“Now?” Freddie was aghast.
“Now, Freddie. We’ll have more privacy that way.” Evangeline stood firm.
Her companion sighed and walked over to the old man. “How much?”
The man pointed laconically to the sign behind him that indicated rates and rental times. “I’m sorry to ask so late in the season.” Freddie dug into his pocket for the requisite amount. “But the lady—,” gesturing with his head toward Evangeline who stood farther back by the water, “has taken an odd notion that she’d like to go boating.”
The old man looked from Freddie to Evangeline and back again. “If I was you, son, I’d be grateful of the opportunity and wouldn’t question how I came by it.” He took a long puff on his cigar. “Take as long as you like. Just bring the boat up on the grass when you’re done. I’m on my lunch break.” With that the old man picked up his stool and placard, and retreated to some secret recess of his own for a surreptitious nap.
“Well, come on then,” Freddie called to Evangeline. She had become intrigued with the collection of waterfowl circling the shore in search of food. Seeing that Freddie had secured a boat for them to use, she marched up to it, climbed in, and waited for the young man to push off.
When he had rowed to the center of the lagoon, Evangeline finally spoke. “All right. Now tell me all the news from the wilds of Iowa.”
Freddie launched into his story with far more eagerness than he had launched their vessel. He told her about his interview with the illustrious Mr. Smythe who had been promoted to president of the bank, and a far more useful interview with a banker named Jeremiah Sidley.
Evangeline registered astonishment. “You mean our Jacob Kingston had the nerve to use the last name of someone he knew back in Dodgeville as his alias?”
“Not just someone he knew, someone who hates his guts. Mr. Jeremiah Sidley discovered that our friend had been embezzling funds. When Jeremiah told Harcourt Smythe about it, he was ordered to keep his mouth shut or lose his job. Kingston was allowed to get away scot free.”
“You mean Vice President Smythe wanted to cover up the matter?”
“Exactly. Smythe stood in a fair way of being appointed president at that time, and the last thing he wanted was a run on the bank by panicked farmers.”
“Does your Mr. Jeremiah Sidley have proof of fraud?” Evangeline asked doubtfully.
Freddie beamed. “He kept the ledger sheets showing the discrepancies. His grudge is personal since he lost some of his own money through Kingston’s scheme. When I told him the alias Kingston was using in Chicago, he offered to come here and horsewhip him personally.”
Evangeline’s tense expression disappeared. A broad smile spread over her face. “Well done, Sir Frederick. Well done indeed! I can’t tell you how relieved I am. We finally have something to force Sidley to talk. At least he’ll be able to tell us what part he and Jonathan played.” She added worriedly, “We have to run the murderer to ground soon. We’re almost out of time.”
“Oh, come now, Engie, what are you so concerned about? Franz is in jail. O’Malley is probably still drunk. Blackthorne doesn’t think we’re after him. Neither does Sidley. We can take all the time we need.”
Evangeline knit her brows. “There’s the small matter of Franz’s upcoming trial, not to mention what happened this morning. I went back to the O’Malley house to arrange for Patsy’s schooling and to see what else I might pry out of Mr. O’Malley.”
“Judging from your face, things didn’t go as planned.”
“Things went quite well—up to a point. Mrs. O’Malley agreed to allow Patsy to go if I could find a school to take her and compensate the family for her loss of income.”
“Then why so serious?”
“Because, Mr. O’Malley has disappeared.”
“He what!” Freddie sat bolt upright, causing the boat to rock precariously. “How could this happen? You said he was usually too drunk to move.”
Evangeline braced her hands against the sides of the boat to steady herself. “Apparently, I underestimated his resolve.”
“Running away is a clear admission of guilt!” Freddie grabbed the oars and began to row energetically, albeit aimlessly. “We have to find him! You must have put him on his guard when you started asking questions last time.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Mrs. O’ says he does this quite frequently. She didn’t seem at all alarmed about it.”
“Maybe this time is different,” Freddie muttered darkly, churning water in every direction.
Evangeline shook off the spray from Freddie’s vigorous oarsmanship. “You might be right, but it’s equally possible he’s gone on a drinking binge and will return when he sobers up.”
Freddie paused in mid-stroke to stare at his friend. “You’re taking this far too calmly.” He brought the dripping oars back into the boat.
“That’s because we have something more urgent to ponder than Mr. O’Malley’s disappearance.”
Freddie raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Do you know where I was yesterday?”
“Based on your past record, I’d guess it was a place called ‘out.’”
“I was at the White City—”
Freddie cut in, “A fine time for you to go on holiday when we’re trying to hunt down a murderer.”
“With Jonathan.” She finished the sentence and Freddie abruptly fell silent.
“That wasn’t a very smart thing to do, Engie. You don’t know what he’s capable of if you alarm him.”
“I had hoped to alarm him, Freddie, but instead he alarmed me.” Evangeline looked uncomfortable. She recounted her misadventure on the Ferris wheel.
Freddie felt himself grow pale with shock. “My God, Engie! Do you really believe it was an accident? He must have meant to kill you.”
Evangeline seemed disturbed, even in the retelling. “I can’t be sure. It might have just been a horrible bit of clumsiness on his part. But if it was an attempt to dispose of me, and it failed because too many people were watching, then he’s bound to try again. I had to find a way to keep him at bay for a while.”
“I take it we’re coming to the part where time has become of the essence?”
“Yes. On the carriage ride back, I broached the subject of marriage. With very little prompting, he came right out and popped the question.”
Freddie heaved a huge sigh. “Somehow, it doesn’t seem quite so shocking to hear it the second time around. Why did you start him off in that direction? You couldn’t have said yes?” He looked to Evangeline worriedly, imploring a denial.
“All I wanted was a stay of execution. If he really is guilty, his offer of marriage is nothing but a cat’s paw to see whether I suspect him. I could only hope to throw him off guard by promising to consider his proposal and give him an answer by a set date.”
"How much time do we have?”
“One week.”
“One week!” Freddie exclaimed loud enough to cause a gull floating nearby to flap away in alarm.
“Yes, I told him I’d give him an answer by this coming Friday.”
“I don’t know if we can come up with anything by then. All we have to go on is the fact that Sidley—that is, Kingston—embezzled money from a bank in Iowa and probably did the same at Dresden And Company.” Freddie now sat slumped over the oars, letting the boat drift on the placid water.
“Cheer up, my boy. That may not be quite all we have.” Evangeline related her conversation with Jane Eaves and the prospect that a former victim might still be alive.
Freddie smiled wanly. “Well, that helps a bit. What’s our next move?”
“That’s where you come in,” Evangeline replied with too much alacrity.
Freddie came to apprehensive attention and instinctively leaned backward in the boat, away from his companion. “Engie, you’ve got that devilish gleam in your eyes. It’s the same look that sent me bouncing all the way to Dodgeville. What fresh hell have you got in store for me now?”
W
ithout saying a word, she dug into her coat pocket and brought out two pieces of paper. She handed them to Freddie.
“What’s this?”
“The first is a picture of Jonathan. I’m sure it’s a good enough likeness for even you to recognize.”
“How did you get it?”
“I wheedled it out of his mother on false pretenses.” She laughed wickedly.
“I can’t imagine you playing the love-struck damsel convincingly enough to make her believe you would pine away without a picture of her son.”
“It’s amazing what nonsense mothers will believe where their progeny are concerned.”
The other piece of paper contained a name and address. Freddie read it aloud: “‘Rosa Grandinetti, Mother Connelly’s, 480 South Clark Street.’ I take it this is the girl who left Mast House so unexpectedly?”
“Yes, that’s right. Jane was kind enough to write down her current address for me.”
“The young lady’s current address,” Freddie grinned sardonically, “is in the Levee District. Do you know what Mother Connelly’s establishment is?”
“Of course, I do, Freddie. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s a brothel.”
“Not just a brothel. According to what I’ve heard about this place, it’s one of the most unsavory houses of ill repute in a city that grants a great deal of latitude in judging the depravity of such establishments. I’ve heard that Mother Connelly herself boasted that there is no act so disgusting or degraded that one of her girls would be unwilling to perform it.”
Evangeline raised an eyebrow. “Well that sort of advertising must really bring them through the door in droves. And how is it, young man, that you come to know so much about these things?”
“Call it a prurient interest that lingers from the days when I was just a callow youth.”
“By my reckoning, you’re still a callow youth. And forgive me if I doubt that you acquired this information first-hand.”
Freddie laughed in embarrassment. “You’ve found me out. I’m not the man about town you think me to be.”
“Ha!” Evangeline barked by way of a reply.
“In all seriousness, Engie, this isn’t the sort of place you ought to be visiting.”
“Oh, I have no intention of visiting Mother Connelly’s myself.” She fixed Freddie with a steady gaze.
He rolled his eyes. “Why do I never see it coming? Why, in all the years I’ve known you, do I always walk into the traps you set for me? Fool that I am!”
Evangeline continued to stare at him impassively. “You said yourself that I can’t go there. They’d think I was a social reformer out to pray over the girls or make them give up smoking or some such thing. I’d never get through the front door.”
“Or worse yet, you’d get through the front door and they’d never let you get back out again.”
“Yes, there is also that possibility.” Evangeline shuddered.
“I’ve never been to a place like that before. What will I say?”
“You’ll part your hair down the center in a most unattractive fashion and say you are a clerk from Peoria come to the big city to see the Fair and a few other sights as well.”
“Yes, I suppose I could do that,” Freddie agreed half-heartedly.
“Look, all you have to say is that a friend of a friend referred you to Rosa. I don’t think anyone will question that. Once you’re in a room, alone with her...”
“Oh, God!” Freddie’s distress increased at the thought.
“Just tell her you want to talk. I’m sure she’s had stranger requests than that before.” Evangeline trailed her fingers through the chilly water.
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Show her Jonathan’s picture and see if she recognizes him. Find out whatever you can about her past and why she left Mast House.”
Freddie sighed deeply at the prospect of the humiliating trial before him.
Evangeline reached over and squeezed his hand. A look of appeal had entered her eyes. “Please, Freddie, it’s the best hope we have left. And we really are running out of time.”
Freddie patted her hand reassuringly in turn. “I know, Engie. I know. But it’s the longest of long shots.”
Evangeline smiled slightly. “If this doesn’t work, I suppose I’ll just have to marry Jonathan, or be murdered by him—perhaps both.”
“Say no more! You’ve convinced me. I’ll do it.”
“There’s a good lad. Now, row us back to shore and let’s sample whatever Jack packed in that picnic hamper for us.”
Chapter 24—Clockworks In The Levee
On Saturday afternoon, Freddie thought about the visit he was supposed to pay to Mother Connolly’s, but like a man dipping a toe into the icy waters of Lake Michigan, he couldn’t quite bring himself to jump in. He procrastinated by pretending that he needed time to plan a strategy.
The only relevant action he took was a trip to a theatrical supply shop in the Loop before he caught the train back to the North Shore. Here he purchased a false set of sideburns and mustachios, along with enough spirit gum to fasten the whiskers to his own clean-shaven face. He told the proprietor that he was part of an amateur drama group staging a revival of “Our American Cousin.” The owner didn’t appear suspicious about the purchase, though he did say that the choice of play was in poor taste.
Since Freddie’s own overwrought imagination convinced him that everybody suspected him of something, his precautions became not only elaborate but silly as well. He went home that night and locked himself in his bedroom despite repeated calls from his mother to come downstairs to dinner. There he tried on his disguise and postured in front of the mirror in what he hoped was the attitude of a clerk on holiday.
Late Monday morning, having finally locked onto a glimmer of resolution cowering somewhere at the back of his mind, Freddie marched out of the offices of Simpson And Austin. He said he was going to call on a client, but instead skipped around the corner to the nearest lavatory where he could apply his whiskers. He prayed for the thousandth time that Aloysius hadn’t seen him leave. For once, his heightened sense of suspicion didn’t detect any reason for alarm. After checking that the coast was clear, Freddie ducked out of the restroom and headed south on Clark Street to find the infamous address.
The would-be reporter had pondered the best time to pay his visit to Mother Connelly. He decided that there was less likelihood of being caught in a raid or of being recognized by anyone he knew if he arrived in broad daylight before the vice district came alive at sundown. Unfortunately, this also meant that, if he were found out, his family disgrace would be complete and everlasting. The idea of a young man of good family visiting a bordello would have been mildly disturbing to female relations. This was nothing compared with the outrage of his male relatives at the idea of a young man of good family visiting a bordello of the lowest moral order during his lunch hour on a work day.
Freddie took a deep breath and stepped across the dividing line between the business district and the vice district. He knew that despite the efforts of reformers for at least two decades, Chicago’s purveyors of illicit pleasure had maintained an indestructible presence in an area called the Levee. It spanned a four-block radius from Clark to Dearborn Streets on the west and from Polk Street to Harrison on the south. The houses that lined the streets were mainly brothels with a few cheap rooming houses and saloons thrown in for variety. Although Chicago mayor Long John Wentworth had personally burned down the original vice district in the late 1850s, his successors in City Hall found it more lucrative to let the Levee remain. Vice raids occurred infrequently and were usually directed at madams who hadn’t made timely protection payments to their local police. While the Columbian Exposition had brought a flood of tourist money into the city to purchase legal commodities, the purchase of vice was also thriving as a result.
During the time of day that Freddie made his timid way down Clark Street, there were few pedestrians. Most of the brothels on the street didn’t actively
seek business until some time around noon. This would have made Freddie one of the first prospective customers of the day. The ladies in the houses that lined either side of the street certainly viewed him that way. It had become a common practice for watchful madams to station a girl as a lookout in one of their upstairs windows. The girl would tap on the glass and attract the notice of pedestrians—an inexpensive form of advertising. When Freddie heard what sounded like fingernails tapping gently on a window pane he looked up and was greeted by an impish smile from a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen. She waved at him and gestured for him to come into the parlor, adding a few other gestures more apropos to the purpose of his visit, which modesty declines to mention. Freddie was blushing to the roots of his hair and stared resolutely at the sidewalk as he marched on despite many further taps beckoning him to look skyward. Glancing sideways under his hat brim, he tried to count down the addresses until he arrived at the one he was looking for.
He finally braved a peep upward when he arrived at his destination. He verified the numbers on the building and also noted the ever-present second-floor sentinel, but Mother Connelly had improved on the methods of her competitors. Instead of stationing a live girl in the window who would have to be relieved sooner or later, she had posted what appeared to be a mechanical woman. Freddie couldn’t be quite sure how she operated, but some hidden clockwork caused her to strike the pane of glass at regular intervals. While the automaton wasn’t as inviting as a real girl, she was effective in gaining Freddie’s attention. He stood gawking in awe, wondering how she managed to avoid breaking the window each time as her hand struck it with such force.
He was startled out of his scientific observation when a woman of flesh and blood opened the door of the establishment. “Well,” she said, “are you going to come in, sweetie, or just stand and stare all day?”
Freddie looked around nervously to see if anyone else saw him. The street was empty, but he still scuttled up the steps to the front door as fast as he could. The woman who stood there was dressed rather loosely in a kimono, which she hadn’t bothered to wrap around her ample endowments. She linked her arm through Freddie’s and drew him through the door. He stood in the foyer like a man just waking up from a bad dream and having difficulty recognizing where he was. He stared at the ceiling and he stared at the walls, but said nothing by way of introduction.
The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) Page 23
