over the place if we didn’t get it to print quick.”

  “Details, people. Details.” Jasper’s pencil dulled with each tap on the page. “Did it give any indication as to how they came about the information? Did it sound like the informant may have been an employee of the factory?”

  “It only gave facts, but did mention how the factory would probably wish to hide the instance.”

  This was going to take a while. Jasper stepped into the hall, hooked two fingers around a chair’s backrest, and swung the thing into the office. “How was the message delivered?”

  “A post boy brought it in.”

  “You reporters claim to have supernatural intuition—did you get the hunch it was connected to the Wobblies?”

  McCracken settled back in the chair and crossed his right leg over his knee. “Not really, but we have received anonymous tips from their organization before.”

  Finally, something worth jotting down. “What kinds of tips have they given you?”

  “Details on riots, injuries, information on court cases, a broad spectrum, really.”

  “And how were those delivered? Same post boy?”

  McCracken frowned. “That’d be a question for the receptionist. I’m not exactly sure how it got here. All I know is that it did. Are you finished with your interrogation yet?”

  “Not quite.” Jasper leaned forward and tapped the article about Rudin Sugar. “About this, you need to write an apology admitting your false information and publish it in tomorrow’s issue.”

  “What?” The reporter’s round face flushed red again.

  “You reported false information that threatens the company’s reputation. Now you must own to it.”

  McCracken stood, picked up the issue, and tossed it in Jasper’s lap. “Get out of my office.”

  “My pleasure.” Jasper rose as well. “I need to drop by the police station and your competitor’s office anyway. I’m sure they’ll both be interested in the details of this scandal.” He dragged the chair toward the door.

  “Wait.” McCracken ran a hand down one side of his face. “Are you saying there was no contamination whatsoever?”

  “I’m saying you reported with no validated facts. That’s what you need to correct.”

  A grin slid across his face. “So there was an incident.” He fumbled in his desk for a notepad and snatched up a pen. “Was it really hair in the sugar?”

  “I’ll give you till tomorrow morning to retract your article. If it isn’t there, I’m going to be your nightmare.” Jasper continued toward the door. He hoped the scraping of the chair legs against the carpet added effect.

  McCracken followed him, almost panting like a dog after a bone. “You suspect foul play, don’t you? With no idea who it is.”

  Jasper spun around and dropped a business card into the reporter’s breast pocket. “If you hear anything further from your anonymous contact, do let me know.”

  Chapter Seven

  December 3, 1913

  The snowstorm had eased, but a few flurries still drifted from the cloudy sky. Jasper squinted against the landscape’s white brightness. He caught a trolley and headed for the Rudin mansion.

  The trolley veered from street to street, rocking the commuters in a steady rhythm. A man with a briefcase stood up and began to sing at the top of his voice.

  “Workers of the world, awaken!

  Break your chains, demand your rights.

  All the wealth you make is taken;

  By exploiting parasites.

  Shall you kneel in deep submission;

  From your cradles to your graves?

  Is the height of your ambition;

  To be good and willing slaves?”

  Jasper elbowed the man next to him. “What do you think of these fellows?”

  “I’d prefer a Christmas carol, but that one has a nice voice. I should recruit him for the theater.”

  “Is it a Union job?”

  The man chuckled. Not a part of them, then. Still, he might have some insight to point Jasper in the right direction.

  The singer ended his serenade and launched into a speech. Jasper leaned closer to the man beside him. “They’re up to some interesting tactics. You think they’ll gain any ground in Denver?”

  “Seems to be. I have a cousin who goes to all their meetings.”

  “That so?”

  “Sure. Tells me all about how they’re going to be the savior of the working class.”

  “I see. Where do they intend to start?”

  “The free speech fights were the start. Now I guess they just organize members, strikes, and the like.”

  “Do you know where they meet?”

  “In the streets, I think.”

  Jasper lowered his voice another notch. “I’ve heard they�
�re ‘radical’. Do you think they’ll turn to violence?”

  The man scratched his bristly chin, bushy brows sinking. “Well, I don’t think that’s their intent, but you remember the trial of Bill Haywood. Most folks think he had more to do with setting off that bomb. With him as their leader, you never know what they’ll do next.” The man stood. “Well, this is my stop. Nice talking with you.”

  Jasper nodded as the man exited the car. He sat back and folded his arms. He’d have to spy out a meeting and watch for any Rudin employees. One of them had to be tied to this case.

  He hopped off the streetcar and sloshed to the Barnum subdivision. The Rudins’ mansion dominated the top of a hill. Made of red brick with a nod at the Colonial era, castle-like towers guarded both sides of a spacious front porch. Wide white steps offset the red, and matching white trim and scattered windows provided a cheery look. Already the customary oversized wreath graced the front door. It wouldn’t be long before the gigantic red Christmas bows dotted the railing.

  How he’d enjoyed this house as a child, yet bittersweet memories always rose at the sight of it. His mouth went dry. He missed his mother. Loneliness swept over him like a drift of snow.

  Determination quickened his pace. Mr. Rudin must live. Jasper would do whatever it took to ensure he did. He wouldn’t lose him, too.

  He trotted up the steps and rapped on the front door. A maid opened. “Detective Hollock, come on in. I’m sorry, but Mr. Rudin isn’t home from the factory yet.”

  “Quite all right, Lena. I am here to see the missus, today. In the parlor?”

  “Yes, sir.” She took his coat, and he headed down the hall.

  The parlor door was ajar. He tapped and poked his head inside. The flowery wallpaper and warmth of the room would fool you into thinking it was spring, if not for the half-decorated tree in the corner. A rose-petal scent he always associated with Mrs. Rudin tickled his nostrils. Sure enough, she sat in her usual place. Poised like a queen upon the cream-colored divan sorting ornaments. “Afternoon, Mrs. Rudin.”

  “Jasper, what a pleasant surprise. What has kept you away so long?” The woman laid aside the box and met him halfway across the room, her high-waisted, mauve skirt swooshing around her ankles. A healthy blush brightened her so that, even with a few wrinkles, she retained a spirit of youth.