Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Miss Sourpuss didn’t strike me as being the protect-the-boss type. If that’s how it went down, then maybe Tommy was acting on his own and it backfired. O’Brien will get that kid who saw Mrs. Prouty’s letter being typed to look at Tommy’s hands. Not that it’ll prove anything in court, but he’s all the eyewitness we’ve got. Tommy was found with stolen property, so O’Brien can charge and hold him. He’s at least off the streets until we get this case sorted out.”

  If they ever got it sorted out. Everything about this case was connected but only tangentially, indirectly, obscurely. Was it that obscurity that kept his instincts from kicking in? They’d unearthed deceit and theft and sordid behavior, but all their efforts had brought them no closer to naming a killer. These thoughts spun depressingly in his mind until Henry grabbed his arm and held fast. Bradshaw pulled himself from his thoughts and realized they’d arrived. They were across the street from the Bon. The windows glowed and twinkled with lights and merchandise, and the constant flow of customers kept the doorman busy.

  “Henry, while I do this, find out who Mrs. Adkins has been seeing lately when her husband’s out of town. Mrs. Prouty said her stitching didn’t justify her reputation. She may be using her job here to meet men who will take her out on the town.”

  Henry put his nose in the air and said haughtily, “I did not know Mrs. Prouty’s good clean mind could harbor such thoughts. I shall start with Mr. Smith, with whom Mrs. Adkins recently shared a room at the Washington.”

  “Maybe the hotel staff will know his real name. They knew Doyle’s.”

  Henry shrugged and resumed his usual manner. “Maybe it’s really Smith this time.”

  “For your sake, I hope not, there are eleven pages of them in the city directory.”

  ***

  Mr. Olafson kindly offered his office for Bradshaw’s interview of Lewis Latimer, the shoe salesman, but Bradshaw declined.

  “He may be more cooperative if I take him outside.”

  Olafson’s eyes grew wide.

  “He won’t be harmed, but I’m glad to know I look capable of it.”

  ***

  Lewis Latimer was a mouse of a man. Normally, Bradshaw didn’t hold a man’s size against him, but in his current mood, and given the insinuations Latimer had been making, he wasn’t feeling affable. Latimer was small, beady-eyed, and his greasy black hair produced a powdering of white flakes on the collar of his dark coat.

  “This is the busiest season of the year,” Latimer complained as he stepped out into the alley where Bradshaw stood waiting. “And it’s cold out here. Why can’t you say what you have to say inside?”

  “Because the nature of our conversation is not suitable for indoors and I didn’t want Mr. Olafson to hear.”

  Latimer scowled and looked away.

  “A matter came to light during our recent investigation into Vernon Doyle’s death, and it’s now time to move forward with prosecution. I’ll need names and dates and all the sordid details.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor. And what’s this got to do with you? Weren’t you here just to see about the electricity?”

  “You confided in Detective O’Brien that you know Ivar Olafson to be a man of unnatural perversions.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “Come now, he can’t hear us. That’s why we’re out here. I must warn you that you will be called to testify. It is obviously your moral obligation to protect the children employed by the Bon Marché.”

  “Now hold on there, I never said I was willing to testify.”

  “I’m afraid you must. You can’t make an accusation like that and not follow through. How can that protect the boys?”

  “I didn’t make an accusation, I just said Olafson had a fondness for boys. He likes them. He’s good to them. He’s kind to them. Like Santa Claus.”

  Bradshaw narrowed his gaze. Billy Creasle had also compared Ivar Olafson to Santa Claus.

  “You told Detective O’Brien that Mr. Olafson is smitten with Billy and that he has an unnatural fondness for the boys employed here.”

  “He mistook me! He’s a good man, is Mr. Olafson.”

  “He did not mistake you. He interviewed you twice, and the second time you were more insistent. You can’t retract your remarks now, it’s too late. You surely understand the police must act.”

  “But it’s not true! I swear it. It’s not true.”

  “Then why did you say it?”

  “The detective mistook me!”

  “Let’s not go backwards in this conversation, Mr. Latimer. You made the remarks with intent. Are you now telling me you were lying?”

  “I didn’t want to do it! It was Billy. The window boy. Billy Creasle. No-good little sneak!”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “The boy has a bad habit of following people. He knows their private business.”

  Bradshaw paced, rubbing his jaw, pretending to weigh his options. He stopped before the shoe salesman and leaned down so he could look straight into his beady eyes. “Tell me what Billy asked you to do and why or, so help me, I will make sure what you said about Olafson is said about you and you can bet in this town I’ll be believed. I’ve had a very bad day, and I’m not feeling charitable, so you’d better make it good.”

  The little man looked horrified. “He didn’t tell me why, he didn’t even tell me how! He just said I was to try and make the police not trust Olafson. He knows I don’t like the man. Passed me over for promotion twice this year alone. Billy said if I did it he’d see I got moved to Men’s Wear. I hate shoes. Hated shoes for years.”

  “You attempted to ruin a man’s reputation for a position in Men’s Wear?”

  “It was that or get fired.”

  “Fired for what?”

  “Benefits! Helped myself to benefits. I took stuff. There, are you happy? I took merchandise without paying. Took these very shoes! And Billy knew it. But they owe me. Passing me up for promotion time and again. Leaving me in Shoes. I hate shoes. I hate feet! They owe me.”

  “They owe you nothing. You may go now, Mr. Latimer.”

  The little man ducked his head and reached for the door.

  “No. You are going home. You no longer work for the Bon Marché. You will not be getting a final paycheck.”

  “You’ve got no right!”

  “Leave the shoes.”

  “What?”

  “Leave them.”

  “What am I supposed to wear home?”

  ***

  A few minutes later, Bradshaw was alone with Olafson in his office, and he revealed the details of Lewis Latimer’s accusation and confession.

  “Oh, dear!” was all Olafson could manage to say before dropping into his chair. He shook his head in disbelief that such a thing could be said of him. His eyes welled with tears. “To think!” It took him a moment to compose himself. “My beloved Ingmar and I so wanted children, but we were never blessed with them. And then she passed away. She was the love of my life. When I started over here in America, I had no idea how much happiness I would find with my small charges at the store. They have such hard lives, most of them. Otherwise, why else would they be working? But they are so full of joy and optimism. And potential! I try to give them discipline and kindness and show them that they can be successful in life. Billy. Billy is my favorite, I do admit it. I am fond of him, as if he were my own. I can’t believe he would do this to me.”

  “If it’s any comfort, he didn’t select the manner in which Latimer was to discredit you.”

  “No, no. Thank heavens for that. Latimer! I should have fired him years ago. But I pitied the little man.”

  “He doesn’t deserve your pity. I fired him, by the way. I know I didn’t have the right, but I sent him home and told him he�
��d receive no final pay. You have the right to prosecute him for theft.” He’d given Latimer’s shoes to a hobo in the alley, who’d thanked him with a toothless grin.

  “Oh, no. Let him be gone and the matter over. Professor, thank you for handling this situation the way you have. And Detective O’Brien. I simply can’t imagine what I would have done if the detective had believed Mr. Latimer.”

  “You can best thank us by revealing what you know about Billy Creasle that has him so frightened he would want you discredited?”

  “I promised him I wouldn’t tell.”

  “You can’t help him by protecting him.”

  “I’ve tried to guide him. He hasn’t a father, you know. And he’s very clever. Too ambitious, it’s true, and I’ve struggled to get him to learn to temper his ambition. He can be ruthless. But I don’t think he’s bad. He works too hard to emulate some of our most successful capitalists. He’s trying to grow up too fast.”

  “What does he not want us to know?”

  “He must not have trusted me to remain quiet. I encouraged him to go to the police. Those scoundrels must have broken several laws in their treatment of him. He’s just a boy. He wouldn’t go, and then poor Mr. Doyle was killed, and he must have feared I would speak. He must have thought to protect himself by discrediting me. You see, he wasn’t at home that night as he claimed.”

  “What scoundrels? Where was he?”

  “I have given him a stern lecture already ….”

  “Where was he?”

  “Billy was in a brothel on the night Vernon Doyle died. I was awoken at three in the morning by an unsavory fellow who said I was to come with him or the lad would be a floater. I had to ask what that term meant, and I must tell you, I was appalled. Billy had gotten himself into a very bad pickle and it cost me ten dollars to extricate him. That’s more than the boy earns in a week, and he will be paying me back. Please do not ask me to provide the details.”

  “Do you know how long he’d been in his predicament?”

  “I’m not sure. For the better part of an hour, anyway. He went first to another establishment that apparently serves alcohol to boys of just eighteen, to bolster his nerve, he said.”

  “What time was it when you freed him?”

  “By the time I got the mess sorted out, it was nearly five by my timepiece, and it keeps good time. I saw Billy as far as Pike Street, and he said he would go straight home. I don’t know if he did. He was upset. The brothel he’d visited, well he said that Vernon Doyle had told him about it. Apparently, Mr. Doyle told Billy the women at this establishment were clean, whatever that is supposed to mean. And the boy was angry at Doyle for what happened to him. There. I’ve said it. You know his secret, and I pray the boy did not seek out Mr. Doyle after I left him. I went home myself, had breakfast and coffee, then headed to work. I next saw Billy at the store when he shouted for help. He swore to me he went home after I left him and that he had nothing to do with Doyle’s death. I believed him. I chose to believe him, and so I said nothing to you or the police.”

  “You can put your mind to rest on one account, Mr. Olafson. Billy did not kill Vernon Doyle. The coroner is certain Doyle was killed no earlier than two and no later than four.”

  Olafson slapped a hand to his heart and collapsed in tears of relief. Bradshaw fetched him a glass of water, and when he’d recovered, told him that it was very likely that Billy had nearly started the two show window fires, and that the boy may have used deceptive means to hasten his advancement in the store.

  “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” was Mr. Olafson’s response.

  “Is Billy here now?”

  “Yes, he’s here. Shall I get him?”

  “No. Some of his activities have been criminal, some border on criminal, and he needs to be made aware of this. A verbal reprimand is not likely to alter his course.”

  “You mean to have him arrested?”

  “The police will spare him and the store the embarrassment of handcuffs, but I think it best that Detective O’Brien take him down to the station for a formal interview.”

  Olafson took a ragged breath. “Yes, yes. You’re right, of course. Will you tell Billy that I kept my word? That I said nothing until now? I want him to trust me.”

  “I will tell him.”

  ***

  Bradshaw was allowed to be present during the interview which took place in one of the city jail cells, a dank, dark space beneath the police station, in the basement of City Hall. The cell smelled sharply of unwashed prisoners and the foulest of bodily emissions. A single bare incandescent bulb cast a harsh light on the filth. A pile of grimy wool blankets sat in one corner. A stack of chamber pots in another. There’d been talk for years of the need for a new jail, and while everyone agreed, no one wanted to pay for it.

  O’Brien believed that the boy needed a good fright to set him on the straight and narrow path. Billy was not officially under arrest. He was being held temporarily under suspicion of criminal activity, but he didn’t know it, nor had he been told that the police knew he had not killed Vernon Doyle.

  The boy stood trembling, unable to pace in the foul space as he was wont to do because O’Brien had forbidden him. He made do by stamping his feet in place and clenching his fists across his chest.

  “I didn’t kill Mr. Doyle!”

  O’Brien asked gruffly, “Then who did?”

  “I don’t know! I’d tell you if I did, but I don’t.”

  “Where were you that night? Don’t bother concocting a lie, we have witnesses.”

  “Can’t trust anybody. Mr. Olafson promised—”

  Bradshaw cut him off. “Mr. Olafson only spoke when we demanded it from him. He kept your secret far longer than he should have.”

  Billy took a deep breath, which was a mistake. He coughed and sputtered. “Don’t you ever clean this place?”

  “Oh, it’s pleasant right now, compared to how it will be later. This is the chain gang’s cell. In a few hours, you’ll be sharing this charming room with twenty mates who’ve been working like dogs all day.”

  The silence was filled with coughs and guttural murmurings from the other cells, horses neighing from somewhere above, and the din of traffic filtering in from the narrow barred window near the ceiling.

  “You promise not to tell my mother?”

  O’Brien said, “You’re in no position to bargain, young man. Care to spend a week here?”

  “I was at the Folly. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the establishment and what goes on there. Did you go straight from the store to the Folly?”

  “No. I went first to a club.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “I had some whiskey. Can’t say I liked it.”

  The whole story emerged, matching closely with what Olafson had told them. Billy admitted to slipping the handkerchief on the floor lamp before he left the Bon just after midnight. Yes, he said, he wanted to get Troy fired so he could have his job, because he thought he’d be better at it.

  “Troy’s an artist, not a salesman,” Billy said, a bit of cockiness creeping into his tone. “He doesn’t understand what designs catch the public’s eye and make people buy. You’ve seen my spinning display, Professor. That’s the sort of thing that will make a store a success.”

  O’Brien said, “You sound like all the other criminals we have locked up down here, Billy. They’ve all got an excuse for breaking the law.”

  “What law did I break?”

  “Attempted arson?”

  “I wasn’t going to let it get to a full fire.”

  “It’s still arson. And there’s theft—”

  “I never stole a thing!”

  “On at least one occasion, you swapped one item for another in a customer order to get a clerk fired. That’s criminal, Billy. Let’s get back to the night Doyle died. You placed the ha
ndkerchief over the lamp then left the store. What next?”

  “Next, I about got killed. Mr. Doyle had told me that at eighteen I should be doing what men do, if you know what I mean, and he told me the Folly was a safe place to go.”

  “There are no safe places, Billy.”

  “How was I to know? I went, only they said I cheated them, that I paid with counterfeit money. I swear I didn’t, I paid with real cash dollars, I know I did, but a couple thugs came into the room before we, before I, well before, and they tied me up and said they’d find a way for me to earn what I owed. That’s when I got really scared and told them to get Mr. Olafson.”

  Later, after Olafson came to his rescue, Billy didn’t go straight home as promised but returned to the Bon and rapped on the window intending to give Mr. Doyle a piece of his mind.

  “When Mr. Doyle didn’t appear, I put my face to the window to see if he was still there. The window was dark, but I saw him lying on the floor behind the tree. I couldn’t see him very well, but he just didn’t look right. I was afraid, I mean, he was so still. I thought maybe he’d been drinking, but he never drank on the job. I didn’t know what to do, so I went home.”

  He’d not slept. He took a hot bath and got dressed and went back to the Bon, entering through the employee entrance. He’d hoped to find all was well, but when he checked the window, Doyle was still lying there. He went about his work in other parts of the store, hoping someone would find Doyle, but at seven when nobody had, and the window lights came on, he hurried into the display to remove the handkerchief before it caught fire. It was scorched and he figured he might as well leave it to serve its original purpose, so he dropped it by the light. For the next half hour he fretted, and waited, but nobody ventured near enough the window to spot Doyle. He finally had to shout for help himself.

  “Was he still alive when I saw him at five? Could I have saved him then if I’d told someone? Or when I first got to work?”

  O’Brien looked at Bradshaw and nodded his head at the door. Together, they left the cell, and O’Brien slammed shut the iron door, leaving Billy standing alone inside, his questions unanswered.