Shadows in the White City

by Robert W. Walker

  “Say your good-bye to this world, you son of a bitch!” shouted Stratemeyer at the moment the hook was released and Denton, still bound and gagged, was sent to the depths of the Great Lake like a parcel of trash.

  “Finally…it’s over,” Alastair muttered as if to himself.

  “An end to the Phantom of the Fair,” added Harry.

  “Fish food now,” muttered one of the younger men.

  “We can all sleep better tonight,” added the other. “Knowing the mad garroter is gone at last.”

  “Take us home, boys!” ordered Harry. “And let’s raise another cold Pabst.”

  “I know old man Pabst,” said Alastair, “and I know he’d be thrilled to know to what purpose his beer was put today.” This made his firemen friends laugh uproariously as they got back to work, guiding the boat back toward Ransom’s city.

  Alastair looked at Chicago’s growing, sprawling skyline in the distance. It all looked so different from here—no shadows, no crime, no poverty, no grime, he mentally quipped…only peace. How could the same place have so many different faces? This one face, he must one day show to Jane. Take her on an outing here on the lake to view the sprawling row of skyscrapers. He sipped at his beer, and he tried to imagine how it might look in five years, in ten, in twenty, in the next century.

  He’d felt not a single qualm about disposing of Denton in the manner he had, and every man aboard the fire tug named the DuSable had reason to keep their combined secret. Each had been touched by the horror brought to their city by this madman; each had known one or more of the victims. Each wanted payback, and Ransom must admit, it did feel not only like justice and vengeance but right in its every aspect save for one.

  “I should’ve cut his bleeding head off with that garrote before we committed him to the deep,” he complained as Harry handed him another beer.

  “You shoulda made him walk the plank, sure, suffer more, but it’s done now, and Chicago is again yours, Ransom.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Means that everyone will eventually know that you took care of this mess when Kohler and Kehoe and all others failed.”

  “That you took action,” said another.

  “Regardless of your new status as Citizen Ransom,” finished Harry.

  “Regardless of it, or due to it?” asked Ransom.

  “We all take an oath on it boys, one and all!” shouted Harry, standing and raising his closed fist above his head.

  “No one’ll ever know,” said one of the younger men.

  The others joined hands, Alastair the last. “An oath,” he repeated, “that no one ever know where Denton’s body lies.”

  “Sure…everyone will look cross-eyed at you, Ransom, any time the name Denton is mentioned,” began Harry, pointing to the depths of the lake, “but no one will ever find the cretin’s remains.”

  “Denton can never harm anyone ever again,” Ransom assured Jane Francis and her daughter, Gabby Tewes. He’d sent word to Philo that they might all safely return to Chicago only to get word that he was to instead come to them, to see the beauty of Mackinac Island as an adult.

  Unable to say no, he took the train north and joined them.

  Tonight they dined at the Moosehide Lodge, and he quietly assured them that Denton was no longer a threat. He refused to go into any detail as to why this should be believed. Over dinner, Gabby and Jane began having fun with Philo Keane, who’d brought up the subject of bravery displayed by Dr. James Phineas Tewes, who had refused to leave Chicago, refused to step out of harm’s way along with his family, citing patient responsibilities. After a time, with Alastair joining in the fun, Jane finally confessed to being Dr. James Tewes, and Gabby explained the reasons why.

  Ransom spent the remainder of the weekend enjoying the fishing and hunting, in watching Philo take photographs, and in conversations and walks and horseback rides with Jane Francis, Gabby accompanying them at times.

  The weekend was over all too abruptly and together, the four of them returned to Chicago via train. While on the train, Alastair revealed secrets to the others, sharing his compartment and a series of items laid out before them. Bracelets, a silk necktie, lipstick case, a makeup case, a gold locket—two pocket watches, a gold ring.

  “What is all this, Alastair?” asked Jane.

  “After his sudden disappearance, I had Mike…ahhh, a cop friend, impound and search Denton’s cab…working on his unfortunate disappearance, you see.”

  “All of this hidden in his cab?” asked Gabby. “But where? I was in that cab! There is no place where—and besides, you had no badge!”

  “Beneath the cushions,” he explained. “As for the badge, well let’s just say I have more friends in more places than I’d realized.”

  “What led you to suspect the carriage?” asked Philo.

  “I did a break-in at his home and found nothing. Determined not to give up, I suppose an absolute stubbornness of will led me to…an epiphany.”

  “Which led you to search below the cushions,” said Jane.

  “Where I discovered all these items, all belonging to one or another of his victims. And I found this, Jane.” He held up a silver clasped locket and popped it open. Staring back at them was a picture of Gabby.”

  “I’d thought it lost forever,” Jane said.

  “Either he pickpocketed it or you dropped it in his cab.” Alastair handed the locket to her. “Proof positive that he was not only the Phantom but that he’d targeted Gabby.”

  Jane held the locket to her breast. “Tell me…did you find these items before or after Mr. Denton, ahhh…left town?”

  “After. Not long after. Someone filed a missing persons report on Denton.”

  “Who filed the report?”

  “Landlord. Seems he left quite an untidy mess and a sizable bill.”

  “And you thought a serious search of his cab might turn up something?” asked Gabby.

  “So you searched his cab,” commented Philo.

  “Actually, as I was ordered to stay clear of Denton even before I tossed my badge at Kohler, it was not logged as my impound. Beat cop called in on the nonpayment complaint lodged against Denton, so I put Mike on it, and he called me soon as he got a hit.”

  “How well you obey your superiors, Alastair,” Jane said, smirking.

  “I thought it wise to let others search the cab.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “I asked it of Dr. Fenger and any eyewitness of his choosing. He wanted you, Jane—well, Dr. Tewes, that is—but since Tewes proved unavailable, he chose another prominent person.”

  “Kohler?” she asked.

  “Yes, Christian talked Nathan Kohler into being on hand.”

  “Then you’ve been vindicated?”

  “Yes, and a wanted poster’s gone out across the land with Denton’s mug above the line wanted dead or alive.”

  Philo saw the dark humor in this and said, “It might so easily’ve been me on that poster, Alastair.”

  “And you still couldn’t level with Nathan?” asked Jane. “After all that’s happened; after losing Griffin? After the truth’s being dragged into the light?”

  “Nathan has not changed his opinion of me, no.”

  “And the horse and hansom cab?” asked Gabby. “It was a horse needing relief and a pasture.”

  “Belongs to the company. Returned to them. Horse and cab consigned to a new driver. Fischer company reoutfitted the interior as the cushions had blood stains.”

  Jane only half heard this as she stared at the photo of Gabby in the recovered locket.

  “It’ll all have to be returned to evidence lockup,” Ransom explained, gathering all the items up again.

  “All but your ring—Polly’s ring?” Jane asked.

  “That and your locket. Keep it.”

  Jane understood the look in his eye; Alastair wanted to keep Gabby’s name out of it altogether.

  “What’s the point of shutting all these items away in a
box behind some locked door, Alastair?” asked Philo.

  Gabby piped in with, “Against the day when Denton will be brought to justice of course. Evidence in the event it’s called, in police parlance.”

  Jane frowned. “I still disapprove of this new position of yours, Gabby. You should be concentrating on your medical studies.”

  And so began a mother-daughter “discussion” that sent Philo and Alastair in search of the smoking car.

  On arriving back in the city, before getting out of the station, Inspector Ransom was suddenly surrounded by news hounds, all barking questions at him about the story on page one. Jane wisely whisked Gabby off in another direction, going in search of a carriage, Philo Keane helping with their bags.

  Insisting that Alastair pay attention, Thom Carmichael held up a copy of his Herald to Ransom’s astonished eyes: phantom strikes again!

  The headline screamed inside his head even louder than it did on the page. “No, this can’t be!” he shouted.

  “I tried to tell them it wasn’t the work of the Phantom,” began Carmichael, his tone clearly conspiratorial as he took Alastair aside, “but it’s papers they want to sell, not truth. I’m on the verge of writing out my resignation again.”

  But Ransom was busy reading the details of this latest atrocity. “You’re right about one thing, Thom.”

  “I know.”

  “But you’ll never quit the Herald.”

  “Ohhh…watch me.”

  But Ransom continued scanning the story instead. The murder was indeed brutal and might live up to such billing as a result. By the same token, the missing Mr. Waldo Denton did not appear an item for discussion in the press or a concern of the other journalists.

  Alastair gripped the copy of the Herald and made his way out of the station and into the night. September one and already a nip in the air. Fall was coming. Soon the followers of Burnham, the architect of White City, and the merchants of the World’s Fair would have to concede an end to the biggest party the city had ever hosted. But it was not planned anytime soon. Likely only a brutal early frost might curtail the glorious problem that had half the Chicago Police force baby-sitting tourists here.

  “Hint of an early winter, I’d say,” said Philo, joining him and Carmichael. Philo had sent off Jane and Gabby.

  “Yes, an early clipper outta Canada ought to settle us all in for a long winter,” suggested Alastair.

  Philo Keane nodded. “Might even cut down on crime.”

  “Still…highly unlikely that icy Chicago conditions will ever cool the passions, heh?”

  “May I quote you on that?” asked Carmichael.

  “You may.” Alastair gave a fleeting thought to how he’d had the Phantom of the Fair frozen near to death before disposing of him in the deep. A wild, crazed notion flit behind this thought, that somehow Denton survived his drowning in Lake Michigan. But this was impossible.

  “What’s got you newsies all up in arms?” Philo asked Carmichael, snatching the copy of the Herald from Alastair’s grip. They awaited a carriage as Philo got the gist of the article on page one. It read in part,

  An innocent dove of Chicago, a young girl of a mere fourteen, named Anne Chapman, has joined others now collectively being called “The Vanished”—victims of some fiendish butcher, possibly a man of the Yards, possibly a knacker. Young Chapman was found murdered and floating in the Chicago River near the Wabash Street Bridge, horribly disfigured. In fact, gutted like a slaughtered animal, her entrails taken off by her killer for what reason no one in authority can say. It was subsequently determined by Chicago Police investigators that Chapman is the granddaughter of Senator Harold J. Chapman and his wife, Anne Sr., who has undergone rigorous medical treatment since learning of young Annie’s awful fate. The girl’s parents grieve her passing and a closed casket wake is being held at Scrimlure’s Funeral Emporium, 248 North Irving Park Road, 7 P.M. Tuesday evening, funeral to follow 9 A.M. Wednesday.

  “How much bloody speculation and latitude do your editors give you, Carmichael?” asked Philo. “Do you know how many butchers work in this city?”

  “They call us hog-butcher to the nation, so yeah…I got some notion.”

  Philo slammed the rolled newspaper into his palm. “You fools in the press’re going to get someone hung before day’s end.”

  “We don’t create the news or mobs, Keane. We can only report the brewing storm. Nature and human nature in particular creates the storm.”

  “You fan the damn flames!”

  Carmichael only shrugged, then added, “We sell papers. You know that.”

  “And this damnable, confounded headline calling it the work of the Phantom?” asked Ransom.

  “Yeah,” agreed Philo, poking a finger in Carmichael’s chest. “The victim has her head intact and was not set aflame!”

  “That’s likely no comfort to her loved ones, Philo.” Ransom got into a cab and Philo climbed in beside him.

  “Share the cost?” asked Philo.

  “Sure, but I’m going to the station house. Still have some contacts there, and these vanishings began some time ago. Need to check some missing persons reports.”

  “On other vanished people?”

  “On other vanished children, Philo. These poor missing appear to’ve been snatched off the street at random. Possibly kept like animals until starved. According to cops working the case, the last one turned up like Chapman…dead and gutted. Her name was Millie Edeh, aged eleven.”

  “Another little girl?”

  “If it is the same monster, he does not discriminate; several boys of the same or close age have also gone missing.”

  “Bloody hell, and the papers’re just getting it now?”

  “Yes, well who’s story is it now? Senator Chapman’s granddaughter’s involved.”

  “Are you saying the Chicago press doesn’t care if the victims are unknowns, say, homeless children?”

  “What rock do you live under, Philo? It’s not the press doesn’t care if homeless children go away—by any means—but society’s wish!”

  This silenced Philo for a moment. “And have all these young victims gone missing their entrails?”

  “Entrails, organs, fleshy protrusions, eyes—”

  “Enough!” said Philo.

  Ransom gritted his teeth and shrugged. “We may well have a cannibal-killer on our hands.”

  “A man eater?”

  “A child eater.”

  “You think he’s cooking up their entrails?”

  “What else does a madman do with entrails than to boil ’em and consume ’em?”

  “Like so much sausage?”

  “Do you have another theory?”

  “Perhaps he feeds his dogs thus.”

  “Yeah…there is that possibility.”

  “So how’re you feeling now, Alastair, now that you’ve had time to reflect on events?”

  “Events?”

  “The end of the Phantom, of course. Taking out the garbage, I think you called it.”

  “Ahhh…you mean, how do I feel about myself?”

  The carriage slowed to a standstill over the brick street outside the Des Plaines Street station house.

  “Yes, now that you’ve set the scales right?”

  “Set the scales right? I am the scales, Philo, in the end…setting myself up the avenger?”

  “I suppose, yes. But you are evading my question: how do you feel?”

  “How do I feel?”

  “About yourself, my friend?”

  “Philo, my father left me with little, but he often said the only material thing you can gain, lose, or possess that is of any consequence is how you feel about yourself.”

  “Wise man…and so?”

  “In that regard, I’ve come a long way toward liking myself.”

  “A small miracle to hear you say it.”

  “Yes, something isn’t it? Small miracle. Something to thank myself for on this fine day. Nonetheless…it would seem that the ugliness of ou
r species intends to keep me pacing if only I were employed.”

  “You’ll land on your feet, somehow.”

  Alastair alighted the carriage and grabbed the copy of the Herald. “No doubt I’ll be calling on your skills with that Night Hawk all too soon, heh?”

  “Whatever are you saying, Rance?”

  “Pinkerton Detective Agency has offered me a position as one of their operatives.”

  Alastair quickly made for the station-house steps as the carriage, carrying Philo off, pulled away. Philo hung from the window of the hansom, shouting, “Great news! And you’ve gotten my Night Hawk back?”

  “Unofficially confiscated.”

  “Alastair, you’re a magician and a gentleman, and my knight! I crown thee Sir Alastair Ransom of the Kingdom of Chicago!”

  “Do I get a brandy with that?”

  CHAPTER 7

  From the outside, the old stone structure called the Des Plaines Police Headquarters looked as cool and peaceful as any mausoleum, bathed as it were in a blue halo of gaslight, its yellow brick exterior reflecting back like gold. Despite the horrors of untold crimes filling the files and murder books inside, the edifice could be taken for a church if only a steeple were added, Alastair thought, pushing through the door, making his way into the mayhem. Clutter and noise hit him. Two uniforms had a wild man on the floor, attempting to cuff the rowdy drunk. The desk sergeant pleaded, at wit’s end with some woman, saying “I kin do naught-a-thing to solve yer outhouse plumbing problem, my dear lady—”

  “Then what bloody good’re you coppers and the taxes I pay?”

  “—and had you any sense, you’d know that no one kin turn rock to running water, so without a description down to the length of his nose, or a bloody name’n’address, would you kindly be leavin’ now?” Alastair instantly realized how much he’d missed his sour, old second home. Then he realized how little thought he’d actually given it other than the unusual weightlessness over his heart, where his badge used to be.

  Other cops whisked from desk to desk, but everyone froze when Jed Logan shouted Alastair’s name over the din. A sudden silence descended over the station house as word went around that Alastair had come home. Even the complaining woman at the front desk and the man in cuffs silenced.