by Jane Steen
Crabb stared at me open-mouthed for a moment and then swore long and fluently. “So that’s what he was talking about,” he said at last.
“Who?” I could see Crabb was agitated.
He ignored me and spoke to Gorton. “Can you get her out of here?” he asked. “I’ve got something to say to you.”
“Oh no.” I shook my head. “If I leave this room before I’m quite done, I’ll go straight to Alex Gambarelli’s office and tell him everything. Whatever it is, you can say it in front of me.”
Crabb looked decidedly deflated. “There’s a chap in the hallway who shouldn’t be there,” he informed Gorton.
“That would be the Pinkerton agent assigned to keep an eye on me—to make sure you wouldn’t follow me again.” So I did have a rescuer at hand if I screamed. How thrilling.
Gorton cast his eyes up to the ceiling and rose to his feet. “I leave. Now. It is opportune that you’ve come, Crabb. I will pay you well to assist me to leave Chicago in one piece.”
“But what about Powell?” Crabb was almost shouting.
“What about him?” Gorton was pulling out the drawers of his desk and stuffing various small articles into his pockets. “He may hang for all I care.”
“I think that would be his preference,” Crabb said. “That’s why I came over. He’s holed up at Lizzie’s, and she wants him off her hands today. And I’m done with the information game, and with the Gambarellis. Lizzie won’t have it anymore. I’ve made enough to get by just fine with investing, and she won’t have me as her solid man till I’m out of this messy business. You have to take Powell.”
“I will not.”
“I will,” I said. “I can probably even offer him a measure of protection. The gentleman from Pinkerton’s can help me with that.”
Crabb fingered his mustache, appearing to assess my offer. “I should sell him to the highest bidder,” he mused. “Which would be Alex. But I don’t like the thought of what Alex might do to him after what I’ve heard.” He shuddered.
“Then deliver him to Mr. Rutherford’s office by two o’clock, and I’ll do the best I can for him,” I said.
“Crabb, time is of the essence.” Gorton had moved toward the door, grabbing Crabb’s elbow as he did so. “I hope very much that Alex’s attention is, as you say, diverted for a little longer. You must find me a route out of this country.”
I followed the two men out of the door. In the corridor, a man sat on the hard chair, reading a newspaper, but the alert look in his eyes as he saw me indicated he was no ordinary visitor. I made a gesture to him to show I was in no danger.
“Two o’clock,” I said to Crabb as he passed. Gorton was striding ahead of him, jamming his silk hat onto his overly large head.
“It’s a deal.”
I turned to the Pinkerton agent and smiled. “We’re going to need a few more of you, and perhaps the police. Could you please escort me back to Rutherford’s? I’ll explain on the way.”
35
Honor
By half past one, we were all assembled in Martin’s outer office, the inner one having been deemed too small for the gathering. The usual traffic of clerks and employees visiting the accounting offices and cash room on the third floor had been halted by Joe’s orders. A man was placed on each staircase and by the elevators to prevent anyone entering the floor. Four Pinkerton agents and a brace of police detectives stood along the wall, having refused Martin’s offer of chairs. Two uniformed policemen stood guard at the office door.
“Should the lady stay, sir?” one of the detectives asked as Martin arranged a chair for me, well away from the seat assigned to John Powell. “It doesn’t seem right for her to witness this.”
Martin had returned from Gambarelli’s as pale as parchment, and I wondered if I’d ever know what he’d learned there. He was still somewhat white in the face, but a mood of resolution seemed to have settled over him, and he had greeted my news with little emotion. I dreaded seeing him come face-to-face with Lucetta’s murderer—but the detective’s words sent a pang of shock through me. I wanted to stay. I looked at Martin anxiously.
“The lady stays right here,” he said evenly. “She has been a valuable part of the investigation—in fact, I don’t know what I’d have done without her.” He turned to me. “You could say we’re even now. A life for a life. Thank you for giving mine back to me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, especially in public, so I said nothing. But a warm glow spread through me all the same.
We waited in growing tension until twenty minutes past two. I had no reason to trust Crabb. Would he simply run, as Gorton was doing? But at length, we heard voices in the corridor—two men, speaking in cajoling tones, as if they were trying to get a reluctant child to go for a walk.
“You’ll need coffee.” Crabb had a tight hold of John Powell’s arm. Another man—a thin, weaselly looking man with scant black hair—supported him on the other side. I looked at Powell with curiosity as they seated him in the chair. After all, I’d never seen him.
In other circumstances, he might have been a pleasant-looking man. His forehead was broad and smooth beneath thick chestnut hair, which ran down into whiskers that looked as if they had once been neatly trimmed. His chin was a little weak, to be sure, but his mouth was wide and pleasantly shaped, curving up naturally at the corners. The irises that stared in terror at Martin out of bloodshot whites were an unusual color, a sort of light amber. He looked to be a strong man with broad shoulders and legs. The overall effect of him must once have been a kind of boyish athleticism.
Crabb looked at Martin, then at me, and held up his hands. “I’ve done my bit. I’m leaving now, all right? I give you my word you won’t be hearing from me again.”
“Some word,” one of the detectives said, and the other sniggered.
“I’m not mixed up with any of this,” said Crabb defensively. “I’d take a drink with him when we happened to be in the same establishment, was all. All I knew was that he—well—he and Mrs. Rutherford—” He looked furtively at Martin. “But only once. He spent a lot of time crying on my shoulder about that. The great love of his life and all.”
He looked at Powell, whose head had dropped forward. They’d evidently spent some time cleaning him up but hadn’t changed his clothes, which were blotched with damp spots where something had been scrubbed from them. Vomit, from the faint residual odor. And probably worse. I had the impression he’d soiled himself.
“Should we cuff him to the chair?” one of the Pinkerton men asked quietly.
“He won’t run,” said Martin.
Joe, who had left the room for a moment, returned. “I’m having a pot of coffee sent up,” he informed us.
“Can we go?” Crabb asked. “I’m rather busy today.” He shot me a look, which I returned with a candid stare. No, I wasn’t going to set the police on Gorton. I suspected that gentleman might find it more difficult than he realized to live safely in France now that the Gambarellis knew the truth. I was inclined to leave him to his fate. Lucetta deserved that justice, at least.
One of the detectives jerked his head at the other, and they left the room for a moment. When they came back, the detective who appeared to be in charge spoke to Crabb.
“Hop it, then. But stay in Chicago, and behave yourself. If we need you, you’ll be hearing from us.”
Crabb tipped his hat at me on the way out.
The coffee arrived, and a fair quantity of it was gradually coaxed down Powell’s throat. He vomited once, but fortunately one of the Pinkerton men was quick at shoving a metal paper bin under his nose. The nasty mess was quickly removed from the room and the windows in both of Martin’s offices opened. After some forty minutes’ work, Powell was more or less restored to some semblance of humanity and sat staring fearfully at Martin. Who, I was glad to notice, did not look particularly angry.
“Now then.” The detective in charge hunkered down on his knees beside Powell’s chair. “All we need is enough of
a confession from you to make an arrest, and then we’ll put you in a nice, safe cell to sleep it off. Did you kill Lucetta Rutherford on Tuesday the twenty-eighth of March last, in this building?”
“Yes.” Powell whispered the word and then looked up at Martin. “Hang me. Have mercy.”
His face crumpled, and he began to sob while the assembled men looked at each other in disgust.
“How did you kill her?” the detective said, his tone remarkably gentle.
“With my knife. I cut—I cut—” He began to sob again. “Mia cara Lucetta. I would give the whole world not to have done it, I swear to you.” He looked at Martin again, his face red and tearstained, clear trails of mucus running from his nose down to his chin. “I was angry—I get so angry—like a demon inside me.”
“We all have our demons.” Martin’s face had assumed the blank look that hid his emotions so well. “But a man learns to control them.”
“She said I wasn’t a man,” Powell groaned.
“Mrs. Rutherford?” asked the detective.
“No.” Powell’s voice was thick, and he cleared his nose with a great snort before continuing. “There was another.”
“You’re confessing to another murder?” The detective looked up at his colleague and shook his head in seeming amazement, a half smile on his face. “In Chicago?”
“Jefferson City.” Powell’s voice strengthened. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I hit her a bit too hard.”
“And you let another man hang for it,” Joe said. He seemed to be suffering more than the others from the varied smells in the room. I’d seen him put his hand to his nose several times.
“Let’s stick to this murder,” the detective said a little impatiently. “So you’re telling us you cut Mrs. Rutherford? With what?”
“My hunting knife. I carry it for protection—I’m on the frontier a lot.” He squeezed the palms of his hands together as if to calm their trembling. “I didn’t mean to kill Lucetta either. I was so happy when I saw her. I was on the way to the store to talk to Rutherford, and I saw her go in. I didn’t understand why she was on the fourth floor, waiting in some storeroom. I thought Rutherford would be coming up any minute, so I waited in the room opposite. The one with the hats.” I saw Joe nod at this.
“After a while, she went to use the washroom, and I thought she’d go downstairs. But she came back.” Powell was more alert now, his body rigid. The look on his face was earnest, almost as if he would try to convince us of his innocence. “I had to go and talk to her. All I could think of while she was away was her. I thought maybe she felt the same. Maybe she’d seen me follow her and found a place we could talk alone—was just waiting for me to realize it.”
I saw one of the Pinkerton men roll his eyes at another, but the second man shook his head sternly.
Powell had started to shake. The detective in charge straightened up for a moment to ease his knees, wincing, and then hunkered back down, still speaking in the same calm voice, as if to gentle a frightened horse.
“Why did you kill her?”
“She had a child in her belly.” The shaking was getting worse. “She tried to hide it—didn’t want me to know. I asked her if it was Rutherford’s, and she—she—” He began to cry again. “The way she said it made me realize she wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t mine—I could see it in her eyes. I’ve watched her face all my life—her beautiful face—and I knew it, right then. My Lucetta was a puttana. A whore. A shame to her family. And she wouldn’t even admit it to me.”
“You killed her for the family’s honor?” one of the Pinkerton men asked, and the detective looked up in annoyance.
“Yes—no—she said I wasn’t a Gambarelli man. That I had no right to punish her. No right.”
His voice rose to a scream on the last word, and he tried to rise to his feet, but fell. The two detectives and the Pinkerton men sprang forward in unison, dragging him upright. The detective must have spoken formal words of arrest. Yet all I could concentrate on was Martin’s face as he watched the thick manacles, in the shape of the figure eight, being placed on Powell’s wrists. Was he remembering his own arrest?
One of the uniformed men had entered the room when Powell screamed. “Do you want the Black Maria at the side entrance?” he asked the detectives.
“No.” Martin’s voice was harsh. “You owe me that much. Make sure he goes out the front way—through the store—for everyone to see.”
There was a pause of a few minutes while the detectives debated the merits of clearing the store, which gave Powell time to leave a disgusting puddle on the linoleum of the office floor. His moment of clarity seemed to have passed, and he had retreated back into some state that was neither drunk nor sober, muttering to himself in Italian and occasionally opening his eyes and mouth wide, like a fish. In the end, a small procession formed with the two uniformed men holding onto Powell, and the detectives and Pinkerton men flanking him. The elevators were cleared of customers, and the procession proceeded into one of them. The last view any of us had of Powell was of his amber eyes, staring upward through the elevator gate as the machine slid downward out of our view.
The three of us—Joe, Martin, and I—retreated to Joe’s office, where Joe flung the windows wide. Martin pulled himself up onto his customary perch on the corner of Joe’s desk.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
In answer, Martin held out a large, long-fingered hand in front of him, seemingly studying it for any signs of a tremor. There were none.
“Yes.” He sounded almost surprised. “Do you know, I can’t seem to find it in myself to be angry with Powell. I should be enraged, don’t you think?” He looked at me. “Does that make me heartless?”
“You’re never that.” I shook my head. “Perhaps you’ve just gone through too much today.”
“You’re probably right.” He swallowed. “I expect I’ll make it up to myself in my dreams. Dear God, if there’s one thing I’d like more than anything in the world right now, it would be the anticipation of a good night’s sleep.”
I felt exhausted myself. “Powell’s in a hell of his own making, isn’t he?”
“And he’ll face the noose sober, poor devil,” Joe said. “I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like for him in jail with no bottle to save him from the horrors. I’ve heard that stopping the drink when you’ve been on it for weeks is a terrible ordeal.”
“If he survives.” Martin’s face was bleak. “I wouldn’t put it past Alex to get to him in jail. I used to wonder, every time they put a group of us together, whether one of the other prisoners didn’t have a knife in wait for me.”
I wanted to put my arms around him so much that my shoulders ached. Even Joe’s presence might not have stopped me from doing so if there’d been anything in Martin’s face to assure me he wouldn’t push me away. But the terrible blankness was settling over him again. Like Powell, he was retreating inside himself somehow. I rose to my feet.
“I’m going to work,” I said. “I have a dinner dress that needs to be started. The dress form has to be set up and the toile made. The customer’s coming back in two days.”
Martin stared at me for a moment. “You’re going to keep working? Now? After it’s all over?”
“Of course I am,” I said. “After all, your name will soon be free of any taint. I want to make sure you have a thriving store to come back to in the spring.”
And before he could move, I leaned over and kissed him lightly on one cheek. I exited the room with one eye on Joe, who was trying not to smile at my blush.
36
Truce
Martin had been wrong about the Gambarellis’ thirst for immediate vengeance. John Powell survived to face his execution, which took place before Martin left for Europe. The oddest thing about the whole affair was that Alex Gambarelli expressly invited Martin to be present at the hanging. The event was also attended by the press and some fifty or so persons of distinction, representative of the merchant community and
of the city of Chicago.
Being conducted in the courtyard between the courthouse and the jail, it was not strictly a public affair. But it was made so by being written up in the evening papers. The description of Martin standing shoulder to shoulder with the Gambarelli men in a spot with the best view of the hanging affected me strangely, and I told him so as we walked in Lake Park three days later.
“I feel that the Gambarelli family and I have reached some kind of fragile truce,” Martin said, his eyes on a few leaves, shed by the spindly young trees now that October was here, that were bowling along the paths. “They’re still angry with me though.”
“They are?”
The path turned, and we turned with it so that the fitful gusts from the lake were now coming from our right. I could see half a dozen children in the distance, attended by a pair of ladies in black. No strangely out-of-place men of any kind. No journalists, then. The Lucetta Gambarelli murder was fast becoming stale news. What with the rehashing of Grant’s scandals, the Greenbacks, and the prohibitionists, the imminent election was providing far more entertainment.
“Domenico lectured me at length about my failure to control Lucetta’s—amours.” Martin shook his head. “He blames me for not beating her blue and putting an end to her lovers. If I’d turned her into a good, obedient wife, she’d still be alive.”
“But she had lovers before she married you,” I said with indignation. “Gorton, for one.”
Martin shrugged. “But they didn’t know. Had they known—well, I’m not sure what would have happened had they become aware of Lucetta’s behavior earlier.”
I was silent. Martin, of course, had been one of Lucetta’s lovers—only she’d decided to marry him. To untangle the threads of what might have happened was an exercise in futility that had kept me awake more than once. I was learning to accept that things had a way of happening as if they were meant to. I could hear Tess’s voice reciting the verse she often repeated when I began to worry: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.” Was Martin my expected end? I hoped so.
