The Styx

by Jonathon King

  “Well hello, hello, Mr. Faustus and friend,” said Maltby, recognizing Faustus at once and making Byrne wonder how often the old man had occasion to visit the undertaker.

  “To what do I owe the honor, sir? I hope most sincerely that it is not a personal matter, meaning not a personal friend who may have fallen to an early departure from this grand and glorious world.”

  Though the undertaker reminded Byrne of the sheriff in size and girth, his face was in direct opposition: florid and fat with pumped up cheeks that resembled a clown’s, eyes that seemed perpetually large and wide open, and lips that seemed unnaturally red.

  “Thank you, George, for your concern,” said Faustus, tapping his cane. “But no, we’ve come on a bit of unofficial business and mean to inquire if you have taken possession of a body brought the other day from a fire on the island?

  “My understanding is that the victim has not yet been identified, and for medical inquiry, it is my hope that I may spend a few moments in examination of the remains.”

  Maltby’s expression fell immediately from the laughing clown to that of the down-turned smile of its forlorn opposite.

  “Well, um, gosh, Mr. Faustus. You know, Doc Lansing already did that for the sheriff. I mean, he came in and took a look and said he was going to file a report with the sheriff’s office on the cause of death and all.”

  “I was aware of that,” Faustus lied, and he did it well, Byrne thought. “But my inquiry is of a different nature, George. And as I said it will take only a few minutes. I require no extensive cutting or probing or further altering of the body from what you may have already accomplished.”

  Maltby was still wary. He may not have been under specific instructions from the sheriff to shield the body, but it was a criminal case. And even though Faustus was a well-respected, if not always present, member of the community and a man known for his broad knowledge and a true Southerner like himself…Oh, what the hell.

  “Well, I don’t see any harm in that, Mr. Faustus. I mean, it is science and all, eh?” Maltby extended his hand to show the way.

  Behind the heavy curtain there were three waist-high tables lined up in the middle of the space and all were occupied, and carefully shrouded, except for the middle one where Maltby had obviously been . working before he was interrupted. A table sat next to that corpse upon which rested a tray of took, a leather box of what looked like rolls of hair samples in a variety of colors, and a collection of jars and bottles of makeup, lipstick and moisturizing creams. There was also some kind of hand pump that brought to Byrne’s mind a plunger the likes of which the reluctant railway bombers might have used only a few days ago. Byrne was struck by the odor of chemicals that suffused the air, not so unpleasant that he had to cover his nose but enough to warn him that worse may be yet to come.

  “I was just now preparing to do a formaldehyde transfer for this poor soul,” Maltby said when he noticed Byrne’s gaze. “He’s going home on the train to New York tomorrow and the family very much wants him to look as if he has a tan when he arrives.”

  Faustus paid no attention and moved directly to the far table, where a corpse was wrapped in a simple wool blanket.

  “I, uh, was reluctant, sir to begin the process of embalming on this gentleman, though,” Maltby said, quickening his own pace to catch up with Faustus before he began uncovering the body. “I mean, since no relative or representative has claimed the deceased…”

  “Yes, why waste the expensive arsenic or formaldehyde if you’re only going to dump him into a pauper’s grave,” Faustus said abruptly. “I understand, George.”

  Faustus stood at the head of the corpse and waited for Byrne to come alongside. There was a long pause, both men anticipating the possibilities which they had both been dancing around for days.

  “Are you prepared for this, Mr. Byrne?” Faustus said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  Faustus pulled back the blanket and looked down at the burned and partially decomposed face of the corpse. Despite its condition, the look of the body confirmed the rumors of not only the fire, but the identity of the dead.

  Byrne’s face was stoic, unwavering. His eyes went first to the head and stayed there, studying, it seemed, the contours of nose and cheekbone and then chin. His brother could lose many things in death—color and flesh and dancing eyes and muscle mass—but not that chin. It had always been out there, up and defiant when he had to be, turned just so to the right when he was pretending to ponder a trade or study a situation, tucked and careful when he was in a fight. Danny’s eyes were closed, whether by death or by the coroner, and Byrne was relieved not to have to see their blueness, or the opposite, an unseeing lack of color and light.

  Faustus watched as Byrne’s own hand carefully reached out to place just his fingertips on the corpse’s wrist. On Byrne’s face, a single tear rolled down his left cheek.

  After allowing the moment to pass, Faustus leaned in to the body and carefully examined it from the face down. He was careful not to touch anything, in deference to Byrne, whose reaction had confirmed what Faustus had been surmising all along. When it seemed obvious that Byrne would hold back any more show of emotion, Faustus shifted into professional mode.

  “You have done some work here, George,” Faustus said and Maltby stepped closer.

  “No sir, not really. I did tap the internal organs to keep them from bloating, but certainly no cosmetic work and an extensive work it certainly would be if his family did indeed contact me and requested some form of restoration…”

  “Ah, but George,” Faustus said. “Here at the throat it appears you’ve done some stitching and a bit of cover with, what is that, clay?”

  There was silence from the mortician. Faustus turned and picked up a steel probe from the tray behind him and then pointed at a circular area of the corpse’s throat that was obviously a different color from the pale flesh. Faustus poked at the area and in so doing uncovered a series of white stitches that had been used to close a hole.

  “Oh, yes. Well, it was a nasty-looking wound and seemed quite inappropriate to leave open,” Maltby started, but Faustus looked up and held the undertaker’s eyes. “Getting squeamish in your old age, George? I somehow find that hard to believe.”

  Faustus turned the body’s head to the side with some difficulty against the rigor and examined the back of the neck.

  “I see no one had to repair an exit wound. Does that mean, George, that you found the bullet that entered this man’s throat? Lodged perhaps in the cervical vertebra of the spinal column?”

  “Well, certainly not, Mr. Faustus. That would not be of my purview,” said Maltby, who was now sweating despite the coolness of the room. “If such a thing was discovered it would have been by Dr. Lansing who was, as I said, contacted by the sheriff to do an autopsy of the victim.”

  Faustus ignored the undertaker and was examining the body’s torso.

  “And as for the knife wound that was originally given as cause of death,” he said, now to no one in particular, “I see no indications here of such a wound nor an attempt to cover it up if there had been one. Can you help me out with that, sir?”

  Maltby had obviously had enough. He stepped to the table, took hold of the blanket and pulled it up over the corpse. Despite his profession—and one would think an innate sense for such things—the undertaker had not picked up on the slight show of grief and emotion on Byrne’s face.

  “Mr. Faustus,” he said. “I don’t see how this serves a scientific purpose and really I must ask that this line of questioning be directed to the sheriff or Dr. Lansing as I do not find them appropriate here, sir, with all due respect.”

  The undertaker had taken a defensive stance, arms now folded over his chest and standing in front of the corpse as if now he was willing to defend it.

  “That’s fine, George. Really,” said Faustus, gathering his cane and hat. “I certainly didn’t mean to upset you, sir. We’ll be on our way.”

  Byrne showed no unwillingness
to follow, but as they were making their way through the curtain and out of the shop the undertaker shuffled behind them. “And excuse me, sir,” he said to Byrne. “I didn’t get your name or title, sir?”

  Byrne was about to answer when Faustus cut him off.

  “He didn’t give it, George.”

  Outside, the heat and humidity wrapped about Byrne’s face. He stood staring out into the brightness of the sun, wondering why he had come to this place called Florida. Why had he not just left it alone? Let his constant admonishment over the last few years stand—Danny had left and was simply never coming back. At least there would have been that tiny sliver of hope that his brother was still alive. He took a deep breath and turned to Faustus, who stood silent beside him.

  “You knew it was him, my brother?”

  “I could certainly see the family resemblance,” Faustus said. “The locale of your own origins and the sound of your heritage were in both of your voices. I surmised it to be a distinct possibility.”

  “You talked to Danny?”

  Faustus seemed to study the head of his cane. “I had met him, but under a different name,” he said. “He had introduced himself as a Mr. Bingham. Conrad Bingham.

  “This is a land where people are often reluctant to use their given names, especially the sort who are in the business that Mr. Bingham was in.”

  “Which was?”

  “He introduced himself as a lawyer, an entrepreneur, a real estate broker and a representative of Northern interests,” Faustus said, his voice flattened as not to show emotion. “He was extremely bright, like you, Mr. Byrne. He had your talent for observation and recollection. I rather liked him at first.”

  “And then?” Byrne said.

  Faustus cleared his throat. “At our introduction he was wearing a Mason’s ring. At first, I tried not to pry, but after a few days of friendly conversation I made him out to be a fraud. He was using the symbol as a way to meet those he might take advantage of.”

  “A big sin among the brotherhood, I suppose?”

  “Yes. A big sin. No more though I suppose than a man who wears a cross of Christ around his neck while coveting his neighbor’s wife.”

  Byrne had never been one for religion, and he’d learned in the city bars that the discussion of same was better avoided.

  “Is that why you were testing me? To see if I was like my brother?” Byrne said.

  “Precisely. Your attributes are admirable. And as I said, your brother shared many of them. I couldn’t be sure that a sibling might have the same powers of deception as well. Trick me once, shame on you. But trick me twice, shame on me.”

  “So the coin, the fishing trip, even the beer this morning were all part of your litmus test?” Byrne let a slice of sarcasm slip into his voice.

  “Yes. Had you bitten my coin, taken advantage of my largesse, or shot me and Captain Abbott dead on the sea and taken off with our boat, I would have judged you differently, even in the afterlife.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “No sir, you didn’t. And now, with the possibility that a young woman is being railroaded into a murder charge, you have come to see if WE can find the truth of the matter.”

  Byrne did not have to state the obvious. His purpose may have been selfless last night. Now he had a distinct reason for finding out the truth. Now he was looking for the killer of his brother.

  “So where’s the bullet?” he said without hesitation. It would be the first question any good investigator would now ask, the logical question.

  “I believe we will have to inquire of Dr. Lansing to answer that, my young friend.”

  Faustus turned on his heel and began walking back to Olive Street. Byrne had to lengthen his stride to keep up. The old man had taken on a fired energy, and this time it was neither by the lure of fighting fish or deep opaque water. Byrne could see a pursuit of something in Faustus’ eyes that was being pushed by an anger that he hadn’t shown before. The old Mason doesn’t like being lied to, he thought.

  When they got to a small storefront with a druggist’s symbol and the title Dr. Lansing painted above the wooden door, Faustus turned. “I will only be a minute. Could you please wait outside, Mr. Byrne?”

  Byrne started to object, but second-guessed his reaction and instead took up a place in the shade of the tin awning as a group of raggedy farm workers trudging north toward the fields. A mule-drawn wagon, loaded with green tomatoes, passed on its way to the rail station. Behind Byrne’s eyes was a vision: he and Danny as boys, scouring the streets of their East Side neighborhood, watching like small animals but considering it a game, a race for some piece of food that fell from the back of a wagon. They’d skitter out into the traffic and snatch the gift from the cobblestone. Danny with that laugh of his that went gleeful at the thought of winning some prize, even if it was actually no prize at all but a morsel to add to their empty stomachs. Danny, always with that pride that he’d somehow gotten over on someone else. Danny with his dreams of finagling his way to “land and money” for a family whose members were now all dead.

  Byrne’s head was turned at the sound of a man’s angry voice coming from inside the pharmacy, but he was unsure whose since he had never heard Faustus raise his voice except in joy of hooking a tarpon, and this was not a note of joy. He moved in front of the door and put his back to it, hearing the sharp smack of wood against wood, like the sound a cane might make when it is rapped flat and hard against a countertop. A woman in a long day dress and carrying her purse stepped toward Byrne, meaning to enter the shop. He tipped his hat: “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the doc is presently treating a difficult patient. It would be best if you came back in a few minutes.” He did not move from blocking the door and she gave him her back and continued down the street. Moments later Faustus stepped out into the sunlight. He seemed unusually calm, but there was color in his cheeks that was just beginning to subside.

  “A single .38-calibre round,” he said. “Lodged in the vertebra as suspected. The bullet was removed and presented along with the findings of the autopsy to Sheriff Cox.”

  Faustus started off in the direction of the saloon. “Pity,” he said, disappointment in his voice, and when Byrne, following, looked over his shoulder, there was a small, thin man in suit pants and suspenders standing in the doorway of the doctor’s office looking much chagrined and defeated.

  CHAPTER 16

  MARJORY McAdams awoke that day with a determination that can only be held in its unflinching doggedness by the young. It was not unlike the ocean swimming that spurred her furiously to stroke for miles out of sight of land, or the late night trudging that she’d done last evening through the dark brambles of West Palm Beach farm lands. But today it was knowledge she was after, and her first stop would be at the knee of the “motherly” Mrs. Birch. If she then had to bring Mr. Birch into it, so be it.

  “Good morning, Abby,” McAdams said when she was greeted at the door of the Birch suite by the maid.

  “And to you, Miss McAdams.”

  “Is Mrs. Birch available?” McAdams walked in and glanced about the room without the normal invitation.

  “No, ma’am. She is out taking her mornin’ golf. She is spose to be back for lunch though.”

  McAdams moved deeper into the room.

  “And Mr. Birch?” she said. “Is he available?”

  The maid moved around McAdams, cutting her off from looking further through the rooms but doing so in a subservient way so as not to appear authoritative or defensive.

  “No, ma’am. They is playin’ together this morning. Mr. Birch plays with her most all the time now.”

  McAdams raised her chin. “Ah. I’ve heard that the men on the links have brought Mrs. Birch’s displays of gumption to the manager,” McAdams said. “Perhaps Mr. Birch has been asked to accompany her in order to keep her on the leash.”

  The statement may have been too gossipy to share with a maid, but McAdams took the chance. Whether she would continue to probe would be deter
mined by the answer. The stoic face of the maid cracked, only slightly.

  “Ain’t nobody put no leash on Ma’am,” she said. “Not even Mister.”

  McAdams turned in a small circle, pretending to look at the objects of art. “You’ve been with them a long time, Abby, yes?”

  “Only when they come to Florida, ma’am. But that’s three winters now.”

  “And you plan to stay with them? I mean full time? I’ve heard that Mr. Birch may be acquiring property here on the island, which sounds like you might be needed year round.”

  There was worry in the negro woman’s eyes. She was trying to study her own words ahead of time, before they left her mouth.

  “They talk about buyin’ land all the time, ma’am. Mrs. Birch, she love that real state stuff. But they ain’t said nothin’ to me about winter time other than about me goin’ to New York City an’ I ain’t much for that cold weather, ma’am.”

  The revelation that Mrs. Birch was more of a partner and consultant with her husband in matters of real estate than she’d ever let on caused McAdams to go silent for so long the maid became nervous.

  “Like I say Miss McAdams. Ma’am spose to be back for lunch.”

  “Oh, yes,” McAdams caught herself lost in thought and now started back toward the door. “Just tell her I stopped by to talk to her about the Carver woman.”

  A small gasp came from Abby and snapped McAdams back to the present.

  “Mizz Shantice? Is she all right, ma’am?” Abby almost begged an answer.

  “Why, yes, I suppose. If you can call being in jail under the heel of the sheriff being all right,” McAdams said. She looked into the now expressive face of the maid. “I didn’t know that the two of you were friends.”