Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  She knows him. “What business does he have here with you?” Her question registered, and heat crept up her cheeks. Bafflingly, a tickle of disappointment crept in at this revelation. And Father wanted her to marry this man?

  “What business do you think, Miss de la Pointe?” Madam Sophie asked in a sneering way. Despite this response, the slight relaxation in the woman’s face told her the madam lied. Something else was at work; she was sure of it.

  “You’re implying he is a client of this establishment?”

  Madam Sophie twitched her skirts and smoothed a hand over her knee. “I can’t say.”

  “Did he know Lizzy?”

  “No.” Oddly, she looked like she was relieved, as if this part were true.

  Adele sighed. She was not going to discover anything more in that quarter. “Did Lizzy have anyone here she was close to? Can I talk to them?”

  “No offense, but I do not see why I should. I need to look after my girls.”

  “But they might know something.”

  Madam Sophie tilted her head, and Adele felt the full force of her appraisal. “Why are you so interested? Surely, there must be some garden party to catalog for your paper.”

  That stung, but she kept her face neutral. “To be honest, I hate they’re not seen for what they are—hardworking girls trying to make their way in the world, not disposable bodies. I want to give them a voice.”

  Madam Sophie’s delicately painted eyebrow hitched up a notch. “Very well. There’s no business during the day. I will send down her closest friend directly.”

  But the friend had nothing further to add to the facts at hand, or to speculation. Adele repeated the same interview at Madam Eglantine’s without any success.

  As she drove Smarty Pants home—Loki chattering and pointing at things along the way—she went through what she knew. The facts were pitiful: two women brutally murdered in the same manner—strangulation and their stomachs slashed open—and both had blonde hair, approximately the same build, and only one familial tattoo, but that was common enough in their profession. Both worked for a brothel. Found near the docks, but each in a different area. And that was it. She needed more, much more. Cold, hard facts were the answer. Enough of them, the more compelling the better, would negate the need to rely on sentimental, emotional drivel to engage a reader. Sentimental, emotional drivel was a crutch for the likes of Mr. Peterson, not her.

  The overarching arms of the massive live oaks lining the street loomed above, dripping Spanish moss and resurrection fern, taunting her, dwarfing her. She could no longer successfully push aside the image of Dr. Rawley returning home last night covered in blood. Her mind rejected the notion, but it worked on her in a feverish way, clouding her judgment.

  One thing she did know: she had to get this job. Her very freedom depended on it. Thanks to today’s break, she had enough information for an initial article. No sense in giving Mr. Peterson time to scoop her. She only hoped she could craft it into a powerful story to impress Mr. Tonti.

  Adele fidgeted in her chair in Mr. Tonti’s office. She’d rushed home and written her objective piece, and two hours later, she sat in this office waiting for him to read it, and for his reaction. She’d not done this with her other articles; she fairly vibrated with excitement and pride.

  “This won’t do.” Three short words, delivered in a crisp, definitive tone, but so different from what she’d expected, it took a second to parse their meaning. But when she did, the echo cuffed her, knocking her askew.

  “What? Won’t do?” Now she vibrated with shock, like she’d been expecting a hearty pat on the back, but instead received a fist to her stomach.

  “No. Too boring. There’s no pizzazz. Mr. Peterson will turn in something better, I’m sure.”

  Her chest tightened. “But, sir, his was baseless speculation. This is a clear recital of facts.”

  “His piece sold out that print run, didn’t it?”

  “But he didn’t have the first girl’s name. I have both. And where they worked.”

  “Who cares?” He waved a hand at her. “This is too dry and superficial. Get to the story’s heart. Where’s the emotion? You need to write with heart, and it’s clear you’re hopeless at it.”

  Her chest tightened further, squeezing her stomach loose to plop at her kid boots. “With heart?”

  “Yes. Now run along.”

  Loki shrieked at Mr. Tonti as if he understood the outrage and dread Adele felt at this turn of events. She snatched her article off his desk and stomped out.

  Too boring? Write with heart and emotion?

  No way. Her stomach free-fell again at the notion.

  One of the reasons she’d been drawn to this job was the idea of dealing in cold, hard facts. No messy emotions to deal with. Her boss’s insistence on sensationalism bothered her.

  Perhaps this wasn’t the right job for her. Perhaps her boss was right—she was hopeless. She should quit.

  And perhaps she was being a ninny—quitting would only prove everyone right about her.

  No. She wouldn’t quit. She fisted her hands in her skirt, and Loki hugged her neck.

  She’d have to just write compelling stories that were still objective.

  She needed something so explosive it would carry itself, as there was no way she’d pander to cheap emotions and crass sensationalism. Unfortunately, sensationalism was the altar at which Tonti worshipped. He had no regard for facts, let alone impartiality.

  Adele perched on Miss Smarty Pants behind a live oak on Government Street, shivering in the shade cast by the early morning sun. She’d been watching her house now for more than an hour, ready to follow Dr. Rawley. A preliminary step to log his movements, whom he interacted with, and any suspicious activity. The true test, though, would be to follow him on any nightly prowl.

  Yes, desperate measures now. That she could fail made her desperate. That Mr. Tonti could be proven right made her desperate. And worst of all, what she feared the most, that she might justify everyone’s opinion of her made her desperate. So in desperation, today, she’d definitely be tailing Dr. Rawley to see if the impossible could be true. That he was the grisly murderer.

  All last night, she’d struggled with whether to waste the time following him. Her gut told her he was not a murderer. But what if...what if her gut was wrong? If she wanted to be a serious reporter, she had to follow each lead, no matter how ridiculous. In a way, she was doing Rawley a favor—proving he wasn’t the murderer. That would show the gossiping biddies. She could make it a human interest story about the ill effects of malignant gossip on an innocent man.

  She’d also tried to understand Mr. Tonti’s position. She could admit the man needed to sell newspapers, but she still wasn’t convinced sensationalism was the only method. She’d cornered Mrs. Tuttle before her canasta game with her great-aunt and spilled her distress. The venerable lady didn’t believe the gossip either but applauded her decision to be thorough.

  Finally, Dr. Rawley’s tall form emerged from the office door and stepped onto a steam trolley as it chugged down Government, the second story’s upper reaches just passing underneath the overarching arms of the live oaks lining the street. Once it was farther down the street, she cranked on her electric tricycle and followed. His tall form emerged on Claiborne and headed north, his strides long and confident and purposeful as he threaded his way through the folks heading toward the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception for the noon Mass. She hopped off Smarty Pants and parked it on the sidewalk. A finger to her lips, she grabbed Loki and followed Dr. Rawley on foot, the loud cathedral bells cutting through the humid air. She nodded to a few acquaintances, but kept Rawley in sight. Shortly, he turned east on St. Louis.

  When she reached the same corner, Rawley stepped into Madam Sophie’s brothel. During the day?

  A sour taste coated her throat. She pivoted and marched back down the street, swatting aside the green leaves of a hydrangea bordering her path. Mid-step, she paused. She brought her
foot down. Loki chittered.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, you’re right.” What if he had another reason for being there? She turned about and waited for Rawley to emerge.

  But waiting patiently was hard to do. She fidgeted. She played a hand slapping game with Loki. She was bored. She hated being bored. If she didn’t find something to do, she’d notice the Catholic charity house where Maman had volunteered so much of her time. A lump formed in her throat.

  Finally, Rawley emerged after what felt like an hour, but she looked at her pocket watch—fifteen minutes. So sexual relations could be engaged in that quickly?

  Thankfully, he headed away from her, east on St. Louis toward the river. She held back until he was a block away, signaled Loki to be quiet, and followed.

  Once he reached Royal Street, he turned south, and she quickened her pace. Can’t lose him. When she reached the corner, he was still there. Whew. She took steadying breaths, her gloved hand gripping the stone quoins of a building, as she peeked around the corner and waited. He stopped at a barber, but emerged three minutes later and stepped into an apothecary. He emerged after five minutes holding a brown paper bag. She scooted around the corner when he continued down Royal and followed until he ducked into a Bell Public Exchange.

  Curious. They had a telephone at home—why would he need to utilize one here?

  She looked around. If he caught her, she could say this was closer for her to use than going home. Afraid to lose him, she hustled to the entrance and peeked inside, shading the window glass with a hand. He paid a teller and entered one of the private wooden stalls.

  “Shhh, Loki,” she whispered.

  Inside, she paid for five minutes local and slipped into the empty stall beside his. Normally, when using the public telephones, one donned ear muff-like receivers to block competing conversations, but she had no wish to do so now.

  At first, no sound came from his stall, and she tapped her fingers idly on the small table provided. Then his even tones reached her.

  “No, Louise, I’m telling you, this was a grave mistake.”

  Adele snatched her pen and pad, fingers poised for any pertinent tidbits. Mistakes could be juicy. A small flickering of guilt nudged her, but she snuffed it. This was what reporters did.

  “All right. I’ll keep an open mind, but I cannot see how we will suit.”

  Huh? Was he talking to a lover? For some reason the idea bothered her.

  “She has an armored pet monkey, for Christ’s sake. Too spirited by half for my tastes.”

  Adele dropped her pen, heart beating fast.

  “I know what’s at stake,” he continued, “but there must be another way.”

  He was like Pascal, balking once he got to know her better. And why did she care about his good opinion? At least now she had learned her lesson. And really, it shouldn’t have been a surprise, considering his profession. He was as superficial and conventional as the rest.

  His assessment shouldn’t bother her—she knew her faults and why she was unsuitable—but it didn’t mean she had to listen to any more of it. She snatched up her pad and pen as Dr. Rawley continued on, interspersed with bouts of silence as he listened to this Louise person.

  Outside she sucked in a lungful of air and beat down the nasty brew of emotions that thoughts of Pascal always evoked, as well as the new confounding ones stirred up by Rawley’s assessment.

  “Come on, Loki, let’s wait in the shop across the street.” No matter what she’d overheard, she still needed to trail him.

  Chapter Ten

  On The Importance Of Being Situationally Aware

  Phillip tapped a pen on the small desk. “I have only a few days to decide.”

  “What do you mean?” His sister’s voice crackled over the Transatlantic Trunk Line.

  “He gave me a deadline, if you can believe.”

  “I’m sorry, Phillip, I truly am. I’ve been working on persuading Mother, but you know how she is. And Father is unreachable in his own contrived world.”

  Yes. Phillip knew. And Louise would never succeed in getting their mother to pay for the surgery. She’d have her public reasons, but Phillip knew without a doubt his mother preferred to keep Charlotte disfigured. It gave her too much fodder for pity with her cronies.

  “I appreciate you trying, but I’m going to operate from the assumption my deal here is my only option.”

  “Is she so terrible?”

  Terrible? No. No, she wasn’t terrible at all. Terrifying perhaps. Impossible perhaps. Able to discombobulate him with her mere presence perhaps. “Not at all. I probably overstated the case earlier. At first I mistook her high spirits as an indication she was as high-strung as Mother. But upon further observation, that is not the case at all. She has just an exuberant zest for life. For which I have no room for in mine.”

  “You know what I think your problem is?”

  He grunted. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “I think you’re fixated on her unsuitability because you don’t want to admit that deep down you think you can’t win her. It’s a convenient excuse.”

  Was it? He didn’t believe so. No, the threat Miss de la Pointe posed was to his equilibrium. Being around her brought out an aspect of his personality he had no notion he possessed, and which he had no desire to possess. Emotion. Passion. Was not him. Nothing good grew out of indulging in it. His mother stood as the only proof he needed.

  Then why did he go to bed every night, disappointed he hadn’t run into Miss de la Pointe again in the dark?

  “You’re not a stick in the mud, or whatever it was Mother always called you.”

  Hopeless bore. “I am.”

  “No. I think that’s your excuse, the one you use to keep others from getting too close to you.”

  “It’s safer that way.”

  “Who wants safe?”

  He did. “There’s not much to me, Louise. I’m a surgeon. That’s about it. Nothing too exciting about me.”

  “Coward.”

  “No. A realist.”

  Finally, from Adele’s vantage point, she saw Dr. Rawley emerge from the Exchange building and turn east down Dauphin Street. She hustled to follow.

  Her pulse slugged, her chest tightening. The Bay Queen, he was heading for the ferry. She tailed him in case her supposition proved wrong, but why else would he be heading to that spot on the river?

  Helpless panic gripped her throat. Water all around, the salty taste stinging, searing. Stuck. Sucking in a lungful of water when her body demanded she breathe. The memory pelted her. She slowed her steps, closed her eyes, and inhaled fresh pulls of air.

  “Watch where you’re going, Miss de la Pointe.”

  She stopped and opened her eyes. The kindly face of one of Great-Aunt Linette’s friends stared up at her, brow furrowed. Her clockwork dog sat back on its haunches and tilted its head.

  “Sorry. I was distracted.”

  The frown deepened, but the lady shook her head and continued on her way.

  Adele glanced around frantically—Dr. Rawley?

  She saw him pay for passage on the ferry, and her stomach relaxed. And then dropped. She couldn’t follow him. Thinking about it made her skin grow cold, then hot, the panic threatening to return. She swallowed hard. Pull yourself together, Adele.

  She stood back in the shadows of a nearby building and sucked in gulps of air, as if her body were reliving that terrible, horrible moment. If it hadn’t been for Rex...

  Figuring Rawley would be at least an hour in traveling over the bay and back, not counting whatever errand occupied him, Adele visited the Western Union office. She’d discovered one of Mrs. Tuttle’s contacts had a cousin whose brother-in-law worked for Scotland Yard. If she could get her hands on the Jack the Ripper case files... She sent a telegram to the cousin, to put in a good word on her behalf with his kin. Perhaps a clue lay within the files which would prove or disprove this Jack the Ripper theory. She had no idea if they’d comply, but it was worth trying.

&nbs
p; She vaguely remembered the specifics when the stories hit the papers less than two years ago. But hearing back from them could take too long. She needed to come up with other scenarios and pursue them. She wandered south on Water Street, the early afternoon sun lengthening the shadows as she sidestepped puddles on the brick pavers, reviewed what little she knew, and tried not to let Dr. Rawley’s words seep into her skin. Who cared what he thought. She wasn’t interested in him anyway, and obviously the feeling was mutual. Then why did it bother her?

  Bah. Forget him. She should use this time to formulate her story angle. So far, Rawley’s actions didn’t point to him being a murderer, though she didn’t believe he was. But a professional reporter had to be thorough.

  Heart of the matter, Mr. Tonti had advised. What would it be like to be falsely accused of a crime? Did Dr. Rawley even know? Once she’d firmly established his innocence, she could ask him and—

  A door banged open on her right, and a burly seaman crashed into her, knocking her sideways. She stumbled off the sidewalk and caught herself against an iron column, both her and Loki gripping the pole. The seaman didn’t fare as well. He sprawled on his back onto the cobbled street in a swath of rain water and stale beer, legs rocking into the air and splashing back down. He shouted obscenities at a man looming at the dark entrance, arms crossed. The color and imagination of the seaman’s oaths fairly took her breath away. She strove to memorize all of them.

  His gaze lighted on hers, eyes shifting to one of pure calculation. “Well, well, well, what do we have here? I haven’t seen you in these parts. Are ya new?” He angled up onto an elbow, his right eye beginning to swell, and, well, leered if such were possible in his position.

  Loki leaped onto the degenerate soul, pulling at his hair and swatting his face with his tiny paws.