The Detroit Electric Scheme

by D. E. Johnson

  After we rang off, I cleaned for half an hour or so before deciding I had to get outside. Since my pantry was bare, I grabbed my grocery basket from under the sink and headed out to the market on Woodward—though only after I tucked the pistol in my belt at the small of my back. The air was wet and cold, a soggy blanket covering the city. But I didn’t care. I strolled down the sidewalk like it was a sunny spring day.

  I turned into the little corner market, a shop perhaps fifteen feet wide by fifty feet deep. Rough wood shelves lined the walls. Another tall row of shelving ran down the middle of the store. There was just enough room in the aisles for two people to pass without being intimate. I waved to Peter, the shop owner, a hearty man in a crisp white apron, who was arranging cans behind the counter. My first stop was the produce section, where I picked up a few apples.

  I turned to continue down the aisle and ran headlong into a woman who had just begun to lean in next to me. My momentum pushed her back into a stack of pumpkins. I dropped my basket and grabbed her arm, only just catching her before she fell.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, still holding her forearm, frozen like an idiot. Something about her caught my eye. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, but she was exotic—tall, with black hair and the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. Her mouth was too big and her heart-shaped face seemed vaguely asymmetrical. When she smiled at me, I saw what caused it. Her expression came more from the right side, the left lagging behind a little. Somehow it made her more attractive.

  “Thanks for catching me.” Her voice was quiet and melodious, with a European accent. She laughed. “That was close.”

  “Gosh, I wasn’t paying attention. Again, I apologize.”

  She glanced down at her dress and began to straighten it. Trying not to be obvious, I looked her over. I guessed she was in her midtwenties. Under a long blue overcoat, she wore a blue cotton day dress that revealed a slim but curvy body. I checked her finger. She wasn’t wearing a wedding or engagement ring. The more I looked, the more I liked. The attraction was more than visual, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I looked into her eyes, and I wanted her.

  I held out my hand and said, “Will Anderson.” She didn’t recognize me—no look of shock or fear.

  She took my hand in her feather-light grasp. “Sapphira. Sapphira Xanakis.” With a smile, she said, “It was nice running into you, Will Anderson.” She turned back to the produce.

  “Likewise.” I began to walk around her but stopped. “Say, Miss Xanakis? It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”

  She turned back far enough that I could see her smile. “Yes it is, Mr. Anderson.”

  “Could I perhaps buy you a cup of coffee sometime?”

  She blushed. “Well, Mr. Anderson, we haven’t been formally introduced, but . . .”

  “But . . . You’ll see me?”

  After she looked down at the wooden floor for a second, she returned my gaze. “You’re not a cad?” She bit her lip. I wanted to nibble at it.

  “Not at all. I’m a perfect gentleman.”

  “You would need my father’s permission.”

  “I’d be happy to speak with him.”

  “Well . . . Perhaps you could call this weekend.”

  “That would be perfect. I just happen to have a pair of tickets for the show at the Miles Theater on Saturday night. I’d be honored if you would accompany me.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Perhaps dinner first?”

  She nodded, just a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “If my father allows it.”

  I told her I’d come by at six, and she gave me her address. I recognized the street. It was downtown, only a few blocks east of Woodward, right on the edge of Greektown.

  When she walked away I pinched myself. I’d never had this kind of luck.

  The next night Wesley came to my apartment for drinks and dinner. I cooked a pot roast with carrots and skinned potatoes, and even baked a loaf of bread. While the meat and potatoes bubbled away, we sat in the parlor with glasses of Old Tub. He’d decided to drink bourbon when he was at my place.

  Wesley took a sip and leaned forward. “I saw the articles about Judge Hume possibly being the killer. What a break.” He raised his glass, and we both took a drink. “But one thing’s certain—he’s not the man who killed the Doyles.”

  “No, and I don’t suspect he killed John, either—at least not with his own hands. But I’m sure there’s a wide selection of cutthroats who would have been happy to do it for the right price.”

  He nodded. “Have you been able to find out anything else?”

  I told him I had suspected Frank Van Dam was the killer and why, but had since found out he’d been in Denver when John was killed, and he’d mailed Elizabeth a letter from there around the date of the murder. “Now he seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s probably nothing. Elizabeth jogged my memory. I could have sworn I saw his car at the train station that night. And when I went back later, it was gone.”

  Wesley’s face darkened. “Really. But you’re not certain?”

  I shook my head. “He’s not the only one in town with a red 1909 Olds Palace touring car, but there aren’t many. It just makes too much sense it would be his.”

  Wesley looked up and to the right, his eyes darting back and forth. “Red Oldsmobile Palace. All right. Just down the street from the station. I saw it.” He shifted his attention back to me. “What does Van Dam look like?”

  “He wasn’t there, Wes. He was in Denver.”

  “Humor me.”

  “He’s a very large man—six three or so, probably two hundred and forty pounds. Not quite a John Cooper, but he’s big and strong.”

  Wesley sipped his drink, eyes on the floor. After a moment, he said, “How does Van Dam move? Is he graceful or clumsy? Lithe or muscle-bound?”

  I thought about it. “I don’t know if I’d call him graceful or lithe, but he’s closer to those than clumsy or muscle-bound. I’ve seen him fight. He’s a buzz saw.”

  Wesley bit the inside of his cheek, his head nodding slightly. “Could have been him. The man certainly knew how to fight. When it comes to a scrape, I’m no Mary Ann, but I never even saw it coming.” He set his drink on the end table and shook his head. “But he was in Denver?”

  “So the Pinkertons say.”

  We sat quietly for a moment before he said, “What did Van Dam want from Elizabeth, anyway?”

  I grunted out a laugh. “He said he was going to come back for her. Like every other man, it seems, he had fallen in love with Elizabeth.” I smiled at Wesley. “Well, nearly every man.”

  Grinning back at me, he shrugged. “She seemed nice.”

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “I met a woman yesterday.”

  “You did? Well, good for you.”

  “You could say I ran into her. I was at Peter’s, and as usual, not paying attention. I almost flattened this beautiful Greek woman standing next to me.” I wagged my eyebrows. “But my natural charm must have shown through. I asked her to the show at the Miles, and she accepted.”

  “You just about knocked her ass over applecart and still had the wherewithal to ask her out?” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the new Will Anderson.”

  “I couldn’t believe it, either.” I took a gulp of my drink. “And her name is as exotic as she is. Get a load of this . . .” I trailed off. Wesley was frowning at me. I couldn’t tell if he was serious. “What?”

  “What about Elizabeth?”

  “What about her?”

  Wesley was pulling a cigarette from his case. He stopped in mid-motion and laughed. “What about her?” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and talked around it while he patted his pockets, fumbling for his lighter. “Far be it from me to judge you, but you spend a year and a half practically in seclusion, mooning over your lost love, and now it’s ‘What about her?’ ” He stopped searching and held the cigarette in front
of him, eyebrows raised.

  I pulled a lighter from my jacket pocket, leaned forward, and lit his cigarette. “No, you’re right, but . . . it’s just not going to work. I shouldn’t have to give up any chance of happiness because of her, should I?”

  “Hey, I agree with you completely. I’m just glad you’re finally getting on with it.”

  I lit a cigarette for myself, took a drag, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, feeling a twinge of guilt, like I’d betrayed Elizabeth.

  On Saturday I made an early morning trip to the liquor store. For the walk home, I automatically slipped the bottles of Old Tub into the inside pockets of my duster. It was juvenile, and it wasn’t anyone’s business whether or what I drank, but I couldn’t escape the years of propriety drummed into me. I felt like a kid sneaking liquor past his parents.

  I read and sipped a few drinks, but just a few. I wanted to be in good shape when I picked up the lovely Sapphira Xanakis. Just after five o’clock, I dressed in black tie, tails, and top hat, then filled a flask and secreted it away in my jacket pocket. I peeked out the front window and still didn’t see anyone on the sidewalk in front of the building. We had hit the bleak early winter days of a mere nine hours of daylight. It was already dark, but not pitch-black as so often in the winter. The sky had cleared, and a scatter of stars and a full moon made the sidewalks glow as if illuminated.

  I considered bringing my gun, but decided it was worth the risk to go to the show unarmed. If Sapphira saw the pistol, I’d never be able to explain without telling her about my situation. I put on my black overcoat, locked my apartment door, and hurried over to Woodward, stopping first at the flower shop for a bouquet of roses. The air was crisp, though the lack of wind was letting oily coal smoke settle over the city. It was still early enough in the season that I noticed it. By the end of December the smell of burning coal would be so pervasive as to seem a natural component of the air.

  I stood at the corner waiting for the trolley, wondering what Detective Riordan was doing tonight. Maybe spending some time with his “kiddies.” I felt a sharp pang of regret. Had I not been such an idiot, that could have been me.

  A streetcar came in. I shoved my way on and hopped off downtown, walking the last four blocks to Sapphira’s house on the modest neighborhood’s wooden boardwalk. The outside of her two-story home was well kept though nondescript, red brick and white wood, part of a long row of similar houses. Almost every parlor window in the neighborhood except Sapphira’s showed off Christmas trees festooned with popcorn strings, tinsel, and ornaments. Before going up the walk, I took a drink from the flask.

  Sapphira answered the door almost immediately. “Hi, Will,” she said with a big smile, like I’d made her day by showing up. She wore an emerald silk dress with a rounded décolleté neckline and a simple strand of pearls. A matching wide-brimmed hat with a green silk ribbon sat atop her upswept dark hair.

  She was even more attractive than I remembered. “Good evening, Sapphira. You look beautiful tonight.” I brought out the roses from behind my back. “In fact, you put this bouquet to shame.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said, taking the flowers from me. “Won’t you come in?”

  I expected the house to smell of moussaka or shish kebabs or something, but instead it was infused with a gentle scent of jasmine. She excused herself and went into the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase. I peeked into the parlor. Walnut end tables topped by Tiffany lamps flanked a green silk sofa and matching chairs—everything atop a richly patterned Oriental rug. I was impressed. These were very expensive furnishings for an immigrant family. Mr. Xanakis was likely a formidable man. I glanced down the hallway, wondering why he was waiting so long to grill me.

  Sapphira soon returned wearing a stylish black overcoat and black kid gloves. “I’m sorry that you will not be able to meet my parents this evening. My father was called away, and my mother’s not well.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Should we do this another time?” I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth.

  “That is so gallant. But no. My parents trust me.” A warm smile lit up her face. “And I believe I can trust you, Will Anderson.”

  My dreams had never been this wonderful.

  We had dinner at Flanagan’s Chop House. It was dark, and we sat at a booth with red satin upholstery and a single candle. I couldn’t take my eyes off Sapphira. In the flicker of the candle, her eyes were dark stars, her smile the light from the sun. No one but Elizabeth had ever affected me this way. Sapphira told me of her life in Greece, the journey to America with her parents, and her job as a cigar roller at the San Telmo factory. Her father owned a restaurant, and her family had worked its way up to become part of the emerging middle class. She was very proud of that.

  I had a couple of bourbons before we ate, and Sapphira joined me in drinking a bottle of wine with dinner. She sipped the wine and picked at her food, spending more time talking than eating or drinking. I told her I was in the automobile business, but little else, constantly turning the conversation back to her. While she talked I could stare at her, and anyway, I didn’t want her to know anything about me until I had her hooked.

  We took a streetcar to the theater. After we checked our coats in the cloakroom, I steered her downstairs to the saloon for a drink before the show. It was a dark room, with green wallpaper and a long, polished walnut bar. A cloud of cigar smoke obscured the ceiling. I elbowed my way through the crowd, predominantly men, all getting good and soused for the evening’s entertainment. I was nervous leaving Sapphira unaccompanied and kept looking back at her while I waited to be served. She gave me reassuring looks whenever she wasn’t being chatted up by other men.

  I ordered an Old Tub and a glass of red wine, and was waiting for them when a pair of familiar laughs boomed out from down the bar. I put a hand up to the side of my face and turned just enough toward the sound to see them.

  John and Horace Dodge stood against the bar ten feet away from me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I turned back quickly, keeping my face averted from the Dodges. When the bartender returned with the drinks, I set a dollar on the bar and hurried back to Sapphira. “Maybe we should find our seats,” I said, and took a step toward the door.

  “But . . .” She pointed to the glasses in my hands.

  “Oh, right.” I stopped and gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

  I led her to a table in a dark corner of the saloon. We made small talk while we finished our drinks, but I couldn’t concentrate. I expected one of the Dodge brothers to see me and make a scene. At best, Sapphira would learn I had been accused of murder. At worst, well, I didn’t want to think about it. When we finished our drinks and walked past the bar, I kept my face turned toward the doorway.

  Our seats were in the front row on the left side of the stage. On the way down the far left aisle, I scanned the theater for exits. Alarmed fire doors were placed near the stage on both sides. Other than them, it appeared the only exit was through the lobby. I was going to have to be extremely careful. We would be exiting through the same doors as the Dodges.

  As we sat, I looked around us. The theater was good-sized, with perhaps a thousand plush burgundy seats, almost every one already filled. Though I saw a number of women, most of the people here were men, florid-faced and bleary-eyed from drink. Vaudeville crowds tended to lean toward men, though much less significantly than this one. I felt a tug of apprehension, wondering what kind of performance this Mademoiselle de Leon put on. This could be embarrassing, but there was nothing to do for it now. On the positive side, the Dodge brothers were nowhere in sight.

  I pulled my cigarette case from my pocket and offered one to Sapphira before taking one myself. To my surprise, she accepted and leaned in for me to light it. I saw just a hint of cleavage as her jasmine scent wafted over me.

  The lights dimmed, and the band began to play. The first act was a singer, followed by a contortionist and a comedian. I paid little attention
. Sapphira sat close to me, really enjoying herself, belly laughing at the contortionist and grimacing at the comedian’s dismal jokes. She was refreshing, less inhibited than any woman I’d ever dated, though still just within the bounds of propriety.

  When the lights came up, I suggested we stay in our seats during the intermission. Not only did I want to avoid the Dodges, I realized I was already quite drunk. She agreed without hesitation.

  After another singer and a gymnastics act, the burgundy velvet curtain raised on Blatz the Human Fish. A huge water tank, filled to the brim, had been placed in the middle of the stage. Sitting at a table inside was a fleshy man with thinning hair, a newspaper in his hands. He wore a dark suit with a red tie patterned with yellow fleur-de-lis. When he finished a page he dropped it, and the paper undulated like seaweed to the floor of the tank. It was an odd act, to say the least, but the longer he sat there the more interesting it became. I couldn’t see an air tube, and he certainly appeared to be submerged. I had no idea how he did it.

  A few minutes later, he set down the paper and began eating a steak and a baked potato. He sawed off huge chunks of meat and shoveled them into his mouth in a manner reminiscent of President Taft, whose eating habits were regularly displayed at the motion picture houses. The baked potato looked soggy, but that didn’t deter Blatz in his eating enjoyment. After each bite, he daintily wiped his face with a napkin and took a sip of wine. Finished with his dinner, he belched (clearly audible from the audience) and picked up a trombone from the bottom of the tank. He’d been underwater for a good ten minutes by now.

  He lifted the trombone to his mouth, took a deep breath, and began to blow. A muted Sousa march filtered out of the tank and washed over our heads toward the mezzanine. The capacity crowd hooted and cheered. Sapphira and I hollered right along with them. It wasn’t that he was a good trombonist. He had probably taken the name Blatz from the wretched sounds coming from his instrument. But, after all, the man was playing trombone underwater.