The Case of the Exploding Speakeasy

by David E. Fessenden

  He rumpled his upper lip and stared at me with the same impatient expression he had used when I was a child struggling over my arithmetic. “She is the daughter of the director of a city mission—an establishment that seeks to rescue alcoholics—yet she once served drinks in a speakeasy. She is embarrassed about having worked at such a disreputable place. Naturally she would keep it a secret—especially from you.”

  Of course! That made all the sense in the world. I felt the heat creep up my neck as I realized what a fool I had made of myself.

  “Now, Thomas, go mend your fences. It may be late, but you certainly aren’t going to wake them—not after the uproar you just caused.” Mycroft closed the door on me.

  I stood at the bottom of the stairwell, completely confused. I couldn’t go back into my apartment, or I would get another lecture from Mycroft. And I was not about to go upstairs and apologize. It was embarrassing to admit I was wrong—too appalling to even consider. Besides, Maggie’s father wasn’t likely to let me speak with her. All out of ideas, I walked halfway up the stairs and sat down, like a reenactment of the A. A. Milne poem, “Halfway Down.”

  After a while, I heard the door above me open, and in another moment, Maggie was sitting on the stairs next to me.

  “I was hoping you’d be here,” she said in a subdued voice. “I didn’t think you’d ever want to lay eyes on me again.”

  Suddenly, we turned to each other and simultaneously said, “I’m sorry!” Then we both laughed. After a long pause, Maggie spoke again.

  “My mother died early in 1919 in the Spanish Flu epidemic,” she began. “I was 16 and didn’t know how to handle it. Dad—well, he was devastated, but he turned to his faith and found comfort in the Lord. I was angry, though—angry at the doctor because he couldn’t cure her, angry at my dad for not bringing in the doctor sooner. But mostly, I suppose, I was angry at God for allowing her to die, for allowing that tragedy to invade my life.” She looked over at me, maybe to see if I was still listening.

  “I rebelled by wearing short dresses and staying out late. When I turned eighteen, I left home, took a job with Ragan, and rented a room. Things seemed to go all right for a while. The work wasn’t hard and I enjoyed being around people. I even found I could stuff down the guilt pretty well. But then Ragan started making advances, and when I refused him, he fired me.

  “Dad let me come home, but he told me I had to obey the rules and make a clean break from my old ways. I tried. Outwardly I was obedient, but inside I was fighting it every step of the way. Then one Sunday at church, I realized what I was doing. God gave me a glimpse of my sinful self, and what my actions and attitudes were doing to poor Dad. So I went to the altar and surrendered my life to the Lord. It’s been three years, and I still feel like a new person.”

  She paused and looked at me as if I was expected to say something, but my mind was completely blank. I had never heard anyone speak so freely and sincerely about God and faith, except perhaps my father.

  “I really should have told you,” she said finally. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to think less of me.”

  “Well, I’m the one who should apologize. I only hope you won’t think less of me. I had no right to come up there and accuse you of lying. That was wrong.” I buried my head in my hands and sighed. “This story—this mystery—really has me stumped. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “When I don’t know what to do,” Maggie said hesitantly, “I find that praying and going to church help me find the answers.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes as a light flush of red appeared on her cheek.

  Wow, she’s even more beautiful when she’s embarrassed.

  “Our church is a special place,” she began again, “and our pastor is a great preacher. I think you’d like it.”

  My face must have revealed my thoughts because she chuckled and added, “Oh, don’t worry! It’s not as, well, freewheeling as the meetings at the mission. You really should come sometime.”

  “Yes, maybe I will,” I lied, hoping my face could hide my real feelings.

  “Well, since tomorrow is Sunday—”

  The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, and Basil popped his head out. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but Mr. Holmes wishes to speak with you before he retires.”

  “Mr. Meridan, I was just inviting Thomas to visit our church tomorrow, and I’d like to extend the invitation to you and Mr. Holmes as well. The service begins at 11:00 a.m.”

  “Your father has already invited us, Miss, and we are planning to come. That was the very thing Mr. Holmes wanted to talk with you about, sir.”

  “Oh, you will come, won’t you, Thomas? We can make a day of it—I’ll make breakfast for us all before the service, and then after lunch we can take a walk in Vernon Park and enjoy the fall leaves.”

  Trapped. I swallowed with difficulty, then said, “Certainly, that sounds fine.”

  “Wonderful! Then I suppose we had all better get to bed.” Maggie flashed me one of her fabulous smiles, the kind that seemed to light up her whole face, then stood, apparently satisfied.

  The alarm clock seemed to ring early and excessively loud the next morning. I shut it off, pulled myself to a sitting position, and shook my head over how Mycroft, Basil, and I were rising early for church when I ought to be tracking down another clue. But my investigation was at a standstill, and Sunday was usually a dead loss for a reporter anyway, what with shops and offices closed, and most potential news sources unavailable.

  I glanced at the clock once more. My musings had cost me five minutes. Throwing off the covers, I hurried to dress. I wasn’t overly anxious to get to church, but Maggie had promised to make us breakfast. I noticed as I headed for the bathroom that Basil and Mycroft were gone; they must have been upstairs at the table already.

  I completed my washing and grooming in record time. I had just finished tying my tie as I opened the door to the stairwell. The mid-stair discussion with Maggie was immediately brought back to my mind, but was interrupted by the most delicious aroma of sausage and rashers of bacon. I nearly floated to the top of the stairs.

  “You’re late,” Maggie said with mock seriousness when she opened the door. She was wearing an embroidered ivory dress with long, flared sleeves and a tiered skirt. In her hands she held a matching cloche hat, and looked like she had just been about to put it on. “But I’ve managed to save a little bacon for you. And I also have a surprise for you, someone I’d like you to meet.” She stepped aside to reveal another young woman behind her.”

  “Oh, how do you do, Miss—why, it’s Rose!”

  I couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprise. There she stood with her hair in place, clean and bright as a new penny, wearing a modest dress and a big smile on her face. What a transformation!

  “Tommy! I mean, ah, Thomas—Mr. Watson.” She fumbled over my name like a shy schoolgirl.

  “Rose, what have you done to yourself? You look like a whole new person.”

  She lowered her eyelids and slid the toe of one shoe back and forth across the threadbare carpet. And could it possibly be—was she blushing? I had never seen her blush, though she’d had plenty of reason in the past to do so.

  “I—I asked Maggie to give me a chance to speak to you,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that . . . well, I’m sorry for the times I’ve embarrassed you and flirted with you and begged money off you.” She looked up at me with her face aglow. I had never noticed her beautiful blue eyes.

  “It was the booze that made me do it, Tom—Mr. Watson,” she said finally. “But Jesus set me free and I don’t need no booze no more.” I smiled inwardly at her poor grammar, now so incongruous with her outward appearance.

  “So Maggie’s gotten to you, eh?” I said, trying to make light of it, simply because I was so rattled by the change in her.

  “It wasn’t me. It was the Lord.” Maggie grinned and her
eyes danced mischievously, as if she’d played a great joke on me. “So what do you think of the change in our girl, eh?”

  I don’t remember much about the long-anticipated breakfast, but Basil tells me I spent most of the meal, as well as most of the church service, shooting sidelong glances at Rose (when I wasn’t gaping at Maggie) and shaking my head in bewilderment.

  * * *

  “You look frustrated.” Maggie’s voice startled me as she sat down on the other side of the bench. I was well on the way to ruining a perfectly pleasant Sunday afternoon walk in the park by being lost in my own morose thoughts.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” I flashed her a brave smile, but her piercing stare and the wrinkles on her forehead told me she obviously wasn’t buying it. She cocked her head to one side and squeezed her lips together.

  “Thomas, didn’t you say that we were friends? Don’t friends share their problems with one another?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” It was no use. I had to tell her. “Tomorrow is the deadline to write the article and win the bet, and I’m nowhere near proving that Ragan’s death wasn’t a mob hit, much less finding the killer and wrapping up the case. Mycroft knows a lot more than he’s telling me, but he insists on playing the teacher-student game with me.” I searched her face for some trace of sympathy. “Look, I know you don’t condone gambling—neither do I, really, but I was badgered into taking the bet. Besides, the twenty dollars isn’t important.”

  Her face was a complete blank. Was she trying to hide her shock at the size of the bet? Or was she doubting that losing twenty dollars—almost two weeks’ salary—wasn’t all that important to me? I could hardly believe I was saying that myself. How could I expect her to believe it? “I have to prove Larry wrong. My professional reputation is at stake. And if I don’t come back to the paper with a story, I’ll lose my job for good this time. The worst of it is, Mycroft knows the solution—I’m sure of it—but he won’t tell me.”

  Maggie smiled, and I clung like a drowning man to the first positive response she had made. “I can understand how you feel,” she said, “but have you considered that your concern is really just pride? You want to prove yourself right, at least as much as you want to solve the mystery. And are you really reading Mr. Holmes correctly? Maybe he’s as confused by this as you are, but he doesn’t want to lose face—pride again—and so he refuses to tell you.”

  She paused in her dissection of our male egos, then raised an eyebrow. “Or has he told you where to find clues, but you’re too proud to follow his advice?”

  I scoffed and waved her away, but then it hit me—hadn’t Mycroft tried to help me just the night before? He had taken from the shelf one of my father’s medical reference works, directed me to a page with a description of nitrous oxide and its effects, and emphasized how important it was that Ragan’s dentist used it as an anesthesia. I had glanced through it, but I hadn’t really read it. Perhaps there was a clue in there.

  CHAPTER 17

  That evening I sat down with the massive medical reference book and began to read the page Mycroft had dog-eared. The night before, he had handed me the book—and issued a challenge. “Read through it and see if you can find something pertaining to the case. If not, young man, you are hopeless as an investigator.” And with that, he had walked out of the room with an air of righteous indignation.

  I remember staring at his retreating backside (which filled my area of vision) with frustration. Confound that man! Why couldn’t he deal with an issue directly and stop acting like a schoolmaster?

  With a sigh, I sat down to read.

  Nitrous oxide, commonly known as laughing gas, has an analgesic effect. Great, the first sentence and I had to look up a word. I pulled the dictionary down from the shelf and began hunting through the A’s. Ah, there it was: analgesic: a remedy that relieves or allays pain. Okay, fine, but why else would it be used by a dentist? I decided to read on.

  The more useful psychopharmaceutical feature of nitrous oxide, however, is its ability to relieve the tension and fear of dental patients. The gas serves to break down inhibitions and natural caution, giving the patient a feeling of euphoria and security. Not only have patients been seen to physically relax, but dental surgeons have reported laughter, talkativeness, and even confessions of private information and personal secrets.

  Personal secrets? Of course! Mycroft’s point about the importance of the dentist and his gas—obviously the old man suspected that Ragan had revealed some personal information to the dentist while under the influence of the gas. But how could Mycroft be so sure about it? Well, it didn’t matter. It was the only fresh lead on the case, and I had little more than twenty-four hours to track it down.

  The next morning, I searched through Ragan’s appointment book. In a pocket in the back I found a business card for “Dr. Charles Thompson, Dental Surgeon.” Surely this had to be Ragan’s dentist. And his office was just a short trolley ride uptown, in Chestnut Hill.

  I used the pay phone at the corner drugstore to call the number on the card and asked when Dr. Thompson might be available. When I told the receptionist that I urgently needed to see him, she made an appointment for noon that day, and said, “It’s after office hours, really. We usually leave at noon on Mondays. In fact, I’ll probably be gone myself by the time you arrive.” Oh, this was perfect. With no other patients, and the receptionist out of the way, Dr. Thompson and I could talk without interruption.

  “But I’m sure Dr. Thompson won’t mind staying if it’s urgent. Are you in much pain?”

  At that moment, I realized she thought I had a dental emergency. Well, no matter. I didn’t want to explain over the phone that I needed to talk with him about one of his patients or that he wouldn’t be violating a doctor-patient confidence, since the man was deceased and I was investigating his murder.

  It would be hard enough to explain all that in person to the dentist—and I couldn’t afford another nickel for more time on the phone and still be able to pay for the trolley ride. Besides, I had no time for a long conversation if I was going to make it to Chestnut Hill by noon. I let Basil know where I was going, then grabbed my hat and headed out the door.

  All my arguments seemed reasonable when I made the appointment, but as I sat in the trolley, rattling along Germantown Avenue, every rationale for not telling the truth had shaken loose and lay discarded along the trolley tracks. I began to feel guilty that I had misrepresented myself—and nervous that Dr. Thompson might be angry enough about it to refuse to talk with me at all.

  If only Basil had agreed to come with me, I would have felt better. I could write, but he could talk—he was the most persuasive and diplomatic man I had ever met. Basil would be able to explain and convince, and in a few simple words smooth over every ruffled feather. But he was busy helping Mycroft put the final touches on the apartment—or more realistically, he was putting the final touches on the apartment, supervised by the venerable Mr. Holmes. The fact that I left him to do the job alone, and to explain to Mycroft why I was absent, only added to my guilt.

  The trolley let me off near the Chestnut Hill train station, only a few blocks from Dr. Thompson’s office on Bethlehem Pike. I was glad I hadn’t taken the train, or I would’ve been several minutes late. As it was, I had to trot the remaining blocks to make it to the office by noon.

  I walked down the hall until I found the windowed door with the dentist’s name painted on the glass. I stepped into a simple but richly appointed waiting room. A thick carpet lined the floor; the walls were paneled with dark oak, interrupted at even intervals by elegant brass light fixtures. As I took a seat on one of the matching oak chairs, a new wave of anxiety engulfed me. The faint metallic odor, the whirring noise from the motorized drill, and the sound of running water coming from the next room brought back unpleasant childhood memories. I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to have my teeth worked on, but still the nervousness remained. As the
receptionist said, she had left for the day; her desk in the corner was empty.

  A few minutes later, the sounds from the other room stopped, and a tall, gangly woman stepped out of the other room, holding her jaw—the last patient of the morning. She rushed past me and out the door without even making eye contact. Dr. Thompson, a thin, balding man who looked quite unassuming in his white smock, ushered me into the examination room.

  I quickly identified myself as a reporter and explained the purpose of my visit. Dr. Thompson seemed a bit surprised, but took the news good-naturedly, considering it meant the loss of a fee for his services. He abruptly turned around, stepped out to the waiting room, and turned the key in the outer door. Why is he locking the door? Apparently he noticed my curious look and smiled reassuringly. “So that we might not be disturbed,” he said. Who he expected to disturb us, I was not sure.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Watson.”

  Looking around the room, my eyes were drawn to a one-piece unit in the center of the floor that was shaped like a tree stump, to which was attached a cuspidor, instrument tray, lamp, and drill, on a long, thin, jointed arm. Next to it was the dreaded chair, its dark leather cushions in a perpetual reclining position. Two circular pads served as the headrest and kept the patient’s chin pointed toward the ceiling. The metallic smell was more pronounced in here.

  I saw only one place to sit in the brightly lit room, and it made me shudder involuntarily. “In the examining chair?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t quiver.

  Dr. Thompson chuckled and replied, “Please humor me, Mr. Watson. Ordinarily I would speak with you in the waiting room, but since I had things set up for a dental procedure, and you are not a patient after all, I really must get my equipment cleaned and put away. I may as well do it while I’m talking with you.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said huskily. “I suppose that makes sense.” I gingerly slipped into the chair, and had a brief flashback of the searing pain of previous dental work. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea, after all.