“Yes. It was among a number of miscellaneous items stored in the hallway closet.”
“What was it doing out of the closet?”
“I have no idea.”
“You see, Mycroft?” I argued, dismissing the errant pump with a flick of the wrist. “No significance at all. The pump was simply not in its usual place.”
“Exactly, young man. I’m always suspicious of anything that appears to be out of place.”
“But Thomas,” Basil said, “you haven’t told Mr. Holmes the most important part of the clue.” Then he proceeded to explain about the paint chip.
“A brilliant piece of observation, Basil!” Mycroft smiled approvingly. The fact that I had been the one to find the paint chip and discover that it had come from the bottom of the door, appeared to have been lost in the telling.
“Well now,” I said, with an attempt at a cheerfulness that was eluding me, “this has been a fine discussion, but it’s getting late. And I need not remind you, Mycroft, that since Basil sleeps on the couch and I in a chair, you are seated in our bedroom.”
One moment,” Mycroft interrupted. “You say the paint chip came from the bottom of the door? But earlier you said this had been an outside door, before the room had been added on. The chip must have been lodged in the end of the hose when the door was open; otherwise, the threshold would have prevented the hose from coming in contact with the bottom edge of the door.”
“Oh, no, sir. There’s a gap at the bottom of the door. The threshold was removed when they added on the room.” Basil’s thin lips curled into a grin. “Mr. Ragan kept tripping on it.”
“I see.” Mycroft dropped his heavy brow over his eyes and began stroking his chin with his thumb and index figure. “Now, why would the killer use a bicycle pump at the bottom of the door?” he remained still for some moments, his face frozen in a puzzled expression. Suddenly his eyebrows shot upward, and his eyes bulged in a burst of revelation. “I see it all now. The murderer was making a desperate attempt to reverse his course. But it only served to accelerate the inevitable. Yes, this case does have its points of interest. I begin to see my brother’s fascination with crime investigation.”
I had had enough. “Look, I have to be to work early tomorrow morning, so I don’t have time right now to decipher your cryptic commentary. But any time you’re ready to tell us what you’re talking about, you just let me know.” I stepped into the hallway bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed—or chair, as the case may be.
CHAPTER 10
I just missed the early-morning downtown trolley, which meant I would be late for work. Since I now had some time to kill and was a bit winded, I took a seat on the bench at the trolley stop. I was pulling out my notebook when I heard someone yell, “Tommy boy!” I swung around to see a plain-looking, but provocatively dressed, girl running toward me. Rose.
Rose was the epitome of the “flapper” girl, a fad that was beginning to fade—and she was fading along with it. Her yellow-brown dropped waist dress looked dingy, and the fringe was getting ragged. She had bobbed her hair in an obvious imitation of the actress Clara Bow, with a curled lock that emphasized the curve of her cheek. It had been a while, however, since she could afford to go to the hairdresser, and the asymmetrical style was beginning to look odd. Though it was a cool morning, she wasn’t wearing any sort of coat; I suspect she didn’t have one.
I don’t even remember how we met, but Rose claims I gave up my seat on the trolley for her and struck up a conversation. If that was true, it was an act of chivalry I regretted, because she had followed me like a puppy dog ever since and acted far too familiar. Once she saw how much it embarrassed me, she did it all the more.
“Tommy, where have you been keeping yourself?” Rose cuddled up to me and held on to my arm like she was afraid I would run away. She wasn’t far wrong. Even this early in the day, there was a faint smell of bathtub gin about her that was barely camouflaged by her flowery perfume. “You sure know how to play hard to get. Don’t you know that you can break a girl’s heart that way?” It was an accusation, not a question.
“C’mon, Rose.” I tried to keep my voice even, though her forwardness had rattled me, and she knew it. “Stop hanging on to me. I’ve got to get to work.”
“You’re not still working on that silly explosion story, are you?” Her question surprised me. I had no idea that Rose ever read the newspaper. She untwined herself from my arm, slid off the bench, and strolled a few steps down the street. “By the way, I know a secret about Harry Ragan that you don’t know,” she called over her shoulder.
“Wait a minute! What are you talking about?”
She turned and smiled. “I thought you had to get to work.”
“Yeah, I do, so if you really know something, tell me.”
Rose screwed up her face and put her hands on her hips. She wasn’t buying it. “What’s in it for me, Tommy?”
I scoured my mind to think about what I could do that would appeal to her. Then I had an idea. “Look, when all this is over, I’ll take you out to dinner. What d’ya say?”
She scrunched her shoulders, clasped her hands, and smiled, squeezing her tongue between her teeth in obvious delight. “A real date—you mean you’ll treat me like a girl?”
“Well, you drive a hard bargain, Rose, but yeah, sure.”
“Well, it’s like this.” Rose sat down and sidled up to me again, fingering the collar of my suit jacket. My stomach quivered. Though I hated to admit it, she had a certain raw physical attraction. “I happen to know that Ragan gave a little money every month to Captain Bill at the mission.”
“How do you know that?”
Her eyes grew wide. “What, don’t you believe me? Well, Mr. Doubting Thomas, I worked at his place every now and then, serving drinks. Harry was very nice to me.”
Yeah, I’ll bet he was. “But how could you know about the money sent to the mission, Rose?”
“Oh, until a few months ago, he used to send me over there with a sawbuck or two. He thought that paying something to them Holy Rollers would keep him out of hell, I guess. But back in the summer, Captain Bill told me that he wouldn’t accept the donations unless Harry brought them himself. Which was fine with me—those people give me the creeps.”
“Rose,” I asked, “you don’t suppose you could introduce me to Captain Bill, do you?” I sensed her hesitation and turned on the charm, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Aw, c’mon, Rose. All you have to do is introduce me and then make yourself scarce. Can’t you find it in your heart to do it—for me?”
“Oh, no, forget it!” Rose pushed me away and waved her hands in front of her. “I’m not going to that mission again. All they do is preach about ‘Jesus this’ and ‘Jesus that’—and all the time I know they’re lookin’ down their noses at me because I like to take a little nip once in a while, and my dress is too short. I can’t stand those people!”
As she hurried down the street, I realized I wouldn’t get any more help from her. Besides, behind me I heard the next trolley arriving.
I hopped off at the Filbert Street stop, ran the three blocks to the Herald building, took the stairs two at a time, and was standing in front of Charlie Rosenbaum’s desk in less than two minutes. He looked like he hadn’t slept well (having spent the night in a lumpy stuffed chair, I could appreciate that), and he pointed out that I was late. As soon as I caught my breath, I explained the whole situation.
Charlie swiveled in his chair until his back was facing me. “So you think this mission worker has some information on the explosion at the speakeasy—just because some cheap tart makes the suggestion?” He spoke with his head down, scanning the manuscript he was editing with his glasses low on his nose.
“Charlie, she’s not a tart.” I had my own doubts about Rose’s character, but I hoped the tone of my voice sounded convincing. “And she used to work for Ragan. Besides,
Feeney the cop told me about this Captain Bill as well.”
“I’m not impressed by a two-bit flatfoot’s advice!” Charlie swiveled back to face me. I decided I was happier when he wasn’t making eye contact. “The Ragan killing was a mob hit, pure and simple. And the more you snoop around about it, the more likely you are to get us all in trouble. If you want to talk to this Holy Roller, do it on your own time.” He picked a sheaf of papers off the desk and waved them at me. “Here—more obits for you.”
“Forget it, Charlie!” I slammed a fist on his desk—one of those cheap sheet-metal jobs that really projected the sound. I was drawing an audience, but I didn’t care. “I’m not doing any more obituaries. I’ve finally got a story worth working on, and you’re taking it away from me.”
“Well,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair, “if you don’t like it, you can work somewhere else. Otherwise, pick up those obits and get to work.”
“I’m not doing any more obits.”
“That’s it, Watson!” Rosenbaum leaped to his feet, sending the swivel chair careening back and clanging into the steam pipe behind him. Now we had the attention of the whole newsroom. Leaning forward till our noses almost touched, he jerked his thumb in the direction of the door and bellowed in my face. “Clean out your desk and get out of here. You’re fired!”
Stunned, I shuffled over to my desk, staring ahead blankly. I opened the drawers and gaped at the contents. I must have stood there with my mouth hanging open for two full minutes. When Charlie cleared his throat loudly, it broke the spell, and I began putting my few possessions in a paper sack someone had provided for me. My face felt hot and my tongue was dry. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on me, but anyone I looked at turned their face away and pretended to be engrossed in their work. Suddenly my lethargy turned to panic, and I began shoving things haphazardly into the sack, desperate to get away from those cold, staring eyes. I came out the door of the Herald just as Jones was coming in. “Where you going, college boy?” he said, leering at me like a hyena. “Don’t you have some obits to write?” My only response was a frown as I sidestepped him and kept walking, hoping that before I got back to my apartment, I would wake up and end this nightmare.
Mycroft showed little surprise when I arrived home only a few hours after I’d left. He acted almost as if he anticipated my firing. “You’re better off without that job.”
“Yeah, thanks. Now I’m without an income, and unable to use my previous employer—my only experience in newspaper work, by the way—for a reference. How is that better off?”
“You can now concentrate full time on solving the mystery. You will solve it, then write a story that will vindicate Basil and land you a better position on one of the larger dailies.” Basil, who had been standing quietly in one corner of the room, the very soul of the inconspicuous English manservant, gave me an encouraging nod.
“Well, I wish I had your optimism. The few contacts and resources I had to investigate this story are dried up now that I’m no longer employed by the paper. And just where do you think I’m going to publish this story when I’ve been fired? I’m going for a walk.”
“Nonsense! You’re coming with Basil and me to the mission to follow up on this lead.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re going? But that’s crazy! You never go anywhere.” I remembered Sherlock once comparing a visit from Mycroft Holmes to a steam locomotive jumping its rails.
“Ah, my boy, you shouldn’t believe everything your father and my brother said about me. It’s true, I tend to be a homebody, and I’m not the bundle of nervous energy that Sherlock was. But I still have my share of curiosity, and I want to meet this ‘Captain Bill’ character.”
“But Mycroft, I need to look for a job—what are we going to live on?”
Mycroft inclined his head toward the dinner table. “You haven’t checked your morning mail.”
Puzzled over the look in his eye, I glanced at the few letters that lay on the corner of the table. Basil, ever eager to please, picked them up and handed them to me. One envelope was larger, and more important-looking, than the others. It had a London address—my father’s solicitors! I tore it open and pulled out a check. After I did some mental calculation of pounds into dollars, I realized that I held in my hand enough money to live on for several weeks in my unemployed state, even with two extra mouths to feed. I heaved a sigh of relief.
“Your first inheritance and royalty check from your father’s estate,” Mycroft said, thrusting out his chest proudly, as if he had personally arranged for it to arrive that day. “Since you now have that weight off your shoulders and can concentrate on this other little problem, shall we be off to the mission? But first, I think this turn of events calls for a celebratory lunch—my treat.”
So, before beginning our trip to the mission, we headed for the corner diner—Basil patting me on the back and congratulating me, I, shaking my head in disbelief, and Mycroft strutting along with a smug smile.
The mission was located in a large converted saloon, complete with double swinging half-doors and full-length, storefront windows. As we walked through the entrance, a thin man with greasy brown hair and a wide smile on his leathery face greeted us. It seemed as if half his teeth were missing, and those that remained looked none too healthy—irregular, jagged projections of various shades of mottled brown.
“Good afternoon, gents.” He spoke as if his missing teeth were rattling around on his tongue. “Welcome to the mission. Ernie’s my name, at yer service. How kin I help ya?”
Mycroft stepped forward, taking charge. “We would like a word with the director of this establishment, my good man.”
Ernie pulled off a tattered cap and gestured down the hallway with a flourish. “You wanna see Cap’n Bill? Right this way!”
He showed us to the “chapel”—a large, bare room with a few dozen folding chairs and a small platform at one end. A handful of ragged men sat around in a circle of chairs listening to an animated fellow with thinning, reddish-brown hair and a full red beard streaked with gray. It appeared he was just winding up a Bible study or prayer meeting. The leader wore a uniform that appeared vaguely military in style, and he spread his arms wide as he spoke, using exaggerated gestures, as if he were in front of a much larger audience.
“Well, men, that about ends it for today. Let’s close in prayer.” Heads around the circle bowed as the uniformed man prayed, “Father, I ask that you show these men their need for You, that they can’t fill the emptiness inside with booze, with women, with money, with whatever! Help them see that only You can fill that hole in their heart. I pray this in the name of JEEE-sus!” He spoke the last word, Jesus, through clenched teeth. I thought he was angry until I saw his face—a look of rapture and earnestness I have rarely seen.
The speaker dismissed the crowd after he said that anyone who wanted to pray should stay behind. A few bedraggled individuals, who looked like they needed prayer, shuffled to the front, but most of the rest filed out past us. Some wore smiles, some had blank stares, and others seemed to be pondering the meaning of the lesson.
I turned to the man who showed us in and was still standing at my elbow. “Is that Captain Bill, the man who was speaking?”
The man nodded eagerly. “Yes sir, that’s him, that’s our Cap’n Bill! We’re mighty glad to have him, too, sir. I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk with you after he finishes a-prayin’ with the fellers what come for’ard.” He grinned up in my face, and I noticed for the first time that his body was twisted and misshapen, making it seem like he was perpetually leaning forward (or “for’ard,” as he would say).
The small knot of men at the front was dispersing, and I saw Captain Bill coming our way. He was small but husky (he had seemed much larger when he was praying), with bright eyes and a ready smile.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen, and how may I help you?” He thrust his hand into min
e and seized it firmly, though he had a puzzled look on his face, as if he recognized me but couldn’t quite place me. As he turned his gaze to Mycroft, however, his expression changed to amazement.
“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Mycroft Holmes!”
“Now, then, Willie McBride, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Mycroft acted as calm and unruffled as Captain Bill was amazed. I knew that someone had to ask, or we would never get past this.
“What’s this all about, Mycroft?”
Before he could answer, Captain Bill turned to face me and put his hands on my shoulders.
“And this must be Dr. Watson’s boy! No wonder you looked so familiar! I can see your father in you, young man. If you’re here to tell me about him, I’ve already seen his obituary in the paper. I’m so sorry, me lad. He was a good man. A bonny good man.”
I tried again. “Mycroft?”
“Let me explain, young man,” the preacher said, and it seemed like a good idea to me, since Mycroft appeared to have no intention of doing so. “I first met Mr. Holmes and his brother—and your father as well—when they had me arrested. I was known as ‘Willie the Touch’—a safecracker I was, and one of the slickest in London. That is, until I made the mistake of robbing one of Mr. Holmes’s clients. With a bloodhound like ’im on me tail, I hadn’t a chance.” Captain Bill lapsed into an Irish brogue as he spoke.
“I was mighty steamed at them, young man, but then your father began visitin’ me after they threw me in the clink. It was John Watson who led me to the Lord.”
I recalled the story my father told of how he and my mother had “got religion” several years before her death and had begun attending Salvation Army meetings. Though I admired his faith, their discussions of spiritual issues usually made me uncomfortable—the kind of discomfort I was starting to feel now.
Captain Bill put his hand on my shoulder. “Thanks to your dad—and Mr. Holmes here,” he said, jerking his head in Mycroft’s direction, “me life is changed. The Holmes brothers put me in the clink, but your dad didn’t give up on me. At first I resented him comin’ around to see me, even though it was a relief from the boredom of prison life. Before I knew it, I began lookin’ forward to seein’ ’im. Your dad gave me my first Bible, led me in my first prayer of repentance, and helped me find my first job after I got out of prison. I owe him a great deal—more’n I could ever repay.”
The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy Page 8
