Crimson Snow

by Jeanne Dams

  “And did any of the other boys know anything?”

  “Not about that. None of ’em saw him on the Tuesday, and then by Wednesday he’d gone. They was all mad at Joe for not tellin’ ’em nothin’ about his prowlin’ around that night, ’cause if they’d’a known, they’d’a been on the lookout for ’im.”

  “It is a pity,” Hilda agreed, “but it cannot be helped. What you have told me may help us to discover something about him.”

  “Kurt, he found out Perkins left town by the first train on Wednesday morning. The seven-forty-three, it was, to Indianapolis.”

  “Then probably he really does live there, not in Fort Wayne. But that is interesting, Andy, because that is before Nellie disappeared. I do not understand that at all.”

  “And there’s more,” said Andy with a broad grin. “I told you none of the other boys found out nothin’. I didn’t tell you what I found out myself, just this mornin’.”

  Hilda’s attention now was more than polite.

  “See, I was at the front when it came in, or I’d never’ve known.”

  “When what came in?”

  “The money. He paid for his room, after all this time!”

  “He walked in and paid?”

  “No! I’d’ve told you first thing if I’d seen him! No, the way it was, see, the mailman comes around ten, ten-thirty—just after you was there this mornin’. He puts all the mail on the front desk, and takes away all the hotel mail. So this mornin’ I was right there, not busy, when the mail comes in, and there’s such a lot of it, Mr. Brady—he’s the day desk clerk—he says for me to help sort it. So I’m puttin’ the mail for the hotel guests in one pile and for the hotel in another, and I sees this envelope for Mr. James that says Perkins on the outside.”

  “You mean it was from Mr. Perkins?”

  “That’s what it said. Now, I thinks to myself, if it’s the same fella, there ain’t no such person. So what’s he doin’ sendin’ letters? I’m curious, see? So I takes it in to Mr. James myself. Which I had no business doin’, but Mr. Brady, he was sortin’ the guest mail and he didn’t notice.”

  “Did Mr. James open it while you were there?”

  “He didn’t want to. He was real snippy. ‘Put it down there, boy,’ he says, and points to a pile of stuff on his desk. Well, I wanted to watch him open it, so I says, ‘It’s from that Mr. Perkins and it feels like there’s a lot in it. Do you reckon it’s another one of them messages with no writin’?’ I figgered that’d make him mad, see? And it did. He snatches up the letter from my hand and tears open the envelope, and all this money falls out. And he says, ‘I’ll be da—’ I mean, miss, he says bad words. And he says the ba—the fella paid after all. And he counted it real careful, and there was fifteen dollars. That’s three dollars more than he owed, miss! So Mr. James, he’s not mad anymore, and he reaches in his pocket and gives me fifty cents, and he says that’s for pesterin’ him until he opened the letter. Fifty cents, miss!” Andy patted his pocket and grinned. “It’s me should be takin’ you to lunch, miss!”

  Hilda matched his grin. “You are rich, Andy. Do not waste it on food. Save it for something you really want.”

  “You bet! Ellsworth’s has some ice skates for sixty-seven cents, and with this, I have enough. If Ma doesn’t need the money, I’m going to buy me a pair.”

  Hilda smiled at him fondly and then returned to business. “That is fine, Andy. Now, can you tell me anything else about the letter? Was there a return address on the envelope?”

  “Nope, nothin’ except the name, Harold Perkins, like I said. I looked special.”

  “What about the postmark?”

  “It was all smudged. Couldn’t make out nothin’. But there was a note inside, besides the money.”

  “A note! What did it say?”

  “Well, I didn’t read it. Mr. James just sort of looked at it and threw it on the desk, and I couldn’t see without him noticin’. But he said somethin’ about ‘rotten memory,’ so I reckon the fella said he forgot to pay.”

  “Hmm. Well, I can ask Mr. James. I think perhaps I will ask Patrick to go with me if he can. Mr. James is not a gentleman.”

  “No, miss,” said Andy solemnly. “But he can be nice sometimes.” He reached into his pocket, brought out his shiny silver half dollar, and studied it lovingly.

  Hilda was thoughtful as she parted with Andy. She wanted to call on Mrs. Schmidt, with whom Miss Jacobs had roomed, but as she walked through the wintry sunshine she mulled over Andy’s information. It was, she supposed, good news in a way. At least the Oliver Hotel had its money back. But why did the man—Perkins or whatever his name really was—act so oddly the night he came to town? And why did he leave in such a hurry? And what, if anything, did he have to do with Nellie’s disappearance?

  On the whole, Hilda was dissatisfied. Because the man could no longer be called a thief, the police would undoubtedly forget about him, and Hilda thought that a very bad idea. Thief or not, he remained a Mysterious Stranger, a character beloved in the annals of Sherlock Holmes (which Hilda read when she had a chance). His behavior needed explaining. She would talk to Patrick about it.

  The thought of Patrick drowned every other, and she walked the rest of the way unconscious of her increasingly damp feet and the muddy hem of her skirt.

  The very young maid who answered the door of the rooming house said that Mrs. Schmidt was at home. Hilda had hoped she would be, in the middle of the afternoon. When the woman thumped into the front parlor to see what Hilda wanted, she decided not to curtsey. She, Hilda, was not going to be a servant very much longer. She would be a lady with her own home. She might look like nothing on earth today, with her short, muddy skirt and her old cloak, but one day soon she would be several rungs up the social ladder from a landlady. She nodded pleasantly and held out her hand.

  “Good day, Mrs. Schmidt. I am Hilda Johansson, and I am here to ask you some questions about Miss Jacobs.”

  Mrs. Schmidt looked at her sharply. “You’re never with the police!”

  “No, I am not. I am acting for a gentleman. May I sit down?”

  The woman nodded a little unwillingly, and gestured to a straight wooden chair. Hilda took the plush one next to it.

  “I’ve got it! You must be one of those Pinkertons. I hear tell they’ve got some women working for them. Don’t know what the world’s coming to. Time was, women knew their place.”

  “I am not with the Pinkertons, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me if you were. Well, what do you want to know? I haven’t got all day.”

  “I know you must be a busy woman. I have only a few questions. I have read in the newspaper that Miss Jacobs was afraid of something, the last few days of her life. Do you have any idea what was frightening her?”

  “As if the police hadn’t asked me that over and over again! And I always tell them the same thing: I don’t know. She didn’t confide in me, the way some of my roomers do. A little standoffish, she was. I tell the young ladies, I say they must treat me just as they would a mother, seeing as how their own mothers ain’t here to keep an eye on them. And I must say I treat them like I would my own girls, if I had any, which I don’t, of course, being an unmarried lady.”

  Hilda nodded. She was familiar with the custom of calling older women “Mrs.” whether or not they had ever had a husband. Mrs. Sullivan, for instance, was a spinster.

  “Well, so Miss Jacobs was always polite and all, but she never opened up to me. It hurt me, here.” She put a hand on her ample bosom. “We’re all just one happy family here, but she never quite fit in.”

  “But her fears…” said Hilda, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  “Well, now, there was a young man she didn’t like much, I can tell you that. I allow my young ladies to have gentleman callers in the parlor, as long as they leave by a decent hour and behave themselves. I stay with them, of course, unless there are other people in the room. I only have refined young ladie
s staying here, but human nature being what it is, I’m always very careful. There has never been any scandal about this house and there never will be, as long as I’m alive!”

  “I am sure of it, Mrs. Schmidt. You were saying there was a young man Miss Jacobs did not like?”

  “He came to call more than once, and usually she made some excuse not to come down. She had a headache, or she was tired, or she had some of the children’s work to mark. I can tell you I got sick and tired of running up and down stairs with messages for Her Majesty. I’m not as young as I was, nor as slim as I was, and I told her so. Well, one day, just about a week before she died, I told her plain out that she could come down and tell him herself that she didn’t want to see him. So she did, and he wasn’t at all happy about it. Such a lot of shouting there was, and I finally had to tell them both to quiet down. They were disturbing everyone in the house.”

  “You were in the room?”

  “Just outside. I told you, I’m a careful woman.”

  “But did she act afraid of him?”

  “Not afraid, exactly. More like put out. As if he’d said something she didn’t like.”

  “Didn’t you hear what they said?”

  “I hope, miss, you don’t think I’d eavesdrop on a private conversation! I make it a point not to listen.”

  “You said they were shouting.”

  “That was later. I couldn’t help but hear then. He was saying she was treating him bad, and how could she be so cruel, and she was saying she never wanted to see him again, and crying. I didn’t understand why she was acting that way. He was a very presentable young man, and hadn’t said anything wrong, not that I heard.”

  And you heard all of it, or tried to, thought Hilda, but she kept the thought to herself. “Do you know who he was?”

  “He gave me his name, but there’s so many of them. The police asked me that, but I couldn’t remember. He was young, and nice-looking, well dressed, and very gentlemanly to me.”

  “Have you seen him again?”

  “No.”

  Hilda found that short answer interesting. She filed it away. “I have only one other matter I wish to ask about. It is the night when—”

  “When I came home and she heard me on the porch and acted scared. I’ve told the police and the Pinkertons and I’ll tell you, whoever you really are. I think that friend of hers, who said that to the police, I think she made up the whole thing, just trying to make herself important. Miss Jacobs was never scared of anything that she told me about, or told any of the other young ladies about, either, and if you don’t mind, miss, I have work to do.”

  She stood and walked toward the front door and Hilda had little choice but to follow. She was tired, in any case. Wondering what would happen if she returned home to take her usual afternoon rest, she turned up the sidewalk. She was headed for Tippecanoe Place when she was startled by a small figure hurtling across her path. Hilda’s feet slipped in the muddy slush and she would have fallen without a helpful extended hand.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, miss! I didn’t mean to trip you up!”

  “You did not. I was surprised and lost my balance. You are Mrs. Schmidt’s maid, are you not?”

  “Yes, miss, and I wanted to talk to you, only can we go around the corner, because I’m supposed to be on me way to the bakery, on account of they forgot the rolls when they delivered, and Cook’ll have me hide if she sees me lollygaggin’, ’cause she needs them for dinner.”

  By the time the child had finished her breathless explanation, Hilda had whisked them around the next house, out of sight of any impatient cooks. “Now we can walk more slowly, because it is not safe to run with the sidewalks in the state they are. What bakery?”

  “Teuscher’s.”

  “But that is on Monroe! It is a long way for you to go. There are closer bakeries.”

  “I know, and better ones, too, but the rolls are a penny cheaper at Teuscher’s. She’s a real skinflint, Mrs. Schmidt.”

  “Is she?” That was interesting.

  “Yes, miss, and I wanted to tell you, it’s a lot of lies she told you. I know who you are, even if she didn’t, and you’re goin’ to marry me next-door-neighbor’s third cousin, so I listened outside the door, and I didn’t want you lied to!”

  Hilda smiled. “That is nice of you. I could tell you were Irish from the way you spoke. What is your name?”

  “Eileen O’Hara, miss.”

  “And you know that I am Hilda Johansson. You must call me Hilda.”

  “Oh, no, miss. That wouldn’t be right. I’m only a maid.”

  “So am I,” said Hilda. “And I will be a kind of cousin soon. Now, Eileen, what was it that Mrs. Schmidt did not tell the truth about?”

  “Well, for one, she never run up and down stairs with messages for Miss Jacobs, nor for any of the other young ladies, neither. It’s me does the runnin’. And she lied about not hearin’ what them two was sayin’ that night, too. She was right outside, listenin’ for all she was worth.”

  “You saw her? Did you, also, hear what they said?”

  “No.” Eileen made a face. “I was just passin’ through the hall, and the minute she saw me, she shooed me out of there, so I never heard a word. I could tell they was talkin’, but they was real quiet.”

  “Are you quite sure Mrs. Schmidt heard?”

  “Yes, ’cause I could see her face. I watched for a minute from behind the door after I left the hall, holdin’ it open a crack, see. And I could see her gettin’ madder and madder at whatever she was hearin’.”

  “Hmm. I do not understand that. If the gentleman was saying things that made Miss Jacobs upset, I would have thought Mrs. Schmidt would tell him to leave.”

  “Not much, she wouldn’t! Not him. ’Cause that was the other thing she lied about, sayin’ she didn’t know him. She knows him all right. He’s her own sister’s son.”

  …there are still several clews out of which a path may

  be found that will lead to the murderer…

  —South Bend Tribune

  February 6, 1904

  20

  HER NEPHEW? Are you sure?”

  Eileen nodded vigorously. “He’s been comin’ round ever since I started working there. And haven’t I heard them talkin’, and him callin’ her Aunt, an’ all? She didn’t like it when she saw me listenin’, but she doesn’t like hardly anything I do. She only give me the job ’cause I come cheap. She’s a penny-pincher, like I said.”

  “This must be your first job, Eileen. How old are you?”

  “Twelve. That’s why she can get by with payin’ me almost nothin’.”

  Hilda sighed. The child looked thin and pinched, and much younger than twelve. She herself had been sixteen, and just arrived from Sweden, when she was hired at Tippecanoe Place. She had been used to hard work. Tending the family farm, after her father had died, had meant backbreaking work for everyone in the family. Even little Erik, only six when Hilda had come to America, had helped feed and water the animals. But twelve— “You should be in school still.”

  “I never been to school. Ma could never afford for us not to work. I worked at the shirt factory before. This is better, I guess. I get me meals regular, anyway—such as they are.”

  “Can you read, Miss O’Hara?”

  “A little. I’ve taught meself a few words. Don’t have no time for readin’, anyway.”

  “No, I suppose not. Well, this is where I must go in, and you must go on to the bakery. Cook will be waiting for the rolls.”

  “Here, miss? You live here?”

  With the leaves off the shade trees, Tippecanoe Place looked even larger and grander than in summer. Hilda was used to it, and so was Eileen, probably, passing it from time to time on her errands. But from the look of awe on the child’s face, Eileen had never imagined she would know someone who lived there.

  “I work here, Eileen. It is a live-in position. My room is at the top of the house, very small and not grand at all. I am just a maid, like yo
u, and my name is Hilda.”

  “And a detective, too. I’ve heard the family talkin’.” She stopped abruptly.

  Hilda could guess what else Eileen had heard in the family discussions—how terrible it was that Patrick Cavanaugh had got himself mixed up with that Swedish girl, not only a Protestant but meddling about in crime. Variations on that theme, no doubt, repeated endlessly. “I am not a detective, Eileen. I have helped to solve some crimes, because I am good at talking to people. And I thank you for talking to me, and I will not tell anyone what you said. Here.” She thrust her mittened hand into her pocket. There was still quite a lot of money inside. She pulled out some coins and handed them to Eileen. “Buy a bun for yourself at the bakery. It is a long time until supper.”

  It had also been a long time since breakfast, Hilda thought as she trudged up the back drive to the great house. She doubted that little Eileen had gotten much lunch, if Mrs. Schmidt was a “skinflint.” It was appalling that a child her age was forced to work full-time. Was there anything she, Hilda, could do about it?

  Still pondering the question, Hilda walked down the back steps and into the basement. The house was very quiet, settled into the afternoon lethargy, except for some giggles coming from the servants’ room. The dailies, Hilda thought. Elsa, who was technically their supervisor, was upstairs napping, and plainly the temporary butler wasn’t keeping them up to the mark. Mr. Williams had always taken his rest in his big chair downstairs, where his presence, even if drowsy, kept the dailies from frivoling away their time. The new man couldn’t be there or anywhere in the basement, or he’d have heard the maids.

  Hilda thought for a moment about scolding them, and then shrugged. She was on leave. It was not her problem. She would find the butler and inform him, and then take a rest herself. She took off her filthy rubbers and brushed the mud from her skirts, but gave up on her shoes. They would need a thorough cleaning before she could wear them in the house. She slipped them off, and carrying them in one hand, went up the back stairs.