Devil by the Tail

by Jeanne Matthews

  “What makes you so sure Elfie set the fire?” asked Quinn.

  “I don’t know who set it. All I know, that girl’s a Jonah, bad luck to one and all. I was glad when the coppers dragged her out of here in cuffs and I’ll be glad to see the back of you, Detective Paschal.”

  Quinn stood and met Annie’s menacing stare without blinking. “Then I shall take my leave.”

  “You do that, honey, and if I catch you snooping around here again, I’ll boot your meddlesome bottom into the next county.”

  “I daresay you would not find booting my bottom as easy an undertaking as you imagine, Mrs. Hyman.”

  Annie let out a growling laugh. “Well, ain’t you the bold one.”

  “Good day to you,” said Quinn and flounced past her down the stairs. Without a rawhide whip, the old harridan didn’t scare her, but the heavy atmosphere of lust and debauchery and pungent perfume had brought on a headache. Was it true the city council and the mayor were involved with a house of prostitution? It was common knowledge the police accepted bribes in exchange for keeping clear of the area. Did Annie also pay off the mayor and his council? She had been cooperative until Quinn dropped the name Burk Bayer. Was it Bayer’s connection to Kadinger that agitated her or was she hiding something? At least she’d provided one valuable lead – Jemelle Clary. Was it odd that Jemelle had become the main link to both Jack Stram and Elfie?

  Thoughts churning, she emerged into the bright sunshine and leaned her back against the door. Her head felt like a smithy’s forge and the hammer struck the anvil every second. She closed her eyes. She needed to talk with Jemelle as soon as possible, but the thought of calling in at another brothel right away made her faintly nauseous. She decided to go home, bathe her face and neck in cool water, and eat some lunch. She couldn’t interview Jemelle or anyone else until this headache eased. If she felt better in the afternoon, she would return to the office and ask Garnick to drive her to Lou Harper’s Mansion.

  She opened her eyes. A flash of light and an explosive whoof made her cringe.

  “Perfect!”

  She turned in the direction of the shout and a photographer came into focus. He stood barely as tall as his camera, a smoking tray held high in one hand like a trophy.

  “What are you doing?”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “But you’ve no right.”

  “It’s a public street. I can take any image I want.” A bramble bush of black hair added to his height, but his severely bowed legs subtracted in equal measure.

  “Not without permission. I demand you give me that plate.”

  “Not going to happen, missy.” He lowered the tray and poked his head under the dark camera cloth. When his face reappeared, he wore a triumphant grin. “You stood still just long enough. My chemicals are the best money can buy. None faster. This will be a beaut. What’s your name?”

  “None of your business. What’s yours?”

  “Fen Megarian, star news maker of the Chicago Tribune.”

  “You’re going to publish that picture in the paper?”

  “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. It’ll fetch you more customers.” He folded his tri-pod, balanced the bulky camera across one shoulder, and swaggered off down the street.

  An ominous feeling tickled up Quinn’s spine. She looked behind at what had been the backdrop of the photograph. The “Why Not?” sign blazoned almost directly above her head.

  Chapter 6

  Quinn stripped off her dress, which had absorbed the smells of the brothel, and dumped herself onto the bed. The smithy inside her head continued to hammer. She kneaded her temples. Why had that insolent little gnome wanted a picture of Annie Stafford’s whorehouse? The newspaper rarely published photos. It relied on the manipulation of the written word to stir up fusses and sell newspapers. Could Fen Megarian be the same person who concocted the article comparing Elfie to a mythological witch? Was he looking to smear her further with a concoction about the poor girl’s descent into prostitution?

  But it wasn’t Elfie’s image he’d captured. It was hers. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. Winthrop would have a conniption if he saw her face under the “Why Not?” sign. And how would she explain such a photograph to her housemates?

  “Mrs. Sinclair, are you there?”

  Miss Nearest. Quinn groaned, but whatever Megarian meant to do with the image, no one in this house could have seen it yet. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I’ve brought you a cup of my special willow bark and peppermint tea.”

  On her return from Annie’s, Quinn had torn through the house like a tempest, waving off concerned queries and flying pell-mell to her room. They must have thought she was dying. She couldn’t snub them or rebuff their kindness. She pulled on a wrapper and opened the door.

  “This will bring you ‘round in two shakes of a sheep’s tail.” Miss Nearest marched into the room and set a tray on the bedside table. “The ancient Egyptians used willow bark for all their aches and pains. In my years as a nurse, I’ve seen it work wonders.”

  Quinn feigned a smile. “Thank you. It smells invigorating.”

  “Capital, as our English cousins are wont to say. You’ll also find the Medea drama you asked about under the cup and doily. Since our talk this morning, I’ve been reviewing the supernatural elements in the play. Fate, don’t you know, the overwhelming power beyond mortal control. As in life, the things we think will happen do not. The gods bring matters to surprising ends. As an example …”

  It was late afternoon by the time Quinn escaped Miss Nearest’s disquisition, put on a fresh dress, and made her way back to the office. The windows were open and the room abuzz with mosquitos. Garnick sat with his feet propped on his desk. Micah Winthrop paced back and forth, head down, as if counting knotholes in the floor. The heat had finally penetrated his crisp exterior. The back of his coat was wrinkled, his cravat askew, and his yellow hair damp.

  She dispensed with hello. “Is something wrong, Mr. Winthrop?”

  He looked up, his face an angry red. “She knifed one of the guards.”

  “Elfie?”

  “Yes, Elfie.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Nothing grievous,” said Garnick. “She took a small fillet out of his side.”

  Winthrop rounded on him. “It’s grievous to my case. That girl is mad. Abe Lincoln himself couldn’t defend her now.”

  “From what’s told about old Abe,” said Garnick, “he was a stickler for facts. He might’ve asked the guard how she came to get ahold of his knife.”

  “It belonged to the guard?” asked Quinn.

  “Immaterial,” snapped Winthrop. “She’s proved herself capable of face-to-face murder. The prosecutor will have no trouble convincing a jury she lit a fire in the dead of night with no one around to see.”

  The accumulation of stories about Elfie’s wildness disabused Quinn of the idea that she was a helpless waif. They didn’t alter her conviction that the girl was a convenient scapegoat. She said, “It’s possible the guard tried to take advantage of her and she was only defending herself.”

  Winthrop’s forehead ridged like a washboard. “She lured Sergeant Fogerty into her cell, moaning that she was sick. When his back was turned, she shoved him and grabbed the knife.”

  “Must be a strapping girl,” observed Garnick. “Fogerty’s built like a Hereford steer.”

  Winthrop gave him a sour look and turned to Quinn. “Have you come up with anyone who can swear Elfie was someplace else or with someone else on the night of the fire?”

  “I have.”

  “You’ve found an alibi witness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “Jemelle Clary.” The lie popped out spontaneously. Since becoming a detective, she’d come to count on the efficacy of a confident lie over a disheartening truth. She hoped this particular lie would turn out to be true, but in the meantime it appeared to appease Winthrop.

  “That changes things,” he said. “Wit
h testimony that puts Elfie in the company of a credible witness, I may be able to overcome the damage done by the jailhouse stabbing.” His tone turned skeptical. “This Miss Clary isn’t a hooker, is she?”

  “No, she isn’t,” answered Quinn, seizing on his use of the present tense. “I plan to interview her tomorrow.”

  “Good. Bring me her statement as soon as you can and any other information you can garner. Where they were, what they were doing, who else may have seen them. I’ll expect a report by tomorrow evening.” He swatted a mosquito away from his ear. “You really should tack cheesecloth over these windows.”

  When he was gone, Garnick swung his feet off the desk and handed her a paper fan with a picture of Jesus. “I’ll see if I can rustle up a few yards of wove wire tomorrow and cover the windows. Meanwhile, it’s leave ’em open and skirmish with the skeeters or dissolve into a puddle.”

  She sat down, tilted her head back, and fanned her neck. “Thank you for not commenting on the way Winthrop made light of the attack on Elfie and turned her into the villain. He was a real dose.”

  “You think so? I didn’t notice much difference.”

  She was too wilted to smile.

  “I surmise your parley with Gentle Annie didn’t go so well.”

  “She’s a cantankerous old buffalo, but helpful to a degree. I learned that Jack Stram beat up one of her girls, Jemelle. Coincidentally, Jemelle is the one Elfie stayed with for a few weeks.”

  “And Jemelle can vouch for Elfie?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to ask. Stram spoiled her looks and she can’t work so Annie gave her the heave-ho.”

  “You know where she went?”

  “The madam over at the Mansion took her in.”

  “Sounds more like a leave of absence than retirement,” quipped Garnick. “What about Stram? Does Annie know where he lurked off to?”

  “Probably the hospital. She gave him quite a lashing.” Quinn’s headache had abated, but she couldn’t seem to string her thoughts together in a coherent way.

  Garnick sat down across from her in the client chair. “You want to tell me what’s got you so down in the mouth?”

  “A photographer from the Tribune ambushed me outside Annie’s and took my picture. If it’s published…” her voice broke. She cleared her throat and composed herself. “My sisters, my mother-in-law, my landlady, they’ll think the worst. I don’t know what Winthrop will do.”

  “The picture taker didn’t know who you are, did he?”

  “No. He’d aimed his camera at Annie’s front door and I walked out at the wrong moment. He may be the same scandal monger who’s been writing about Elfie and the Kadinger murders.”

  “Did he give you his name?”

  “Fen Megarian. He calls himself a star newsmaker. I should have shown him my gun and threatened to shoot him if he didn’t give me the plate. I was too stunned.”

  “Maybe we should ask this Fen fella what he’ll take to part with the plate. We’ve got information to swap if he’s minded to play fair. Maybe we can even slip him in to see her with us tonight.”

  “Your friend Captain Chesterton agreed to let us in?”

  “For a write-off of his poker debts, he’d help break her out. But feelings over what happened run high amongst the guards, so it’ll have to be late, after the day shift has gone home.”

  She brightened. “You make it sound easy as rolling off a log. Do you think Fen will still be at the Tribune office?”

  ***

  He wasn’t and none of the other reporters or typesetters knew where to find him or when he would next appear. To Quinn’s relief, Fen Megarian had not submitted a story or a photograph today.

  “We’ll pay him a visit tomorrow,” said Quinn. “Let’s go to Madam Lou’s now and talk to Jemelle.”

  “It’s too late. By now, the sporting district’s already a-swarm with rowdies and drunkards.”

  “But you can handle them, Garnick. You can clear the way.”

  “I’m pleased you recognize what a fearsome figure of a man I am, but I’d be no match for a mob of brawlers. Besides, this Jemelle girl would prob’ly druther keep her distance from men for a while. Lou’s will be safe as church in the morning. You can go by yourself after we talk to that photographer. Madam Lou’s known to be as polite and refined as Annie is rough.”

  Quinn didn’t think a foray into the parlor of so polite and refined a call house at this early hour would be dangerous, but she hadn’t yet recovered from her encounter with Annie. “All right, but I don’t want to just sit around until midnight, or whenever it is that Captain Chesterton said he would let us into the jail.”

  “Let’s visit somebody else on your witness list. You said you wanted to talk to Miss Delphine’s bridesmaid. The Allbright house is on our way downtown.”

  Chapter 7

  “This is it,” said Garnick, curbing Leonidas in front of an elaborately decorated house with a mansard roof and molded cornices. Bonneted dormers graced the upper floor and gothic bay windows projected from the wall on either side of a wide porch.

  Quinn tidied her hair and dress as best she could. “Miss Allbright will think I’m a beggar.”

  “I’m of a mind to beg for a glass of water,” said Garnick. “If her pa’s at home, he’ll ask us in.” He followed her down the walkway, neatened his shirt and hair, and banged the horse-head knocker.

  A woman’s voice sang out, “I’ll get it, Mag.” The door breezed open and a doe-eyed young woman with blond ringlets and a beaming smile appeared. “Oh.” The smile drooped as if she’d expected company considerably more to her liking.

  “How do you do,” said Quinn, taking in the frilly pink dress and pink-tinged lips. She handed her a business card. “I’m Mrs. Paschal and this is Mr. Garnick. We’re here to see Miss Josabeth Allbright. Is she in?”

  “I’m Miss Allbright.” She studied the card and caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You’re detectives?”

  “That’s right. We’re investigating the death of Mr. Rolf Kadinger and his daughter, Delphine.”

  “Do you work for the police?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Garnick. “I spoke to your pa a while ago and he thought you might have some special knowledge about your friend, Miss Delphine, how she felt about the unfortunate occurrence at her wedding reception and so forth.”

  “My father is out for the evening. But if you’re not working for the police, is it the insurance company that hired you?”

  “To be honest,” said Quinn, “Miss Jackson’s attorney hired us.”

  “Oh my goodness.”

  “May we come in?” asked Quinn.

  “Well…” Miss Allbright bit her lip and dithered.

  “We’ll be as brief as possible,” said Quinn encouragingly. “I’m sure you want to hear more of the story.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Do come in.”

  She led them into a room anchored by a large round table upon which rested a bouquet of multi-colored flowers. Heavy, plush chairs and ottomans were interspersed with smaller ladies’ chairs in vibrant colors and expensive fabrics. “Do you care for a glass of cold lemonade?”

  “That would be mighty kind,” said Garnick.

  “Mag,” she called over her shoulder. “Bring that pitcher of lemonade into the drawing room. And three glasses.” She turned back to Quinn and Garnick. “I’ve never met a detective before. It’s frightfully venturesome for a woman, is it not?”

  “Not today. Not in such pleasant company.”

  “I don’t know what I can possibly tell you. I read about the Jackson girl in the newspapers. They say she did it because of unrequited love.”

  At their hostess’ bidding, they seated themselves and a black woman in a white cap and apron arrived toting a sterling tray with lemonade and slices of pound cake. She set out plates, served the drinks, and disappeared.

  Garnick said, “There may have been others with a motive for murder besides unrequited love.”
/>   Josabeth’s pretty brow contracted. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Did Miss Delphine ever mention anybody with a grudge against her daddy?”

  “Delphine never gave a thought to business, not Mr. Kadinger’s or even Burk’s. She didn’t think it was ladylike to ask men questions about what they did outside the drawing room.”

  “She sounds very demure,” said Quinn.

  “Oh, she could be a little forward sometimes, but never in a way that detracted from her femininity. I still can’t believe she’s gone. And in such a frightful way!” Josabeth shivered, making her ringlets dance.

  Quinn adapted her first question to what she assumed was the customary association between Josabeth and Delphine. “You must have been much in society with Delphine and her fiancé before they were married. What kinds of things did they talk about in the drawing room?”

  “Burk is truly spellbinding. He tells amazing stories about his exploits during the War, running gunboats for General Grant out of Fort Defiance and infiltrating Confederate garrisons to disable their cannons. He makes everything sound thrilling. From the moment she met him, Delphine was enraptured. She had another suitor but gave him the mitten. No one could hold a candle to Burk.”

  Quinn exchanged a look with Garnick. “What was her former suitor’s name?”

  “Oh, Delphine kept him a secret. I don’t know how they met or when, but she didn’t go out among her friends with him. I had an inkling Mr. Kadinger didn’t like him or wouldn’t have liked him if he’d known him. It was very strange.”

  “Was he of inferior social standing?” asked Quinn.

  “His pedigree wouldn’t have mattered so long as he was hardworking. Mr. Kadinger started out as a lumber shover loading and unloading logs onto boats. Whoever the man was, I know he asked Delphine to marry him. She tried to discourage him in a nice way, but he wouldn’t be put off. When she told him she had accepted Burk’s proposal, he became quite angry.”

  “In what way?” asked Garnick. “How did he demonstrate his anger?”