by Hall, Ian
Below, written along the bottom, were the little quirks, the three lamps, the bowing, the performance art that had left at least five young women dead.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
Chapman looked at the board, his fingers scratching at the stubble on his chin. “We stare at it until something clicks.” He said, and I didn’t know if he was joking or not.
“I’ll take the Ether clue.” I said. “It’s the easiest for me to work on, based on my experience. Do you know of any art suppliers in town?”
He shook his head, his eyes still on the board. “You’ll have to ask around.”
After another five minutes of watching Chapman look at the blackboard, I left. Bracing myself against the chilling wind that came off the lake, I began my quest for an artist’s supply shop.
Within an hour, I stood in a shop full of chemical odors. My nose twitched so much, I felt the need to sneeze, but held it back.
“Can I help you?” a thin, wiry man approached, wringing his hands together.
“I’m from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, and I’m looking for a particular liquid. It smells like Ether, and can knock a man out quite easily, but it also may be a type of paint thinner. I’d like to do some smelling if that’s alright with you.”
Well, we started with thinner, but it didn’t quite feel right.
“It may be a mixture.” The man suggested. “Perhaps an ester is used to give the knockout part, and a mineral spirit for the paint?”
When I left, I had a mother and father of a headache, and the insides of my nostrils felt like they had been scoured with sandpaper. I also felt quite drunk. As I made my way back to the Pinkerton building, I almost dropped the box I carried at least twice. Small glass vials jingled inside, and I had samples of four different oils used in modern art; linseed, sunflower, walnut and poppy.
Chapman was nowhere to be seen, and I arranged the small jars on my desk into different groups; the knock-out drug, the paint thinner, and the oils.
For the next few hours, I smelled each drug repeatedly, but did not get the same sharpness that I remembered being on my own mouth on that fateful day. I needed a connection between the drug and the crime, and it wasn’t forthcoming. I walked to the board where Chapman had scrawled The Ether mix; find art use.
Then I recalled an article from one of my journals. One I’d left back home. I sat at my desk, and tried to bring it to mind. There had been an invention, a body-numbing substance. Suddenly the name dawned on me; they’d called it chloroform.
I quickly looked up. Only one other man sat at his desk, and I approached him. “Begging your pardon, where’s the nearest hospital?”
In minutes, I had my horse saddled and I set off across town.
Saint Luke’s Hospital looked as new inside as the stone did outside. The tall Redstone building seemed to glow in the evening light.
I tied my horse and walked inside. Gleaming marble floors greeted me, and behind a front desk also encased in similar marble, stood a very stern-faced gentleman.
“I’d like to see a doctor,” I said as I crossed the small but sumptuous foyer.
“And what’s the trouble?” the man asked, looking at me up and down.
“I’m a detective, and I need to consult a doctor about a case I’m working on.” I passed my hand over the desk, which he shook very gingerly. “Francis Smalling, Pinkerton Detective Agency.”
The man looked like he doubted my story, but he pulled a cord behind the desk and I heard a distant bell ring.
Thankfully Doctor Frederick Reisen proved far more communicative, leading me up two flights of stairs and along corridors to his consulting room. As we walked, I told him the pertinent details of the case.
“So you think it this man uses chloroform?” Reisen asked as we got to his room. “It is not an easy substance to buy, and very expensive.”
“How expensive?” I asked.
He reached into a large glass cabinet, and produced a thick glass bottle. “This would cost around fifty dollars.”
“Is that chloroform?”
He nodded, handing the bottle to me.
“Can I open it?”
“Just be careful, it is very strong.”
I gave the thick glass stopper a twist, and before I’d even got it clear, the smell assaulted me.
“Yes!” I said, my mind racing with memories. I put my nose close to the top. “And yet it’s not quite the same. There’s something missing.”
“Missing?” Doctor Reisen asked.
“Yes, this is definitely what was used on me, yet there’s a sharpness missing, another smell, a sweetness maybe.”
“Ah!” the doctor grinned. “I think I know what he’s done.” He beckoned for the return of his bottle. “On its own, the chloroform is a good pain reliever, but it would take a considerable amount to knock a person out, so to speak, and it would take a long time to do so, perhaps many minutes of covering the mouth and nose.”
“That’s far too long,” I said. “I would have remembered struggling if he’d held me down that long.”
“But just a few years ago, in England, experiments have been done, mixing the chloroform with alcohol. This would make the mixture far more potent for such a purpose. Then they perfected it further; it even has a name. It’s called an A.C.E. mixture; one part alcohol, 2 parts chloroform, and three parts ether. Unconsciousness would happen in seconds.”
“Ether!” I snapped, the memory of the smell of the mixture flooding my senses. “I knew it had ether in it, that’s it, doctor!”
His raised hands calmed me down. “But this is very new science, Mister Smalling. He would have to be extremely careful in an A.C.E. delivery, too much, and you could kill someone outright. He must have had some training.”
“How easily available would this concoction be?” I asked.
“It is not ‘available’, as you say.” He shook his head. “We make it up as needed, we would never carry it on the shelf; it is both far too expensive and dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“The mixture is extremely flammable.
I sighed. “Has anyone else used it in America?”
“Oh, perhaps most hospitals at some stage, but it is not yet common practice, the dangers of over-exposure are too great. The only people who gave it extensive trials were doctors at the end of the war.”
“Southern ones?”
I had hoped for a direct link, but the doctor shook his head. “No. I only found its application in the north as far as I know, Mister Smalling. I was involved in the last few months of the war. If the southern hospitals had any knowledge of the new mixture, they didn’t use it. Their field hospitals were particularly primitive.”
I thanked the doctor for both his assistance and his time, then rode back to Pinkertons to find the building closed.
However I knew Chapman as a creature of habit. I found him at Browning’s Restaurant, just round the corner from our digs. The beer flowed as I told him of my discovery; and we toasted the information with a chink of glasses together.
We’d solved a big riddle in our case.
“But of course, it just opens up new questions.” Chapman said over the top of his steaming Irish stew. “Where does our man get his ingredients from, and where did he get the training to perform his ‘knock-outs’ so well.”
“Yeah, he’s not killed anyone.” I mused. “And sister Margaret and myself woke up within minutes of each other.”
“So his dose is accurate.” Chapman nodded as he ate.
That evening, proud of my detective work, I added to Margaret’s letter.
PS. My dearest sister.
I may be indeed truly meant for the career of detective.
Today, I questioned a doctor, and between us, we have found Johnny Reb’s knock-out method. He uses a mixture of one part alcohol, two parts chloroform, and three parts ether to quell his victims. I recalled the ether smell, but until now did not have sufficient information to solidify my suspicion
. It pains me to remember that I have such chemicals in the Summer House. Perhaps I aided him. I will be home soon to check my suspicions.
We move relentlessly closer to catching him.
Brother, Francis.
As winter descended on Chicago, it became time to send me back to Harvard for the winter. Chapman would remain in Illinois, and had intentions to return to re-question some of the other families in the view of our new evidence.
But first I would visit the farm, and see how Margaret had coped with the harvest without me.
As I rode south, I used the same trail, stopped at the same boarding houses, and ate the same food. But in my mind, I had aged a year in the few months that had passed. I had ridden north a green apple-grower. I now rode home a world traveler, a detective, and in some part a Harvard scholar.
I made a mental agreement to give my family two weeks of my life before dragging my body to distant Cambridge. It seemed the least I could do.
As I rode the avenue of apple trees, they appeared well-stripped of fruit; it seemed the harvest had happened quite well without me.
I swung into the family yard to see the skeleton of an extension to the rear of the house.
“It seems I’m not the only one who’s changed.” I said, smiling. The less need for me here meant I would be able to leave with a far lighter conscience.
Paul Chapman, Pinkerton National Detective Agency, Chicago, Illinois
November 7th 1866
I watched Francis Smalling walk away that day, knowing deep in my heart that the detective part of my job just got a lot easier by his inclusion in the Pinkerton team.
I looked up at the blackboard; we’d certainly solved the ether part of the case.
And because of Francis’ work, and his natural intelligence, we’d worked it out that somewhere, this guy had gotten to dabble in a special new mixture of chloroform, maybe in the war, maybe in a modern forward-looking hospital.
With the seasonal side to his crimes, I knew we were at least six months from catching the fellow, but I did feel that the net had closed significantly since his last murder.
With some satisfaction, I reported to Allan Pinkerton, and brought him up to date with the case.
“So young Francis is working out then?” he asked.
“Oh, I’d say he could almost do without me, he’s worked the clues quite well on his own.”
“Good, good, how’s the criminology course?”
Again I had aim praise at the boy. “He’s been invaluable. His overall grasp of science is at professor level at age seventeen.”
“And what’s he doing now?”
“He’s off home to Springfield, to spend a couple of weeks with family, then he’s under instruction to return to Harvard for the winter. Professor Wattles is impressed with the young man; he’ll be welcome there without fee for some time.”
“And what do you aim to do now?” Pinkerton asked.
“Well,” I settled back in my chair. “We have to check out whether the southern officer thing is genuine or not. I also have to check if any of the other women, victims, were involved in prohibition. I’m going to take a day and send some telegrams to the respective sheriffs, see if I can get them working without showing up on their doorstep every time I want to ask a question.”
“Good idea.” He nodded in deep affirmation. “We need to use technology to our advantage.” Then his eyes glazed over slightly, and in a short moment, he rounded on me. “We should have a telegraph operator here, in our building.”
“But…” The word caught in my mouth when I tried to think of an objection, but the boss was already way beyond me.
“Why forever not?” he railed, not really talking to me. “There’s no law against it. Western Union have such machines in every town, why, there’s one down the road, just three blocks from here.” Then he looked up at me, his eyes fierce and pupils dilated. I’d seen this mood of his before, and knew something was going to boil very quickly.
I left him to his deliberations, and went back through to the main office to study my blackboard again. I’d hardly begun looking when Pinkerton burst in, walking right through, and into Missus Bainbridge’s cubby hole. Something was definitely up and I walked over to the open door.
“… get names and addresses for every sheriff in every county. We need a formal letter, offering a $2 bill for every time a sheriff has a conversation with a Pinkerton Agent.”
“We’re going to pay for information?” I asked, then instantly realized that I’d been caught listening in.
“Yes,” Pinkerton’s manic eyes peered into mine. “It was your idea. A way to include the law enforcers into our ranks; they become temporary employees while on Pinkerton duty. Also, can you imagine the information we’d accrue if, on every crime in the country, every sheriff in the whole of the United States had a standing duty to report the crime by telegraph, to us here in Chicago?”
“We wouldn’t have time to write it all up.” I offered.
“I’ll employ another two Missus Bainbridge’s, three, four!” He bellowed. “Heck, it’s just paper, pen and organization! We’d have a national stock of data on all crimes. We could see patterns long before anyone else.”
I actually could see many advantages in his ideas. Just in my case alone, messages coming in from the respective sheriff’s would be far more efficient than me riding for five days to question them. “We could get the sheriff’s to go to the telegraph office for further questioning, if required.” I offered.
“Exactly!” Pinkerton said, turning to Missus Bainbridge. “Names and addresses! All sheriffs, and what telegraph office is nearest to them.”
And he turned on a dime, and walked away. “I’m off to see my man at Western Union! This place doesn’t pay for itself, you know.”
I grinned at his retreating figure. “And that’s how things happen at Pinkerton’s.”
After the recent excitement, I got back to my board. Next to Rope/oil, Francis had written linseed, sunflower, walnut, poppy. I stared at the words, trying to derive some use of their impregnation of ropes, but again fell short.
So I did what every other frustrated man would do near the end of the day; I went to the local saloon, and had a drink or two before dinner. Then I found a show with dancing girls, and settled in for an evening of pure diversion.
By the time night had fallen on a very rowdy Chicago, I had already slipped away, and made my way home.
For not the first time, I lay on my bed, regretting the company of a family, regretting some of my earlier choices regarding the female persuasion. I had never been comfortable in their company, and having found myself so, had refrained from chasing their attentions.
Again, not for the first time, I drifted to sleep pondering the age old question… what if?
I fought with Allan Pinkerton in the war, and rising to the rank of his second-in-command, I knew the man intimately. So it came as little surprise to me that when I arrived at the office the next morning to find it in some upheaval.
“Paul!” I heard him call across the now crowded office. “Over here!”
I found him amongst five aproned workmen. “Yes, sir?”
“Where do we want our telegraph office?” He looked around. “In the main office?”
I immediately thought not. “What of the noise, sir? It would surely put the detectives off their deliberations.”
“True, very true,” he rubbed his fingers through his expansive beard, almost combing it.
“How about next door?” he asked. I nodded, knowing the building lay empty. “It’s smaller, and we could easily knock through.”
“Super idea!” I said to his back, as he was off again, his coat tails trailing behind him, his voice muttering in heavily-accented scots.
The men looked to me for some form of leadership. “Just hang around.” I said, giving them a warm smile. “He’ll have signed a lease in an hour. You’ll be working this afternoon.”
By the large clock on the eas
t wall, it took him one hour and forty-six minutes. But the men were still working before noon, knocking three doors between the two buildings at two levels.
I found myself placed in charge of finding our new telegraph operator/file clerks. This would ordinarily have been a relatively easy task, but Pinkerton stipulated they all had to be women. “We’ll have the whole department placed under the control of Missus Bainbridge.” He stated quite clearly. “She will be the department head.”
So, less than a day after the suggestion first migrated into his mind, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency had a new department. The Johnny Reb case had been placed in the closet for a while, or at least until I’d gotten the girls for the new project.
Two days later, I stomped my feet to keep warm outside a workhouse in a new Chicago community being reclaimed on the west side of the river. Given the unimaginative general term ‘River West’, it held little but basic roadways and houses, but the streets were no more than flattened earth.
I had been told that it contained mainly German immigrants, who were spreading west like so many previous waves of nationalities. I knocked on a large door, then finding no answer, I turned the large handle and opened it.
Immediately assailed by a wave of heat and an increase in humidity, I looked around the large workroom. Many women attended large boilers, which poured steam into the room, and up into the rafters of the high ceiling. The hissing of machines and the roar of two large boilers at the rear assaulted my eardrums.
“Kann Ich helfen?” An elderly man approached. He held a broom and not exactly in a friendly manner. His speech sounded heavily accented German. I had come across a few languages during the war.
“I’m looking for Lisa Scherk.” I said more clearly than normal. “Frau Lisa Scherk.”
I swear he looked at me for ten seconds before doing a military about face and heading onto the work floor. Soon he led a thin woman to the door, holding her roughly by the arm. Her brown hair needed a brush through it, and she wore a dirty grey smock, but neither could disguise her intelligent blue eyes which shone from beneath the grime.
