“How?”
“When I bent down to look closer at the corpse...” Freddie winced again. Bill noted the young man’s reaction and corrected himself. “... at the late Miss Bauer, I saw she had a damp handkerchief wadded up in her right hand and there seemed to be traces of crusted tears around her eyes.”
“Hmmm, interesting.”
Bill eyed his sandwich suspiciously. He turned the plate clockwise and lifted the opposite corner of the bread, presumably under the impression that the contents had changed since his last inspection. “Anything else you want to know, lad?”
“Yes. I want to know the name of the doctor who examined the body. It wasn’t in the article.”
“Well, the official examination was performed by one of the medics from the Coroner’s Office. But that wasn’t good enough for the Templars. Maybe they were afraid that Jack the Ripper had crossed the pond and started attacking guests at their hotel. For whatever reason, they insisted that one of their cronies in the medical profession check the remains as well.”
“Can they do that?” Freddie was shocked.
Bill grinned sardonically. “In this town they can do anything they want, lad. Their doctor friend is named Doyle. Archibald Doyle. He has a high-toned practice north of the river.”
“If I wanted to talk to this Dr. Doyle, where would I find him?”
“Probably at his office during the week. It’s on Dearborn Parkway. You can check the address yourself since I don’t recall it offhand. You’re on your own with that one though. I couldn’t get much out of him.”
“Nothing? No scrap of information that wasn’t mentioned in the news article?”
“Not a thing. For once, what you saw in print was all I knew. Doyle backed up what the Coroner’s Office said. She was stabbed, end of discussion.” Bill shrugged. “Seeing as how I’m a gentleman of the press, I don’t think he told me all that he knew.”
“If he won’t talk to you, what makes you think he’d speak to me?” Freddie felt worried at the prospect of a dead end to his investigation.
Bill meticulously tapped the ashes from his cigar tip onto the floor. “I don’t know, son, but you may be able to get your society friends to back you.”
Freddie was silent for a moment, puzzled about how to proceed. Then an idea occurred to him. “Evangeline’s part of the golden circle. She gets invited to Mrs. Templar’s parties. Maybe if she were to intervene...”
“It could work,” Bill said, puffing away speculatively, his head cocked to one side as he gazed across the table at Freddie. “With enough encouragement from the right quarter, Doyle might open up a bit. After all, it’s not as if you were after a news story on this murder—not as if you knew some little fact you aren’t sharing with your old friend Bill. That would be a pretty crazy idea, wouldn’t it, lad? I mean, you writing a story with a new angle about it or some such nonsense...” The right corner of his mouth, still clamped around the cigar, lifted in a half-smile.
Freddie laughed, but his voice sounded strained. “Yes indeed, Bill. Yes, indeed. That would be a pretty crazy idea. Just the fact that you’ve come up with a notion like that must mean you’ve already had too much to drink.” Freddie reached quickly for the bottle. “Here, why don’t we both have another.”
Chapter 9—Her Majesty,
The Queen Of Chicago
On Wednesday afternoon, Evangeline swept past the doorman and into Chicago’s palatial Templar House. The hotel was built with all the gilding and marble that an architect with a taste for ostentation and an unlimited budget could design. The lobby was a full two stories high and stretched the length of a city block. It was intended to impress and intimidate those who didn’t have the wealth that signified their right to be there. Despite the splendor, Evangeline was neither intimidated nor impressed. She had spent her entire life moving about in buildings of titanic dimensions, and the Templar House lobby was merely one more inlaid marble cavern to be traversed.
Approaching the reception desk, she addressed one of the clerks on duty. “Good afternoon. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Templar.” Her voice sounded hollow as it echoed off the stone counter and walls mingling with the clatter of luggage being moved for a sea of guests that ebbed and flowed like the tide.
The clerk blanched. “Madame, is there anything wrong? Please be assured that we will certainly do everything in our power to make it right.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not currently a guest here. I wish to see Mrs. Templar on a personal matter.” Evangeline presented the clerk with one of her calling cards. “She is expecting me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Forgive me.” The clerk was obviously relieved. He bowed excessively, then led her through a side door into a walnut-paneled office.
“If you’ll just wait in here, Miss LeClair, I’ll see if I can locate Mrs. Templar for you.” He seated her in an arm chair, hovered solicitously until she was comfortable, and flew out the door to seek his employer’s wife.
Evangeline ran her hand appreciatively over the sumptuous upholstery. Her eyes drank in the decorative details of this private space—a marked contrast to the public space of the lobby—Aubusson carpet so thick that no footfall could be heard crossing it. Hand-carved wainscot and wine-colored brocade draperies muted the discordant hubbub from the street. “Only the best for Berthe,” she said to herself. Evangeline attributed the elegance of the room to Berthe Templar’s taste rather than that of her husband or the hotel decorator.
Mrs. Templar was the most formidable woman in a city not lacking in that particular variety of female. She was the acknowledged queen of Chicago society and bore her title with a grace and intelligence that Evangeline rarely associated with nouveau riche grand dames. Berthe, when barely out of her teens, had married a man twenty-four years her senior and defied popular expectation by making the union a happy one. Potter Templar, Chicago’s foremost real-estate tycoon, although clearly enamored with her beauty, had been impressed by her level-headedness as well. He had once told Evangeline that while he had never taken a business partner, the closest approximation of one was his wife, or “Sissie” as he liked to call her—
“Engie, it’s good to see you.”
Evangeline’s reverie was cut short as the connecting door on the other side of the office opened to admit the lady herself.
Berthe Templar advanced into the room and held her hand out in greeting to Evangeline. “You’ve been a stranger of late,” she said warmly.
Mrs. Templar had quite a reputation for both her clothing and jewelry collections, but on this day her attire was relatively subdued. She wore a tailored walking suit of mauve wool. It had to be one of Redfern’s creations, Evangeline thought approvingly—such understated elegance. The costume was topped by a black velvet hat trimmed with a modicum of feathers. Her only jewelry was a heavy gold brooch flecked with rubies.
Evangeline stood and moved forward to meet her. “I’m deeply indebted to you, Berthe, for seeing me on such short notice. I know how busy you’ve been with the Board of Lady Managers.”
Mrs. Templar, in addition to other social commitments, was chairwoman of the committee responsible for designing and planning the Women’s Building Exhibit at the Fair.
“Yes, that’s the reason I had to receive you here rather than at home. I’m on my way to another meeting at the fairgrounds and have a fearfully short period of time at my disposal.” Mrs. Templar motioned for her visitor to sit. “It’s been a hectic few months, I assure you. But we’ve managed to stay the course. Only two more weeks to go.”
“You’ve done a fine job of showing the gentlemen on the Board what the ladies can do.”
“Thank you, Engie. Given the number of petty disputes that have arisen along the way among the committee members, I’m glad we haven’t shown the strain to the rest of the world. But,” she added brightly, “the purpose of our chat today isn’t for me to air my grievances. Your note said you had an urgent matter you needed to discuss.”
“Yes.�
� Evangeline dreaded broaching a topic her hostess would find most unpleasant. “It’s about the murder.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Templar gasped. “Of all the possible reasons for your visit, that one never crossed my mind.”
Evangeline took off her gloves and began to fidget with them. “You see, the girl who was killed... she was a student of mine... at Mast House.”
“Why, I had no idea this matter might affect you personally, Engie. I am truly sorry.”
Evangeline bowed her head to acknowledge the effort at condolence.
Mrs. Templar continued, “If you don’t mind my asking, was the young lady of a respectable family?”
“If you’re asking whether she was in the habit of forming clandestine attachments to men of questionable character, the answer is an emphatic no.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. You can’t imagine how relieved.” Mrs. Templar sighed. “After seeing this business exposed so rudely in the press, our clientele doesn’t know what to think of the Templar House. We are the premiere hotel in this city and, with the Exposition drawing an international set, we have worked hard to maintain a cultivated image. This was hardly the sort of thing we wanted the world to see.”
“Yes, I understand your concern for the credibility of the hotel, Berthe, but my principal concern is the credibility of Franz Bauer.”
“Who?” Mrs. Templar looked puzzled.
“The young man arrested for the murder, the dead girl’s brother.”
“Oh, I see.” An edge came into Berthe Templar’s voice. “And are you aware of the disturbance he caused here the night she was killed?”
Evangeline adopted a conciliatory tone. “Yes, unfortunately, I am. Franz’s temperament is a bit excitable.”
“Apparently excitable enough to drive him to murder.”
“It seems a bit premature to assume he’s the only possible suspect, Berthe.”
“Do you know about his unfortunate choice of political causes?”
“Yes. It’s no secret that he’s a member of a radical political group, and I’m well acquainted with your views and Mr. Templar’s on the subject of anarchists.”
Berthe Templar began to tap the arm of her chair with her index finger—the only hint of agitation she betrayed. “Then given these circumstances, what can you possibly say in his defense?”
Evangeline smoothed the creases in her gown as an attempt at nonchalance. “Precious little, I’m afraid. But I have reason to suspect the police planted the murder weapon in his home.”
Mrs. Templar’s face registered mild surprise. “That’s a very serious charge, my dear. Can you prove it?”
“In order to do that I need your help.” Evangeline felt she had already strained the good will of her listener. She wasn’t sure if her next words would elicit a positive response or terminate the interview altogether. “I’d like your cooperation while I conduct a private investigation of my own.”
To her credit, Mrs. Templar didn’t react either with shock or anger. She merely raised an eyebrow. “And what would that entail?”
“Your instructions to your staff to answer honestly any questions I might put to them. And a similar set of instructions to Dr. Doyle.”
Mrs. Templar sat back in her chair. She tilted her head to the side and studied her visitor. “And why would I consent to do such a thing?”
Evangeline returned her gaze evenly. “Because I believe you to be a fair-minded person who wouldn’t wish to contribute to a miscarriage of justice.”
Mrs. Templar smiled briefly at the observation. Without speaking, she stood up and began to walk around the room in a leisurely fashion—apparently weighing the decision further. At the window, she held the curtain aside to gaze out.
“Engie, come here, please. I’d like you to look at something.” Evangeline crossed the room to where Mrs. Templar stood. “What do you see out there?”
Evangeline looked quizzically at Mrs. Templar and then turned her attention to the scene outside. “Well, I see carriages... people walking along the sidewalk... a policeman directing traffic at the intersection. Why? What do you see?”
Mrs. Templar turned away from the view and moved back to her chair. Evangeline followed. “When I look out there, I don’t merely see a disconnected set of figures bearing no relationship to one another. I see a society. A well-ordered society that only exists because of a set of commonly agreed-upon principles of conduct.”
Mrs. Templar held up her calling card case. “Why do you suppose we present these? Why do we bow to our acquaintances when we pass them in our carriages? Why are we gracious even to such graceless creatures as the Infanta of Spain?”
“Why, indeed.” Evangeline laughed, remembering the insult Mrs. Templar received from the aristocrat. “A Spanish princess who refused your dinner invitation because, as she put it, you were the wife of her innkeeper!”
Her eyes narrowing at the memory of the slight, the other woman continued. “We choose to overlook rudeness because that is one of the rituals of polite society. All such rituals, as trivial as they might seem, provide a framework for our conduct. They help us to function as a community. Without these, what sort of jungle do you suppose we would inhabit? Your young friend Franz, and those like him, they have a passion to tear down all these rules we live by. And once they have torn down every law and destroyed every fragment of morality, what will be left to stand between them and the devils they’ve unleashed?” Mrs. Templar stared at Evangeline as the question hung in the air between them.
“I don’t know the answer to that, Berthe. But there is one rule that applies to anarchists and republicans alike. A man is innocent until proven guilty. By law he is guaranteed a fair trial. If you willfully obstruct my chance to find out the truth, then you have violated one of the most fundamental rules of your well-ordered society. Are you willing to take responsibility for the devils you, yourself, will unleash in consequence?”
Berthe Templar bowed her head slowly in acquiescence. “Touché, my dear.” Evangeline held her breath in anticipation. Mrs. Templar chose her next words with great care. “If I were to consent to assist you in this matter... I say, if... I would require you to conduct your inquiry as discreetly as possible.”
“Yes, of course.”
“There would be no attention drawn to your activities and no public announcement of your progress. If you were to find evidence that might point to another suspect, you would notify me of your findings before the news is made public.” Mrs. Templar paused. “These would be my conditions. Would you be able to accept them?”
“Without reservation.”
“If you couldn’t fulfill these conditions, I would be required to withdraw my support immediately from you. Do you agree to this?”
Evangeline looked her directly in the eye. “Yes, Berthe, I do.”
“Very well, then, I’ll arrange matters.” Mrs. Templar rose decisively and opened the front door of the office. She beckoned to the desk clerk to return. “Humphrey, come here. Miss LeClair has some questions to ask you, and you are to give her whatever information she requires.”
“Yes, madame, at once.” Humphrey clicked his heels and sprang to the door at the first summons.
Mrs. Templar prepared to leave. She turned to Evangeline and added, “Humphrey was on duty the evening of the unfortunate event. He has already been questioned by the police. I’ll send for the chambermaid who discovered the body while you’re speaking to him. I’ll also telephone Dr. Doyle and let him know how matters stand.” She held out her hand to Evangeline. “Forgive my skepticism, my dear. I wish you every success in uncovering the truth. And, more importantly, I hope the truth you uncover will be to your liking.”
“Thank you, Berthe. I am most grateful.” Evangeline shook Mrs. Templar’s hand energetically. Without further ceremony the queen of Chicago closed the door, leaving Evangeline in the company of the clerk.
Chapter 10—In The Grand Manor
“Humphrey, is it?” Evangeline began ten
tatively.
“Yes, miss. That’s me.” The clerk stood at attention and clicked his heels in acknowledgement. There was a military precision about the young man that extended well beyond his method of addressing his employer’s clientele—a spit-and-polish shine that traveled from the patent leather sheen of his hair to the gleam of his brass buttons all the way down to his recently buffed boots.
“Have a seat, won’t you?” Evangeline indicated the chair next to her own.
“No, thank you, miss. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stand. Sitting in your presence would make me too nervous.”
And would prevent you from bowing and clicking, no doubt, Evangeline thought. “Well then, let’s begin. I’m conducting a private inquiry into the death that occurred here the night of October seventh. The unfortunate girl was a student of mine. I understand you were on duty that evening?”
“Yes, miss. Indeed I was, at the Ladies’ Entrance that evening.”
“Can you remember anything noteworthy about the time Miss Bauer came in?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t, miss. The police asked me the same thing, but we get so many people checking in and out of an evening. We have seven hundred rooms here, you know. It’s hard to keep track of a single person. Except—”
“Yes?”
“Well, that’s odd, isn’t it,” Humphrey said, half to himself. “I didn’t remember this until just now when you asked.”
“What?” Evangeline had to suppress a desire to pull the words out of him.
“I distinctly recall that she had no luggage with her. Just a small valise that she could carry in one hand. When I rang for the bellhop, she stopped me and said it wouldn’t be necessary. And I remember thinking to myself how unusual that was. Then I reasoned that she might have packed a few things in that little bag since it was just an overnight stay, and I thought no more about it. But it’s just that ladies usually don’t travel that light.”
The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) Page 10
