Indigo Christmas

by Jeanne Dams

  She pulled herself together and nodded. “Yes, please. Especially I want to know where you found it.”

  “It was in the drive, well away from the barn. We’d pulled in with the wagons, the pumper and the hose wagon, and I was unhitching the horses and leading them away so they weren’t so close to the blaze. They’re trained about fire, you know, but they get nervous all the same, and we can’t have them running away or pulling the wagons around. So I had got one of ’em out of the traces and away safe, and I was tyin’ him to the fence when I dropped one of the reins. And when I stooped down to pick it up I saw somethin’ lyin’ on the ground. I just shoved it in my pocket, havin’ other things to think about at the time, but later, when the horses were okay, I thought about it and took a look. It didn’t look like it was worth much, kind of worn, and no money in it, but I thought somebody might miss it, and maybe I’d better put it back where I found it. So I did.”

  “And were the other men still there? The ones from the next farm, who had come to try to help?”

  “They were just beginnin’ to head back across the field. They’d stuck around for a while, thinkin’ to help us out, but if a man’s not a firefighter, he gets in the way more than he helps. Not that they weren’t goodhearted and all, but they were more trouble than they were worth, and I guess the station chief finally told ’em so.”

  “Did you see Mr. O’Neill pick up the billfold?”

  “No, ma’am. I went back to the fire, and we were pretty busy for a while there. A barn fire’s always bad, with so much straw around, and we had all we could do to keep it from spreadin’ to the house. Lucky there was no animals inside, but we all feel real bad about the hired man. If we’d knowed he was there, we could’ve got him out easy. He was up in the loft, well away from the worst of it. But we didn’t, and that’s all there is to it.”

  That was, Hilda could see, very far from all there was to it. Joe Brady would probably carry that grief and guilt with him to the end of his days. Every fireman hates it when even an animal dies in a fire, and when a person is lost a little of the fireman dies, too. They hide it, of course, don’t talk about it, pretend the canker isn’t there, but it eats at them. The more sensitive ones can’t take it. They get out of the brigade.

  Patrick had nightmares now and then. He didn’t like to talk about them the next day, but one day Hilda was going to make him talk, talk it out of his system, maybe. Then she would remind him about the baby whose life he’d saved in a boardinghouse fire, about the horses he’d led from a burning stable, about the fellow fireman who owed his life to Patrick’s quick actions when a fire wagon overturned.

  Hilda knew better than to ask Joe Brady to talk about the dead hired hand. Instead she asked her last question. “Mr. Brady, I have heard there were some initials on the billfold. Can you tell me anything about that?”

  But there her luck ran out. “No, ma’am. I only saw it for a minute or two. The light was bad and I was in the middle of fightin’ a pretty awful fire. I thought maybe I saw what might have been initials, but they was worn off. And then Sean found it, and when he came back, later, to ask if one of us had dropped it, the fire was almost out, and there wasn’t no light at all. I couldn’t tell you what those initials were to save me.”

  “Oh. Well, that is too bad, but I can maybe find out somehow.”

  “The police’ll have it now, I reckon. Maybe they’ll tell you. You’re friends with that Lefkowicz, aren’t you?”

  Hilda stood. Her face suddenly felt stiff. She said nothing for a moment, and then decided. There was no reason not to tell him. Everyone would know soon enough. “I am not certain that Sergeant Lefkowicz would help me. He came to my house this morning to arrest Sean O’Neill for murder.”

  Mr. Brady had of course stood when Hilda did, and now his mouth dropped open. “But that’s impossible! O’Neill couldn’t have set that fire! We told the police that. It got started while he and the others were still workin’ on the new barn next door. And he didn’t steal anything from that billfold, neither. There was nothin’ in it to begin with. What do the fools think they’re doin?”

  “They found something that belonged to Sean—his pocketknife—in the remains of the barn. They think he dropped it when he started the fire.”

  Mr. Brady frowned. “When did they find that? I didn’t hear about them findin’ anything, and believe me, as soon as that fellow Robert Jenkins started kickin’ up a fuss about the fire not being an accident, they looked, the police and the fire department, too.”

  Hilda tried to think. “I believe Sergeant Lefkowicz said it was this morning that they found it.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did they—look, ma’am, do you mind if we sit down? My mind’s whirlin’ and I’d feel a lot better off my feet.”

  Hilda sat, and Mr. Brady folded into the chair opposite her rather like a limp doll. “Look, here. This don’t make no sense. It snowed hard day before yesterday, right?”

  She nodded, still puzzled.

  “And yesterday couldn’t nobody get out, hardly. We was all worried for fear there’d be a bad fire we couldn’t get to, ’cause the roads were all full of snow. Took us, the brigade, I mean, and the city men, too, all day to clean things up enough so we’d be able to get where we needed to go. And you can bet the roads farther away from the middle of town are still just snow banks, not to mention the country.”

  Hilda was beginning to get a glimmer of Mr. Brady’s thinking.

  “So will you tell me why in tarnation the police would take it into their heads to go out to Miller’s farm this mornin’, all of a sudden, and poke through the ashes?”

  Only 11 Trading Days Before Christmas…

  You can buy at 25¢ each: Dolls, Friction

  Boats, Magic Lanterns, Steam Engine

  Attachments, Chimes…

  —Geo. Wyman & Co. ad

  South Bend Tribune

  December 8, 1904

  23

  HILDA THOUGHT ABOUT that all the way to the Oliver Hotel. It was an excellent question, and she was furious with herself for not thinking of it. of course it was absurd that the police fought their way out to the farm on a day when ordinary travel was nearly impossible. Why not wait until the roads were clear, next week sometime? Why, for that matter, go out there at all? Joe Brady had said it. The barn had been thoroughly searched when Robert Jenkins had brought the accusation of murder. Why hadn’t anyone found the pocketknife then?

  Because it wasn’t there, said a voice somewhere deep in Hilda’s head.

  She didn’t like the thoughts that were crowding in on her. Like most other people in South Bend, she had thought the police more or less competent, and more or less honest. Oh, they could be somewhat lazy, eager to accept the obvious solution, and certainly prejudiced against immigrants—which in turn prejudiced Hilda against them, or most of them. There were exceptions like Sergeant Lefkowicz, hard working, intelligent men whose quest was the truth, not the easy answer.

  Or so she had believed. Now she wasn’t sure what to believe. She had accepted, with dismay, the sergeant’s tale of the discovery of Sean’s knife. Now it seemed ridiculous. Where was the proof that anyone had been out to the farm at all? How very much easier to go to Sean’s house while he was elsewhere, take a conveniently small object that was obviously his, and make up a story about finding it at the scene of the fire? Drop it in a hearth fire for a little while to give the thing a convincing look, and there was evidence against the only suspect you had. End of case, everybody can relax into their preparations for Christmas.

  Would Sergeant Lefkowicz do something like that? Hilda hated to think so. She tried to remember. Had he actually said he had found the pocketknife? Or only that it had been found? The news had upset her so much she hadn’t concentrated on details. Maybe it was that Sergeant Applegate who had found it. Or pretended to find it? Well, that was something for Patrick to pursue. She could not go to the police station and ask question
s, not with any hope of getting answers, and now she hesitated to go to Sergeant Lefkowicz privately.

  Andy was on duty in front of the Oliver Hotel. He popped out the door when the carriage pulled up. Given the day’s numbing cold, he had been allowed to wait inside for guests, but his face was still bright red. So were his hands, when he took them out of his pockets and blew on them.

  “Miss Hilda! Didn’t think I’d see you today. Nothin’ to report to you, anyway. Snow was so bad on Tuesday that I had to spend the night at the hotel, and most of the boys didn’t make it in yesterday. Reckon they was helpin’ at home, diggin’ out and that. Biggest snow I ever seen!”

  “Biggest you ever saw, Andy. And the other boys were helping at home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anyway it was some storm, huh!”

  Hilda was pleased that Andy was still child enough, despite his often hard life, to find pure enjoyment in a blizzard. “It was, indeed. And it is still very beautiful today. But terribly cold. May we go inside for a minute?”

  “I have to stay by the door, Miss Hilda. The doorman’s down sick, so I’m takin’ over for the day. We could talk there, though. It’s warmer, unless a lot of people go in and out. And today there’s hardly nobody—hardly anybody in the hotel. Most people left this mornin’ and nobody new’s come yet.”

  “Good. We will go in. I need to talk to you about the Christmas party.”

  He grinned. “Reckon you’re goin’ to have to rent the biggest hall in town for it, Miss Hilda. I’ve been tellin’ everybody, and they’re all comin’ and bringin’ other boys. I started to make a list of names, but it got to be too long, so I gave up and just counted.” He reached into his pocket and awkwardly with his stiff hands pulled out a grubby piece of paper. “Let’s see. That’s ten…and those there, squished up in the corner, that’s another seventeen… so twenty-seven…” He muttered to himself for a moment, turning the paper over and frowning at it. “I can’t make it come out the same twice, miss, but it’s sixty-three or sixty-five. And me and my little brother.”

  Hilda was staggered. Sixty-seven boys, and that was only the ones Andy had invited. She had been thinking of perhaps a hundred in total. She took a deep breath. “Good, Andy, that is very good. Now, first I want to pay you a little more money. Your information has helped me, and you have also worked hard to invite boys to the party.” Gravely she handed him a quarter. “Also, I need to consult you about presents. I am not in charge of that part, but I think maybe the women who are might not know what boys would want, so I will help them.” She took a small writing tablet and a pencil out of her handbag. “My brother is making wooden toys, wagons and carved horses and the like, and my mother and sisters are knitting. I think you would like a pair of warm mittens, yes? And perhaps a baseball.”

  “I don’t need nothin’—anything—Miss Hilda. My brother would like a baseball, though. And lots of the little boys I talked to want balls to play with, any kind. Oh, and whistles. The bigger ones are kind of hoping for skates, if they don’t cost too much. And some of them would like sleds, but I told them I don’t think—”

  “We will see if we can find some sleds,” said Hilda. “I cannot promise, but I have had an idea. And perhaps small wagons. Banks for saving money?”

  “Yes! Not that we’ve got a lot to save, but I’ve been puttin’ what you pay me in an old sock. A bank would be better.”

  By the time Andy had to deal with a hotel guest, Hilda had added tops and checkers and marbles and magnets to her list, along with, of course, candy canes and oranges. She also made a note of several more errands she had to run. First to the churches she had asked to spread the word about the party, and then to Mrs. Elbel’s. To that lady she would give the long list of toys, and a suggestion. It had occurred to her that the South Bend Toy Company might well be persuaded to donate some of their famous miniature Studebaker wagons. And didn’t she remember that one of the bicycle factories in town also made sleds? It was no good her approaching them, but Mrs. Elbel would know which of the wealthy ladies might be best at soliciting contributions. Oh, and surely the Philadelphia would sell them candy at a discounted price, or even give it to them. And naturally they could get anything they needed from Malloy’s Dry Goods at wholesale prices or better! Even if Mrs. Elbel had already thought of all these things, it made Hilda proud that she, too, had thought of them. She was maybe learning to think like a privileged lady.

  She was busy all day, stopping only for a sandwich and a cup of tea at Osborn’s, a café on Michigan Street. Instead of going home, she sent O’Rourke home to get his own dinner, take a message to his wife that she would be away all day, and come back for her when he had finished.

  It was cowardly of her, and she knew it, but she simply could not face Norah. Not yet. Not until she had made some progress towards clearing Sean’s name.

  In midafternoon, having visited all the churches and added nearly two hundred more party-goers to her list, she asked the coachman to take her to Uncle Dan’s store. She tried never to bother Patrick at work, but the situation was critical. She had to talk to him about Sean. “Do not wait for me, Mr.—kevin. I do not know how long I will be. I will walk home, maybe.”

  “Mighty cold for that, ma’am. You could phone,” he added somewhat grudgingly.

  Hilda smiled to herself. If O’Rourke was beginning to accept the telephone, it was progress, indeed.

  Trade was no brisker at Malloy’s than at the Oliver Hotel. Clerks stood around tidying the merchandise, quite unnecessarily as far as Hilda could see, or gossiping in small groups. Hilda approached one bored woman who straightened up and tried to look busy when she saw Hilda.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cavanaugh. And how can I help you today? We have some lovely new silk mufflers in—just the thing for a Christmas present for Mr. Cavanaugh.”

  “Thank you, Miss—Miss Forbes.” She was learning the clerks’ names, but slowly. “I would like to look at them, but not right now. I want to talk to Mr. Cavanaugh for a little. Is he in his office?”

  “I expect he is. Mr. Malloy is upstairs, I know.”

  “I will go up, then. Thank you, Miss Forbes, and I will look at the mufflers before I leave.”

  The sales clerks received a small commission for every item they sold, Hilda knew. It wouldn’t be much, since Hilda was entitled to a big discount on her purchases, but it would help a bit. Christmas was coming as surely for Miss Forbes as for everyone else, and she probably needed all the extra cash she could get in these hard times.

  Malloy’s Dry Goods Store was modern in every way. It was lit by electricity and there was an elevator to the upper floors, run by a boy whom Hilda knew slightly. “Hello, ma’am,” he said brightly when she entered the cage. “Where to?”

  “The third floor, please, Mike. Oh, and Mike, has anyone told you about the Christmas party a week from Saturday?”

  “Yes, ma’am! I’m comin’, and so are my three brothers. It’s the first party we’ve ever been to. What’s it gonna be like, ma’am?”

  Absolute chaos, Hilda’s mind replied. Aloud, she said, “There will be a Christmas tree, and decorations, and plenty of food, and games and gifts. It will be fun, Mike. I am happy you are coming.”

  “Me, too! Here we are, ma’am.”

  Patrick was sitting at his desk, frowning at a big ledger. He looked up as Hilda came in, and a smile replaced the frown. “Darlin’ girl! It’s a pleasure to see you, and no mistake. Sit down.”

  She looked around. The two other chairs in the small office were covered with wallpaper sample books, fabric swatches, wholesalers’ catalogues, and odd sheets of paper. “Where?”

  “Oh. Just throw that on the floor. None of it’s important.”

  She did as he suggested, not even remembering to scold him for his untidiness. Patrick saw that something was up. “What is it, darlin’?”

  “They have arrested Sean for murder.” Her voice quivered a little in spite of herself, and Patrick was at her side in an instant.

/>   “Tell me,” he said, his arm around her shoulders.

  So Hilda told him, told him everything in an increasingly unsteady voice, what Lefkowicz had told her about the pocketknife, what Joe Brady had said. “So you see,” she finished, “I do not even like to go to Sergeant Lefkowicz now, for I am not sure I can trust him. And I do not like that, Patrick! I do not like losing a friend. And oh, more than one, my best friend even, maybe, for if I cannot clear Sean’s name, Norah will—she will not be my friend anymore and even she might die!”

  That unleashed real tears, and for a few minutes Patrick knelt at her side and held her and let her cry in his arms. When her sobs had subsided to sniffles he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed her cheeks, and then handed it to her.

  She sat back, blew her nose, and sniffed. “I did not mean to weep,” she murmured.

  “I’d hope not,” said Patrick, raising one eyebrow. “Got me best suit coat all wet. It’ll shrink, like as not.”

  “Patrick! It will not. It is not that wet, and anyway, the goods came from here. It is fine wool.”

  He grinned. “Feelin’ a little better, are you?”

  She was able to muster up a small smile. “Always you distract me, and never do I catch up.”

  “Catch on,” said Patrick. “We’ll have you speakin’ English yet.”

  “I do speak English! I—oh. You are doing it again.”

  “Right you are. Now, you ready to talk about it, sensible-like?”

  “I will be sensible.” Hilda blew her nose once more and put the handkerchief in her pocket. “Patrick, what are we to do? And do not tell me we can do nothing and must leave all to the police, because I will not listen.”

  “No, you’re right. Somethin’ has to be done, and it’s somethin’ neither of us can do. No, darlin’, let me finish. If we’re talkin’ about the police maybe plantin’ evidence, that’s a serious thing, serious enough to take to the mayor. I think it’s time we had a talk with Uncle Dan.”