Shadows in the White City

by Robert W. Walker

  “Quite. Coming from Muldoon’s, I was.”

  “And he came out of the dark?”

  “No…cloppin’ alongside me atop his hack.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Said he was looking for you.”

  “Really? In the fog?”

  “Said he had a message for you.”

  “Really, now.”

  “I thought it all quite odd.”

  “Odd? Odd how?”

  “Odd, Ransom, that he’d want anything whatever to do with you after all that’s transpired between you two!”

  “All this last night? In the fog? As you walked the curb?”

  “I wasn’t walking so well on the curb but in the roadway. Weavin’ a bit, you might say.”

  “Put a scare into you, did he?”

  “Some, yeah…I admit to it, knowing your suspicions of him, yes.”

  Where did he find you? Near Lincoln Park?”

  “Yes, just off the park. I was making my way home…maybe round midnight. Just left the Red Lion.”

  “You said Muldoon’s.” Ransom knew the Red Lion as a favorite watering hole for reporters, down-and-out poets, writers, and artists.

  “All right…I was between the two places.”

  Bar crawling, Ransom realized. “He flagged you down, or you him?”

  “He was grinning like a madman, saying that your day—Ransom’s time had come.”

  “What else did the ferret say?”

  “Spoke of your stalking and shadowing tactics, of your harassing him. He talked nonstop even though I repeatedly asked my leave, albeit in a stupor. I was going in the same direction as he, and I fully expected him to ask if I should like a ride up on the seat with him—so’s he might carry on about you to a reporter. But he let me walk off.”

  “What has this to do with…wait a moment….”

  “Yes, the cab was occupied.”

  “He had someone in the cab the whole time?”

  “I saw the silhouette of a man.”

  “And?”

  “I believe now it was Griffin Drimmer.”

  “Griffin?”

  “Yes, stiff but sitting up, but not really moving the way a man does even asleep. Griffin—if it was him, and I am convinced of what I saw, but at the time, I took him for a drunk. When I finally realized it was Griffin, I got my voice, shouted after the disappearing cab—”

  “But it was too late.”

  “A few hours later, like you, I learn of this shocking scene involving Drimmer.”

  “Of course. He’d used his cab to transport the body here to the museum to make a show of it. Philo was right—said as much.”

  “And to make matters even more suspicious and eerie, he was humming a tune.”

  “A tune?”

  “Yes, the one they play to distraction at the beer gardens till you forget to hear it.”

  “What tune, man?”

  “‘Comin’ through the Rye,’ and if I ne’er hear it again, I can die a happy—”

  “Same as has been heard by our only witness, Saville.”

  “You’d confided as much, but had asked me to not publish it, recall? When it dawned on me, drunk as I was, I went cold to the bone.”

  Ransom had gone deep into thought.

  Carmichael nudged Alastair, the odor of alcohol wafting off him still. “So what will you do next?”

  “What indeed. I think that, sir, must remain between me and my Maker and—”

  “I see.”

  “—and not between me and the Herald.”

  “Time to clean the city streets, you mean?”

  “They have been gathering a great lot of dirt and blood of late.”

  “For too long, yes.”

  A deep silence fell over them where the lakeshore breeze lifted their hair, and the warm morning sun bathed them, making them blink. Nearby birds chased one another through the agricultural exhibit meant as an orchard and garden. By night, the modern miracle of electric lampposts lit the paved paths that snaked through the White City wonderland. So much of the fair stood at odds with what they spoke of—murdering a murderer before he should murder again.

  “I want to express my deepest, sincerest apology, Alastair, about Griffin Drimmer.”

  “You already said that, my friend.”

  “All right damn you, then, I want to say I am in…that I’m sorry in general for ever doubting you.”

  “For doubt? It’s the most natural of all human—”

  “All right, then! Sorry for any libelous, felonious words I may’ve used against you.”

  “In print?”

  “Or in the ale houses!”

  “Just doing your bloody job. Dirt…it’s your business. Words are weapons to a man like you.”

  Carmichael fell silent. He looked so contrite. “Aye, my business, and it cost me dearly. I wonder what might’ve occurred last eve had I opened that cab door?”

  “You’d’ve lost your head along with Griffin, and we’d not be here having this conversation.”

  “Yes…difficult to speak if your throat’s cut. Just that knowing who Denton was…knowing my own suspicions of him, and even sensing some unease in him as he spoke…I knew I’d not open that door for any reason, not even for a story, not on any account.”

  “Smart of you, Thom.”

  “Do you find me a coward, Alastair?”

  “A coward? No…a man of words. No one expects more from you, Thom.”

  “But suppose…suppose Denton was alive in there, only stunned? Perhaps I could’ve done something to…to help him, you see, and—”

  “Damn it, man! You do your battles with words. Your sword is language. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

  “And you? Your weapon of choice?”

  “I can tell you it is not a garrote.”

  “Yes, I imagine if you used a blade, it’d be a full-blown guillotine.”

  “Do you know where I can find one?”

  “Gotta be one somewhere at the fair. France’s contributions to the world since Columbus discovered America, all that.”

  Ransom couldn’t help but laugh at Thom’s sardonic wit.

  “Then you are off to outwit the Phantom once again?”

  “I am his match, sir.”

  “But there is something you want from him first, something you must have or know? Before you kill him?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Well, is there? Something you want from him?”

  “I want to know where the jewelry is kept.”

  “No…come along. You must confide in someone, trust someone.”

  “I have confided in someone.”

  “A person or God? The confessional?”

  “A person, the only man I trust.”

  Ransom walked off, leaving Carmichael to ponder who it might be that had Alastair Ransom’s complete confidence. He suspected Thom would guess it to be Philo Keane, so often seen with Ransom in bawdy houses and at the gambling table, but Thom was a bright fellow, and he’d likely soon dismiss the notion and instead go in search of Dr. Christian Fenger for the answer.

  As he stormed off, Alastair heard his former chief, County Prosecutor Kehoe, laughing over some joke made by another man who’d come on scene, a man who created a sensation among the reporters and populace—Mayor Carter Harrison. Alastair did not look back as he stepped out of the circuslike atmosphere of White City and continued into the real city—cold-blooded murder on his mind.

  Thom Carmichael went to see Dr. Christian Fenger at Cook County, and making it clear that he’d come as a friend of Ransom’s and not as a reporter, he asked Fenger if he were the one man that Alastair had confided in. “I need to know, Doctor, please.”

  Christian Fenger poured Thom a drink. “I’d prescribe something more medicinal, but you’d never take it.”

  Carmichael took the offering, his hangover killing him. “What about my question?”

  “Ransom did not lie, but I am not the man you seek.
”

  “Then who? To whom does he confide?”

  “One man.”

  “Yes? His name?”

  “His name is Ransom.”

  “Yet he confides in you as well.”

  “On certain topics…at times.”

  “Then you know very well he intends to dispatch Denton to the cosmos, don’t you?”

  “I know nothing of the kind, and neither do you.”

  “But, Doctor—”

  “Put it out of your mind, Carmichael, and I never want to see an inkling of it, not a whisper of it in that rag you call a newspaper.”

  “Ahhh…yes, of course, the bane of every reporter’s existence, ‘No one knows nothing.’”

  “And if we are friends of Ransom, let’s keep it that way.” Dr. Fenger laughed heartily. Carmichael, after a hesitation, began laughing with the good doctor.

  For the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the time period Ransom allowed to dispatch Waldo Denton, he’d designated himself the avenging wind that would rid the city of the ghost of Campaneua. He’d do it for his murdered partner, Griff, his murdered mistress, Merielle, the farm boy who wanted to be an architect, the young woman, Miss Mandor, to whom Philo had lost his heart, the officious bean counter, Trelaine, the already forgotten by public and press earliest victims, two defenseless women, and one unborn child.

  But before this monster crushed the life of the other monster, Alastair Ransom would know why…why? He wanted to know what forged this collision, this coming together of forces bent on destruction, this seemingly inevitable, unalterable fate?

  This he must know.

  Must know if my instincts and what Griff and Gabby had uncovered is true or not.

  The same instincts tore at him with talons of a great beast. He must know if it were true that this horror and death were all somehow his fault. He had to know if God had meant for it to be all laid at his doorstep for past indiscretions.

  Even so, Waldo Denton would not spend a day in jail, or in an asylum. Nor would Denton face a quick and painless execution. Not if Ransom’s justice rained down on him.

  In Ransom’s time and in his court, with him as judge, jury, and executioner. People would know, but he’d leave no evidence, not even Denton’s body. It was good that people would know. Men like Muldoon, Kohler, Kehoe, Carmichael, the mob bosses, the Tong leaders, the Irish thugs, all the rats inhabiting Ransom’s city would know to fear him—to fear his idea of retribution.

  Denton hadn’t the brains to fear him.

  Had no idea what Alastair Ransom was capable of.

  Alastair had only one fear of his own remaining: that, in his vengeance and what he perceived his duty, he’d leave Jane and Gabby and men like Philo also fearful of him.

  “One hell of a price to pay for peace and payback,” he muttered to himself. In the exchange, for loving and protecting Jane and Gabby, he’d teach them fear as well.

  Others would wait and see.

  Wait and see—and expect to read about it in tomorrow’s Tribune or Herald.

  CHAPTER 6

  Alastair awaited the arrival of the hansom cab as it was due any moment now at the Chicago River wharf. Alastair knew who would alight from the cab and precisely what would happen when Chicago fire investigator Harry Stratemeyer climbed from that coach. All had been timed, but already the timing was off.

  Harry Stratemeyer and Investigator Alastair Ransom had shared many a drink and brawl, and were usually on one another’s side. Alastair had asked Harry for a favor earlier in the day, saying, “I need to take some garbage out, Harry.”

  “Garbage? And how far out are you talking?”

  “The deep.”

  “Ahhh…I see.”

  “And I don’t own a boat.”

  “It’s been too long since we last cranked up the old fire boat.”

  “You’re a good man, Harry.”

  “I consider it my duty—anything to heave out the stench.” Harry had seen firsthand and close up the results of Denton’s kill-spree.

  Ransom now saw the cab turn onto Randolph and approach the wharf, where he remained in deep shadow in a recessed warehouse doorway. It was not far from here that young Campaneua’s cursed father had died amid the flames during that botched interrogation years ago. Now it was the kid’s turn to die. He’d caused enough suffering.

  Alastair patiently watched the cab halt before the wharves, Denton sitting high and blinking in the setting sun. Harry played his part well, slurring his words and stumbling about as he asked Waldo if he’d like to see the Chicago Fire Department’s pride and joy, a diesel-powered tug that piped its way up and down the river in the event of a fire along the length of the Chicago River, the boat fully equipped with the latest in pumps and utilizing the river water itself to douse errant fires that might break out at warehouses or aboard ships harbored as far as the eye could see.

  Waldo Denton—Campaneua—took the bait, wide-eyed and curious at the wondrous fire tug sitting at the end of the pier. He stepped aboard behind Stratemeyer, who waved at a couple of his lads already aboard. “I’ve another to take the tour, boys!” he proclaimed.

  This was met with boredom from the two men aboard, both in suspenders and boots, a heat wave having descended over the city.

  Waldo was well into the tour, being conducted about the fire-fighting tug and his head half in the barrel of the water cannon when Harry said, “And just to your left is Inspector Ransom.”

  Ransom and the two other firemen grabbed Denton, who was quickly overpowered and hog-tied. “Into the ice chest, now!” shouted Ransom even as Harry lifted the lid to the huge onboard ice chest, a leftover from a time when the fire tug had been a fishing trawler. It held nearly a ton of ice and Waldo Denton, tied and gagged, was dropped inside.

  In a matter of a half hour, the fire boat was out over Lake Michigan, its crew, Harry and Ransom enjoying a Pabst—the beer that “Only Yesterday” won the blue ribbon at the World’s Fair. Harry remained skeptical of the new beer, but said he wanted to give it a try. They toasted to a job well done.

  Alastair added, “To my lovely Polly Pete, my Merielle. May she find the peace in death she sought in life.”

  “Here, here!” cheered the firemen, all of whom had been on hand the day Polly’s blackened body and separated head had been discovered amid the ruins of a fire, the source of which had been her apartment. She’d been one of Denton’s first victims.

  “And to Griffin Drimmer,” added Harry.

  Alastair raised his bottle of Pabst and clinked it against the others. “A better-hearted young detective, and so dedicated, never lived.”

  “Nor died,” agreed Harry as he and Ransom began feeling the effects of their third beer now. By now they’d taken the boat several nautical miles out over Lake Michigan.

  All four men stared at the ice box, imagining its contents, now silent after much kicking and thrashing.

  “You think he’s froze to death, Alastair?” asked Harry as he gulped down his Pabst.

  “We need to get back to the river and soon,” said one of the fireboat men.

  “Don’t want anyone missing us,” agreed the second boatman.

  As if on cue, Denton kicked out at his ice coffin again. “Frankly, I want the bastard alive for the next shock to his system,” replied Alastair. “Boys,” he addressed the two younger firemen, “appears we are alone with the elements and the waves here, so let’s get the bastard outta deep freeze for phase two.”

  The two younger men stared at one another.

  Harry erupted, shouting, “Do as Inspector Ransom says, boys!”

  Ransom explained, “So he’s conscious of his fate. I want him to know he’s to be cold beneath the lake for eternity.”

  They opened the chest to find Denton turned blue and near solid save for the shivering. “Took some doing packing all that ice into the old chest for you, Inspector,” said Harry, “but there’s not a one of us who didn’t like Griff.”

  The younger men hauled
Denton from the ice. They laid him on the deck and attached his hog-tied body to a wench and hauled him up over the deck, just high enough so Alastair could look him in the eye. Alastair pulled away the gag and said, “I’d suggest you say your prayers, but then…what sort of prayer does a hound of Hell send up?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Harry in back of Alastair, “pray to your dark savior in the underworld?”

  “Tell me why? Why bloody hell did you do it? Did you like it?” Ransom struck him so hard blood spewed from his mouth despite his temperature.

  He made an animal cry, unable to form words, his teeth chattering, blood dripping onto the deck.

  “I’ll have an answer! Why kill so many innocent people who had naught to do with your father, Campaneua? Answer me, you bastard!”

  Denton attempted to spit on Alastair, but he could not manage it as his chattering teeth and thick tongue were in the way along with the blood he was swallowing. But he didn’t deny the truth—the conclusion Alastair had come to understand.

  “OK, then! Pray now to the bloody father who spawned you!” Alastair cried out, wrapping Denton’s garrote about his own neck.

  “You b-bastard, you—you killed my father!” he choked out.

  “Know this, you gutless, heartless bastard, and take it to your grave: It wasn’t my doing—your father’s burning to death. Yes, I was there! But the torching was the work of your friend Nathan Kohler, you fool.”

  Denton, while thawing, remained too chilled to respond, but he made another feeble attempt to bring up phlegm to spit on Ransom, failing but obviously also failing to believe a word Alastair had imparted. He could not; it would obliterate a worldview, a customary mindset, a way of rationalizing all his actions.

  “I say ice followed by fire,” said Harry. “We are, after all, firemen, and this bastard was spawned in flame.”

  “Just drop him, now!” shouted Ransom.

  And the block and tackle lifted him higher and the boom sent him out over the lake, dangling like a limp, gangly bird, legs flailing. For a moment, Alastair saw a human being inside this cretin, a child that never was, struggling to the surface. Denton began begging for his life. “Please, please! For God’s sake! You have the wrong man!”

  “End it! End it now!” Ransom ordered.