She turned on the faucet and waited for the tub to fill, a tinge apprehensive after seeing the revolting river water. But this water came out of the spigot clear and colorless, piped as was now the norm from two miles out in Lake Michigan. When the tub was full, she climbed in and immersed herself to the neck in the cool water. It was pure bliss. There was even a fresh cake of lavender soap.
She lathered all over and laid her head against the back of the tub. Memories of her parents’ marriage floated through her mind. Her mother had been the most loving of wives. Quinn had once asked her how she could love a man who treated her with such contempt. “Why, I couldn’t live without him,” she’d said. A week after his murder, she moved in with a defrocked priest. For all Quinn knew, she now believed she couldn’t live without him. Maybe love was just another invention, whomever you wanted at any given time, like Victoria Woodhull believed.
A sound like a door closing somewhere down the hall caught her attention and she looked up and noticed the bathroom latch hanging loose. Where was her mind? She should get up and lock the door, but there was no one else in the house but Garnick and Mrs. Farraday. She ran the sponge along her neck, down her arms and across her breasts. The bath was deliciously soothing. The congestion in her brain dissipated, her tired limbs relaxed, and she closed her eyes.
When she was seventeen, beaten blue by her father and turned out of his house, she’d run to Thom for refuge. Now she was homeless again, but a lot smarter and more resourceful than the girl she used to be. She didn’t need a man to take care of her. She didn’t need refuge. She needed Garnick. The word she’d been unable to think of came into her mind like a comet. Essential. Garnick was essential.
A mild draft fluttered across her face. She half-turned as a pair of rough hands seized her shoulders and plunged her underwater. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t see, couldn’t think. She clawed at the hands, but they held fast. Wild with fear, she bent her knees and slid on her back toward the faucet. The move must have overbalanced the owner of the hands. They let go. She sat up, coughing, and gulped a lungful of air.
Through a curtain of wet hair, she saw Jack Stram. She hit and scratched and tried to scream, but his iron fingers closed around her skull and pushed her under again. She thrashed and kicked and mourned her death. To be found naked and shriveled in the bath, caught unawares by a creeper she should have expected and barred the door against, infuriated her. Josabeth Allbright’s artless little dig came back to her with a vengeance. Being a woman detective must be frightfully venturesome, is it not?
She summoned one last invention. With his hands holding her under, she relaxed. Against every instinct, she lay limp and still while second by second, saint by saint, she entreated them all – Patrick, Peter, Christopher, Jude, the archangel Gabriel, his dozing namesake down the hall. No help came. Her lungs felt as if they would explode. She would die and Fen Megarian would pen her obituary in salacious detail and congratulate himself on his poetic sensibility. Absurd that this would be her last thought.
The hands lifted. She held her breath one impossible second longer, praying that Stram had bought her act and backed away. Whether he had or not, she couldn’t wait. She sprang up, heaved herself over the rim of the tub and flopped onto the floor.
Gasping for air, she wiped her hair out of her eyes and saw his boots, crusted with river mud, moving toward her. He bent to lift her, but she hooked both arms around a knee and jerked. His legs flew out from under him and he went down hard on his backside.
They were both floundering. He grabbed at her arms, but she was too soapy to hold onto and scooched out of reach. He got to his knees and, holding to the side of the tub, pushed himself to his feet. She dived for the shelf where she’d stowed her things. He caught her arm and she pivoted, jabbing her elbow back into his Adam’s apple. He wheezed and struggled for breath. Half-blind, she grabbed for her purse.
She raked her sopping hair out of her eyes and dug in the reticule for the derringer. Her hands were wet and clumsy and the stupid pouch was suddenly a web of snarled threads. Stram was wheezing and coughing. She wrapped her fingers around the gun but couldn’t pull it free.
“Bitch,” croaked Stram. “I warned you not to mess with me.” He lunged and slammed her against the wall.
She was still fighting for air, still grappling for the gun, but somehow she forced a strangled scream. His hands closed around her throat. The gun was hopelessly enmeshed. Fumbling blind, she jammed the barrel against his chest and her finger curled around the trigger. She fired point-blank. He staggered backward, eyes glazed in surprise, and collapsed into the pool of water beside the tub. The hole in his chest made a gurgling noise, as if the wound was sucking in air and leaking it out.
Her windpipe ached. Air came in convulsive gulps. She turned off the water and watched in a daze as the pool at her feet turned red.
Garnick kicked open the door, gun drawn. He took in the scene, flicked a towel off the peg and handed it to her. “Did he hurt you?”
His voice seemed to come from far away. Her head might as well be still underwater. She couldn’t speak.
“Quinn? Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right.”
He knelt, loosened Stram’s red kerchief and pressed his fingers against his neck. “He’s alive, just barely.” He closed Stram’s staring eyes, gathered up her shoes, her wet clothes, and the derringer, and led her out into the hall. Her bare feet left bloody tracks on the wooden floor.
Mrs. Farraday gawped from the other end of the hall.
Garnick put his hand on Quinn’s shoulder and propelled her inside their room. “Miz Farraday, there’s been a shooting. Lock yourself in your quarters and stay there. I’ll go for the police soon as I tend to my missus.”
He followed Quinn into the room and locked the door. She was still clutching the towel against her nakedness and shivering. He ripped the cover off the bed and wrapped it around her. Her hair was dripping and formed a puddle on the floor. He walked her to the washstand where she’d left her brandy and held the glass to her lips. “Drink this.”
She took a sip but pushed it away. She couldn’t stop trembling. She was cold and scared and speechless, but her heart was still beating. She was alive.
Garnick hugged her tight. She folded her arms around his neck and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. The bedcover fell off. He lifted her onto the bed. It was a tending to like no other. Incredible, she thought, how potent an aphrodisiac survival could be.
Chapter 26
When Stram had come calling at Mrs. Mills’ boarding house, Quinn airily told him he wouldn’t be the first man she’d shot. That boast sounded obscene to her now. During the war, a death was lamented with the saying “somebody’s darling.” Quinn didn’t have to guess whose darling Stram was. He was Rhetta’s darling, a father-to-be. There would be no happy family reunion now. Jacques Stram lay dead in a Police Department wagon and all his secrets under the shroud with him. Quinn tried to convince herself she’d had no choice, but had she? When he was down on the floor wheezing, before he got up and tackled her, maybe she could have run out the door. Or if she’d screamed sooner and louder, Garnick could have gotten there quicker. Ifs were as thick as snow in January.
“I can’t understand how a beast like that got into my house,” said Mrs. Farraday, “or what he thought he would find. He must’ve been crazy.”
Quinn poured her a second glass of brandy. She almost poured herself a third, but she needed her wits about her when Chesterton finished with Garnick and came to interrogate her. “When the police are done with their investigation, Mr. Garnick and I will help you clean up the blood, Mrs. Farraday. I’m so sorry about the damage to your house.”
“It’s not your fault, dearie. I’m just amazed you had your husband’s pistol with you in the bath. You must have had a presentiment, like a forewarning.”
“If I’d had common sense, let alone a presentiment, I would’ve set the latch. I wouldn’t have
let myself be half-drowned.”
“It’s a crying shame is what it is. A crying shame.”
Quinn was too mad to cry. Mad at herself, mad at Stram. How could she and Garnick have missed him at the reaper works? He was obviously watching them and despite their precipitous route back to the street, he managed to follow them. Why? Why had he come out of hiding? He’d wanted to disappear and yet he risked coming out in the open to try and kill her. What did he think she knew that could cause him trouble? His death had certainly caused her trouble. If the police disbelieved her claim of self-defense, she could be charged with murder. And whatever secrets Stram had known died with him. She might never find out who killed the Kadingers and burned her office.
She worked the comb through her matted hair, easing out the tangles, trying not to see Stram’s face, trying not to worry she’d gotten herself in the family way like poor Rhetta. That cathartic mingling of limbs with Garnick had awakened a sensuality she didn’t know she possessed. But even in her elation, she was conscious how vulnerable such feelings made her.
A knock sounded at the door. She smoothed the wrinkles in the dress she’d borrowed from Mrs. Farraday and went to answer.
Garnick was alone.
“Where’s Sergeant Chesterton?”
“He decided you’ve had enough for one day.” He gave Mrs. Farraday a meaningful look.
“Murderation! Well of course she has. I need to get on with cleaning up and leave you people to recuperate.”
“The police took care of most of the mess,” said Garnick. “You oughta try and get some rest yourself, Miz Farraday. This has been one catawampusly chewed-up day.”
“I do believe a little respite would do me good.” She cast a wistful look at the brandy.
Quinn handed her the bottle. “Mr. Garnick and I have had plenty.”
“If you’re sure.” She toddled out and left them alone.
“Did Chesterton believe my story?” asked Quinn.
“He was a mite suspicious seeing Stram had nothing but a sawbuck in his wallet.”
“I’m glad you thought to search him before the police arrived. Where do you suppose he got all that money?”
“Hard to say. Four hundred’s a lot of spondulicks to be carrying around in a bad neighborhood. Could be he stole it.”
“Or was paid to kill me.”
Garnick blanched under his tan. “He had a revolver and a bowie knife on him.”
“Then I guess I’m lucky he decided to drown me.”
“How are you holding up?”
“Steadier now. My neck hurts and my knees are bruised. I keep playing what happened over and over in my mind trying to think what I could’ve done differently.”
“You’ll never quit rehashing how it could’ve gone or should’ve gone. From now on I’ll be rehashing how I let him trail us here and why I didn’t hear the melee and get there in time to shoot him, myself.”
“I can’t imagine why he thought he had to kill me, but with him dead, it’s all the more important to dig out the secrets cached in Winthrop’s office files.”
“You can’t still be contemplating burglary?”
“What else can we do, Garnick? If we don’t finish what we started, the devil will win. All these murders, all this evildoing will go unpunished.”
“With a woman as single-minded as you, I give the devil low odds.” He looked at his watch. “It’s after midnight. If you’re bound and determined, we’d best get moving.”
Quinn pinned up her still-damp hair and reviewed the contents of her shredded reticule. Her watch was still running, albeit minus its crystal. The card with Elfie’s new bank account number had been lightly toasted by the gunshot but remained legible. The same with her Widow’s Certificate. Her vial of hand cream was cracked and leaking and her little purse mirror in smithereens. More bad luck. Superstition held that she could nullify the curse by burying the pieces under a full moon. Bad luck had come calling irrespective of mirrors. She threw the bits in the wastebasket.
What was this? Curlicues of gold wire caught in the snarled threads. She worked it loose. The remains of Delphine’s ring! She’d forgotten about it. It wouldn’t be much use now. No jeweler could envisage what it had looked like originally except maybe…with her fingernail she winkled the fractured ivory centerpiece out of the tangle. The carved angel was in two pieces, but beautifully defined. It was worth holding on to.
The borrowed dress had no pockets and she gave the salvageable articles to Garnick to keep.
He reloaded the derringer, which stank of gunpowder, and said, “I guess we’re ready. Chesterton’s coppers did a pretty decent job of swabbing out the water closet. I don’t reckon we need to come back here after we’re done at Winthrop’s office. I’ll take you back to Madam Lou’s if you’re sure that’s where you want to go.”
“I should pay Mrs. Farraday for the clothes.”
He pulled out his money clip. “How much would you estimate a getup like that is worth?”
Quinn stood in front of the cheval mirror and considered the pillowy, outdated green skirt with its rows of flounces and the floppy, funnel sleeves bagging from the elbow. “It was all she had that came close to fitting.”
He laid a bill on the dressing table. “Let’s call it a dollar and let’s clear out. I don’t see a reason to wake her up to say goodbye.”
“She’s been awfully kind. We drank at least half of her brandy, there’s blood on one of her towels and she’ll have the vapors for a week after this fright.”
“Five then, but if she had no more rooms to rent, she should’ve locked up for the night and Stram would’ve had to bust in the front door. I’d have heard him coming and he’d never have got to you.”
“No more rehashing, Garnick. What’s done is done.”
They set out along Rush Street, black-dark and quiet but for the creaking wheels of a soil cart as it stopped and started and stopped again. The heavy air weighed down on them, almost too thick and sultry to breathe. Quinn wished for Leonidas and the carriage, but there had been no safe place to park near the McCormick factory. They had stabled the rig and taken the horse-car. She would have rejoiced at the sight of a horse-car now, but they had ceased running hours ago. Winthrop’s office seemed forever away, over two miles to the south after they crossed the bridge. Her wet shoes rubbed a blister, Mrs. Farraday’s dress scratched as if it had been starched, and the wide funnel sleeves flapped against her skirt. She felt like a crippled bat.
As they drew closer to the city center, more people caroused about the streets but the detectives navigated around them. By the time they turned onto Clark, the noise had died away except for the distant bray of a foghorn. Winthrop’s office was in the middle of the block, halfway between two gaslights. Quinn and Garnick walked up and down the block. The businesses on either side of the office, a milliner’s shop and a bookbindery, were dark. When they had satisfied themselves no one was out shopping for hats or books, they stole into the alley behind.
Garnick held a lit match to the backdoor lock and examined it. “We should’ve remembered to bring a jimmy.”
“Drat! How could I have been so slapdash?”
“You’ve had a lot on your mind. We both have.”
The match flamed out and he struck another. “We can try to smash it and he’ll know he’s had visitors, or we can wait till tomorrow night and come prepared. It’s a new Yale. Even with the right tool, it could take an hour or more to pick it and the damage would prob’ly show.”
If she’d been less physically uncomfortable or less impatient to get this larceny over with, she would have put it off until morning. She could contrive some excuse to lure Winthrop across town and finesse her way into the office. Maybe one of his neighbors had the key in case of fire. Maybe the lock wasn’t as hard to pick as Garnick thought. But she had gathered too much momentum. She said, “Let’s break the plate glass window in front.”
“I don’t know, Quinn. There’s a lot of businesses on Cla
rk and a fair number of private homes. Anybody passing by could send up a hue and cry.”
“We’re far enough away from the gaslights and we didn’t see anybody.”
“True, but once we get inside, we’ll have to light a lamp. Another thing we should’ve remembered is a blanket to cover the window. No way to do a proper ransacking without light.”
“If anyone sees, they’ll just think the lawyer’s working late. But we’ll keep the lamp low and be out before anyone notices.”
The waxing three-quarter moon shined its light on Garnick’s lowered brows and downturned mouth. “We’ve come good through more than one close shave already today. If the sound of breaking glass doesn’t draw a copper, a well-lit pair of burglars poking around behind a broke window just might. Don’t you think we’re pushing our luck?”
“We have to if we’re going to solve this case.”
“If we end up shot or jailed, we won’t solve beans.”
“We won’t end up shot. Should I look for a rock or a brick or something?”
“I reckon the butt of my revolver will do.”
They walked around to the front, rotating their heads like owls. Moonlight glinted on the glass window with its painted gold sign heralding “MICAH WINTHROP, Attorney at Law.” With no one in sight, Garnick wound a handkerchief around his knuckles and pulled out his revolver. “Stand back.”
He lined up the gun handle against the “O” in WINTHROP, made two practice swings that stopped short, then drew his arm back and rammed the butt against the glass.
It sounded like the dome of heaven crashing. She tensed for a blaze of lights and a scream of sirens. Surely the whole street would come alive with vigilantes. Garnick beat out the corner fragments, stepped over the wall into the interior, and unlocked the front door for her.
It was pitch dark. He struck a match and they located a lamp on Winthrop’s desk. Quinn lifted off the frosted glass shade and twisted off the chimney. She held her funnel sleeves out of the way as Garnick lit the wick. He replaced the chimney, but not the shade.
Devil by the Tail Page 19
