by John Mead
If John Wesley Blackstaff was reassured in anyway by Jack’s words it wasn’t evident, he did not rise nor shake hands with Jack but returned to reading the papers on his desk; perhaps he was simply too angry to respond. Jack, hesitating for a moment, obviously dismissed but wanting to send his ‘thoughts and prayers’ to the Reverend and Mrs Blackstaff, simply opened the office door to see himself out.
“I’m sorry,” Stevens paused, turning in the doorway, his curiosity getting the better of him, “you referred to your ‘grandfather’s cards’?
“He was inordinately superstitious,” Blackstaff, literally speaking through clenched teeth though as calmly as his anger would allow him, pointed at the highly decorated playing cards framed and hung on the wall behind where Jack had sat, “he would consult his tarot cards, expecting to be told his future, on every important decision he made.”
“Oh… I see. They obviously worked for him given the success of the business,” Jack said but getting no further response simply added, “Good Day,” as he closed the door behind him.
Jack had already been to the main docks and spoken with the two senior Dead Hands who oversaw all the activity there, explaining about the missing Beatrice and the reward for information about her. Both of the men told him that Hank had already put the word out but neither were hopeful for any return, there were hundreds of women moving around the docks each day, some plying their trade others simply passing through, the chances of Beatrice, if she had passed that way, being noticed were slight. In return Jack had been told that Brandon O’Shea had been released and he and Hank Tipwell were at O’Shea’s hotel, their usual place of business, consulting with lawyers and various big bugs.
Stevens was having a hard time trying to find Jaunty Tipwell, who ran the north side of the river front. Jack had been in various eating and drinking establishments around the area and left word he was seeking Jaunty but no one knew or admitted to knowing where he could be found. It was at the currently little used and near deserted fork of the river, by the bend where it’s northern and southern branches met, that he saw the man he was looking for. Jaunty always wore the latest of styles in the boldest of colours and was easy to spot, despite his average stature and build, sandwiched between the two taller men who were his perpetual bodyguards. The elegantly moustachioed Jaunty, who smoked a continuous stream of cheroots, smiled, joked and talked endlessly was also a sadistic thug who took offence at the slightest insult, intended or not, and would take heavy-handed and violent retribution without warning, often simply for the pleasure of it or because he could. Jack knew Hank did not like his cousin but he was a Tipwell and, provided he followed the clan’s code and his victims were not blood related, a blind eye was turned at his excessive behaviour.
Stevens was less than impressed by the trio’s sauntering along, deep in conversation without the least concern or wariness of their surroundings; it was not until they were well within pistol range that they noticed his presence and he could, if he were an assassin have blasted all three. Of course they were well inside their own territory and perhaps understandably of the view they would not be accosted but Jack was more used to Hank, Brandon and the wary, ever-alert bodyguards who protected the pair.
“Hello, Jaunty, a good day to you,” Jack, putting on a friendly air greeted the local gang leader. Jaunty’s first reaction was obviously to wonder who would dare address him in such a familiar way, then recognising Stevens, someone who was on first name terms with Hank and Brandon O’Shea, he responded in an equally pleasant tone, thought obviously not remembering Jack’s first name addressing him as “Stevens’.”
“Jack, you must call me Jack, no formality between close associates,” Jack smiled, aiming to keep the upper-hand. He stopped a few paces before the three, his hand on his pistol in his pocket whilst his colt was plainly in sight in his shoulder holster. “I have been looking for you all over,” subtlety suggesting that Jaunty was not where he should have been, “as I have important questions I need your assistance with.” Jaunty, already sensing that Jack was possibly baiting him or at least was being overly familiar, remembered he had last seen Stevens when he had stopped Joseph Mannheim using his cosh on Jack.
“Not now, Stevens, I’m busy perhaps catch me later at Welsh’s,” Jaunty told him, he’d be surrounded by his own Dead Hands there and could better decide on how to treat Stevens.
“I understand, Jaunty, what with Brandon’s predicament all the Dead Hands and their senior men must be busy at the moment,” Jack, made no attempt to step aside thereby calling the obviously unbusy Jaunty’s bluff. “Unfortunately, I need to take up five minutes of your time on urgent and confidential matters.” There was a small part of Jack, the part of him that grew and gnawed away inside him at each hour that passed without a glass of whiskey to sooth it, the part that released more tension and rage to heat his blood, that would have been happy for anyone of the three men opposite him to make a move. As his own gun was ready to fire and aimed at Jaunty’s guts he would easily kill two of them before they could pull their own guns and he doubted if the youngster on the right would have kept his wits about him sufficiently to take aim, so Jack felt little for the odds against him.
“Is it about the personal favour you did for Mr Henry Tipwell?” the youth on Jaunty’s left piped up, causing both Jack and Jaunty to turn to him in surprise.
“Of course,” Jack remembered, “you are the young man who found me at the Gripmans. Yes, it is related to that and the situation Brandon finds himself in.” Realising Jack had accosted him on clan business Jaunty’s demeanour immediately changed, he thought the riverfront territory allocated to him was, in every sense, a backwater and he looked for any opportunity that would promote him in the eyes of his superiors so was more than ready to assist Jack.
“Come Jack, you have my ear and my help in all you need,” Jaunty stated, motioning his bodyguards to remain where they were as he took Jack’s arm to lead him down an alleyway to the very edge of the river’s mud and to a point where only the murky, foul smelling water could observe them.
“It is basically two things, Jaunty,” Jack explained, leaning on his stick and putting his back to the river so he could still see the two bodyguards and keep Jaunty covered by the gun in his pocket, “the first is about the girl who is missing, Mrs O’Shea’s maid, that the police seek.”
“As does Mr O’Shea and my cousin Hank,” reminding people of his close blood relation to Hank was something Jaunty commonly worked into every conversation as he knew the weight it would carry, “they have had the word spread for any information about her.”
“I take it you have nothing to help with on that score or you would already have passed it on, but did you know she attended the the lectures the Blackstaffs put on, especially those of the brother of the girl found hanging in one of those old warehouses just a couple of blocks down?”
“She and a lot of people,” Jaunty pointed out realistically if unhelpfully, “though I will pass it on as it is better information than none at all.”
“And you might get more,” Jack played on the theme that Jaunty might benefit by helping him, “if you were to set a watch on the younger Blackstaff who runs the family business.” Jaunty nodded and looked as if he was going to do so without delay, so Jack quickly moved on. “But, on a more important note about your future wellbeing, does Hank know of your meetings with the manager of Ruby’s and Joseph Mannheim?” Jaunty looked both panicked and angry at the same moment, like a hyena disturbed at its meal, and was about to do something he might regret when Jack pulled his gun out; the two bodyguards blissfully unaware of the tense situation playing out behind their backs. “Now, think carefully, Jaunty, I don’t accuse you of anything and even if Hank doesn’t know it doesn’t mean you betray him.”
“I do no such thing and I would call you a liar for saying so, gun or no gun,” Jaunty sounded sufficiently outraged for Stevens to suspect he told the tru
th. “The territory I hold borders the river on two sides and a parcel of the Kings territory runs alongside the river on the west bank. It has long been the case that the man in charge of each side will meet to settle disputes, in recent years the meetings have become frequent and regular as it helps us keep the peace. There is little profit in our fighting and the Kings are under pressure on their other borders so want things kept secure with our clan. I might not like Joseph Mannheim, he is quick to anger and acts without thinking,” ‘There is the pot calling the kettle black,’ Jack thought at Jaunty’s words, “but his father is getting old and fat and Joseph is taking on running more of the Kings’ operations. Unfortunately though his elder brother is in line to take over and this doesn’t sit well with Joe.”
“It sounds like it is a good alliance to keep, as in the longer run it might help split the Kings or even put their future leader in your debt,” Stevens surmised, lowering, though not re-pocketing his gun in acknowledgement that he believed what he was being told, as Jaunty nodded in conformation. “Where does the manager of Ruby’s come into this?”
“You mean Hermes Ruben, nephew to Black Rube who is leader of the Black Hawks? Not that anyone sees very much of Rube, but his hand is felt on everything that is South of 22nd Street and west of Michigan. However, if it weren’t for Ruby’s the Hawks would be of no account, that place brings them money and influence to almost rival the Kings, though nothing as great as we have,” Jaunty swelled with pride at the thought of his clan, the power they wielded and wealth they gained from their criminal activities which made the lives of so many of the ordinary folk who lived in their grasp so fearful and unpleasant. “Since Ruben took over, some months back, as Ruby’s manager, marking him as heir to Black Rube, he let it be known he would be interested in taking part in our meetings.”
“How did he know about them. I take it they were not advertised for public invitation?” Jack asked with a smile, finally pocketing his gun.
“No, they were not,” Jaunty explained, becoming noticeably less tense himself, “but Joseph was a regular customer at Ruby’s and it seems they had gotten to know one another. However, it benefits us all as we trade information and, from time to time, help each other out.”
“So, Joseph Mannheim, is Chicago Joe?” Jack wanted to know, steering Jaunty to his next and most important question.
“No, not as such, it was a name he made up when at Ruby’s, a passing joke, but he seems to have used it at times, when doing something he didn’t want his father to know.”
“Like running guns and girls in places he shouldn’t?” Jack guessed.
“Yes, he does a good Italian accent,” Jaunty grinned.
“So, our two dead girls connected him to Ruby’s somehow and he killed them?”
“Not that I know of, him and Ruben thought you were deranged at suggesting such a thing,” Jaunty said, looking pretty much as if he did not care one way or the other. “Neither of them seemed happy that the girls were dead, one because they had brought in customers and the other as he liked to watch them. The way Joseph talks he is partial to dark meat, whilst Ruben favours only what is green and folds.”
“You have heard about Ruben today?” Jack asked, but seeing Jaunty’s face crease in puzzlement went on, “He was found dead late yesterday with his half his face burnt off from having vitriol poured over it.”
“Vitriol, you say?” Jaunty, not unfamiliar with doling out violent retribution himself, seemed shocked at the thought. “That’s a weapon Joseph has been known to use; his cosh is for light work,” Jaunty nodded at Jack’s cane, “a heavy hammer for something more lasting and vitriol if he is really upset.”
“Sounds to me like ‘Chicago Joe’ is the result of Joseph and Ruben working together, to sell guns and dynamite to extremists in the ranks of the Knights of Labour. It also looks like Joe might have done for Ruben to keep him quite about their bit of business on the side, which is likely to have included killing the girls.”
“Whatever you think, Jack,” Jaunty shrugged, unconcerned, “it is possible and I wouldn’t put it past Joe to kill for pleasure. Though to me I think you have it wrong, the fact is Ruben wanted to take over a number of the other colored gangs so it could be one of them that did for him.”
“Then I need to speak with Joseph himself, to see what he knows. How do I get hold of him?”
“You don’t Jack, this side of the river we have taken a liking to you and your eccentric ways; like your pulling a gun on me just now, we know you don’t mean anything by it,” Jaunty informed him with confident grin. “But Joe doesn’t take to such things or being called on informally and is likely to resort to his heavy hammer, assuming he is in a good mood, if not he’ll think of something worse.”
“Let me worry about that, I just need to know where he holes up.”
“Very well,” much to Jack’s surprise, Jaunty pulled a notebook from his pocket and scrawled an address on it. “I can’t say where he will be at any particular time but this is where he sleeps, when he sleeps. I wouldn’t let the local coppers know what you are up to in case it gets back to him. Word is some Pinkertons tried to pick him up a little while back and they got a beating for it, fact is I doubt if even Hank would be able to help you if you put yourself in Joe’s hands.”
“That’s good of you to say, Jaunty,” Jack thanked the other, knowing what he wanted in return, “I will put in a good word for you with Brandon and Hank, assuming this all goes OK.”
“How’d you get so close to them?” Jaunty asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You aren’t family, not even by marriage, not even Irish or Catholic.”
“Partly through some financial deals made by O’Shea on behalf of my family,” Jack said, then adding with a wink, as he sauntered off. “Though mainly because I killed a couple of Tipwells some years back.”
If Martha had ever doubted it she now knew that Minsky was right in his assertion, ‘she had no shame’. She had had a cab drive her back and forth across Chicago, stopping at every haunt she could remember Minsky ever mentioning, sending the cabman in to ask if her diminutive Russian friend had been seen recently. Twice she had asked to be driven to his apartment and had gone inside herself but finding only the elderly couple at home.
“The Russian gentleman who lives upstairs?” the pair, seemingly ancient, grey and garrulous with each other but pleasant to their unexpected visitor, echoed each others words. “No we haven’t seen nor heard him for a few days since,” the man informed her.
“Such a gentleman, always pleasant and so busy,” the woman explained. “In and out, day and night, such a gallant man of the town. No, we have not seen him.”
“Not like the woman who lives opposite, going out on her own,” the man informed Martha. “A pleasant sort but not respectable.”
“The woman opposite, what can I say? We had a word for her sort when I was a girl but I would not use it now, no matter how well it fits,” the woman told Martha, her voice dropping conspiratorially as she confided in another woman of refinement. “Out at all hours, unaccompanied and living on her own, goodness knows what her family must think.”
At the end of each visit Martha escaped as quickly as she could, declining offers of coffee and cake and, on the second occasion, avoiding stepping over the threshold when invited. Her worries mounted, she stopped caring what the cab driver might think of her, she had tipped him often enough after each place they had visited and he must have made more that day than he normally did in a week. She had concluded that Minsky was in hiding, the exchange had gone wrong and he was unable to get word to her because of his current circumstances; she could not, no matter how low she felt, entertain the thought he had run off and left her.
Though she had only eaten a light breakfast with Jack and had missed lunch she had no appetite and her head ached with worry, she sat in the cab whilst it waited in a side street trying to work out her next
move; she needed help but her options were few. Under the circumstances she could hardly go to the police. She could approach Jack but was too tired to do so, he would want to know every detail and would wheedle it out of her. Perhaps she could pay a Pinkerton detective to seek out the missing Minsky, but she was fearful Pinky and Pug would hear of it and she could not face them knowing. Nor would she go to Brandon, it would be too much, he would guess her motives and she would not subject herself to being in his debt, it was all too complicated as things were without adding that burden. That only left one possibility: Hank.
She had been told at his home, where she had visited only recently to give him such terrible news, that his wife, Mrs Henry Tipwell, was at her mother’s house until she gave birth. The maid who answered the door remembered Martha and had told her Mrs Tipwell would be in good hands as her mother had given birth to seven children herself. Whilst Mr Tipwell was helping his godfather, Mr Brandon O’Shea, and was being the ‘good husband’ by staying out of his wife’s way. Martha, put two and two together and had the cab take her to O’Shea’s hotel, a place she knew and was known. She waited in the cab whilst the doorman took her note in for Mr Tipwell, she did not have to wait long.
“Is it news from Jack?” Hank asked, causing the cab to sway as he got inside.
“No, though I believe he is out searching for the Partkis girl,” Martha hesitated, knowing Hank had enough to concern him what with his wife about to give birth whilst his godmother was murdered and his godfather suspected of the crime.
