Devil by the Tail

by Jeanne Matthews

  “Where you want me to set it, ma’am?”

  “Here. Behind my desk please.”

  He unburdened himself and rolled his shoulders. “Hang on. I’ll fetch t’other box.”

  He went out and Garnick gave her a questioning look.

  “I’ve been evicted,” she said. “Stram found out where I live and came calling in the middle of the night. He raised a hubbub. Mrs. Mills drew the wrong conclusion and wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.”

  Garnick cocked an eyebrow. “I know how that can go.”

  “Anyhow, Stram worked for someone else, Bayer or Verner or maybe Delphine’s lover. I think he’s afraid of the man. He says he wants to disappear.”

  The hack driver returned with her box of books, set it down with a grunt, and rubbed his neck. She thanked him and paid him a dollar over the agreed amount. He was on his way out the door when she remembered her date with Winthrop and wondered if the boy and his laggard collie had delivered her letter. Best to be sure. “Sir! Will you deliver a message for me? The address is only a few blocks from here.”

  “What and where?”

  “I’ll write it down.” She dashed off a note and in yet another rush of extravagance, gave him two more dollars.

  Garnick busied himself riffling through one of her books. The door closed behind the messenger and still he didn’t meet her eyes. He acted as if he’d lost interest in Stram or anything else she had to say. When she couldn’t stand the silence any longer, she said, “Rhetta gave me a ring we may be able to trace to Delphine’s mysterious gallant, but unless Stram decides to confess his crimes and name the man who hired him, we’ll never know what happened. It’s maddening.”

  Without looking up, he said, “It’s like this Elfie Jackson case was cooked up by the devil just to vex you.”

  “We’re detectives. It’s our job to be vexed about our cases.”

  “Up to a point. Winthrop’s got enough arrows in his quiver to shoot down the charges against her. Maybe we should leave well enough alone and move on to other cases.”

  “And never know who committed the murders?”

  Garnick closed the book and studied her as if she were a weathervane and he was trying to gauge the direction of the wind. “This is no run-of-the-mill killer, Quinn. He’s smart and he’s apt to know who’s after him. Don’t forget the bullet that came within a gnat’s whisker of killing you as we were leaving the Tremont after your talk with Enoch Bean. If Stram found out where you live, so can the killer. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

  “We’ve always known there’d be danger. If you don’t want to continue–”

  “I’m not obligated. You already made that clear.”

  She averted her eyes and stared out the window. It stung to have her impertinence thrown back at her. “I don’t want to…” what was the word Chesterton had used, “to gull you into something you don’t want to do, Garnick.”

  “And I don’t want you to wind up in a gunny sack at the bottom of the Chicago River. But seeing as how quit ain’t in your vocabulary, you may as well hear the rest. Verner knows the bub who wooed his sister this past winter before Bayer waltzed in.”

  “That’s tremendous! Who?”

  “Alderman Henry Tench. He’s one of Mayor Rice’s inner circle and the city council’s main go-between to Cap Hyman and his lovely bride Annie. For a cut of the profits, the council makes sure the coppers don’t clutter up the neighborhood and harass the pimps or customers. The money seeps down through the system. Chesterton’s a good egg, but he’s a go-alonger. He takes his sweeteners and passes a taste on to the men under him.”

  “Everybody feeds at the trough,” said Quinn, channeling Annie.

  “That’s the system, but access to the trough isn’t free and the folks who oversee the graft are ruthless as weasels.”

  “Annie told me the Kadinger murders had the council running scared. Small wonder if an alderman was keeping company with Delphine.”

  “If Stram’s on the run from Tench, he’ll have a hard time slipping the net. He could end up like Handish.”

  “The thing I don’t understand,” said Quinn, “is how Verner knew about Tench. Delphine kept their meetings secret.”

  “Maybe Verner happened upon a mash note.”

  “That sounds logical. I’m going to dinner with Winthrop tonight. He wasn’t keen to press on with the investigation, but if he sees a chance to expose high-level corruption and make a name for himself, he may decide it’s worth proceeding with the investigation. He could become the next mayor. Governor, even. He can cook up a pretext for us to interview the council members and we will know soon enough if Tench is the killer.”

  Garnick’s mouth twisted into a crowbar, one side up, one down. “Sounds like you and the silver-tongued esquire got the problem solved already.”

  “Give him his due, Garnick. He’s a bit pompous and overbearing, but Micah has a brilliant legal education and a quick mind. He’ll see ways of doing things we can’t.”

  “A regular sage, I reckon.”

  “Garnick…”

  “Aw, let it go. Enjoy your evening with the gov.” He slammed out the door.

  Gadzooks, did he think she meant to spend the night in Winthrop’s bed? The rift between them seemed to grow wider by the minute. In a stormy frame of mind, she jerked open the folded paper Bayer had left on her desk. It was the front page of the Tribune. Bayer had marked the lead article in column four.

  Questing through the vilest haunts of the most depraved and degraded creatures in our city, detectives hired by Micah Winthrop, the attorney representing the accused murderess Elfie Jackson, have found a witness they believe will exonerate the defendant. These are not the hardened detectives of the Pinkerton Force, but an amateur pair, one of them a woman who, although she risks being taken for one of these disreputable cyprians, moves among them undaunted, showing neither shock nor repulsion. She has styled herself with the alias Mrs. Paschal, but this reporter has ascertained that she is the widow of the late Thomas Sinclair, whose father John Paul Sinclair is Envoy Extraordinaire to France. Her partner, a former secessionist named Garnick, calls the prostitutes by name and treats them as equals.

  The witness deposed by the detectives is Jemelle Clary, whose marred face and broken teeth give testimony to the vile and vicious persons she is paid to service. Her affidavit disavows the statements she first made to the police and asserts that a man named Jack Stram paid her $50 to incriminate Elfie Jackson. Mr. Winthrop’s challenge at the trial will be to persuade twelve jurors that a woman who sells her body for one dollar and her eternal soul for $50 can be believed on any subject.

  “Devil to pay,” said Quinn. “There’ll be the very devil to pay for this.”

  Chapter 17

  Torches of radiant yellow light lined Washington Street and illuminated the sumptuous marble façade of the Crosby’s Opera House. The massive five-story building, home to a 3,000-seat auditorium, lecture and concert halls, and numerous galleries, was renowned as the finest public building in the West. The four allegorical statues on the parapet above its arched entrance represented painting, sculpture, music, and commerce and proclaimed in shimmering stone the cultural advancement of the city.

  Winthrop shepherded Quinn through the horde of elegantly accoutered upper-crusters milling about in front. They passed through the imposing portal and strolled along a spacious corridor bordered by frescoes, mirrors, and statues. Commerce dominated the first floor, but in a high-class way. There was a piano store, a sheet music store, a confectioner’s shop, and at the end, John Wright’s opulent dining establishment.

  A waiter attended them to their reserved table. Quinn took her place like a condemned prisoner sitting down to her last meal. Winthrop had spent the afternoon reviewing documents at the courthouse and had not yet seen Fen Megarian’s toxic front-page commentary. She wondered how many courses she would enjoy before one of Winthrop’s acquaintances approached the table and exclaimed, “Is this th
at detective who consorts with cyprians?”

  “It’s rather sudden,” said Winthrop, “your moving from Mrs. Mills’ house, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She wished she’d thought to drag her trunk behind Garnick’s desk where it wouldn’t have been noticed. “A room became available in a more commodious place. I was afraid someone else would take it if I didn’t move immediately.”

  “Where is it? I assume I’ll be escorting you to your new home tonight?”

  Another waiter appeared, presented them with menus embossed with gold lettering and withdrew. “What do you recommend, Mr. Winthrop?”

  “I like to think that over these last few months we’ve become friends. Please call me Micah and, with your permission, I’ll call you Quinn.” He smiled in a way that gave her fresh cause for unease.

  “What do you recommend, Micah?”

  “The quail is excellent, also the boned turkey. The prairie chicken patties are the specialty of the restaurant. In honor of your success, I think we should order a bottle of claret. What do you say, Quinn?”

  She didn’t know if her father’s penchant for whiskey predisposed her to intoxication, but it made her leery of spiritous beverages. Her mother-in-law seldom missed a chance to deplore the “Irish sots” that plagued her beautiful city, but unless she had revealed Quinn’s ethnic roots to Winthrop, he wouldn’t know. Perhaps that explained his rashness. Frazzled nerves explained Quinn’s. “Claret sounds delightfully festive,” she said, and settled on the chicken patties.

  A different waiter came and Winthrop ordered for her. While he questioned the waiter about the wine, she made a visual tour of the restaurant – swagged draperies, damask tablecloths, tall vases with varicolored flowers in every corner, and carpet as soft and thick as clotted cream. Huge circular gasoliers adorned with clusters of pendulous glass beads hung from the ceiling and the dulcet strains of an orchestra floated through the air. “It’s like a palace,” she said.

  “I thought you’d be impressed.”

  The other diners were decked out in the latest fashions and colors – mauve and periwinkle and drake’s neck. The two matrons at the next table wore swanky gowns and expensive jewelry. Their waterfall hairstyles must have taken their hairdressers all day to plait and rope and pin. They laughed and chattered with each other as if the men sitting across from them weren’t there. It crossed Quinn’s mind that the disregarded men might drive their wives home after dinner and seek more appreciative companionship with one of Lou Harper’s hostesses. If sympathy for visitors to Lou’s implied a collapse of her morals, she wasn’t minded to analyze the reason.

  Yet another waiter materialized and held out a wine bottle as if he were presenting a newborn baby. Winthrop examined the label minutely. “You may pour,” he said at last. When the wine was pronounced acceptable and the waiter had gone, Winthrop touched his glass to hers. “To you, Detective Paschal. And to our growing friendship. Quinn.”

  She took a rather large sip and eked out a tentative smile.

  “I must compliment you on your dress. Most charming.”

  “You are very kind, Mr. Win–”

  “Micah.”

  “Micah. And that’s a handsome suit you are wearing.”

  “Thank you. It’s bespoke, tailored and hand-stitched by a British firm on Michigan Boulevard.” He swirled the wine, sipped, and grew thoughtful. “Tell me about your conversation with Rhetta Slayne. You constantly surprise me with your ability to insinuate yourself into the confidence of unstable women.”

  He’d be a lot more surprised after he saw Megarian’s article, but one surprise at a time. “A lot more has come to light since my meeting with Rhetta. Garnick spoke with Verner Kadinger last night.”

  “And what did that lunatic have to say? Anything more about the missing will?”

  “No, but something that may lead to the murderer.”

  “I’m on tenterhooks.”

  She didn’t like his tongue-in-cheek tone. “You should be. Verner says that Henry Tench was Delphine’s lover before she married Bayer. Everybody knows the city council takes bribes from the brothels and heaven knows what else. If Tench is as ruthless as Garnick thinks–”

  “Alderman Tench?” Winthrop’s face broke out in blotches almost the color of the claret.

  “Yes. Alderman Henry Tench.”

  “Who else have you told about this? Who has that idiot Kadinger told?”

  “Garnick and I have told no one. I can’t answer for Verner.”

  The dinner arrived. While the waiters lifted the cloches and sauced the meat, Winthrop’s red blotches faded and he appeared to simmer down. Quinn fortified herself with more wine. The name Tench had an intimidating effect. Garnick had shown real concern and he was more accustomed to dealing with dangerous men than Winthrop. When their servers bowed and moved off to tend to other patrons, she said, “There’s a possibility Tench killed the Kadingers.”

  “Do please keep your voice down. That is preposterous and defamatory and, really Quinn, beyond the pale.”

  “No it’s not. What if Delphine knew too much about his graft and dealings with brothels and gambling dens and threatened to tell her father and anyone else who’d listen?”

  “Are you suggesting you want to investigate Tench? I forbid it. You are not to question him or any other alderman. You have no idea the Pandora’s box you’d be opening.”

  The introduction of another mythological troublemaker grated on Quinn’s already raw nerves, and the idea that Micah Winthrop would claim the authority to forbid her from doing anything rankled to the bone. She imbibed a large sip of claret and took her irritation out on the prairie chicken patty. There was a lull in the conversation during which she questioned his grasp of the situation, his competence, and his professional integrity. If he was this flummoxed over a perfectly reasonable supposition, there was no hope of mollifying him after he read Megarian’s exposé. When she looked up again, he was staring at her in a peculiar way.

  “I can see you don’t like being told what to do.”

  “Not much.”

  “I’m sorry, Quinn. I shouldn’t have been so overbearing, but I have to think of my standing in the community. I want someday to have a thriving law practice, more client files than my mother’s old pie safe will hold. You may think me shallow, but that’s one reason I attend cultural events and plays at the Opera House. It’s important to meet the right people, like the Episcopal Women’s Charitable Society that engaged me on Elfie’s behalf. Their husbands elected the Common Council members, including Tench. I’ve heard the rumors about his arrangement with Annie Stafford, but I can’t be associated with any effort to tie him to the Kadinger murders. It’s too explosive.”

  “Don’t you want to find out who killed them and bring him to justice?”

  “Not as much as I want to build a solid, respectable legal practice.” He meditated upon his claret and swirled again. “Naturally, one wants to believe that Elfie Jackson is innocent, and of course I will exert my best efforts on her behalf, but she may have done exactly what the prosecution claims. She’s emotionally unstable and Jemelle Clary is not the most credible witness.”

  “I believe there are more plausible suspects, Tench included.”

  “You’ve shown commendable ingenuity in this investigation. It comes down to respecting the limits. Does that make sense?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Someday I hope to marry a woman with your kind of intelligence to assist me in my work.” He smiled an unctuous smile. “There’s not any kind of understanding between you and Garnick, is there?”

  The turn was too sharp. She nearly fell out of her seat. “You are very opaque, Mr. …Micah.”

  “I mean, an intention to become engaged?”

  “There is not.”

  “I didn’t think there would be. You’re too clear-sighted to make such an ill-considered match. Garnick’s an able enough fellow, witty in a broad sort of way, but obviously less educated than a woman of y
our quality deserves.”

  Her glass of claret was almost empty, not enough left to make tossing it in his face worthwhile. She wasn’t sure if the red haze swirling in her head was caused by wine or anger, but she needed to get away. “Is there a ladies’ retiring room in the building?”

  “On the second floor.” He stood and pulled out her chair. “Shall I order dessert for you? Wright’s serves a beautiful array of decorated cakes.”

  “I like strawberry,” she said, and steamed off to find the toilet.

  She should have showed him Megarian’s article as soon as he stepped foot inside the office tonight. Better to have terminated the relationship on her turf than waiting for the axe to fall in this pretentious temple of prettified aristocrats. Respect the limits, ha! He couldn’t divert her from her investigation with overcooked chicken patties and blarney. The man was detestable! Insufferable!

  The ladies’ room was fit for a queen. A row of silk-skirted dressing tables stood against one wall, each topped by its own gilded mirror and overhung by a crystal gasolier. On the facing wall were private closets painted with colorful murals evocative of the fashion plates in Godey’s Lady’s Book. Two attendants stood by to help ladies out of and back into their garments. A few ladies primped in front of the mirrors, powdering their noses, and spiffing their hair. Others rested on chic ottomans and velvet chaises lounges straightening their stockings and chatting.

  An attendant held open a compartment door for Quinn and she slunk in like a hunted fox to its den. What if Winthrop withdrew from her lawsuit? She’d been counting on that widow’s dower. She’d paid him to get it for her, invested in his skills and his reputation and his promises. He’d so far failed, but without him, she’d have to pay another lawyer and start all over again. Winthrop would say it was her just desserts. Megarian’s story undermined both Elfie’s case and her own. The Devil had made a day’s work of messing with her. She could scarcely breathe, gripped as she was between mortification and fury – like the jaws of a pincer.