Devil by the Tail

by Jeanne Matthews

“Have it your way but hold tight to my arm.”

  The afternoon sun sparkled on the greasy river water. A yellow sheen, runoff from the tannery, slapped gently against a blue sheen discharged from the soap factory. Quinn had to step lively to match her gait to Garnick’s. As they weaved through the crowd, she cleaved to his arm and fastened her gaze on the weathered boards of the dock. A few oglers began to close around them, hooting and calling out crude comments. As Garnick pushed and shoved through a gauntlet, her dress began to feel flimsy as gauze. She imagined a host of hot stares stripping her naked.

  A pair of rummy-smelling seamen jostled them and an errant hand groped at the front of her dress. Garnick elbowed the roughneck hard in the ribs and he went down cursing. The second rowdy took a swing at Garnick, but Garnick parried the blow and the man tripped over his felled cohort. Garnick held fast to her arm and they plowed ahead as the air behind them blued with curses and insults. She shouldn’t have been so stubborn about putting herself on view and at risk, but how unfair it was! Men could walk unmolested wherever they chose while women had to skitter about like prey. Garnick broke into a trot. As she pushed herself to keep up, her thoughts turned to how they could get back to the street without retracing their steps.

  After what seemed like half a mile, Garnick slackened the pace and let go of her arm. “You make it through in one piece?”

  “Yes.” Out of breath, she bent over with a stitch in her side. “I shouldn’t have put us in that situation. I’m sorry.”

  “Some things are learned best in the pinch of the moment, I reckon.”

  “By those too mulish to listen to advice.” The pain in her side subsided and she looked around. To her surprise and relief, they were alone. The hurly-burly at the other end of the wharf sounded far away and the boats here had an almost derelict appearance. “There’s no one to stop us. I guess we should just go aboard and search.”

  “This time, why don’t you let me go in first?”

  “But what if Stram’s not alone? What if he’s with a gang and they attack you?”

  “Unless he saw me when I went looking for him at Cap Hyman’s place, he won’t know me from a tin bucket. Anyways, I don’t plan to say anything to set him off till we’re on safe ground. Keep on your guard and out of sight till I call out for you. You got your pistol?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take it out now and don’t scruple to use it.” He vaulted onto a rope ladder and shinnied up onto the deck of a dilapidated, two-masted schooner named Hiawatha. Quinn took the derringer out of her bag and stood near the stern in a shaded spot invisible to the McCormick factory workers. The Hiawatha and the boat moored next to it, the Charming Betsy, looked seaworthy in spite of their neglected appearance. Even in a condition of disrepair, they would have been worth a lot of money. Did Stram have the money to buy such a vessel or had he seen it was disused and moved in? Maybe he had a pal at the factory who let him know there was an empty boat where he could hide out.

  After a while, the sun invaded her shady spot. She moved toward the front of the boat and a sliver of shade under the curve of the prow. How long would it take to search a boat this size? Not very long, she thought. Not as long as it seemed to be taking Garnick. She moved out into the open and looked up to see if she could catch a glimpse of him on the deck. If a fight broke out, she assumed she would hear. If Garnick and Stram were talking, it had turned into a lengthy conversation. A spooky sensation, like the mercury in a barometer, rose inside her. What if Stram had sneaked up behind Garnick and stuck a blade in his back?

  Something plopped into the river. She ran to the edge of the dock and craned her neck. “Garnick? What was that?”

  No answer.

  “Are you all right? Say something.”

  He didn’t.

  She pondered the ladder. The first step was above her head and out of reach. She laid the gun on the ground, bent her knees, and jumped for it. Her fingers grazed the rope but she couldn’t get a grip. It had looked so easy when Garnick did it. She glanced around for something to stand on. A broken metal wheel lay at the edge of the dock under a scrap pile of loose planks imprinted with the name “McCORMICK.” She dragged the heavy wheel under the ladder and laid a couple of planks on top. It added just enough height to bring the ladder within reach.

  From somewhere on the far side of the boat came the sound of violent retching.

  “Garnick?”

  She lifted her skirt and pulled a strip of her petticoat through the derringer’s trigger guard behind the trigger. With great care, she knotted the pistol into the fabric. The thought that it might go off if bumped crossed her mind, but a fall from the ladder onto the dock would probably kill her first. She grabbed onto the rope with both hands like a trapeze artist. It had been a long time since she climbed trees with her brother, but how much harder could this be? It wasn’t a huge boat, only five steps to the rail. She began to pull herself up hand over hand, her legs swinging like clappers in a bell. The muscles in her shoulders ached and she felt the seams under the arms of her dress ripping.

  The retching continued, broken by what might have been death throes or sobs. Her palms burned from the rope and her feet tangled in her skirt, but she kept pulling until her feet gained purchase on the bottom rung. She steadied herself and climbed the remaining four steps until she reached the rail and clambered over the side onto the deck. The derringer clunked against the wood and she caught her breath. It didn’t fire. She untied it and holding it outstretched in both hands, edged starboard toward the sounds of the retching.

  Garnick hung over the rail, dry-heaving into the river. There was nobody else in sight. She set down the gun and took hold of his arm. His breathing sounded raspy, ragged. “What’s wrong?” She brushed a shock of hair off his face and felt his forehead. “Is it the ague?”

  “No. Just let me be for a while, Quinn.”

  “If you’ve taken ill, we need to get away from here and find a doctor.”

  “I don’t need a doctor.” He faltered slightly but seemed to will himself upright.

  “Lean on me. If you can’t make it down the ladder, I’ll go back to McCormick for help.”

  He managed a wry smile. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “If I have to.”

  “You don’t. I can march under my own steam.”

  “So you say. It looks to me as if your steam has fizzled.”

  “Not the heroic impression a man wants to make on a woman.”

  “You’ve done that already often enough. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  He held out a piece of grimy cloth, brownish-gray with a band of faded yellow.

  “It smells foul. What is it?”

  “Part of a Confederate uniform. From the yellow, I’d say it belonged to a cavalryman. I threw the arm that wore it overboard.”

  “Only the arm?”

  “I reckon it dropped off when they dumped the rest of the poor devil.”

  “Oh, Garnick.” No wonder he was sick. “Are you sure there weren’t more bodies?”

  “Ninety percent.”

  She scanned the deck. “Where’s the cargo hatch?”

  “You don’t want to open it, Quinn. It’s dark as night down there and stinks like hell’s portal. I gave it a pretty good going-over. There was just the arm, a heap of garbage and a colony of fat rats.”

  “You think Stram murdered the man?”

  “If he did, it happened a while ago judging from the decay.”

  Quinn remembered Miss Nearest talking about decayed bodies fished out of the lake near the water intake crib. Megarian had also mentioned them. “Is it possible that Tench and the aldermen are disposing of those exhumed Confederates in the lake?”

  “I wouldn’t put any kind of deviltry past Tench, but it would cost more to haul the bodies out here to the wharf, load ’em into boats, and consign ’em to Davy Jones Locker than it does to hire gravediggers to dig fresh holes at the new cemetery.”

  She said, “There has to b
e some angle we’re not seeing.”

  “Maybe we can prevail on the alderman to enlighten us tomorrow morning. For right now let’s cogitate someplace else. I’ve had enough of the Hiawatha.”

  They climbed down. This time she centered her weight on the ropes and had less trouble. Garnick was his usual nimble self, the nausea apparently passed.

  Quinn said, “This must be the boat Stram has been hiding on, but we don’t know if he’s gone for an hour or gone for good. There’s no sense waiting. We should go someplace and get you a stiff pick-me-up.”

  “Naw. While we’re here, let’s check out these last two boats.”

  “Are you sure? What if there’s another body or piece of a body?”

  “You mean, am I apt to faint?”

  “You might.” She was thinking about those nightmares that had shaken Minnie.

  He rumpled his hair and gave a sheepish grin. “That severed arm gave me a turn, I can’t pretend it didn’t. But now I know what to expect. I won’t keel over.”

  “But what if Stram’s lying in wait for you? I’d better come along.”

  “No offense, Quinn, but rope ladders ain’t your top talent.”

  “Then here. Take the gun.”

  “No, you best hold onto it and keep a lookout. If Stram’s hiding somewheres around here, it’s not on one of these floating rat hutches.” He leapt onto the ladder.

  “Garnick?”

  He looked back over his shoulder.

  “Better not throw anything else in the river. It may be needed for evidence.”

  Chapter 25

  While Garnick reconnoitered the boats, Quinn looked for a footpath up the riverbank to the street from this end of the wharf. In almost any other circumstances, the muddy, near vertical rut she lit upon would have been out of the question. It must have been used at one time to skid logs down to the river. Eroded and slick, it would demoralize a goat. But the thought of returning through that wolf pack of gropers made it look inviting as a cakewalk. There were shoe tracks, so someone had used it in the not too distant past. She picked through a pile of planks and rubbish and came up with a sturdy walking stick to give her an extra push.

  Garnick was back before she had time to worry. He found no bodies or body parts and if Stram had been aboard, he left no sign. She pointed out her chosen route to the street. Garnick grimaced but motioned her to lead on. Using the stick to push off against and grabbing the occasional low-hanging branch to pull herself up, she reached the brick sidewalk with the Rush Street Bridge in sight. Garnick scrambled up behind and they made for the bridge.

  “It’s early yet,” he said. “We need a place to wash up and get some rest before the raid on Winthrop’s pie safe. There’s a hole-in-the-wall hotel up ahead on Rush.”

  She didn’t answer. They continued walking. Her palms, abraded first by the rope and then the stick, argued for a bath in cool water and an application of salve. Her dress, ripped and dirty, argued for a mending kit and a thorough sponging. The change in her relations with Garnick argued both sides of the hotel proposition. She had always been good with words. Why couldn’t she call up words to express her feelings for him? Why did she keep stopping him from expressing his for her? She’d promised herself there’d be no more evasions, but even after her joy and relief at finding him this morning, even with desire gnawing at her, she clung to the edge of the cliff.

  He stopped at a nondescript door. A letterbox nailed to the side of the building read Hotel. He rapped a few times. No one answered and they went inside. There was no one at the desk. He rang the bell. The harsh brrring jarred Quinn.

  A white-haired, wraith-like woman clad in a white lace mantle toddled down the hall.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” said Garnick. “We need a room for the night if you’ve got a vacancy.”

  She scrutinized them from behind the thick lenses of her gilded pince-nez. “I run a respectable house. No streetwalkers or moochers. You’ll have to go elsewhere.” Her face was solemn but not without compassion. Like Saint Peter at the pearly gates, thought Quinn, duty-bound to keep out the sinners.

  Quinn held out her left hand, giving the woman a good look at Thom’s wedding ring before turning over her skinned palm. “We’re from out of town. Cedarburg. Our wagon tipped and broke an axle when the bridge swung open. We were hoping to find a room where we could clean up while it’s being repaired.”

  “Murderation! I do apologize.” She scrunched her eyes and peered at Quinn’s nicks and scrapes. “Poor little thing. You must’ve got a handful of splinters and grit when you fell out. That swinging bridge is a hazard. Wasn’t long ago it broke in half and drowned a herd of cows. Every time a tug blows its horn I jump. So then, one room, two baths. That’ll be three dollars.”

  “Would you by chance have a jar of Cloverine salve or some other ointment for my hands?”

  “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “And a needle and thread, if you can spare it,” added Quinn.

  “Wait here.” She disappeared into a room behind the desk.

  “Cedarburg,” said Garnick under his breath. “You’ve a rare gift for invention, detective.”

  Quinn slued her eyes at him. Her invention had situated them in a room with a single bed. The cliff was crumbling under her feet and he knew it.

  The woman returned with a spool of white cotton thread and a card of needles. “Ten cents for the notions. The calendula oil’s on the house.”

  “That’s mighty Christian of you, Miz…?”

  “Farraday.”

  “Well, thank you, Miz Farraday.”

  “You’re sure welcome. There’s no other roomers in the house tonight and the Bible says to love the sojourner.”

  “We’re much beholden,” said Garnick. “You wouldn’t also happen to have a bottle of spirits on hand, would you? My lady’s had a right shock and I could stand a toddy, myself.” He patted Quinn’s arm. “We’re not used to such big-city scares over in Cedarburg.”

  “You poor dears. There’s most of a bottle of apple brandy in the kitchen. Here’s the room key. Number four. I’ll bring the brandy to your room in a few minutes.”

  Garnick paid and Quinn trailed him down the hall. He turned the key in the lock and they stepped inside. The room was dark and cool and smelled of citronella. The bed looked as big as Cleopatra’s barge.

  “How did you know about this place? Have you been here before?”

  “A few times after I was cut loose from Douglas before I got my cabin built. I looked worse then than I do now. No surprise Miz Farraday don’t, doesn’t remember me.” He pulled off his gun belt, sat down in the corner chair, and stretched out his legs. “After Douglas, this place felt like the Garden of Eden.”

  Where fig leaves were the only cover, thought Quinn. She went to the basin and poured the entire pitcher of water over her hands. With the grit washed off, they didn’t sting so much. She slathered on the calendula and waved her hands about, letting the oil soak in.

  Mrs. Farraday brought the brandy on a brass salver with two glasses. Garnick took the tray and thanked her.

  “Mind now, it’s strong. My late husband detested weak brandy. He called this brew ‘distilled lightning.’ Well, I’ll leave you to yourselves. Water closet’s at the far end of the hall. I’d have given you a closer room, but I’m without help and haven’t had time to clean. Use all the water you want. There’s clean towels on the peg.”

  Garnick poured Quinn a tot of brandy and set it on the washstand. He took his drink across the room and lifted his glass. “To Paschal and Garnick’s next criminal sortie.”

  Her hands were too slippery to hold the glass and she didn’t trust herself drinking claret, much less distilled lightning. “How many hours do we have to wait before we leave?”

  He drew the curtains. “Come see for yourself. It won’t be full dark for another six hours.”

  “You really think we should wait so long? It’ll take another hour to walk to Winthrop’s office. Maybe we sho
uld leave sooner. If we don’t leave soon, the horse-cars will stop running. Or maybe we should go back to the stable and get Leonidas and the rig.”

  “You needn’t be uneasy, Quinn. You can have the bed. I’ll catnap in the armchair. Like you asked, I’ll keep my distance so as not to touch off any amatory excitation.”

  “You don’t understand, Garnick.”

  “Not all, maybe, but some. It’s not crazy to be worried about a lit fuse.” He mussed his hair, which was already mussed. “If it’s not plain as a steeple, I’m in love with you and have been from just about the first time I saw you. These last few days you’ve given me cause to hope you’re of a similar persuasion.”

  Yes seemed an altogether inadequate response. She nodded, at a loss for words.

  “I know your last sally into matrimony didn’t pan out, I’m thinking for more reasons than you’ve let on. I’d like to change your mind, but we can live however you want, Quinn. What you need to know is, I’m in this partnership till death do us part.” He downed his brandy and frowned. “Should that be till death does us part?”

  She laughed and her heart swelled so big it hurt. “You’re becoming a grammarian, Garnick.”

  “Whatever’s the proper way to say it, I’m serious.”

  “Well, then.” She took a nip of the distilled lightning, which made her eyes water enough to disguise the tears. “I suppose it’s time we find out what’s going to happen when the spark from that fuse reaches the powder. I’m going to wash off the muck of the riverbank and make myself pretty. When I come back, I shall expect to be kissed comprehensively.”

  “Yes ma’am. Happy to be of service.”

  She picked up her reticule with her comb and indispensables and walked down the hall to the water closet. The boat-shaped wooden bathtub extended almost the length of the narrow room, which was dank and dark except for a shaft of light that filtered through a small, jalousied window near the ceiling. There was no stove to heat the water, but she had no desire for heat on a day like today and according to the hydropaths, cold baths alleviated congestion of the brain. She set her reticule on a low shelf, slipped out of her clothes, and folded them on top. Folding a dress this soiled and shabby was pointless, but with a thorough brushing maybe she could salvage it for one more wearing.