After a few minutes and a silent vent of Irish curses, she made use of the facilities and regained her composure. Time to face the music. She opened the door as a tall woman with a silver duchess chignon and a majestic nose swept out of the adjacent compartment.
“Geneva!”
“You!” Her mother-in-law’s eyes dilated with rage. “How dare you speak to me!”
The lady on the ottoman sat forward, all ears.
“You have splashed the Sinclair name across the front page. In amongst the cyprians!” She turned up her imperious nose and sneered. “Thom must be turning in his grave.”
“That article was wildly exaggerated. An ambush. I have never used the name Sinclair in the course of my business, Geneva.” The very name tasted like vinegar. Why was she apologizing to a forger?
The woman on the ottoman leaned across to whisper to the woman on the chaise.
“Let’s find a private alcove somewhere down the hall and talk,” said Quinn. “We need to clear up some things.”
Geneva scoffed. “This much is clear. You are a never-ending source of disgrace. But know this, you impudent Irish baggage, you detective, you’ll never see a cent of Sinclair money. After the humiliation you’ve heaped on us, I’d rather burn it. If that lawyer of yours hasn’t realized the vulgar little grubber he’s representing, you can be sure I’ll set him straight. Henceforth, you are dead to me.” She threw up her head like a bee-stung horse and stamped out of the room.
Quinn lifted her chin, smartened her hair, and winked at the open-mouthed onlookers. “Don’t be fooled by her highfalutin talk, ladies. In the sporting houses on Hair Trigger block, Geneva Sinclair is known as Jigging Ginny.”
There was an audible gasp. Pleased with herself, Quinn returned to the restaurant. A piece of strawberry cake with white frosting awaited her and her wine glass had been replenished.
Winthrop stood to reseat her. “I was getting worried you wouldn’t come back.”
“That would have been rude after you’ve treated me to this excellent dinner.”
As Winthrop rambled on about the complexities of preparing for a jury trial, she savored the wine and let her thoughts drift. She would not be cowed by a starchy lawyer who thought he was smarter than everybody else, or a snake-in-the-grass reporter who thought he could muck about with people’s lives, or the high-and-mighty Geneva Sinclair who thought she could get away with forgery and fraud. If the Devil meant to swallow her whole, he’d have to do it sideways with her kicking and clawing all the way. She’d find another place to live, another lawyer, and the right words to soothe Garnick’s feelings. Together, they would figure out who killed the Kadingers if they had to take on Henry Tench and the whole city of Chicago.
A queer peace settled over her. She chased the last mouthful of cake with a big sip of wine and smiled. “Geneva Sinclair is attending a lecture at the Opera House this evening. I ran into her upstairs and she’s extremely eager to speak with you.”
“That’s good news. I’ll call on her tomorrow.”
“No, tonight. I’d like you to seek her out and hear what she has to say, Micah. Please? I’ve a hunch tonight will be the turning point in the matter of Sinclair versus Sinclair.”
“All right, if you insist, but I can’t leave you sitting here all by yourself.”
“But that will be heavenly. That is to say, I shall be watching the comings and goings of all these fashionable people and daydreaming about what I’m going to do with all that Sinclair money.”
Chapter 18
The street in front of the Opera House was a hive of activity. A dozen carriages disgorged fresh arrivals, but a steady stream of people was leaving as Quinn was and she had to vie for a free hack. The day’s twists and turns had sapped the last drop of energy. She looked forward to spreading a quilt across her desk and giving in to sleep. With all the wine she’d drunk, she wouldn’t miss Mrs. Mills’ feather bed and goose-down pillow.
When eventually she caught a ride, she closed her eyes and drowsed against the back seat. Micah would be fit to be tied when he returned to the dining room after his chat with Geneva and discovered that his disgraceful client had done a bunk. She envisioned his shock, his red blotches, his plaints of offended respectability. The picture made her giggle.
A jangle of bells and clamorous shouts brought her back to attention. The hack pulled to the curb and she stuck her head out the window as a steamer fire wagon thundered past, horses galloping headlong. They were on Pine headed east. She watched the steamer swerve right onto State. A hose cart raced close behind. When they had passed, Quinn’s driver pulled into the street and followed the hose cart. The fire was in the same general direction as the office. It was after nine o’clock but still light enough to see a plume of brownish smoke boiling into the sky.
The hack gained speed and jounced Quinn all over the seat. She braced herself with both hands. Thoughts of Rolf and Delphine Kadinger sprang to mind and she crossed her fingers no one was trapped. She peered out the window again. In the distance flames shot skyward. The acrid smell of burning wood filled the air. Some poor soul was having a worse day than her. The fire wagon had veered out of sight, but the hose cart was just careening onto Adams.
The fire was on the same street as her office. She tensed. What were the chances of a coincidence? By the time the hack made the turn, there was no doubt. The fire wagons had stopped directly in front of Garnick & Paschal.
“I don’t want to get no closer,” said her driver. “My horse ain’t trustable around fire.”
“Then let me out.” The carriage was still moving as she jumped out.
Heat gusted against her face and she brushed in vain at ashes and cinders that rained all around. The little one-room building was enveloped in flames. Where was Garnick? She began to run. She drew up at the hose cart, panting, and a man reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Stay back. You’ll get yourself burnt up.”
“Is there anyone inside?”
“Can’t say. It’s too hot to send a man in.”
“But you have to. That’s my office. My partner may be inside.”
“If you don’t let us work, somebody’s for sure gonna die. Now move back and keep out of the way.”
The hose men unrolled their leather hoses and lugged them to the steam pump. Men shouted and exhorted each other to hurry. A sprinkle of cinders fell onto her sleeve and she batted them away.
Garnick sometimes worked at night, nailing screens in the windows or installing shelves. But this afternoon he had left in a temper. He had no reason to return. No unfinished project, no partner to argue with. He was probably off somewhere playing cards with Chesterton. Even if he’d been inside when the fire started, he’d have left when he saw he couldn’t put it out by himself, wouldn’t he? Dread swamped her. What if Stram had showed up and something God-awful happened?
At last they got the hoses attached to the pump and high, arcing fountains of water gushed into the inferno, but the water seemed only to fuel the flames, whipping them higher and hotter. They leapt into the white oak behind and its upper branches flared like a hundred fiery candles. If Garnick were here, he’d have tethered Leonidas under that tree. She moved around to get a view of the rear but couldn’t get close enough. The blaze was too hot.
Sick with fear, she crossed to the opposite side of the street and watched the fire devour the little office upon which she had founded her new life as an independent woman, listened to the whoosh and crackle of a burning dream, breathed in the smoke of her disappearing history. Everything she owned in this world, everything that wasn’t on her back or in her purse was feeding those flames – clothes, books, letters, keepsakes. All gone. All up in smoke. Someone had done this to her deliberately. A reflux of wine and prairie chicken and fury rose in her throat. Her knees buckled and she sat down hard on the curb.
After an hour, there was no more water, no more building, and no more history to save. Nothing was left of Garnick & Paschal but a skeleto
n of charred wood and the singed shingle that had blown off into the street. In the gathering darkness, shadowy figures with lamps trawled through the rubble. The moon rose ghost-like over the ruins.
“We didn’t find a sign of anybody inside,” called a sooty-faced fireman crossing the street toward her.
She sent up a silent Hail Mary. Garnick was alive.
The fireman picked up the shingle and handed it to her. “Sorry we didn’t get here in time to put it out for you. Looks like she started on the east side in a trash barrel. Somebody could’ve emptied pipe dottle or a live ember from a cigar in it. From what we can tell, it burned slow a good long while before it caught and got to climbing the wall.”
She nodded. No one could convince her this was mere happenstance.
“You need a ride home, miss?”
“I am at home. That was it.”
“Where you want us to take you then?”
“I don’t know.” She felt numb, bereft of all power. The fire brigade might as well leave her to wait for the hearse. A hotel was out of the question. She’d spent all her cash on breakfast and hack fares. She’d been to Garnick’s cabin just once. It was at the edge of a wood somewhere to the south. Even if she knew how to find it she couldn’t be sure he’d be there to let her in or want to after the way she’d deflected his attempt to put things right and disprized his opinion while making much of Winthrop’s brilliant legal mind.
“You got family somewhere?”
“No.” Going back to her family wasn’t an option. After her father’s murder, she and her mother had become estranged. Her sisters lived in Springfield and her only woman friend, Norah, had moved to Omaha with her husband a year ago. The only other person who cared about her was her brother Rune, whose last letter had been posted somewhere in Canada.
“You can’t sit here in the street all night, miss. It ain’t safe.”
She looked at him, but he seemed oblivious to the irony.
“Ain’t you got no place?”
The smoke burned her eyes and throat and lungs. It felt like she was breathing the ashes of her life. “Take me to West Monroe Street. Number two-nineteen.”
“Land O Goshen, I wouldn’t have guessed you was that kind.”
“I’m not, and if anyone thinks otherwise, be advised I have a loaded pistol in my purse.”
***
Madam Lou’s Mansion was lit bright enough for the man in the moon to ogle the girls. The hose cart driver could scarcely take his eyes off the coquettes who dallied about the lawn in the glow of red lights. Quinn hopped down and hurried into the foyer. The first person she saw was the grandmotherly woman who’d served her tea under the gazebo. Tonight her lips and cheeks were rouged and her pink dress clung to her body in a way that flouted the laws of both age and gravity. Her blue eyes danced with merriment as she laughed and flirted with a gentleman half her age.
“Excuse me,” said Quinn. “Can you please tell me where to find Jemelle?”
The woman drew in her chin and gave her a dubious look. “What happened to you? You’re bedraggled as a guttersnipe.”
Quinn rubbed her face and her hand came away black. “Somebody burned down my office.” Still carrying the shingle, she held it out to show, then feeling too much like a beggar, tucked it under her arm again. “I thought that if Jemelle isn’t working, she’d let me wash up here and spend the night in her room.”
“You must be hard up, diddums.”
“I’m temporarily without lodging.”
“Temporarily, eh? With a clean face, you’d be taking enough. You sure you don’t want me to set you up in a new career?”
Quinn didn’t know what to say.
The woman laughed. “I’m joshing you, diddums. Never let it be said Lou Harper turned away a damsel in distress.”
“Are you Madam Lou?”
“The one and only. And you’re the gal detective trying to get Elfie Jackson out of jail.” She shooed the young man into a parlor where somebody was playing the piano and people were dancing. “You come with me, Detective Paschal.”
She led Quinn up a winding, carpeted staircase, down a wide corridor with numbered rooms like in a hotel. Quinn pictured a lather of lust and mingling limbs behind the closed doors. She tried hard not to picture anyone she knew. On the last door a heart-shaped plaque read “Lou’s Boudoir” in gold letters. Lou waved her inside.
It was a pretty room. The brass bed was covered in a pastel patchwork quilt and the air had a clean, citrusy smell. Quinn didn’t think Lou entertained in her boudoir.
“There’s water in the pitcher next to the washstand. Freshen up and make yourself comfortable. There’s a wrapper in the armoire. I’ll have a tub bath poured for you and send Sissy to fetch you when it’s ready. Maybe one of the girls has a street dress that’ll fit you. That one you’re wearing is a goner.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“Glad to oblige.”
“Is there a key to lock the door?”
Lou’s eyebrows swooped low over her nose, paused in apparent disbelief, and swooped up again nearly halfway to her hairline. “I wouldn’t have thought a female game enough to call herself a detective and bold enough to spend the night in a bawdy house would be all niminy-piminy and shy. But if you’re skittish, don’t be. You won’t be bothered. All of my guests are domesticated.” She left in a gale of laughter.
Quinn yanked off her silly bonnet and smoky smelling dress, riddled now with burn holes, and pitched them into the wastebasket. She poured water into the washbowl and scrubbed her face. First Annie Stafford and now Lou Harper. What was it about her that provoked such uproarious laughter from whorehouse madams? It was irksome in the extreme.
Was Madam Lou really joshing when she offered her a job? A hundred hard-up girls with no place to sleep and no family to take them in must have walked through her door, girls like Elfie and Jemelle, girls in trouble like Rhetta. Lou, herself, may have been a damsel in distress once, alone and impoverished with no choice but to prostitute herself. Quinn wasn’t that desperate yet, but if this day had taught her anything, it was the suddenness with which circumstances could change. She had lost her home, her business, her personal belongings, her pride, and the belief that she was somehow exceptional. The grim face in the mirror above the washstand stared back at her. “There’s nothing for it now. Nothing left to lose. Go on and pull the Devil by the tail. Pull it and hang on till you’re licked or he is.”
Chapter 19
Madam Lou ordered a camp cot set up behind a Japanese screen for Quinn. It was hard and narrow and Quinn’s thoughts were not conducive to slumber. The plinking of the piano downstairs and the bumps and moans coming from the next room didn’t help. Sometime after midnight the piano went quiet and Lou came to bed. After a while, her rhythmic snores had a tranquilizing effect and Quinn fell into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
***
The insistent trill of a red-winged blackbird encroached into the edges of her consciousness. The scent of honeysuckle filled the room and the sun teased at the edges of her pillow, enticing her to open her eyes. She stretched her arms. Mrs. Mills was frying bacon this morning. It was a normal summer day.
A man’s loud, hooting laugh ruptured her reverie and she snapped awake. Alert. In the present. In the boudoir of the head hooker. She jumped up and peeped over the top of the screen. Lou was gone, her bed already made. The French porcelain clock on her bedside table said eight o’clock. Quinn went to the window. A happy customer was waving good-bye to a woman she couldn’t see.
She turned back to the room. The question “what now?” thrummed in her brain. The burnt shingle of Garnick & Paschal with its broken chain lay on the floor beside the cot. Had Garnick arrived at the office already this morning and found it gone? What would he think? Where would he go? Where would she go from here? She had a little money in the bank where she regularly deposited her thirteen-dollar-a-month widow’s pension and the agency had a separate account with Handish�
�s twenty dollars. She knew nothing about Garnick’s finances, but she could hardly ask him to subsidize a detective agency that had been mostly her idea. If their last conversation was any indication, he’d likely say good riddance to a bad business.
She didn’t have nearly enough money to replace her clothes and shoes and linens and pay for a room in a nice boarding house, too. Still, she wasn’t destitute. She thought about the other women in Lou’s brothel. Most had probably showed up with far less than her, their only saleable asset being their bodies.
A note had been propped against the rouge pot on Lou’s dressing table. There’s a buff-colored dress on the clotheshorse that should fit you. If you’re hungry, there’s eggs and bacon in the kitchen. One of the girls will show you. Quinn resolved never to disparage hookers again, except maybe Jemelle who lied as easily as she breathed. Lou hadn’t mentioned her last night and, in retrospect, Quinn wouldn’t have slept a wink in the same room with Jemelle. She had the look of a cornered animal, one who’d sink her fangs into anyone who got too close.
The thin muslin dress on the clotheshorse had been laundered and ironed so many times it was shiny. Quinn slipped it on and wondered which one of Lou’s girls had donated it. Without the corset, it hung almost as if it were custom-made for her. She felt grateful and glad to be alive. She brushed her hair out loose and natural, no bonnets or nets or tight-wound braids. No more mealy-mouthed evasions, either. A woman who wasn’t self-assured enough to say what she meant shouldn’t aspire to be a detective.
Armed with fresh clothes and a sense of mission, Quinn wended her way downstairs and followed the smell of frying bacon. The cramped kitchen appeared to double as the dining room. A long communal table had been wedged between the stove and a baking cupboard with flour and sugar canisters and a kneading board. The blonde doing the frying didn’t turn around.
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