Rogues on the River

by Alice Simpson

  It was Fred Halvorson.

  Chapter Ten

  Anne Halvorson and her husband glanced up from their work as I approached the dock. Fred was a tall young man of twenty-five, tanned and muscular from weekdays spent as a machinist and weekends spent working on the docks.

  “Anything we can do for you?” Fred Halvorson asked me, his manner impersonal. I could not tell if he harbored resentment toward me.

  “No, I just happened to be over this way and thought I’d stop for a minute. What’s this strange contraption?” I pointed to the metal hood.

  “A diving apparatus Fred made,” Anne explained. “We’re using it to get Eddie Franks’ motor out of the river.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Watch and see. Fred’s going to make the first dive.”

  Though I felt that I was none too welcome at the dock, I nevertheless decided to remain. Fred disappeared into the shed, reappearing a minute later in bathers. He and Anne loaded the diving hood into a boat and rowed to the nearby area which had been marked with a can buoy.

  Fred adjusted the metal helmet over his head and lowered himself into the water. Once her husband was beneath the surface, Anne worked tirelessly at the pump, feeding him air. Soon Eddie Franks drifted by in another boat, watching the salvage operation like a worried mother.

  “Think you’ll get ’er?” he asked Anne. “Doggone if I know how an engine could be so hard to find.”

  Anne did not bother to answer but kept pumping steadily.

  After many minutes, the metal hood appeared on the surface. Fred Halvorson lifted it from his head and took a deep breath.

  “Any luck?” Eddie asked.

  “I’ll have the engine up in a little bit,” Fred said. After hauling himself into the boat, he pulled on a rope tied around his waist. With Anne’s assistance, he gradually hauled the lost motor from its muddy bed.

  “Oh, say, that’s great,” Eddie said. “How can I thank you?”

  “Don’t forget the five dollars,” Anne reminded him. “Fred and I can use it.”

  “Oh, sure,” Eddie replied, though the light faded from his eyes. “I haven’t got it on me right now. Can you wait a few days?”

  “Waiting is the thing we do best. Better get this mess of junk cleaned and oiled up right away, or it won’t be worth a dime.”

  “I will,” promised Eddie. “Just dump ’er on the dock for me, will you?”

  Anne and Fred delivered the motor to the designated place, and then rowed to their own platform where I waited. From the look of their faces, it was clear to me that they never expected to see that five-dollars.

  As she clambered from the boat, Anne noticed one of Noah’s floating bottles which had snagged against the edge of the platform. She fished it from the water. Without bothering to read the message inside, she hurled it irritably to the shore.

  “Anne, you’re in an ugly mood today,” her husband said.

  “I get tired of seeing those bottles. I get tired of doing so much charity work, too. How are we to meet our expenses, pay for a lawyer, and—”

  “Never mind,” Fred interrupted quietly.

  Anne subsided into silence. They moored the boat and Fred, carrying the diving bell with him, went into the shed.

  “Guess you think I’m a regular old crab,” Anne said, turning toward me.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sure you have plenty to worry you.”

  “I do. Since the papers published the bridge dynamiting story, our business has shrunk to almost nothing. Fred’s case is coming up for trial in about ten days. I don’t know how we’ll pay the lawyer. If his uncle hadn’t put up bail, my husband still would be in jail.”

  “Fred will be cleared, don’t you think.”

  “I wish I could think so. He’s innocent, but to prove it is another matter.”

  “Can’t your husband provide an alibi? Where was he at the time of the dynamiting?”

  “I don’t know,” Anne admitted. “Fred’s peculiar. I tried to talk things over with him, but he says it’s a disagreeable subject. He still hasn’t told me where he was Friday night.”

  “Don’t take things so seriously, Anne,” Fred said in an even voice, as he came up behind us.

  “I can’t stand this anymore!” Anne ran into the shed and closed the door, but not before I heard her let out a sob.

  Fred busied himself cleaning the clod of dirt from the rowboat. “Don’t mind Anne,” he said. “She’s always inclined to be high strung.”

  “I’m sorry about everything,” I said. “Mr. DeWitt believes you will be cleared.”

  Fred straightened, his eyes fixed on the far shore. “Wish I felt the same way. Unless the real saboteur is caught, the police intend to tag me with the job.”

  “They can’t convict you without evidence,” I told Fred. “Anne mentioned something about there being bad blood between Mr. Maxwell and Morris Stedman. She said you overheard a bitter argument between them.”

  For a few seconds, I was sure Fred was going to clam up, but instead, he said, “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about Mr. Maxwell’s first wife.”

  “I’ve heard that the first Mrs. Maxwell was Stedman’s sister and that Stedman blames Maxwell for his sister’s death.”

  “That’s how the hatred started between them,” Fred said, “and it’s inclined Stedman to view every action that Maxwell takes as a calculated attack against him.”

  “Are you referring to the shovel contract?”

  Fred looked surprised that I knew about the shovel contract, so I said, “My father remembered that they ran a brief item in the Greenville Examiner on Maxwell being awarded a contract by the army to supply them with folding shovels.”

  “Then you probably know as much about the matter as I do,” said Fred. “All I know is that Stedman feels Maxwell obtained the contract by fraud and that it ought to have been awarded to the Stedman factory instead.”

  “Do you think Maxwell resorted to fraud in getting the contract?” I asked Fred.

  “Mr. Maxwell has an unpleasant personality. He appears devoid of feeling and refuses to compromise, even when it would be in his own best interest to do so.”

  I wondered if Fred was describing himself or Mr. Maxwell. Perhaps, the two men had gotten along like a couple of feral cats in a burlap bag because they were so much alike.

  “Are you basing your observations on your experiences with Mr. Maxwell while you were trying to unionize the factory.”

  “Partially, but I worked at the Maxwell Implements Factory for almost three years before I got involved with the union.”

  “What did you think of Maxwell before you fell out with him over unionizing?”

  “Maxwell seems to have no friends and keeps to himself, but as far as I know, he’s an honest man. He certainly doesn’t strike me as someone so cruel as to drive his first wife to suicide and then marry another in a matter of weeks, if that’s what you are asking.”

  It hadn’t been what I was asking, but I was interested in his opinion, nonetheless.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said as I turned to go, “did you lose a leather wallet recently?”

  Fred hesitated before he answered: “What made you ask me that?”

  “I found an old one along the river. No identification in it. Just a couple of dollars and a card which said: ‘The Green Parrot. Tuesday at 9:15.’”

  “The Green Parrot?”

  “You’ve heard of the place?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of it, but that’s all. I never was there. Sorry, I can’t claim the wallet.”

  As if uneasy lest he be questioned further, the Fred picked up a coil of rope and walked away.

  The following two days passed without event. There were no developments regarding the bridge dynamiting case, and the story was relegated to an inside page of the Greenville Examiner. However, recalling my promise to Clarence Sinclair, I did speak to my father about finding him a new job.

  “What does that old
fellow expect?” my father said. “Jack tells me he’s a ne’er-do-well. Why doesn’t he like his job as watchman on the coal barge?”

  “He feels it’s too dirty.”

  “Clarence Sinclair is lucky to get any job in this town. Jack had a hard time inducing anyone to take him on. Along the waterfront, he has a reputation for shiftlessness.”

  “In that case, just forget it, Dad. I don’t like the man too well myself.”

  I soon forgot about Clarence Sinclair, but I often caught myself wondering what had happened to Noah and his ark. Since Florence and I had visited the place, it had rained every day. The water was slowly rising in the river, and there was talk that a serious flood might result.

  On Tuesday night, as Flo and I paid our weekly visit to the Pink Lotus Theater, it was still raining. The gutters were deep with water. To cross the street, it was necessary to walk stiffly on our heels.

  “We’ve had enough H2O for one week,” I said as I tugged at my splashed stockings. “Well, for crying out aloud!”

  A green taxicab, turning in the street to pick up a fare, shot a fountain of muddy water from its spinning wheels. I was standing too close to the curb and ended up drenched from head to toe.

  The taxi drew up in front of the Pink Lotus. A well-dressed man in a brown overcoat and felt hat who waited at the curb opened the cab door.

  “To the Green Parrot,” he ordered the driver.

  “Where’s that, sir?”

  The passenger mumbled an address I could not distinguish. He then slammed shut the cab door, and the vehicle drove away.

  “Flo, did you hear what I heard?” I asked Flo.

  “I certainly did.”

  I glanced around. Another taxicab idled across the street. I hailed it.

  “Come on, Flo.”

  Florence held back. “What do you intend to do?”

  “We’re going to follow that taxi,” I splashed through the flooded gutter toward the waiting cab. “This is a real break for us. With a little luck, we’ll learn the location of the Green Parrot.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Keep that green taxi in sight,” I told the cab driver as Florence and I leaped into the rear seat.

  I sat on the edge of my seat, keeping an eagle eye on the green cab ahead. It wove in and out of downtown traffic, but it cruised at a slow speed and so, was not hard to follow.

  Florence pointed to the running tape of the taxi meter. “Do you see that ticker?” she whispered. “I hope you’re well-fortified with spare change.”

  “I haven’t much money with me. Let’s trust that the Green Parrot is somewhere close.”

  “More than likely it’s miles out in the country.”

  The green cab turned down a narrow, little-traveled street not many blocks from the waterfront. As the driver halted at the curb, he glanced over his shoulder at me for instructions.

  “Don’t stop,” I told him. “Drive on past and pull up around the corner.”

  The taxi man did as I requested, then presented a bill for eighty cents. It took all the change I had, plus a quarter from Flo, to satisfy the driver.

  “That leaves me with just thirty-eight cents,” Florence said. How are we to get home?”

  “We’re not far from a bus line. Come on; we’re wasting valuable time.”

  “Those two words, ‘Come on’ have involved me in more trouble than all the rest of the English language.” Florence glanced around nervously. “What are we to do now we’re here?”

  I did not answer. The green cab and its passenger had disappeared, and I thought our pursuit had been for nothing, but then I noticed a small creaking sign with a green parrot on it which swung above a basement entrance. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed it altogether.

  “That’s the place, Flo.”

  “We’ve learned the address, now let’s go home.”

  “Wonder what it’s like inside?”

  “Don’t you dare start that old curiosity of yours to percolating,” Florence protested. “When you’re the daughter of a member of the clergy, you can’t be seen hanging around the entrances of speakeasies, and I’ll not even consider going inside.”

  “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do any such thing. Now, what is the current time?”

  “About eight-thirty or perhaps a little later. I forgot to put on my wrist-watch this morning. Why?”

  “Do you remember that card we found in the leather billfold? The notation read, ‘The Green Parrot, Tuesday at 9:15.’”

  “So it did, but the appointment may have been for nine-fifteen in the morning.”

  “Possibly, or possibly it was 9:15 PM. We’ve had wonderful luck finding this place at just this hour. The man we followed here may be the one who lost the wallet.”

  “All of which makes him a saboteur, I suppose?”

  “Not necessarily, but don’t you think we ought to try and find out his identity?”

  “I knew you’d try to get me into that place. Well, I have more sense than to do it. Never mind my reputation. It might not even be safe.”

  “I shouldn’t think of venturing in unescorted. I’ll call Jack and ask him to come here right away?”

  “Well, that might not be such a bad idea. I’ll stay here with you until Jack arrives, but where can we find a phone?”

  We walked on a few doors until we came to a corner drugstore with a telephone booth inside. I borrowed a nickel from Flo to call the press room at the Examiner. I thought Jack might still be there, and my suspensions were correct.

  Jack copied down the address I gave him and told me he’d be there in two ticks. Three, if the traffic was bad.

  “Flo and I will be outside the corner drugstore,” I told him. “You’ll know us by the way we pace back and forth.”

  After ten minutes of pacing my dress was almost dry, although my teeth had begun to chatter. A cab pulled up at the curb, and Jack got out of it. He took one look at me and removed his coat and placed it around my shoulders.

  “Where is this Parrot place?” he asked.

  I pointed down the street.

  “If it really is a speakeasy,” said Jack, “it might not be so easy to get inside. These places have secret knocks and codewords and entrances guarded by men with enormous necks and names like Anton and Sven.”

  I said it all sounded rather exciting, but when I looked over at Florence, she looked more like a ghost than a sturdy woman capable of keeping the noise level in the Greenville City Library’s Tiny Tots Reading Room down to a dull roar solely by the force of her personality. I suspected Florence could probably take down any man in her weight class should any of her tiny tot’s fathers prove troublesome, but now she was looking positively pale with fear at the very notion of getting caught in the vicinity of any establishment involved in the sale of giggle water.

  “I’m going home,” Flo insisted.

  “And miss out on this wonderful adventure,” I said as I grabbed Flo by the elbow and dragged her along. “I will personally guarantee that there are no members of the Ladies Aid Society nor any of your mother’s cronies from the Daughters of the American Revolution looking on and taking notes.”

  “How can you be so sure?” said Flo.

  “If you get into any trouble,” I said, “I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll join old Noah on his ark until the Great Deluge descends on the earth. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Florence was unmoved. “I wish you wouldn’t make jokes about dying,” she said. “And since when did you know about crossing yourself? Didn’t Mrs. Timms raise you up to be a good Presbyterian.”

  “She tried, bless her heart.”

  “We probably won’t get inside, even if we try,” Jack said diplomatically, “but Jane’s, right. There’s no one hanging around this neighborhood who’s going to run in the same circles as your mother, Flo.”

  “We’ll alter our strategy as circumstances dictate,” I tried to sound
confident, but even I was nervous.

  “What is your first move?”

  We stood in front of the basement entrance, I could hear music playing inside, but the only window facing the street had been black over.

  “This one,” I said as I boldly rapped on the door, Jack and Flo hovering a few steps behind me. I knocked three times in quick succession and followed quickly with another series of three knocks.

  Three knocks plus three more had been the secret code used by the worthy hero of my serialized melodrama “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” to gain entrance to the villain’s lair.

  I doubt I got the secret knock for the Green Parrot quite right, but it must have been close enough to satisfy the man who guarded the entrance because a little window in the heavy door slid open and an eye overshadowed by an enormous bushy brow peered out at us.

  The eye seemed to be waiting for something more, so I said, “Polly wants a cracker.”

  The door swung open, and we were admitted by a mountain of a man dressed entirely in black.

  We stepped into a carpeted, luxuriously furnished foyer. Laughter and music floated out from the larger room beyond.

  A tall, muscular headwaiter with a youthful stride which did not match his lined face appeared in the archway to the left. He was dressed in a tuxedo, had a noticeable scar across one cheek and spoke in a French accent that I suspected was fake.

  The headwaiter scrutinized us in a manner that clearly indicated we should all have taken considerably more care in dressing. He seemed especially disturbed by the mud stains on my dress and the condition of my shoes, which were run down at the heel. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off them. I wished that I’d taken up Flo’s offer of the loan of her lipstick while we’d waited on the sidewalk outside of the drugstore for Jack.

  “A party of three, sir?” the headwaiter asked.

  We followed him into a dimly lighted dining room with more tables than customers. A four-piece orchestra provided rather dreary music for dancing. Jack reluctantly allowed a checkroom girl to capture his hat.