The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1)

by N. S. Wikarski

  The cottage was constructed of red brick, though the brickwork sagged in places where the mortar had crumbled. A sparrow cheeped at Evangeline from a chink below the eaves. The building was two stories tall with a raised basement. Five warped stairs surmounted by a rusted railing led to the front door. As she climbed them, Evangeline noticed an open door below the sidewalk and opposite the basement door. It led to a water closet. Despite the lack of a convenient lavatory, the building was a sight better than many of the surrounding tenements which probably had no running water or plumbing. The O’Malleys must have been the most well-to-do family on the block since they had managed to put money down on their own ramshackle cottage and, according to Elsa, met the mortgage payments by taking in boarders.

  She rapped decisively at the front door but could hear neither voices nor movement within. She knocked a second time and waited. After a few moments, she tried the door knob. It turned. The tiny foyer was dim after the bright outdoor light. She walked in and called, “Hello. Is anyone home?” Her voice echoed off the walls but met with no reply.

  It was strange that no one was about. Elsa had told her Mrs. O’Malley rarely moved from a sitting position, preferring that the world should come to her if it had a mind to. How very annoying—a wasted trip. Evangeline debated what to do. She had never been the sort of person to allow good manners to stand in the way of common sense. Freddie had often used the vulgar expression “high-handed” to describe her approach. She resolved to gather whatever she could find of Elsa’s belongings rather than call a second time in as many days. She would deal with the matter of Patsy’s schooling another time.

  A staircase leading to the upper floor was directly in front of her. Evangeline knew that Elsa’s room was in the attic because the girl had complained frequently of the summer heat in the stifling upstairs quarters she shared with Patsy. Evangeline ascended and found the stairs ended abruptly in the midst of a bedroom. The air was musty and close even on a chilly October day. From the masculine attire that hung on a wall peg, Evangeline assumed this had been Franz’s room. It was surprisingly neat considering the police had rifled through it so recently looking for blood-stained daggers. She attributed its current tidiness to Patsy. Evangeline advanced across the room in a straight line, because it was only safe to stand upright in the center. The steep pitch of the roof on either side would have required her to go about in a crouched position if she wanted to poke around in the corners. Not wishing to receive a nasty bump on the head in the process, she declined.

  Instead, she opened a door at the far end of the room which led into the chamber that Elsa and Patsy shared. It was larger than the first but just as sparsely furnished, containing a double bed, a pine dresser, a cracked mirror, and a cedar chest pushed back against the rafters. There was very little place to store, much less hide, anything.

  Patsy must have anticipated Evangeline’s visit because a box of clothing sat on the dresser. Evangeline immediately recognized the shirtwaist folded on top to be one Elsa had worn. She rummaged through the drawers and cedar chest, but all the remaining clothing appeared to belong to a child. Picking up the box, she made her way downstairs.

  When she peeked out the front door, she saw that Jack had made friends with the dog and was telling his ragamuffin audience the best way to train a terrier to catch rats. They appeared to be much impressed with his extensive knowledge of the subject. Seeing he had matters well in hand, Evangeline decided to use this singular opportunity to examine the rest of the house unobserved. Perhaps she might stumble across something relevant to her investigation.

  The first room off the foyer was a cramped parlor. Judging from its size, Evangeline doubted that the entire O’Malley clan could fit into the room all at the same time. The few sticks of furniture it contained were drawn close to the cast iron stove in one corner. A poker and several dry logs sat in a box next to it. Evangeline shivered slightly when she guessed that this was the single heat source for the house, other than the kitchen cook stove—hardly a sufficient protection against Chicago’s blustery winters.

  A horsehair settee on one side of the stove was dwarfed by an armchair of royal proportions on the other side. When Evangeline noticed that the seat cushion had lost some of its stuffing and a metal coil was working its way through the material, she was fairly certain who the chair’s usual occupant was. The settee wasn’t robust enough to hold Mrs. O’Malley’s weight.

  Evangeline was struck by the gloominess of the room even on a day when the sun shone brightly outdoors. It took her a few moments to comprehend that there was only one grimy window and that its lace curtains held enough soot and cobwebs to smother even the hardiest rays. Scant heat and less light, a disturbing contrast to her own warm, well-lit abode.

  Off the parlor on the left was a small bedroom. It would barely have qualified as a closet in Evangeline’s boudoir. She guessed this was the room the two little boys occupied. She could see another bedroom beyond it. An archway at the back of the parlor led her into the kitchen.

  As she turned her attention away from the cold-water sink stacked with dirty dishes, Evangeline realized that she wasn’t alone. A figure was seated at the table, or rather half-sprawled across it. Evangeline recognized the vague man she had met at the funeral. It was Mr. Patrick O’Malley who sat slumped over in his shirt sleeves, a three-day stubble on his chin, his left cheek resting on the table, and his hat still partially perched on his head. As she drew near him, Evangeline became aware of the stench of alcohol. She saw a gin bottle on the table close to his left hand while an empty glass was still clutched in his right.

  He made no movement. Evangeline couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not. She tried to shake him gently by the shoulder.

  “Mr. O’Malley?” She nudged him again. “Are you all right?”

  He sat up with a snort. His hat went spinning to the floor. Jerking his arms up in surprise, he nearly clipped Evangeline on the ear. She leaped back out of range.

  O’Malley turned toward her, startled and disoriented. His glazed eyes held a fearful expression.

  “Who are you?” he quavered, groping protectively for the nearly empty bottle.

  Evangeline stood perfectly still. She replied in a calm voice. “I’m Evangeline LeClair, Mr. O’Malley. So sorry to have startled you. We’ve met before.”

  “What do you want? What are you doing sneaking up on a body like that?” He unsteadily poured the last of the gin into his glass.

  She held forward the box of Elsa’s clothing. “I came to collect these. I assumed your wife would be here.”

  “She’s gone to Maxwell Street with the boys.” He offered no details as to the reason for his wife’s errand. Furtively glancing at the bundle, he asked, “What’s that?”

  Evangeline sighed and tried again. “It’s Elsa’s. I came by to collect her belongings.”

  He seemed not to hear the entire sentence. His comprehension hung on one word. “Elsa?”

  “Yes, Elsa. You remember. We met at her funeral.”

  “Elsa.” He rubbed his hands across his face as if the gesture would clear his mental stupor. “Elsa,” he repeated, this time in bewilderment. “She’s gone, you know, all gone...” He began to croon her name as if it were a lullaby. “Elsa, pretty little Elsa. Poor little Elsa. Gone now. All gone.” His face contorted and he began to sob, slumping back over the table.

  Evangeline was stunned by his response. The man she met at the funeral seemed incapable of any feeling at all, much less such a mawkishly sentimental display. For the second time in a week, Evangeline found herself at a loss to account for human behavior—first Franz’s violent outburst and now this!

  “Mr. O’Malley, you must try to get a grip.” She disliked the idea of touching him again, but gently shook him by the shoulder. He shrank away from her touch.

  “Go away! Leave me alone,” he muttered petulantly. “What does it matter now anyway. She didn’t love me.” He sat up and guzzled the last of the gin. Turnin
g his bloodshot eyes to glance up at her, he added, “What did she need me for when she had some rich man buying her things? I wasn’t good enough!” He shook the bottle irritably when he realized it was empty.

  “How do you know she received presents from a rich man?” Evangeline tried to sound only mildly interested but her heart was racing.

  He chuckled as if pleased with some private joke. The sound was like a death rattle. “I know about everything. More than her brother knew. More than she ever wanted me to know. More than I’ll ever tell.” He sniffled and rubbed his shirt sleeve distractedly across his runny nose.

  Evangeline probed further, trying to ignore her own feelings of disgust. “You were in love with her, weren’t you.”

  The haunted expression in his eyes turned to a dull resentment. “Much good it did me! I wasn’t fine enough for her! But things are fixed now so she can’t love anybody anymore.” He smiled maliciously at the thought. “There’s a deal of comfort in that! If I can’t have her, nobody else can either!” He tried to chuckle again but the sound stuck in his throat and emerged instead as a series of fractured sobs. He rubbed his knuckles impatiently across his tear-streaked face.

  Evangeline hesitated briefly before asking her next question.

  “Did you kill her?”

  The question knocked the breath out of him. He gasped in panic, “I... I... Get out!” Without warning, he threw the empty gin bottle. It came hurtling through the air, sailed past Evangeline’s ear and smashed against the wall behind her.

  “Get out! Get out! Get oooooouuuuut!” O’Malley half rose from his chair, weaving unsteadily.

  Evangeline prided herself on remaining cool in a crisis. She barely flinched at the sound of shattering glass as her eyes quickly scanned the room for a weapon to defend herself. She remembered the fire poker in the parlor. Surely she could reach it before he caught up with her. It took all her self-control, but she stood her ground long enough to take the measure of the man. She guessed that he was too much of a coward to attack.

  He tried to stare her down, but his gaze slid away. The effort of his outburst had cost him. He sagged back into his chair. “Leave me alone,” he whined and sunk his head into his hands. “Stop bothering me. I don’t want to think about her anymore.”

  Evangeline backed out of the kitchen cautiously, keeping her face toward him until she reached the front door. As she closed it behind her, she could hear him wailing Elsa’s name like a funeral dirge.

  During the bumpy carriage ride back to her own well-heeled neighborhood, Evangeline enumerated her suspects. The list had just grown longer by one.

  Chapter 12—Freddie’s Malady

  It wasn’t until late on Friday morning that Freddie was able to disentangle himself from the tentacles of Simpson And Austin to visit the physician who had examined Elsa’s body. After his extended absence on Tuesday afternoon, Freddie could feel his uncle’s benevolent mood evaporating. Getting a chance to interview Dr. Doyle would be a tricky matter since the doctor didn’t keep evening office hours. Without any idea how to fabricate a new excuse so soon after his last disappearance, Freddie decided to use his basic maneuver of sneaking out when no one was watching and then apologize afterward.

  Unfortunately, his uncle had taken the precaution of setting a watchdog on Freddie in the person of Aloysius Waverly. Like Freddie, Waverly was a junior associate in the firm, but not possessing Freddie’s advantage of having been born into the right family, Aloysius chose to rise in the legal ranks by toadying for a senior partner.

  As Freddie was about to run down the stairs to the front lobby and make his escape, Aloysius caught up with him. Trying to make his interest sound as casual as possible he inquired, “So where are you off to?”

  “I thought I’d get a breath of air and, for your information, it is almost lunchtime.”

  “A breath of air?” Waverly was incredulous. “It’s pouring outside!”

  “Thanks, old man. I forgot my umbrella.” Freddie offered no further information. Instead, he stamped back down the corridor to his office to retrieve it.

  Trailing behind him, Aloysius whined, “But what will I tell Mr. Simpson if he should ask where you are?”

  Freddie wheeled about suddenly, nearly causing a collision with his colleague. “And why, pray tell, would my uncle apply to you for that information in the first place?”

  “Well, aaah, I suppose... ,” Waverly fumbled for words. His nose had a habit of twitching for no particular reason, which reminded Freddie of a rabbit. The resemblance to a rabbit extended to Aloysius’ ears which were large, pointed, and, Freddie inferred, could pick up sounds inaudible to other humans.

  “Don’t bother to think up a good excuse. You may strain a part of your brain that might be needed to hatch a new scheme to stab me in the back.”

  “Why, Simpson, I’m appalled you would think that about me.” Waverly displayed as much injured dignity as he could summon on such short notice, his nose twitching violently all the while.

  Freddie stared at him impassively. “Aloysius, just how dumb do I look?”

  “Well, there are times when you can be—”

  “It was a rhetorical question, for God’s sake!” Freddie cut in before he heard anything too unflattering about the level of his intelligence.

  Waverly just stood there in silence, waiting for Freddie to do something significant that could be reported.

  “Aloysius, how much would it cost for you to develop a temporary case of amnesia?”

  “A what?” Waverly was aghast at the question.

  “I’m speaking of a business proposition here. Something to compensate you for your silence in a matter that doesn’t concern you anyway.”

  “Well, I don’t know...”

  “How does twenty dollars sound?”

  “It sounds like a great deal of money.” Aloysius appeared awestruck.

  “And so it is. That’s at least two days’ pay to you, isn’t it?”

  “A bit more than that.”

  “Well, here it is.” Freddie counted the bills out of his pocket. “And you didn’t see me leave, and you have no idea where I am, is that clear?”

  “Oh, yes indeed, quite clear.” Waverly grabbed the money eagerly, rubbing his nose to quiet its vibrations.

  Freddie waited until the bills had changed hands before saying, “And if my whereabouts today should somehow, accidentally, be reported to my uncle, you can rest assured that he will also hear that you accepted a bribe from me. Is that equally clear?”

  Waverly blanched at the realization that he had stepped into a trap. “Agreed. You’ve bought my silence for the day. But it really is a pity.” He paused to contemplate Freddie for a second. “You would have made a fine attorney after all.”

  “That’s the limit! I’ve just heard the last insult I’m prepared to accept from you today!” Freddie reversed direction and marched toward the stairwell.

  Sadly, Aloysius’ prediction about the weather had been correct. It was pouring when Freddie left the building, and he had never gotten all the way back to his office for the umbrella. Rather than walk the twelve blocks to the doctor’s address, he jumped into the first available cab. The driver let him off in the middle of a quiet street of residential greystone buildings. There was a plaque on the door of one indicating that the building contained a physician’s office. In brass letters it proclaimed “Dr. A. C. Doyle—Consulting Physician.”

  “I wonder if the consultation ever involves a cure,” Freddie said to himself as he ran up the stairs two at a time. He rapped on the door authoritatively. A young man with a pencil-thin mustache answered the summons.

  Freddie announced himself. “Hello, my name is Frederick Simpson, and I’m here to see Dr. Doyle.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The young man was unctuously polite. “What time is your appointment?”

  “Well, that’s just it.” Freddie scraped his feet a bit. “I don’t have one.”

  The attendant sized him up and
down to determine if the cut of his clothing suggested a person to whom he could afford to be rude. The fact that Freddie was drenched didn’t make him an imposing figure. “Oh my, that is unfortunate.”

  “Young man.” Freddie took great pleasure in using that title which had so frequently been applied to him of late. “Young man, you may tell him that I have been recommended to his notice by a friend of Mrs. Potter Templar and that I have come to discuss a matter which requires a certain degree of tact.”

  “Oh, I see.” The attendant’s tone immediately changed to one of deference. “And if I tell him this, he will understand your message?”

  “Perfectly.” Freddie spoke with far more confidence than he felt, but he was determined to get past the door before being thrown out on his ear.

  “Come in, sir.” The attendant bowed slightly and gestured toward the front parlor, which was used as a waiting room. The curtains were partially drawn even though the sky was almost black outside. Freddie sat down at one end of the room, near the bay window. The only other occupant was an elderly female with a formidable hat seated at the opposite end.

  Freddie had learned through sad experience that ladies who wore formidable hats generally possessed temperaments to match their chapeaux. In consequence, he tried to avoid looking her directly in the eye. The lady was not to be so easily dissuaded. Even though he kept his head turned toward the opposite wall, Freddie could feel her staring at him. From the corner of his eye he could see the ostrich plume perched on top of her head bobbing and swaying in the draughty air currents like some feathered cobra. When he couldn’t stand the scrutiny any longer, he turned to gaze in her direction.

  The woman used this as a signal to speak. “You’re all wet!”

  “Thank you, madame, for that bit of news. It is, after all, raining quite hard outside.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just get a cab?”