Suspension

by Richard E. Crabbe

  Once done, they set about listing the information they needed in order of importance. First on that list was more on Lebeau and Emmons. Their connection with Watkins pointed to something, and it was one of the few solid lines on the chart. Tom had taken the first step in writing the War Department. Dolan and Heidelberg would take the second step, getting a warrant as Byrnes ordered. Next was to dig into the details on the trains: the manufacturer, the company that made the steam engines, the bidding on track, and a half dozen other things. How Earl and Matt could be involved with any of that they didn’t know. Neither had worked on the tracks or trains. They considered tailing the two but figured it could wait till they had more solid evidence. Even with Pat and Charlie they didn’t have men to spare on tails. There was little hard evidence against the two anyway, just the fact that they knew Watkins. Braddock couldn’t even be certain it was Watkins that killed Bucklin, just that he knew how Bucklin had died. That coupled with Watkins’s murder left a bunch of dotted lines on their chart, all leading to an empty box.

  With the two other men, Tom kicked around the kinds of questions he should ask the Roeblings later that afternoon. Information on the trains topped the list, but Charlie was quick to remind Tom of other issues.

  “See what he knows about any disgruntled employees or contractors—anyone who might have a grudge,” Heidelberg said. “They’ve been at this for, what, fourteen years? There’s got to be some unhappy people in all that time—a contractor who thinks himself poorly used, a laborer fired without cause.”

  “Yeah, we’ll need access to records too: accounting, payroll, orders, those sorts of things,” Pat said, opening a can of worms Tom would have just as soon left closed. He hated tedious records-search sorts of cases.

  Just then Jaffey walked in, nervous and owl-eyed.

  Tom called to him from across the room. “Hey, Jaffey, glad you’re here.”

  “Yeah, got the word I’m assigned to you for the rest of the case.” Jaffey did his best to hide his enthusiasm, but it leaked out around the edges.

  “Right. This is Pat Dolan and Charlie Heidelberg. Boys, Eli Jaffey. You don’t mind me calling you Eli, do you?” Tom asked, doubting there’d be an objection.

  “No, no. Pleased to meet you both. You two are legends. Best detective team in the city, they said in the papers.” Jaffey caught hold of his hero worship before it got completely out of the barn. “Well, ah … guess you don’t need me to tell you.”

  “That’s okay,” said Pat. “It’s just Pat and Charlie from here out.”

  Tom noticed there was just a little lack of enthusiasm in their voices. To be expected, he figured. Eli was an unknown to them, and it was always wise to be a little wary. The handshakes were quick and tentative.

  “Eli’s my backup. He’s here to save my ass when I hang it out too far.”

  Pat did his best to hide his skepticism, Charlie wasn’t as successful. “You should be very busy then, Eli.”

  The four split up shortly after, arranging to meet at the end of the day to compare notes. Pat and Charlie set off to get a warrant on the Emmons and Lebeau search. The two shared a tenement apartment on Henry Street. Tom knew they’d give the place a thorough going-over. If there was anything to be found, they’d find it. He and Eli set off toward the ferry. They figured they’d catch a bite in Brooklyn somewhere, then head over to the Roeblings’.

  “Want to stop in the bridge offices on our way,” Tom said. “Talk to a clerk I know there. He might be able to help. Besides, I want us seen more often around the bridge. I want whoever’s involved to know we’re around … feel the pressure. If they think we’re on to something, they may get nervous, sloppy, who knows.” He threw up his hands. Any angle was worth a play.

  When they got off the ferry in Brooklyn, they walked the few blocks to the bridge offices. It was eleven-forty-five when they asked to see Bart Jacobs.

  “Detective,” Jacobs exclaimed, hustling out from a back storeroom. “How good to see you again. I read of your exploits just yesterday. Quite an exciting business.” He was bright-eyed with enthusiasm. “I dare say that’s the first police chase across the great bridge.” The papers had picked up the story. It made for exciting copy. The Trib featured a fanciful etching of Braddock sprinting across the span.

  Braddock shrugged but couldn’t hide a small grin. “Didn’t end quite as I had hoped.”

  “No, I imagine not,” the clerk said with mock disappointment.

  Tom introduced Jaffey, then got down to business. “One small thing. When we went to the address you gave me, we found it was occupied.”

  Jacobs tried to look surprised, adjusting his glasses with a doubting frown. “Really? Not by that Watkins fellow, I take it?”

  “Precisely. A wretched little Italian clan. They didn’t speak much English and they had no idea in hell who Watkins was. That was about all I could learn without having someone who spoke their gibberish.”

  Jacobs gave his best concerned look. “I’m not sure how I can help, Detective. It’s apparent Watkins was less than truthful. I’d be happy to check again, though,” he offered.

  “Thanks, I’d like to see the record myself if you don’t mind.”

  There was only a moment’s hesitation. “Of course, let me get it.” Jacobs was back after no more than two minutes of rummaging in a tall records cabinet at the back of the office. “Look for yourself.” There in perfectly formed letters and numbers was Watkins’s address, in pencil on the green, lined page.

  Looking closely, Tom noticed the ghost of something under the fresh writing. “This was his new address, right? What about the old one, where he lived before this?”

  “When he moved, we simply erased the old one.” Jacobs shrugged. “That’s why they’re done in pencil. They change all the time.”

  Braddock nodded his understanding. “I want this page.”

  “I’m not sure you can have this one. It’s our only copy.” Jacobs stalled.

  “Well … I’m going to have this page one way or another. Tell you what. Why don’t you have someone copy it on a new sheet and I’ll be back for the original in, say, two hours. Hate to bother you, after you being so helpful,” Tom said with a grateful but firm smile.

  Jacobs was none too happy. “I suppose, Detective.”

  Tom gave him a satisfied wink. “Appreciate it. Be back around two.”

  Tom and Eli Jaffey went to find some lunch.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Tom said suddenly. “I went to see Wei Kwan the other day.”

  Eli gave him a baffled look. “Who?”

  “The Chinese Master I train with,” Tom explained. “Wasn’t too willing to take another white-devil pupil, but I convinced him to let you attend a workout or two, then we’ll see.”

  Jaffey brightened. “Great, appreciate it.”

  “This time around, you can just get a taste of it, but if you want to learn … get all you can out of it, you’ve got to be dedicated. It’s my face you’ll lose if you quit or don’t show enough sand.”

  Eli was nodding but frowning at the same time. “What’s face?”

  “Oh, God, don’t get me going on that,” Tom said, knowing it was a subject that could take years to explore fully. “It’s the Oriental equivalent of honor. Taken very seriously. So, you want to learn, you will honor me as your sponsor with your seriousness and dedication. Of course, you’ll gain honor yourself too,” Tom said patiently.

  Jaffey agreed with an appropriately serious look. “I’ll give it my best. I sure don’t want to be a bad reflection on you.”

  Tom nodded his approval. “Good. Let’s eat.”

  Emily caught herself looking at the old clock again. She had lost count of the times she had glanced at it today. In the week or so since she’d met Tom Braddock, she never imagined he’d come to her door. But now that the old clock had struck one, she paced from room to room, straightening pictures, plumping pillows in the parlor, and peeking out the wooden Venetian blinds. Wash had dressed comfort
ably as was his custom. He was up in his study, working as always. He didn’t give a damn if the detective came or not.

  “He’ll just ask a lot of fool questions that I don’t have answers to. He’ll leave with nothing, and I’ll be exhausted,” Wash had said. “Suppose I did offer to help, so it’s my own fault,” he grumbled.

  Emily had gone back to ask Martha to make tea and set out some pastries, when the big brass knocker on the front door boomed through the house. She almost went to answer it herself but stopped as soon as the thought crossed her mind. She could hear the door being opened and Hughes’s measured tones as he ushered the visitors in. A minute later Hughes poked his head in the kitchen.

  “Ah … ma’am? A Detective Braddock is here to see you and the colonel. He has a patrolman with him as well, a Mr. Jaffey.”

  “Very well, Hughes. I’ll be there directly. Would you ask them to have a seat in the parlor?” She gave Martha some needless instructions, and when she felt a sufficient amount of time had passed she sailed out of the safe harbor of the kitchen to greet her guests. Martha smiled when she’d left.

  Emily wasn’t sure what she’d feel when she saw Tom again. It wasn’t supposed to have been in her parlor, nor in her house at all, for that matter. She felt too constrained here, unable to say or do what she might have out on the bridge. On the bridge, things were different. There she felt a freedom that existed nowhere else in the world for her. Up over the water, free from the attachments of earth, she could let her words go where only her thoughts had gone before. She didn’t understand how that could be; it just was. The bridge would always be a magical place for her. She wished as she entered her parlor that she was there now.

  “Detective! How good it is to see you again,” she said a little more formally than she intended, holding out her hand. He’d changed, she thought. He looked tired. There were lines at the eyes she hadn’t noticed before.

  “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Roebling. Allow me to introduce Patrolman Jaffey.” Emily greeted Jaffey a shade absently before offering tea and pastries. Jaffey accepted, but Tom asked if he could just have a cup of tea while he met with the colonel.

  “Eli, if you don’t mind, could you wait here? I don’t want to overburden the chief engineer with too many visitors,” Tom said, remembering the reports of Roebling’s limited tolerance of visitors. Jaffey didn’t mind sipping tea and eating pastries much. He figured he could put up with this sort of duty for some time.

  Emily showed Tom up to Wash’s study. As they went up the graceful curving stair, she said softly to Tom, “This is quite a surprise, you coming like this.” She hesitated a moment and asked, “I wonder … if you could do me a favor.”

  Tom would have gladly done anything in his power for her. “Certainly, anything.”

  Emily hadn’t expected exactly that word. It made her pause, thinking that Tom had anticipated something other than what she had planned to ask.

  “If you see Mr. Roebling is becoming irritable,” she explained patiently, “or if it seems his attention is wandering, I must ask you not to overtax his constitution and end the interview.”

  Tom seemed let down but was instantly understanding. “Of course, Emily, I mean Mrs. Roebling. I was going to ask you how I should come at this, and I’m happy you brought it up.”

  Emily smiled gratefully. “I appreciate your sensitivity, Tom. Washington is frail, though he is improving. He never has visitors, can’t stand crowds at all, and conversation taxes him terribly. He rarely goes out, so he doesn’t get much exercise, not that he could stand it. He can’t walk about much, you know.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I have to say I’m a little nervous meeting him,” Tom admitted. That wasn’t true very often, but it was today.

  “Oh, you mustn’t be. He’s just a man, Detective.” Emily turned to Tom, smiling brightly.

  She tapped lightly on a mahogany door then, not waiting for a response, turned the knob and went in. Tom wasn’t sure what to expect. The papers had been painting Washington Roebling as an incurable invalid for years. He was by all accounts a mystery, a suffering hermit-engineer locked away in his monkish room in Brooklyn Heights, his existence defined by the bridge he built and its toll in misery. Tom expected the smells of a sickroom! the faint whiffs of ammonia, the medicinal odors that always made him vaguely uneasy, the bottles of viscous dark liquids with vague curative powers, pills … crutches. What he saw when that mahogany door swung open was quite different.

  Washington Roebling stood by his desk. His eyes were clear and piercing, his physique seemed solid, even robust. He stood erect before his window. The Brooklyn tower and a portion of the sweep of the cables could be seen over his shoulder. Tom had the instant impression of a great and active mind, fully in command. In fact, the first impression was more mental than physical. The power of intellect and will radiated from the chief engineer like a measurable thing. The only weakness Tom saw at first was a slight squint of the eyes as they tried to focus on him. Maybe it was the air of command, maybe it was the respect he had for the man; whatever it was, Tom found himself standing at loose attention, his hand to his forehead in a salute.

  “My compliments, Colonel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Roebling seemed a little taken aback at first, then his features softened into a wistful smile. “And I you, Detective.” Roebling returned the salute. They stood awkwardly for a moment, both surprised that an old habit came back so effortlessly. Roebling broke the silence first. “Well, that was strange. Can’t remember the last time I saluted anyone,” he said, still grinning.

  “To be honest, sir,” Tom said, a little embarrassed, “I can’t either.” They shared a private laugh as they shook hands. Emily watched with her mouth open.

  “So, what unit were you with, Detective?”

  “The Twentieth New York State Militia. Well, the Eightieth, actually. It was redesignated the Eightieth when we volunteered.”

  “I remember the Eightieth; the Ulster Guard, right?”

  “That’s right,” Braddock said, pleased the colonel remembered.

  “Colonel Gates, as I recall. I knew him slightly. A very good man … commanded one of the best regiments in the corps. You came through all right?”

  Tom touched his temple where the small shock of white hair shone. “A bit of a crease in my skull to show for my efforts, but no permanent damage. That’s a lot more than I can say for most of the rest. Out of 375 engaged at Gettysburg alone, there were 170 killed, wounded, or missing,” Tom said, surprised that he remembered the numbers and even more amazed that he felt the need to tell Roebling. It was almost as if he’d stepped back in time.

  “You were with Reynolds on the first, right?” Roebling said, knowing the answer. “That must have been a hot fight. I didn’t come up till the second, so I missed it. Shame about Reynolds.”

  Braddock shook his head slowly. He hadn’t thought about Reynolds in ages, but he remembered clearly enough. “Yes, sir, it was. Gave ’em hell till we got flanked. You had a close shave there too.”

  Roebling smiled. “Gouverneur always had a wonderful sense of timing.”

  “General Warren?”

  “Yes. He had a knack for sending me places where nothing seemed to be happening, but once I got there all hell would break loose.”

  Tom knew exactly what he was referring to. “Like Little Round Top.”

  Wash sat slowly, exhaling with a sigh. “Among others. We had closer calls, but none that meant so much.”

  “Suppose not. It’s not every day you save the flank of the Army of the Potomac,” Tom said, the admiration clear in his voice.

  “Oh, we didn’t save the flank, Detective, far from it. The boys of the Twentieth Maine, the One Fortieth New York, Hazlett’s battery, and all the rest did the saving. Gouverneur and I—we were just directing traffic.”

  Tom chewed on that for a moment. “That’s not what the papers said, as I recall.”

  “Can’t believe everything you read in
the papers, Tom. Can I call you Tom?”

  Braddock smiled. “Sure. Funny thing, though … once it’s in the papers, it’s real. You can feel like you were a traffic cop till your dying day, but my guess is you’ll always be counted a hero of that battle.” He saw the colonel start to shake his head but he went on. “Sometimes the papers get it right, you know.” They grinned at each other with the knowledge of a shared understanding.

  Roebling folded his arms across his chest, leaned back in his chair, and said, “So, what can I tell you about our bridge?”

  Emily sat with Tom and Wash for nearly two hours as Tom asked his questions. The list was long. With a construction project the size and length of the Brooklyn Bridge, there had been ample opportunity for fraud, chicanery, rigged bids, disgruntled employees, and the like. Roebling did his best to shed light on any possibilities, but aside from the wire fraud and some other well-publicized shenanigans, there wasn’t much else to point to. He gave Tom all the details on the trains, the engineering, the bidders, suppliers, everything. There had been nothing odd in the bidding or construction of the tracks or terminals, at least nothing that would point to fraud or thievery. There were some employees who had left under a cloud as might be expected.

  “That McDonald fellow, for example … though the Brooklyn fire marshall ruled he accidentally set the caisson fire in ’70. We never did find out what happened to him. He simply disappeared. Maybe he bore some grudge … we don’t know. We always assumed the fire had been an accident, but what if it wasn’t?”

  “Quite! Can you think of any possible connection between that fire and the trains … some common thread, anything could be of use?”

  “Nothing, Tom, except that they are both related to the bridge. They’re completely separate events, separated by many years. I’m sorry, I just don’t see any commonality.”