by Troy Soos
“How’s that?”
“A shack where I met a couple of the Wobblies—Hyman and Whitey Boggs. There’s a false wall, and Garrett was behind it listening.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. The Wobblies were pressing me for who was organizing on the Tigers. I said Chick Fogarty—it was a joke. Hyman and Boggs could tell I was kidding, but Garrett—who wouldn’t know Chick Fogarty from Honus Wagner—must have taken it serious.” It was when Fogarty had made his blunder trying to steal third that I realized what must have happened. The idea that the dull-witted catcher could be a union leader was ludicrous, so how did Calvin Garrett get the notion that he was? Only by having overheard what I’d said in the shack.
“And how’s that a connection with Donner?”
“The shack was a couple of years old. I figure Donner used it to listen in on Ford workers, and he told Garrett about it.”
“You still don’t have anything I can take to my captain.”
“No, I guess not.”
McGuire then gave me a couple of telephone numbers where I could reach him, and again urged me to be cautious.
The movie flickering on the screen of the Empire Theatre was D. W. Griffith’s The Idol Dancer. I’d have much preferred to be spending this Friday night seated next to Margie Turner, watching Clarine Seymour doing the hula in her grass skirt. Instead, I was with Stan Zaluski watching him crank the projector. He was the next person I thought I could get a little more information from.
“There’s something I didn’t think of till recently,” I said.
“And what might that be?”
“After Emmett Siever got shot, there were two people back there: me and Calvin Garrett—the guy who called himself Detective Aikens. After Aikens let me go, I went into the hall, and there were people yelling that Siever had been killed. My question is: how did they know? I was the only one who’d heard the shot, and Garrett and I were the only ones who saw he was dead.”
Zaluski drew at his pipe, long and slow. “Well, I reckon the message got through somehow.”
“How?”
He thought it over, then shook his head. “With all that’s been going on lately, I think the best thing is for me to keep quiet.”
“It’s because of what’s been happening that you should talk to me.”
“How you figure that?”
“Siever killed. Hyman killed. How confident are you that you won’t be next? If I can find out what happened, and who the killer is, that might make things safer for both of us.”
He took a few more puffs before answering. “A little electric light. We have some buttons and lightbulbs set up in the building, to let people know if there’s trouble coming. I got one at the front desk; if the cops bust in, I push a button, some lights go on, and maybe some things we don’t want the cops to see get hidden.”
“Okay. So the signal came from somebody in the back offices. From Hyman? He was in the hall after the murder. What did he do—come out and mix with the rest of the crowd in the confusion?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Don’t guess. Just tell me. Hyman’s dead—it can’t do him any harm.”
Zaluski shot me a look. “For one thing, I don’t know all the answers. For another, there’s people still alive who can be harmed—or who might do harm.”
I thought of Whitey Boggs. “You still think one of the guys who wants to take Hyman’s place might come after me?”
“Hell, they’re acting so crazy, I don’t know who the hell they’ll be going after. Acting like a bunch of goddamn robber barons instead of socialists.” His hand started to tremble.
“Want me to take over some?”
He nodded, and I spelled him at the crank. It gave me some time to think. When a reel change came, I waited for Zaluski to perform it, then asked, “I’d like to take a look in the back of the hall. Is there any time when the place is empty?”
“What do you want to do that for? Think you’re going to find something the cops haven’t? Or that we haven’t already looked for?”
“I might. If I do, I promise I’ll let you know what I come up with.” I didn’t mention that I already knew who killed Leo Hyman. If that became known to the Wobblies, it might trigger actions that I couldn’t deal with just yet.
“If you get caught,” he warned, “there’s nothing going to save you.”
“When’s the best time I can go in?”
“Sunday afternoon we’re having a rally in Campus Martius. We want to remind everyone that we beat Palmer in here in the primary election—embarrass him just before the convention starts. I expect everybody will be at the rally, so the Hall should be empty. You got a game Sunday?”
“No, I can make it.”
“It’s gonna be locked.” He fished in his pocket and handed me a key. “If things blow up, you swiped this from me. Got it?”
“Got it. Thanks.”
Chapter Thirty
I was determined to make the most of the opportunity. If it worked out, I’d be able to prove that I hadn’t killed Emmett Siever. If it didn’t work out ... Well, I was taking every step possible to avoid that outcome.
I went over my plan with Margie, talking out every possibility. And I reviewed it in my mind a dozen times, mapping out my movements once I got into Fraternity Hall. I wanted to establish ahead of time exactly where I would go and what I would do—the faster I got in and out, the better.
In case things didn’t go according to plan, I stopped at home Saturday morning. With McGuire’s admonition of caution and Zaluski’s warning that I was on my own echoing in my ears, I pulled out the biscuit tin from under my bed. At the bottom of the container, wrapped in a white silk handkerchief, was my army Colt .45. I unfolded the cloth and looked at the automatic pistol with sadness; it wasn’t something I’d ever hoped to touch again.
After a quick outing to a hardware store for oil and fresh ammunition, I cleaned the weapon thoroughly enough to pass a drill sergeant’s most critical inspection. Then I slipped seven rounds in the magazine and snapped it into the grip.
I waited impatiently for twelve-thirty. The rally was supposed to start at noon, which gave me a half hour time buffer in case anyone was late leaving the hall.
Assuming that Calvin Garrett had told the truth about Siever having had a gun, it must still be somewhere in the hall, I thought. If Siever had simply dropped it, the weapon would have been found. I believed that somebody hid it. And if the gun didn’t turn up in the police search, it should still be there—what safer hiding place than one that has already been searched?
At half past twelve, I stepped out onto Grand River Avenue. I took a quick inventory of what I had: a key for access, a gun for protection, and as good a plan as I could come up with.
Using the key, I opened the front door to Fraternity Hall quickly and quietly, and stepped inside the vestibule.
I first poked my head into the meeting area; it was empty and still.
Next I looked around Stan Zaluski’s desk. I found a small lightbulb and a button attached to the desk’s left leg, and thin wires that ran from them up to the ceiling. The wires were painted the same color as the walls, but were visible if you looked for them. One thing about concrete block construction: it’s tough to hide the wiring.
I then made a beeline through the hall, and carefully opened the door to the back offices. Still no sound or sight of anyone.
I started in the kitchen and tried to retrace Calvin Garrett’s movements from the moment of the shooting. The first thing he would have done is try to leave. I followed the corridor from the kitchen to the back door, the same as Garrett must have. I’d originally thought that he’d been lying about trying to get out, but perhaps he hadn’t. One thing I’d noticed during my earlier inspection of the door led me to believe it warranted a second examination.
I lifted the crossbar, pulled the handle, and the door opened easily. I quickly shut it again. Then I took a closer look at the bracket that held the
bar. The metal plate around the bracket surrounded it like a light switch plate. They weren’t attached, and I could see no structural reason for it.
With a screwdriver from one of the tool boxes, I removed the plate. When I lifted the bar again to pull the plate free from the bracket, the bracket also moved up a good half inch. And the door wouldn’t open.
I pressed down on the bracket, feeling the resistance of a spring, and the door opened freely. Lifting my finger, the bracket rose, and along with it, a metal plug rose out of the saddle. The work of Leo Hyman the tinker, I was sure. With the plate screwed in to hold the bracket in the down position, the door and crossbar work exactly as they should. Without the plate, lifting the crossbar causes the bracket to rise and a plug to go into the bottom of the door. Calvin Garrett had been intentionally trapped in the building.
As I replaced the plate, I thought over the next step: Garrett found he was trapped, then called McGuire to order a raid—no doubt to create a ruckus so that he could escape in the confusion. I opened the door of the nearest office. Like the one Hyman had shown Landfors and me, it was in a shambles. But the phone on the desk worked.
Okay, Garrett calls McGuire and returns to the kitchen. He finds me there, and Siever’s revolver gone.
What happened while Garrett was trying to leave? Somebody—presumably Hyman—took Siever’s gun and hid it. Purpose: to make it seem like Garrett killed an unarmed man.
I walked back to the kitchen, wondering where he would hide the gun. I took myself out of Garrett’s shoes and stepped into Hyman’s. Where would I hide the weapon? Not in the offices—that’s the direction that Garrett would be coming back from. The other direction, then. The pantry.
The mess in the pantry was discouraging; searching through the clutter could take all afternoon. All right, I reminded myself, I could eliminate all places large enough to hold a pistol since the police would have already checked them. But then where do I look?
I put myself in Hyman’s place again. I’d have already been in hiding when Garrett shot Siever. Then when Garrett tries to leave, I come out, grab Siever’s gun, and go back to my hiding spot. Then I signal Stan Zaluski.
I looked up at the pantry ceiling and spotted wires running along the edge. They came down next to the sink. Taking care not to bump my head on the trap, I crouched down and found the button on the wall underneath.
Okay, now how did I know when to come out and get the gun? Footsteps? Maybe, but I’d want a better way to tell what was happening than simply listening for footsteps. I examined the wall between the pantry and the kitchen. Near the button, I found a peephole that had been taped over.
Sitting under the sink, I considered the question of where the gun would be. I’d have stashed it close to where I was hiding. There was only one possible place within arm’s reach, and it was right in front of my nose. The trap. But it wasn’t big enough to hold a revolver.
I gently hit the trap with the heel of my palm, and heard a rattling inside. Using both hands, I grabbed hold of the pipe and pulled down. It slid off easily. I turned the “U” over, dumping its contents on the floor. There were two pieces to a gun, a model gun; one section was the barrel, and the other the butt. I fitted the pieces together. It looked realistic, but would never fire. I remembered Hyman’s words about his model ship: Ain’t never gonna sail, but she’s sure gonna look seaworthy.
Why did Siever pull a gun that wouldn’t work? Did Hyman give it to him?
I weighed the fake weapon in my hand. It wouldn’t fool anybody trying to use it. Siever must have known it wasn’t real. Why pull a gun that you know won’t fire?
Jeez. And what about the ice pick? I put Siever’s gun in my pocket and banged the trap on the floor. It was empty. Then I probed inside the pipe hanging from the bottom of the basin. My fingers felt a piece of rag stuffed inside. I pulled it out and unrolled it. A blood-encrusted ice pick fell out.
“You got to be the noisiest burglar in the business.”
I looked up at Whitey Boggs standing in the pantry doorway. Then I lowered my gaze to the revolver in his right hand.
“You’re making it easy for me by coming here,” he said. “This way I’m protecting the place against an intruder.”
Okay, I thought, the good news is that he didn’t simply shoot me. “How’d you know I was here?” I asked, trying to swallow the fear that was percolating in my chest.
“Same way I know you bought a box of bullets this morning. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
I raised my arms slightly so he could see I was making no moves for my gun. “And how’s that?” I asked.
“Hub Donner. Been keeping tabs on you. So I also know you went to the Rouge shack—and you ripped it apart.”
“Yeah. I found out why you insisted on going there that night with Leo Hyman: because you wanted Calvin Garrett to hear what we talked about. Same way you’d bring men there when you worked for Ford—so Hub Donner could listen in and find out what the union plans were.”
“It wasn’t what I wanted. It’s what they made me do, Donner and Garrett. Yeah, I worked for Donner at Ford. Then he had me infiltrate this place to see what the IWW was up to.”
“But you decided you liked the Wobblies. You really changed sides.”
“Damn right I did. People here treated me with respect. Hub Donner never did. He paid me, yeah, but to him I was scum, a stoolie—he called me his ‘White Rat.’ I told him months ago I wanted out, but he wouldn’t let me off the hook. He said he’d let the Wobblies know I was a plant if I tried to quit. Then when Garrett came to town, Donner lent me to him like I was some goddamn ballplayer he could just trade to another team.”
“You’re really caught in a tough spot,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Not anymore I’m not. I’m sticking with the IWW and I’ll cut down anybody who can tell about my past.”
“Like you cut down Leo Hyman?”
Boggs started to answer, then caught himself. “Like I’m going to do to you, ” he said. “But first, I want to know what you’ve been telling people.”
Since he wanted information from me, I figured that gave me a chance to stall him. What I’d be stalling for I didn’t know, but when somebody’s planning to shoot you, just getting a little more time seems important. “You want information from me, you answer a few of my questions first,” I said.
“All right,” he agreed. “A few. But take out your gun.”
I was about to reach for my .45, then paused, shifted, and slowly went for the model instead. “I thought you’d be at the rally today,” I said.
“Real easy,” Boggs ordered. “Put it on the floor and slide it over.”
I did as he said, and Boggs kicked the fake pistol down the hall. His body relaxed, as did his grip on his revolver. He went on, “That’s why this is the perfect time to finally take care of you. There’s dozens of men who’ll swear I was at the rally. Now: who else have you talked to?”
“No, I go first. I never figured you for a plant. Why the Relief Committee, for one thing?”
“That was Donner’s idea. He’s a bastard, but he’s a smart bastard. He figured by joining the Relief Committee, nobody would suspect me. But just by being a committee head, I’d get to hear a lot of things from the other leaders. Worked pretty well for a time.”
“Until you thought Hyman was onto you. At the warehouse, when he told you to leave me alone, he said something suggesting there was a spy in the group.”
“You got it. He also said you had nothing to do with Siever’s death. I thought maybe he knew about Garrett. And if he knew about Garrett, maybe he knew about me. Couldn’t take the risk of letting him live.”
“Donner and Garrett know what you’ve been doing. Are you going to kill them, too?”
“Damn right. Donner first.”
“Well, what about—”
“No,” said Boggs. “Enough of your questions. Now it’s time for answers.”
“Uh-uh. You want me to t
alk, you got to tell me some more.”
With his free hand, Boggs pulled the razor from his pocket. “No, I got another way to get you to talk.”
I tensed, ready to take advantage and go for my gun if he switched the razor to his other hand.
My eyes stayed on his hands. Suddenly an urgent pounding rattled the door to the alley. Boggs turned to look down the hall. “Who the hell?”
In a second, I had the Colt in my right hand. “Drop it!” I said.
The hammering at the door continued. Boggs started to fall to a crouch, spinning toward me. The muzzle of his gun exploded. I squeezed the trigger of mine as a bullet crashed into the sink over my head. I fired again. And a third time. I kept shooting as Boggs kept dropping. Splotches of red were bursting on his white clothes.
More knocks on the door. I caught my breath and stood, slowly walking toward Boggs, my eyes and pistol still trained on him. It didn’t require much of an examination to realize that there was no need to keep him in my sights. I picked up his revolver and carried it with me to the alley door. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me!” came Margie’s voice. “Whitey Boggs isn’t at the rally!”
I pocketed my weapon and let her in. “He’s here,” I said. “I had to shoot him.”
“Is he—”
“Dead.”
“Oh.” She took a few deep breaths. “I’m glad it’s not you.”
“You better not stick around here. Can you go back to the rally and ask Stan Zaluski to meet me in the front of the hall?”
After Margie left with the message, I used the office phone to call McGuire and asked him to meet me in the same place.
Chapter Thirty-One
I sank into Stan Zaluski’s chair in the front entrance, feeling shaky, my energy sapped. I thought of the way McGuire had described Calvin Garrett, saying that he’d seemed shaken at having shot Emmett Siever. But when Garrett had talked to me immediately after, he’d seemed composed, in charge. Now I understood. I was fine while I had to act and think; not until I was left alone in the quiet building did the jitters hit me. I tried to quell them by concentrating on what should be done next.
