“STOP RIGHT THERE!” The sheriff’s voice finally escaped his mouth, and the resonance was nearly as arresting as Byrne’s baton had been.
“Morgan, back off!” he said to the deputy and strode across the street, bringing more than just his girth to bear on the scene. It was as if his huge presence itself forced the deputy and the Negro and Marjory to move simultaneously apart. Only Byrne seemed unaffected. He’d been in the company of large powerful men before. Still, he was so focused that his baton was still raised to the level of the deputy’s hand, which the lawman had taken with him.
The sheriff waded in.
“Miss McAdams, I believe,” he said, his lowered voice now dripping with courtesy. “Surely this is no place for a lady like yourself. Such an unseemly event.”
Marjory squared her shoulders. “Unseemly, indeed, Mr. Cox,” she said. “The idea that you would be dragging this poor woman through the streets like some animal carcass from a hunting party of yours certainly qualifies for the term.”
Sheriff Cox did not avert his eyes. “This negress is a killer, Miss McAdams. I believe that disqualifies her from your description, ma’am.”
“As I Expected Sheriff, you have a failed understanding of the law of civilized countries, including this one, that anyone accused of a crime is presumed to be innocent until they are declared guilty by a court,” McAdams said. “She is not a killer until a judge and jury says she is.”
The fat man’s eyes narrowed and his thin lips went tight.
“In fact, Sheriff, I doubt that you even have a sworn warrant for this woman’s arrest,” McAdams said. The sheriff stayed silent, searching, it appeared, for some kind of rejoinder. But the deputy called Morgan couldn’t stand it.
“Now just a goddamn minute, you little smart ass. This nigger bitch don’t have no rights and she done shanked a white man in the belly an’ that’s enough law for us.” He pointed a long finger at Marjory and then took a step toward Shantice, who still lay curled on the ground. Byrne saw or felt a dark shadow move beside him. The big Negro had appeared like a wall between the deputy and the tiny woman. The deputy came up short, astounded either by the man’s fluid speed or his audacity.
“Why you…” His face was flushing while he reached into his coat. A long-barreled revolver came out with his hand. The flash of Byrne’s baton swept the air and snapped the deputy’s wrist like a limb cracking in the wind. The man yelped and the gun fell to the ground.
Now it was the sheriff whose movements were quick and sudden. He stepped forward and with an amazing strength grabbed a handful of his own deputy’s jacket and pulled him back as if he were weightless.
“Now just hold on, by God,” he boomed, his voice reverberating off the storefronts of Clematis Street. He put his palm up to Byrne as if it were the hand of the deity he’d just claimed. “Ya’ll just calm down, boys.”
The Negro chauffeur seemed to shrink in the face of an authority he knew almost by instinct to obey. Byrne lowered his baton to his side.
“Pinkerton, this ain’t none of your affair,” Sheriff Cox said. “I’m the law here, even if Miss McAdams believes she’s the lawyer. And I am lawfully taking this prisoner into custody.”
Byrne was only slightly surprised that the sheriff would know of him and his Pinkerton affiliation. He stepped back.
The sheriff motioned for his key man to help Shantice Carver to her feet.
“If you wish to attend the woman’s arraignment by the judge on Friday afternoon, Miss McAdams,” he said, matching her diction and turning to face her. “Then you are, as a citizen of these United States, fully within your right. The charge will be murder.
“Now folks, clear the damn streets,” he commanded, and all involved began to move in opposite directions.
Byrne looked over his shoulder once to see the deputy scuttle back across the yard, holding his wrist to his belly.
The trio of Byrne, Marjory and her chauffeur moved up the street to where the bicycle carriage was parked. Marjory was still flushed with anger. The two men were uncomfortable and independently decided to let her cool.
Byrne held his hand out first.
“Michael Byrne,” he said.
“My name is Santos,” the man said, shaking Byrne’s hand. “Carlos Santos.”
Santos’ big hands and strength reminded Byrne of his friend, Jack. His voice and look reminded him of west side neighborhood called Little Africa in Greenwich Village where the Italians and blacks had been razor fighting for years. Byrne couldn’t see a lick of Spanish in the man, but his protection of Marjory McAdams stood him well as far as he cared. The handshake was a bond.
“My apologies, gentlemen, for not introducing you,” McAdams finally said, her fists still clenched in knots. “But that fat bastard, pardonnez-moi.”
“Pardon which, your French, Miss McAdams, or your manners?” Byrne said. Santos looked at him and started to smile. Marjory lost an edge off her anger.
“That man is infuriating and dangerous,” she said, civilizing her tone.
“He’s a lawman with power,” Byrne said. “They get that way.”
Now Marjory was concentrating on his face.
“And why is it, Mr. Byrne, that you are here in the first place. This, as the sheriff said, is not your concern. Your only duty would be the protection of Mr. Flagler and his trains if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, well, protection can take many forms,” Byrne said, trying out the explanation he’d have to give Sergeant Harris. “The fact that a wanted killer was being returned to the jail was too close to ignore.”
“I see. And your reason for stepping in with that, that, metal whippet of yours?”
Byrne could see no better answer than the truth.
“It seemed like the right thing to do.”
Marjory continued to assess him. “Very well then, Mr. Byrne. If you are of a mind to do the right thing, come with us.” She turned to Santos. “We need to visit those who had taken responsibility for Miss Carver’s safety and find out what happened.”
The big man held out his hands in a questioning gesture.
“But ma’am, that’s a three mile journey north and this carriage isn’t going to make it past the city streets.” He was looking to Byrne for help, but none was forthcoming.
“Then we will walk the final two miles,” Marjory said and swung herself up into the seat. “Mr. Byrne tells me he is a fine swimmer and boatman so I’m sure he has the physical abilities to stride alongside.”
Byrne shrugged at the challenge. Santos looked between the two of them, climbed aboard the bicycle seat and turned up the kerosene lantern that hung on his handlebars. He swung the rig north and quietly said, “More like two and a half final miles,” under his breath.
While Santos peddled, Byrne kept even alongside by half jogging as Marjory exercised only her vocal cords while she filled Byrne in on her version of events. She told him about the island’s workers all being asked to celebrate on the West Palm Beach side of the lake, enticed by free food and carnival rides and music. She described the late night fire in their compound, how only she and Miss Fluery had responded and how the dry wood had simply flashed into flames and destroyed nearly everything.
She told him of the aftermath, the rummaging through the ashes in the morning light and the shocking discovery by Miss Carver of the body of a white man in a lean-to behind her burned-out home. At that point she looked carefully at Byrne, searching for reaction to that piece of news.
“And no one recognized this man, this white man who you say was dressed in fine clothing?” Byrne said, thinking only marginally of his own new clothes and the way they had made him feel as if he were in costume, pretending to be something he was not. “Are you sure that he wasn’t a customer of Mizz Carver? I mean, you did say she was a lady of the evening.”
In the lamplight he could see Marjory’s eyes. It was the same look he got from Faustus, the assessing one, the unsure one, almost as if they were trying to catch him in a
lie. But she relaxed.
“Yes, Mr. Byrne, she may be a prostitute. But if you had been there to hear the poor woman’s anguish you would know she was truly shocked.”
“Yes, sir,” piped in Santos, who was taking it all in from his seat above. “Mizz Shantice was damned scared. Too scared to be makin’ it up, sir.”
“And she described the dead man as having a roll of money stuffed into his mouth,” Marjory said. “And surely everyone who looked could see it plain and simple when we got to the place where his body lay burned.”
They were near the edge of town now and the darkness was so complete Byrne could only see parts of Marjory’s face in the flicker of the lamp.
“Now, in your experience, Mr. Byrne,” she said, “could you imagine a prostitute who would kill a customer, leave a substantial amount of money in his mouth and then proceed to scream his location to all within earshot?”
Byrne spoke in the direction of her voice. “No, Miss McAdams. In my experience, no.”
A second later the wheels hit a series of ruts that nearly tossed her from her seat.
“Walkin’ time,” Santos said, unable to peddle hard enough to get the contraption going again. “But ma’am, it’s still a couple of miles and I don’t know how you going to manage in that dress.”
He and Byrne heard the extended sound of fabric ripping. Then came the distinct whoosh and fop of a large bundle of cloth being tossed out behind the carriage and landing in the two-track rut of a roadway. There was enough light for them to see Marjory’s white figure jump out of the whicker seat and land lightly on her feet in the dirt. The train to her dress had been removed and her petticoat was hanging just above her dancing slippers.
“Let us walk gentlemen,” she said as if she’d simply disposed of a hat. “You may lead, Mr. Santos.”
Santos carried the lantern, but it was of little use out here, the circle of light it tossed was like a bubble in the deep black. Byrne had long since sweated through his shirt, and he could swear that the combination of perspiration and Santo’s light was drawing the clouds of mosquitoes that feasted on them. On occasion they would hear the call of owls hunting in the night or the rustle of brush that could have been any wild animal from opossum to fox to the well regarded panthers that roamed the area. Byrne had already heard tales of hunting from men at the restaurant bar and wished he’d picked up the deputy’s damn pistol when he’d had the chance.
Marjory kept pace and continued to talk, maybe covering for her nerves at being in such a dark and insect-infested place. She told Byrne about the efforts of the hotel staff to secret Miss Carver off the island once they’d heard that the sheriff was accusing her of stabbing the dead man. She told him of the way Santos had taken Carver across the lake at night, though did not go into detail as to how a rowboat had come available.
“And Mr. Santos assured me that he had found people up the way who could keep her safe,” she said, with an edge of accusation in her voice.
“I swear they are good people, Miss McAdams,” Santos said, not afraid to defend himself. “They were with the underground railroad up in North Carolina. They got people from Georgia all the ways to New York, ma’am.”
Marjory went silent for several moments.
“We’ll just have to see what happened, Carlos. I apologize for judging you or them.”
They continued on for more than an hour, the lamplight thrown out ahead of them. The palmetto and scrub pines thickened on either side, as did the insect cloud. More than once Byrne had to use the back of his hand to wipe mosquitoes from his lips, and he heard Marjory cough sharply at one point and then spit with disgust. But she never stopped and never complained. He was impressed by the pace she kept and wondered at her motivation. She was a rich young woman with a fancy ballroom and a feast fit for royalty awaiting her back at the Poinciana. Was this naïve sense of justice for a Negro chambermaid really strong enough on its own to drag her out into the steaming wilderness? He’d spent most of his life studying people and anticipating their moves based on hunger, lust or greed. None of those were driving her. The most devout who prayed aloud for compassion had their priorities, even if it was to smooth their way to heaven. But McAdams didn’t appear to be one for religion. So what the hell was driving her?
You’re a cynical bastard, Michael, he said to himself. Marjory kept up until the trail ran into a clearing that opened out in front of them.
“Windella Plantation’s pineapple fields,” Santos said. “The Wilson’s place is just the other side.”
Coming out of the bush, the trio was met by a freshening breeze off the lake, and with the horizon now in sight Byrne could see the glow of the Poinciana far in the distance like a lighthouse beacon on the sea. A memory of waltz music played in his head and the smell of women’s perfume and clink of fine crystal.
“What was the name of that tune you danced to tonight?” he said to Marjory, whose face was lit only on one side by the lantern. She turned and looked at him as if he’d spoken in tongues.
“The ‘Voice of the Waves,’” she said. “A John Hill Hewitt song, but why in God’s name would you bring up such a question, Mr. Byrne? We are as far from that silly moment as we are from the moon.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Byrne said and moved on.
Crossing several acres of pineapple plants, as yet in the shape of small cabbage heads, Santos led them into the trees. In a few minutes all three could detect the low yellow glow of a light. Closer yet they could make out a squared window in a small clapboard house. When they were within calling range, Santos cupped his hand and yelled: “Mr. Claude! Mr. Claude Augusta Wilson! It’s me, Mr. Claude, third-base Santos. We comin’ in, sir!”
Before their circle of light could hit the front steps a thin black man with wide shoulders, dressed only in a pair of bib overalls, stepped out of the door. His head was peppered in tufts of white hair, which also sprouted from his chest. In one hand he raised a lantern of his own and in the other hung a shotgun the length of his own leg. He returned the call.
“Third Base? That really you, son? God in heaven, boy. What are you doin’ visitin’ in the middle of the night?”
The man called Mr. Claude never raised the gun barrel, even when it became obvious that Santos was not alone. But he stood his ground as strangers—a white woman in a torn-away ball gown and a white man in a sweat-soaked tuxedo—stepped onto his raised porch. Santos began explaining and Mr. Claude listened, all the time casting his eyes at Marjory, surveying the damp and drooping hairstyle, the expensive necklace, the dirt-spackled dancing slippers. He also checked Byrne, the formal getup, the straight and athletic posture, and the fact that the white man kept his right hand in his deep trouser pocket despite the sweat and heat.
“And now the sheriff done brought Mizz Shantice back to the jailhouse and says she’s gone to be charged a killer,” Santos said, finishing up.
The statement snapped the man’s head around. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, son. Really I am. We been workin’ sunup to sundown here what with the dry weather an all tryin’ to keep them apples watered an alive an’ we didn’t hear nothin’ ’bout it,” Mr. Claude said.
Marjory stepped forward, brushing back a strand of hair from her face and smoothing what was left of her skirts in an attempt to be presentable.
“Sir, can you tell us what happened? It was our understanding that Mizz Carver would be safe here out of the hands of the sheriff, who is simply looking to blame and punish her for a killing she obviously had nothing to do with.”
He looked up with his eyes only. “You Miss McAdams? The one Third Base here tol’ us about?”
“Yes. Forgive me,” she said, adjusting her voice. “Yes, I am Marjory McAdams and this is an, an associate of ours who has offered to help, Mr. Michael Byrne.”
The man reached out to take Marjory’s offered fingers and when Byrne leaned in, Mr. Claude met him halfway, watching to see what the stranger might draw from his pocket. When Byrne offered
only an empty hand, Mr. Claude made note of the fact that the pocket did not pull heavy as it would have if a handgun had been left there.
“Claude Augusta Wilson,” he said as introduction. “Please, ya’ll come inside before the insects done carry us all away.”
Inside was a single room divided by a curtain that hung at an angle from the middle of one wall to the middle of the wall adjacent, ostensibly creating privacy to one triangular corner of the square. The room was smoky from a dark smudge pot that sputtered in one corner and kept the mosquitoes at bay. Mr. Claude set his lantern on the middle of a long wooden table, pulled out a chair and motioned the others to sit. In the glow Byrne could see a rough cabinet of dishes against one wall, a shelf loaded down with books along another. A spinning wheel and what appeared to be a loom dominated one corner and was surrounded by wicker baskets of cloth. Another door, he figured, must lead to a kitchen of sorts, and when he looked up he realized that the ceiling was open to the high palmetto fronds that thatched the roof. Byrne was used to the meager furnishings of his own Lower East Side dwellings and did not judge. But he noted that a carefully made area rug covering one part of the wood slat floor came alive with color when the light spilled onto it. Thus the loom made sense. He recalled his own mother’s piece work.
“Tina,” Mr. Claude called out toward the curtain. “It’s OK, Tina. It’s Third Base and some of his friends come lookin’ for Mizz Shantice. ’ll come out and make some coffee now. An the rest of ya’ll stay in bed, hear?”
A tiny black woman emerged from behind the curtain in a simple housedress that she smoothed with her hands just as McAdams had done before on the porch. Mr. Claude introduced her as his wife and she curtsied, said “Evenin’” and went through the side door. No noise came from behind the curtain, leaving Byrne to only guess how many children there might have been behind it having been told to stay in bed.
Mr. Claude sat at the head of the table and took a deep breath as though clearing his mind.
The Styx Page 20
