“Of course. I don’t mean to boast, Professor, but I’m about the best deep diver in the Pacific Northwest. I work almost exclusively in Puget Sound, mostly right here in Elliott Bay, so I know these waters like other men know their own backyards. When Maddock first approached, I knew he needed me, but he had to try everyone else before he realized I was worth the price.”
“Weren’t you taking a chance?”
“What, on losing a big contract? No, it was a sure thing. I knew no one else would have any luck.”
“Why were you so sure?”
“Like I said, I’m the best. They’ve had more than two years to find it, and they haven’t.”
“You’ve had the same two years.”
Galloway shrugged, but his smile stayed as confident as ever. Bradshaw wondered if Galloway’s real business, at least in regards to finding Daulton’s box, was selling hope. He made money as long as treasure-seekers believed he could find it.
“Can you provide me with the names of the other divers Mr. Maddock hired?”
“I can, but you’ll be wasting your money hiring them.” Galloway went to a desk and his pen scratched noisily for a few minutes.
“Mr. Galloway, could you add the names of all those who hired you over the past two years to search for Daulton’s invention?”
Galloway’s eyes narrowed. “What do you need my client list for?”
A ship’s horn sounded from a slip nearby, and seagulls cried as if in protest.
“I won’t harass your clients, Mr. Galloway. Not unless one of them has committed murder.”
Galloway’s hand froze halfway to his coffee mug. “Is this about the electrician at the Bon?”
“Why would you think so?”
“It’s front page news. The paper said you were investigating and that you blamed Edison’s new holiday lights for Doyle’s death. Now you’re here asking about my clients, and Vernon Doyle was a client. If you’re not here because of Doyle, it seems a strange coincidence.”
“What was your relationship with Vernon Doyle?”
“He was a customer. He paid for a few dives. He was hoping to find the lost invention. But I don’t see how the names of my other clients would help you.”
“When you say he paid, do you mean he went diving?”
“No, he was afraid to dive.” He said this without scorn, but Bradshaw felt an insult nonetheless. And what would Galloway make of his own terror of any sort of depth or height? Or small spaces?
“Doyle paid for me to dive and search. He believed he knew something about the invention and that he was entitled to it. Is that true?”
“I’ve been hearing similar reports from others. I haven’t yet untangled fact from tall tales.”
“Huh. Now it’s your turn. What happened to Doyle that didn’t get into the papers? And what has it got to do with Galloway Diving?”
“I’m afraid I can only ask questions at this stage of an investigation, not answer them. How well did you know Vernon Doyle?”
Galloway shrugged. “Had a drink with him now and again, but his wife doesn’t know. She’s not fond of drink.”
“When did he last hire you?”
“Oh, this fall. October?”
“Can you check your log book?”
“We can find the dates on the chart.”
He strode across the room, still oblivious to being barefoot. Surely the wood floor was like ice. He stood before a chart of the bay near West Seattle with the wavy lines indicating various depths. Numbered flags were pinned near the Maryland Street dock where the ferry from Seattle landed daily. Bradshaw made note of the dates and number of dives, while Galloway cocked his head and studied the map. Bradshaw could only imagine what Galloway knew of those waters and what lay deep below. There were fish of all sorts in the bay, and seals and killer whales. What else lay below? Giant octopuses, ghosts? Whatever Galloway was paid, it was not enough.
“So, what do you think? We looking in the right area?”
Bradshaw shook off the nightmare images of the deep and studied the chart. He found the Marion Street dock and followed a dotted line from it to the landing in West Seattle. “Yes, I suppose. The general vicinity.”
“Passengers on board that day say there was a commotion a few minutes before docking.” He looked at Bradshaw for confirmation.
Bradshaw shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.” He’d been preoccupied, trying to stop a murder. He’d had no sense of the passage of time or the distance traveled across the bay. It was only an eight-minute trip from dock to dock. It was entirely possible that just a few minutes elapsed from the time Daulton threw the basket overboard until the ferry docked, but it had all passed in a blur.
Galloway said, “I read about it when it happened, like everyone else. I still don’t know exactly what it is I’m supposed to be looking for other than it’s in a cigar box. Some sort of electrical invention?”
“Yes. Was it you who found the basket?”
“No, a fisherman found that a day or so after it went over. Of course, it was made of wicker and floated.”
“The batteries would have gone straight down. They haven’t been found either.”
“Batteries?”
“Three dry cell telegraph batteries, strapped together.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of batteries, Professor.”
“The reporters were fascinated with the invention inside the cigar box, not the ordinary batteries.” Daulton had made his device portable with the telegraph batteries, but Bradshaw had not seen it in operation with them. “How deep is it here?” Bradshaw pointed to the flags at the outer edge of the search.
“The maximum most deep divers are willing and able to go, about a hundred and twenty feet. That takes the best gear and four men pumping air. A man can’t stay down long at that depth. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at a time. That box must be deep, and that’s why the others have failed. It’s why I’ve failed, too, I’m afraid. I’ve put in my time and searched everywhere accessible. But until I got the new compressors yesterday, I didn’t have the air to go down any deeper. How come you’ve never looked for it, Professor? I’ve never heard of you hiring a diving outfit to search. Is it a tall tale? If the thing is worth something, why aren’t you looking for it?”
“Because I don’t want to find it. You’ve covered the area thoroughly.”
“It looks like that on paper. In reality, it’s dark down there, and where it’s not muddy, it’s rocky with crevices big enough to trap a man. In some places the bull kelp grows as thick as forests.”
Bradshaw tried and failed to block the image of the massive, long, thick tendrils of seaweed wrapping themselves around a man and pulling him deep into the depths. He felt an icy fog brush against his face and feared it meant the coming of a faint. He nodded and breathed and swallowed hard and the feeling passed.
Oblivious to Bradshaw’s internal battle, Galloway went on, “The thing could be two feet away, but if you don’t look in the exact right spot, you won’t see it.”
“Yet you seem confident of finding it for Edison.”
“With Edison’s backing, I can afford a more thorough search, and better equipment. That new suit I was testing came compliments of the Wizard. And the new pumps. I’ll be able to go deeper than anyone in the region and expand the search. As soon as I finish the job for Alaska, I’ll find that cigar box for Edison, Professor. You wait and see.”
“I would still like to see your client list. I will use discretion.”
Galloway hesitated but at last allowed Bradshaw to copy down the complete list of his clients who’d asked to search for Daulton’s lost box, going back to the spring of ’01. He only recognized one name, other than Vernon Doyle. Troy Ruzauskas. The Bon Marché’s window dresser.
Chapter Eight
Eager as he was to hear what the Bon’s
window dresser had to say about his interest in diving for Oscar Daulton’s invention, Bradshaw was due up at the university to oversee the Dynamo Lab, and with term exams next week, he knew his students would be full of questions. Because of the changeable weather and myriad places to visit today, he’d left his bicycle—his preferred method of transportation—at home. He hiked up from the waterfront and caught a streetcar on the Lake Union Line at Eighth, transferring to the University Line once across the bridge.
He found the campus alive with holiday spirit, due in part to the decorating efforts of the Delta Alpha Sorority, who were still stringing garland as he climbed the steps and entered the main doors of the Administration Building.
Inside, he followed the winding concrete steps down to the basement labs, where more joviality awaited him. His students, four boisterous juniors, were entertaining an elderly white-bearded fellow with their class yell.
Rip! Rah! Roar!
Seek No More
Come Adore
Nineteen Naught Four!
The white-bearded gentleman was not Father Christmas but Grandfather Bagley, one of the State University’s earliest supporters. His full name was Reverend Daniel Bagley, for besides being one of Seattle’s first pioneers, he was also a Methodist minister, and his evangelical spirit included his passion for supporting institutions of higher learning. He’d been instrumental in establishing the Territorial University, which ultimately became the State University. He was beloved by the students and he visited frequently to encourage and inspire.
“Professor Bradshaw,” Grandfather Bagley called out, his eyes crinkling with laughter, “It’s hard to believe these young lads will one day be running our country. Have you an invention to tame them?”
“I do. When they get out of hand, I send them to the bicycle there in the corner, mounted to a dynamo. They charge batteries while riding out the nonsense.”
“Excellent, Professor! I will be on my way then, and leave the rascals to you.”
Grandfather Bagley’s departure rang with enthusiastic holiday wishes, and then Bradshaw kindly but firmly turned his students to task, taking a small glimmer of delight from their eyes by saying, as he pointed to the diagram of an electric generator, “This will be on the exam.”
Two hours later, Bradshaw grabbed a quick lunch of steaming vegetable soup and a cold roast beef sandwich at a diner near the university before heading back downtown. He met up with Detective O’Brien at the Bon, and they found a relatively quiet location on the second floor between the Ladies’ Furnishings and Millinery departments.
The chatter and buzz of the hectic store was mostly below them, rising like the warm-up notes from an orchestra. Leather chairs were conveniently placed near the balcony that overlooked the main floor, with the intention, no doubt, of providing a place of rest for weary husbands, not two investigators looking into murder. But they dropped into the chairs gratefully. Bradshaw’s position gave him a perfect view of the latest frilly and puffy fashions displayed on lifelike female mannequins. Toward the back, a headless female form was dressed in a simple gown of pale green. No silly frilly furbelows marred the elegant lines of the dress, and Bradshaw instantly envisioned Missouri in it. He’d never bought a woman an article of clothing before. How would he determine the correct size?
He did not ask Detective O’Brien, although, being married and the father of four girls, surely he would know.
Distracted by the gown, he missed some of what O’Brien was saying, catching only the end of his sentence, “…when I talked to the night guard, and not only did he see nothing unusual, it’s my guess he saw nothing at all save the inside of his eyelids. He has two day jobs that together run from seven in the morning until ten at night, and he starts here at midnight. He confessed he can sleep standing up and even while walking. Mr. Olafson fired him about an hour ago.”
“What about the store detectives?”
“Competent women, and discreet. They’ve dealt with a lot of theft lately—some from employees—and they know of several romantic back-room affairs, but they had nothing to pass on about Doyle that they thought would be helpful. He was honest with the timesheet and never took home anything that didn’t belong to him. They did admit they haven’t had any spare time to pay much attention to employees lately. With the holidays in full swing, they’ve had their hands full with shoplifters.”
“Why is it you never hear much about theft from the Bon?”
“Because they do their best to keep it quiet. Not good for business to have customers arrested daily.”
“You asked about Olafson?”
“The detectives said he was as upright and virtuous as they come.”
“Did you get a chance to talk with Billy Creasle?”
“I did, and what’s more, several of his fellow employees talked about him when I interviewed them about Doyle. The boy is universally perceived as a wonder, a prodigy. Great things are predicted for his future. They agreed he is the apple of Mr. Olafson’s eye. Only from the shoe salesman did I get the sense that Olafson’s interest was anything other than fatherly.”
“Tell me about this salesman.”
“Mr. Lewis Latimer, a stooped man in his fifties, worked here since the store moved to this location in ’96. I get the impression he’s been in sales his whole life and is competent at best. I interviewed him again, and he repeated that Olafson has an unnatural fondness for the young boys employed at the store, but when pressed, he said he’d never had occasion to observe any indecent behavior.”
“Did you lead the conversation?”
“I provided the same opening to everyone. I said that I’d heard Mr. Olafson seems to be liked by the employees, especially the young ones.”
“And from that Latimer supplied Olafson’s unnatural fondness?”
“He did, and he repeated that he felt Olafson was particularly smitten by Billy, but no one else took the conversation there. All others gave Olafson high praise for his ability to get work and loyalty from the boys.”
“And the boys themselves?”
“There are currently fifty of them between the ages of eleven and fifteen working part-time either as cash boys, runners, or errand boys. There are a few dozen up to the age of seventeen working in stockrooms or the mailroom or in delivery. There are far fewer girls, just a dozen or so who work in wrapping or as cash runners in the Ladies’ Department. All I interviewed gave honest praise of Olafson. If any of them lied, they are far better at it than my girls.”
“What’s your hunch?”
“Where there’s smoke…Of course, Mr. Latimer may well have reason to tarnish our view of Mr. Olafson, something we’ve yet to discover.”
Bradshaw took a deep breath. The holiday cacophony took on a sinister undertone. His glance swept the women perusing the displays of finery, moved to the little cash girl dashing for the stairs to the third-floor office, then he looked over the balcony to the main floor where the salesmen and saleswomen manned their counters, and customers stood three-deep in line. A few errand boys, distinctive in their dark knee-pants suits and white aprons, dashed through the crowds.
“Shouldn’t they be in school at this time of day?”
O’Brien had followed Bradshaw’s gaze. “They get around that by providing a school here for the day workers. On the whole, it’s not a bad job for a kid. Boys love to run.”
“I didn’t know you approved of child labor.”
“Well, I don’t want them down in coal mines, but I don’t see the harm in paying them something to run around a department store a couple hours a day. Keeps them out of trouble.”
“And exposes them to potential dangers.”
“Life is danger, Ben. You can lock yourself up and avoid all trouble, or you can live. Boys need to learn how to deal with it.”
“I don’t see your daughters running around the store.”
&nbs
p; “Girls are different.”
Bradshaw didn’t completely disagree, and he knew the boys who worked at the Bon likely ate better and were better dressed because of it. He just hoped the lessons learned here didn’t include the darker, uglier side of life. “If the shoe salesman’s accusations prove valid, it could be that Vernon Doyle witnessed something between Olafson and Billy or one of the others and threatened to tell. It could be a motive for murder.”
“The upshot is, even if Olafson had nothing to do with Doyle’s death, I have to investigate. Convictions of indecent assault upon a child are almost impossible without third party testimony or physical proof. I won’t record a word in my notebook until I have something substantial, in case it turns out to be nothing but maliciousness.”
Moral depravity, perversion—those were the terms used by the press when reporting on such cases. Bradshaw knew in his soul that he wouldn’t kill to protect such a secret, but he would kill anyone who ever attempted such a thing with his son. And gladly accept the sentence, if any. If ever there was justification for lethal action, surely assault of a child would be one. He took another deep breath and turned his mind back to the case.
“When you spoke to Doyle’s wife, did she mention any particular friends or acquaintances?”
“No, she was fairly shaken.”
“We need to find someone who knew him well. Vernon Doyle may have been places and with people his wife knew nothing about.” He told O’Brien about Jake Galloway’s mention of drinking with Doyle. “A man with that complexion has spent many hours with a bottle.”
“Uh-oh. Mrs. Doyle is a temperance gal. Saw the sash hanging on the coat rack. Looks like we’ll be adding the Tenderloin to the search. With drinking comes gambling and it could be his debts followed him to the store. I told Mrs. Doyle you might want to see her.”
Bradshaw nodded. “Vernon Doyle may have been having an affair with Mrs. Adkins, a seamstress here.” He told O’Brien what Billy told him.
“Now there’s a motive. If she was being pressured into the affair, she might have found a way to permanently end it. I will speak to Mrs. Adkins.”
Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Page 7
