—AN INTERESTED PARTY
Grey shoved the note back into his pocket, then moved away from the narrow cone of light beneath the lamppost. Obscured behind thickening clouds, the moon lent only marginal visibility. A few pedestrians passed in the next ten minutes, moving along Fore Street, which had remained somewhat lively during most of his vigil. Grey had arrived a half hour before the appointed time in order to survey the scene. The crowds had dissipated as the minutes slid past midnight, and the threat of a powerful thunderstorm loomed from the southwest. A tipsy couple passed by, hand in hand, wobbling along the street.
“Hurry,” the man urged his drunken companion, “it’s gonna be a real ripsnorter.”
Grey glanced skyward where distant flashes of lightning could be seen. He refocused his attention on the street, studying every person who came by, particularly lone men. There had been several over the last fifteen minutes, but none had slowed or shown the slightest interest in Grey or the Seamen’s Bethel.
He walked to the corner of Deer Street and trudged uphill. His eyes darted to the side as he passed doorways and alleys between houses. A block up, he turned and retraced his steps. He passed by his own cab, and the horse gave a gentle snort in his direction. He assumed that the animal could sense the impending storm and expected Grey to take some action in that regard. Grey had given his driver, Rasmus Hansen, leave to go to a saloon two blocks away, from which Grey would fetch him when this business was done. He hadn’t wanted Rasmus’s presence to scare his contact into abandoning their secretive meeting.
Several more minutes passed, and Grey glanced at the door of the Bethel, thinking he might soon need to take shelter there from the elements. A voice down the block caught his attention. A woman lingered there, most likely a prostitute, a short distance from the nearest streetlamp. A man in a dark frock coat moved away from her, heading toward Grey. His hat was pulled low, and Grey couldn’t make out the man’s face as he approached. Grey’s hand closed around the pistol he’d slipped into his pocket before leaving home. As the man came within steps of Grey, he didn’t slow, but he did touch his hat as he passed.
“Evening, Mr. Grey.”
“Good evening,” Grey responded. He stared after the man, thinking that the voice was faintly familiar. Grey expected the man to pause and turn back when he reached the corner, but the dark figure only hurried on across to the next block. With his focus set on the departing man, Grey barely noticed the sound of the four-wheeled cab coming toward him, pulled by a pair of horses. The clattering of the iron shoes slowed on the paving stones. Grey glanced up in time to see the driver pull a revolver from inside his dark coat.
Grey sprang forward, trying to get past the gunman before the man could aim. The driver twisted awkwardly in his raised seat, rushing to fire off three rapid shots. One bullet clanged off the metal lamppost as Grey dashed past; the others ricocheted off the sidewalk, sending up small fragments of brick. The shots startled the four-wheeler’s horses. They tried to bolt forward, forcing the gunman to reach for the reins. The momentary pause was enough—several more strides and Grey took cover behind his own carriage.
He drew his pistol and readied himself to return fire, but the would-be assassin was already spurring his horses forward, fleeing the scene. Grey cast about for any sign of Rasmus Hansen. With his driver nowhere in sight, Grey scrambled up into the seat. He flicked the reins and started the horse forward. Keeping the whip active, Grey raced up Fore Street past a series of tenements and boardinghouses to where it crossed Franklin Street at an angle.
Mirroring the events on the ground, the dark, towering clouds released a long, booming peal of thunder. Grey sped along Fore as it angled to the right. His attacker was a hundred yards in front of him. Farther ahead, rising up several stories was the massive Grand Trunk Railway’s roundhouse, its circular roof slanting in to where a dome rose up topped with yet another cupola. Before reaching the roundhouse, Grey’s attacker turned right onto India Street. The man’s current course would put him on the waterfront at Commercial Street, where he’d be forced to turn again. To his left would be the Grand Trunk’s rail yard and beyond that the Portland Company was more or less a dead end.
Sensing the opportunity to cut his attacker off, Grey yanked on the reins, forcing his horse to veer to the right into a dark passageway that could easily have been overlooked. Bradbury Court was a street in name only, and its quaint title belied the winding reality of its 250 feet of tenement back doors and coal sheds. Barrels and stacked boxes at some narrow parts of the passage, along with several scavenging dogs, slowed Grey’s pursuit through the unlit side street. Halfway along, another thunderclap and a blinding flash of lightning heralded the start of the long-simmering storm. Grey lowered his head, tipping the brim of his hat forward to protect his vision as best he could from the hard rain.
He pulled out into Commercial Street, where blackened storefronts of merchants, grocers, and restaurants lined the shore side of the street. Coal storehouses and fish markets stood sentry at the entrances to the many wharves that commanded the waterfront. All were made darker and more distant by the torrent of rain. Whatever pedestrians and loiterers usually remained at this hour had sought shelter, leaving the hundred-foot-wide avenue virtually empty of life. The street had been filled in decades earlier to link the city’s northern and southern rail depots and facilitate the movement of goods through the city. At that very moment, a freight train, fresh from the Grand Trunk depot and only slowly picking up any speed, moved past from Grey’s left. It rumbled along its tracks like background accompaniment to the heavenly roars and cracks that now assaulted the atmosphere.
Grey spied his attacker’s cab dashing forward, as if in a fierce race with the freight train.
He spurred his own carriage on, trying to intercept the other, but the unknown gunman had built up enough speed that he slipped past Grey by a few yards. His horse was rattled by the storm, but Grey urged it on mercilessly, trying to pull even with his quarry, who now edged past the slow-moving freight train.
Ahead of him Grey saw his target swerve sharply to the left cutting across the rails just in front of the train. He noticed the freight train starting to inch ahead as it gradually built up speed. His assailant was slowing to turn around and escape back the way he’d come. Grey urged his carriage on in one last frenzied attempt to keep up the pursuit. A few seconds more and he pulled forward of the freight engine. Sensing that his horse couldn’t maintain the pace for long, Grey veered to his left. The rain, puddling everywhere, made the sharp turn less precise than it needed to be. He instantly felt the shudder of the freight train nudging into the left rear section of the carriage, just below his driver’s seat.
Reacting on instinct, Grey vaulted off to the side. He landed and tumbled ahead in a bruising roll across the wet paving stones. Grey’s eyes darted around to locate the horse. It was still alive, running away down the street in panic and trailing the shattered remains of the cab’s front portion. The rear of the carriage lay in pieces just to the side of the rails, having flipped over several times after the force of the engine overtook it.
Grey raised himself up on one knee, then paused as his body became suddenly familiar with its new pain. His left elbow felt swollen, his right pant leg had a short tear, and he could see blood running down from his knee. He ran his tongue across the backs of his upper and lower teeth, making sure they were all in place. The rain made it hard to tell, but he thought he might also be bleeding from his forehead; when he sucked in a deep breath of air, droplets of water came over his open lips carrying a salty, coppery taste.
Grey looked east in the direction that his attacker had fled. A hundred yards distant, he saw the cab. The man was no longer fleeing but had circled the carriage around so that it was now aimed at Grey and picking up speed. Grey looked about for something to defend himself. His gaze lit on the wreckage of his own carriage. He rushed over, ignoring the pain in his right knee and the sudden stiffness in his hip. With severa
l yanks and twists, he dislodged a solid, four-foot section of the axle.
The carriage was fast approaching, and Grey took several steps out from the wreckage to face the new assault. The gunman now aimed to run him down, or at least knock him aside and then finish him off. Grey gripped the axle as if it were an overly thick fighting staff. He bent his right knee, testing the strength that he would need from that leg. The carriage bore down on him, closing to within yards before Grey pushed off. He sprang to his right as he twisted his upper body back toward the passing carriage. He aimed for the large rear wheel and thrust his axle forward like an ancient spearman running an enemy through.
The wooden pole passed between two wheel spokes and spun up until it smashed into the underside of the carriage and lodged there. The whole vehicle gave a violent shudder, and the driver was forced to rein in the horses, which pulled to the left as the stuck wheel forced the carriage into a quarter spin. As the carriage slid to a halt, facing perpendicular to its original path, one of the spokes finally snapped and the axle came free from where it had lodged in the wheel.
With the driver distracted, Grey seized his opportunity and rushed toward the carriage. He reached for his gun as he ran, but the driver saw him and cracked the whip at the horses again. The carriage started forward. Grey abandoned the attempt to draw his pistol and instead reached for the cab with both hands. He got one foot onto the side board and managed to haul himself partway into the cab as the horses picked up speed. The driver was trying to turn them when Grey stretched up far enough to land a fist on the man’s jaw.
The driver dropped the reins as he fell backward halfway into the passengers’ seat. The horses were still aimed at the side of Commercial Street and ran forward, heading down the wharf that stretched away in front of them. The driving rain, the swerving motion of the carriage, and his own injured leg cost Grey precious seconds as he climbed into the carriage. The driver had recovered by then and grabbed hold of Grey. They exchanged quick jabs to the body as they grappled for control.
Grey knew that the wharf didn’t go on forever. This fight had to end soon so the horses could be brought under control. His left arm had taken a rough blow when he’d jumped from his own carriage and was rapidly weakening. He had to act now. In desperation he broke off from the driver and tried to reach his pistol. The move left him open, and the driver delivered a quick uppercut. Grey fell back, sprawling over the driver’s seat. The driver pulled his gun and aimed. Grey lashed out with a kick, knocking the man’s arm up as he pulled the trigger. The errant shot flew over the horses’ heads, and the animals rushed forward even faster. The carriage swayed side to side behind the animals’ frantic sprint.
Grey sat up and grabbed the driver’s arm. The cab drifted close to the edge of the wharf, and the left wheel struck one of the thick posts set there for tying up boat lines. The force of the collision lifted the right side of the carriage up, launching Grey and the driver. After flipping over through the air, Grey splashed down in the water of Portland Harbor. When he broke the surface again, he was met by rain and the sight of wharves on either side of him. He trod water and shielded his eyes against the downpour until he spotted a series of wooden rungs leading up out of the harbor to the topside of the pier.
As he climbed up, making slow progress with his injured left arm, he glanced back toward the water. He couldn’t see the driver. Once he gained the top of the wharf again, he looked around. The horses had come to a stop short of the wharf’s end. There was no sign of the gunman. Grey stood and studied the water below. The surface bubbled and spattered beneath the downpour, but no sign of life appeared.
[ Chapter 32 ]
LEAN STOOD FACING THE DOOR OF THE SAME RUN-DOWN house on Vine Street where he’d examined the charred body of Frank Cosgrove. Events seemed to insist that he keep returning to this spot. Now he waited in silent contemplation of the door, a good portion of which was covered by a woolen blanket that a patrolman had nailed up.
At the sound of steps approaching on the uneven stones, Lean turned to face Perceval Grey. There had been other times when he’d seen Grey after a sleepless night devoted to some intriguing point of a case. But this morning was different; Grey looked exhausted—battered, even. Lean noticed him limping and saw the edge of a small bandage sneaking out from below the man’s hat, near his eye.
“You look like death, Grey. Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, sorry to rouse you so early in the morning, but I thought it best you see this immediately. It seems that someone has taken issue with your involvement in this case.”
Lean stepped up to the door and lifted the blanket. He exposed a painted figure: a rounded face, traced in dark red, topped with horns and staring back with vacant yet menacing eyes. Beneath the grim visage, also in red, was an inscription that Lean now announced.
“ ‘The Vengeance of Hell awaits you Percival Gray.’ ”
“It’s always rewarding to have one’s efforts noticed and appreciated. Spelled my name wrong in two places, however.”
“I don’t think you should take this lightly. This is a threat at the very least, maybe even a bounty of sorts. I’ve told you how badly Cosgrove’s dug-up and burned body rattled the city’s criminal circles. Who’s to say what ideas some of them are going to get when they hear about this?”
“Have it painted over and be done with it,” Grey said.
“If only it were so easy. Similar images were painted on Munjoy Hill, outside of Jimmy Farrell’s place, and another at Gorham’s Corner on a brick wall facing McGrath’s. Every miscreant in the city with a violent streak and an itch has already seen this or will hear about it soon enough.”
“When were the images first reported?”
“Patrolmen noticed the others between two and three this morning,” Lean said. “This one wasn’t found until five a.m.”
“You needn’t worry, then. This isn’t any sort of order for my head after all. It’s merely a diversion, an attempt to widen the pool of suspects to include the entire city.”
“Pool of suspects? For what?” Lean dropped the blanket back into place.
“An unidentified man tried to shoot me, then run me down last night—”
“What?” Lean’s voice was almost loud enough to further loosen the old building’s peeling paint. “Are you all right?”
“Nicks and bumps.” Grey flapped his left arm a bit. “But it happened shortly after midnight—hours ahead of these advertisements. Despite your opinion of my appearance this morning, the man failed. I suspect that these dire threats were then created in order to confuse the issue of the would-be assassin’s motive and identity.”
“Just a moment. Let me see if I’m understanding you correctly. My fears for your safety are unfounded … because somebody already tried to kill you before these threats were posted?”
“In a manner of speaking. That is, I’m in no more danger now than I was this time yesterday, before these ridiculous paintings appeared.”
“You have the oddest way of looking at life,” Lean said.
“You’d have little use for me otherwise,” Grey said.
“Well, thank heavens you were able to escape real injury and evade the man.”
“On the contrary, my assailant was able to avoid me. Apparently by drowning.”
“I haven’t heard anything about a body!” Lean declared.
“That’s why I said ‘apparently.’ No sign of him this morning either. But a body in the water will surface, sooner or later.”
Lean waited to see if Grey would add any further details, but the man suddenly seemed caught up in some new thought.
“Run you down. So he was in a hansom? Anything in there to say who he was? Grey?”
It took Grey several seconds to realize he was being addressed and needed to respond. “Belonged to Soule’s Hack Stables. Stolen from one of their drivers at gunpoint an hour before my encounter.”
“Where’d this all happen?”
“Started at the Seamen’s Bethel. I had a note promising information.”
“The Bethel, that’s close to Darragh’s boardinghouse. The same old locations keep popping their noses up.”
“Old locations,” Grey repeated. “That reminds me—whatever became of your efforts to identify the use of the former building at the tailor shop’s location? Anything of interest turn up?”
“I’ve gone to the historical society and asked our old friend Meserve to lend his researching expertise,” Lean said.
“Excellent.”
“Underground passages, unexplained drilling holes, stolen rocks, dead thieves. This case seems to keep circling around back onto itself in the strangest fashion. And now death threats against you. Are you at least carrying a gun?”
“Since our return from Boston,” Grey answered. “Whoever put a bullet in Frank Cosgrove is still active. Chester Sears was plainly in fear for his own life. So whatever as-yet-unseen hand is in play here is perfectly willing to commit murder to further his own ends.”
“I’ll put a man on you, in street clothes. In case there’s another attempt on your life.”
Grey waved off the suggestion. “I don’t think that’s necessary. If someone is already watching me, I’d prefer not to frighten off whoever it is. I’d rather have the chance to flush him out on my own, see who’s behind this.”
Lean paced across the dingy alleyway, kicking at loose bits of rock as he turned and wandered back. “I don’t like your cavalier attitude. You act as if this is all just some private challenge of yours that doesn’t affect anyone else.”
“Well, it is a grand old game after all, isn’t it? But I do take your point about the recent raising of the stakes. Which is why I suggest that the two of us limit our future collaborations. Openly, I mean. We can meet covertly to exchange information as needed.”
“What are you driving at?” Lean asked.
Grey motioned toward the now-concealed threat painted on the ramshackle door. “Someone objects to the pursuit of this inquiry, and he seems to have singled me out. If I can keep his attention focused on me, there’ll be no need to make yourself a target as well.”
A Study in Revenge: A Novel Page 21
