The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  Miss Jessie looked at the face and began to sniffle. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “Do you know that woman?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Judge, that’s Miss Georgia.”

  “Miss Georgia who?”

  “Georgia Virginia Gamble.”

  The judge wrote something, then looked up. “How old was she?”

  “I don’t know, perhaps nineteen.”

  “Was she a whore in your bawdy house?”

  “Yes, she was one of my boarders.”

  “All right, ma’am, take your seat again, please.”

  She returned to her chair, still sniffling softly.

  “Did you—”

  A train whistle shrieked a loud blast, and the rumbling of the train made it impossible to hear what the judge was saying. The building vibrated slightly. The Cotton Belt switch track ran just a block away.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” the judge called over the noise. After the train had passed, he continued. “Did you see any weapons in the room?”

  “Yes. On the floor at the foot of the bed, there was a derringer.”

  “The bailiff will show you a pistol, ma’am.”

  The deputy sheriff picked up a small pistol from the court reporter’s desk, held it by the tip of the handle, and showed it to her. The jurors watched intently.

  “Is that it?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir. That’s the one I saw.”

  “Does it appear to you to be a Remington Model Ninety-Five derringer?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “How about that dried blood on the barrel?” The judge peered at her over his spectacles. “You know how it got there?”

  The deputy held the derringer up for her to see.

  “I presume when she was shot.”

  The deputy took it to the jury box as she answered, walking it past them. Each juror leaned forward to examine the bloodstain on the right side of the short barrel.

  “Do you know who owns the derringer?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s Miss Georgia’s. She keeps it in her room for protection against unruly men.”

  To Harley’s utter surprise, Papa jumped to his feet. “Pardon me for interrupting, Your Honor—amicus curiae here—but maybe you were wondering where she kept her derringer?”

  Everyone turned to see who the curious spectator was. Harley covered his eyes with one hand.

  “I sure was, Catfish,” the judge answered, “but I don’t need no curry-eye help.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Papa said, sheepishly retreating to his seat.

  Sometimes Papa did things Harley’d never dream of doing himself. He cut a glance at his father, hoping to remind him they weren’t making an official appearance here. They didn’t even have a client yet, although he had the distinct impression Papa believed otherwise.

  “Where’d she keep it, ma’am?” the judge asked, glaring at Papa.

  “On a nightstand right next to her bed. She kept it in the drawer.”

  Papa started to get up again, but before Harley could grab his sleeve, Judge Gallagher extended his hand in a stopping motion. “Was it on the same side of the bed she was laying on?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else did you find in her room?”

  “Just the usual things you might find in a lady’s bedroom.”

  “Was anything on the nightstand?”

  “I believe there was a box of Ozmanlis pills and a hairbrush.”

  Harley had never heard of an Ozmanlis pill. Papa’s expression didn’t change.

  “Did you see anyone else in the room?”

  “A gentleman passed out drunk on the floor.”

  Harley glanced at Papa, who kept the witness in his sights.

  “How do you know he was drunk?”

  “I saw him drinking in my parlor, and he was already tipsy when he went upstairs with Miss Georgia. He took a box of beers with him, and we found all the bottles scattered around the room, empty.”

  “Where was he laying exactly?”

  “On the floor at the foot of the bed.”

  “Where was he in relation to the gun?”

  “It was about two or three feet from him.”

  “Describe the gentleman for us.”

  “He was in his late teens or early twenties. He had wavy black hair. He was unclothed.”

  “Completely naked?”

  She dabbed her eye. “Yes.”

  “To your knowledge, was he Miss Georgia’s customer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “It was Mr. Cicero.”

  ***

  After the inquest, Papa tried to talk with Miss Jessie but she hurried off, escorted by a large man who wouldn’t let him near her. Papa stopped to see the girl’s body. Sergeant Quinn, who was still stationed by the body, arms crossed, allowed them to look.

  Harley hadn’t seen many shooting victims. She was so young and pretty. Miss Jessie had been right; she looked scared. Papa pulled the cover down to inspect the wound. Right in the heart. He asked if he could turn her over to see the exit wound, but Sergeant Quinn said there was none.

  “Look at the whore, Mildred,” a lady said from behind them outside the bar rail.

  Word must have spread quickly, and now a small stream of townspeople were crowding in to see the body. It was that way with any killing, but a dead prostitute stirred even more curiosity. There were some boys, of course, but the women escorted them right back out of the courtroom. Over and over, the word “whore” popped out of the low gabble of the crowd while they leaned across the rail straining to see, pointing and whispering among themselves. Sergeant Quinn didn’t let the gawkers inside the bar rail.

  Whatever her sins, she didn’t deserve this. Harley was ready to leave.

  Quinn spoke to Papa. “You involved with this one?”

  “Maybe. Don’t know yet. Got the boy in the calaboose?”

  “We do.”

  To Harley’s relief, they departed for the county jail, which was just behind the courthouse in a two-story red brick building with limestone quoins, the same second-empire style as the courthouse. Harley was interested in architecture and much admired the public buildings designed by one of Papa’s friends, Waco architect Wesley Dodson.

  Deputy Whaley allowed them to meet with Cicero away from his cell. The boy was handcuffed, but the jailer shut the door and left them alone with him around an old, beat-up table. Papa had sent for Miss Peach, and she joined them.

  Cicero Sweet was tall and lanky, with wavy black hair and a pleasant disposition. Miss Peach would probably consider him quite handsome. He seemed polite and not the murdering type. He acted like a scared boy trying hard not to show his fear.

  “Your father and I go way back,” Papa said.

  Cicero laid his hands on the edge of the table, but then gripped it tightly. “Yes, sir.”

  “He wired me this morning, asked me to help you. He probably can’t get here himself till tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll wire him as soon as we leave here and let him know we made contact.” Papa gestured to Harley. “This is my son and law partner, Harley, and this is Miss Peach, our stenographer.” She pulled a notepad and pen from her bag. “She’ll be taking down what you say today, so we’ll have it later to remember exactly what you told us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Papa could turn from gregarious to sober in the blink of an eye. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands under his chin. He spoke with a calm confidence. “Cicero, you’re in mighty serious trouble.”

  “Yes, sir, so it appears.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “I don’t have much to tell. I don’t know anything about a murder.”

  Papa nodded his head as if he was carefully considering that answer. “Can you explain to me how you got yourself in that bothersome circumstance?”

  “No, sir.” Cicero s
hrugged. “I can’t really do that.”

  Harley’s head popped up from his notebook. Didn’t he understand how serious this was? How damning the circumstances?

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I don’t remember anything.”

  Harley wrinkled his nose. “You don’t remember going to the bawdy house?”

  “Yes, sir. I recollect going there, but it’s real hard to recall exactly what happened once we got inside.”

  “Why’s that?” Papa asked matter-of-factly.

  “I must’ve drunk way too much, Mr. Calloway. I’ve had a bad head all day, and I just don’t remember much about last night. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t come back to me.”

  Papa seemed to be studying Cicero’s forehead. There was a bad bruise above his left eye, and Harley leaned forward to see. “How’d you get that knot on your head?”

  “I don’t rightly remember that, either.”

  His hands were still on the table edge, but no longer so tense.

  “Let’s go about it this way,” Papa said. “Tell us everything you do remember about last night.”

  “Yes, sir. Me and Jasper went to hear the preaching at the Tabernacle. I remember that because it was way too long. He went over pretty near all the sins. We decided to get something to drink after we got back to our room and took a hack down to Washington Street. I’d heard about a place you could get beer even on a Sunday.”

  Harley tilted his head. “Did you know it was a bawdy house?”

  Cicero nodded. “As a matter of fact, I believe I did.”

  Papa spoke in a tone Harley’d heard many times when he was a boy. “Now son, did you go there for the beer or for the girls?”

  “Well, the honest truth is probably both. That preacher got my curiosity up.”

  “Tell us what happened when you got there.”

  “All I really remember is we had some beer and did some dancing.”

  “Who’d you dance with?”

  “A real pretty girl. I don’t recollect her name.”

  “Miss Georgia?”

  “That’s it. Anyways, I remember dancing with her.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “There were two other girls. And maybe a man too, but I don’t remember him very well. And my roommate, Jasper, of course.”

  “Who was the other man?” Harley asked.

  “He worked there, I think. I don’t know his name.”

  “Did you go upstairs with Miss Georgia?”

  “I must have, but I don’t remember anything about that.”

  “Do you remember getting in the bed with her?”

  “Shucks, you’d think I’d recollect something big like that, but I sure don’t.”

  Harley leaned back and watched Papa. He ran his hands through his hair, resting his elbows back on the table. He swept his hand across from cheek to cheek as if something wet were on his whiskers and then propped his chin on the palm of his left hand. His head cocked left. He stared at the boy, his eyes becoming bluer somehow. Harley knew what all that meant: After due consideration of the facts, Catfish Calloway had serious worries.

  “They found you passed out plumb naked on the floor of a sporting girl’s room with a derringer an arm’s length away and the girl shot dead on the bed, and you say you can’t remember how all that came to be?”

  “No, sir.”

  Papa stared at him and shook his head. “Boy, if you don’t recall pretty quick, you’re gonna find yourself in prison for the rest of your life.”

  Chapter 5

  The Houston & Texas Central Railroad train came rumbling along the river toward the passenger depot on the east side of the river, shrieking like a banshee as it pulled into the terminal. A dozen or so people, Catfish and Harley included, waited on the platform. The colonel dozed by their bench.

  Catfish smiled to himself. The whistle reminded him of the first time he’d ever met Henry Sweet. They’d been young men then—boys, really. At the beginning of the war, they’d embarked on a journey from New Orleans to Nashville along with a thousand other farm boys in their newly formed regiment. Most had never stepped outside their own counties. In those days, before war robbed them of youthful innocence, train rides were an adventure. The sound of the guns was still far away.

  There were endless good-natured tricks perpetrated by those rowdy young Texans, and that blasted Henry Sweet had been at the bottom of more than a few of them, but Sergeant Miller always blamed Catfish. One time in Mississippi, they stopped to water the train and Henry spotted a scrawny calf grazing near the track. They were always hungry, even that early in the war, and Henry got the idea he’d requisition that beast. Privates didn’t have that authority, of course; not even sergeants could requisition livestock from civilians for food. But Henry reasoned they needed horses because they hadn’t been issued their mounts yet—and the army did requisition horses. Henry talked Catfish into helping him sneak the bellowing calf on board the train. Henry strapped his saddle on it to make it legal, and Catfish mounted up and prodded the poor, terrified beast down the aisle of the passenger car, to the hoots and hollers of their friends.

  Just as the ruckus was at its loudest, Sergeant Miller appeared through the door at the end of the car. “God damn it, Calloway, you stupid-ass clodhopper.”

  But Henry told the sergeant that Catfish’s family back in Washington County all rode cows. The furious sergeant had dragged Catfish off the hapless beast, and the calf had gone flying off the slowly rolling train.

  Over thirty years later, Catfish could still see the sergeant’s red face, and he laughed out loud.

  “Papa, what’s funny?”

  Catfish sat up. “Nothing. Not a thing funny.”

  The locomotive dragged its string of passenger cars, hissing and chugging, to a slow rolling stop. Steam shot out from the locomotive.

  Henry was the first passenger off. Catfish broke into a big grin, waving wildly, then jumped off the platform bench and hurried toward him. The colonel hopped up too. Henry tossed his head in greeting. He limped slightly from the war and used a cane. He carried a carpet bag in the other hand. Like Cicero, he had thick, wavy hair, but his had gone gray long ago.

  Catfish stopped short of his old friend, stood at attention in the center of the platform, and saluted. Henry shook his head and kept walking with a grin.

  They embraced like kin.

  “Catfish, you old silver fox, it’s been a long time.”

  “Too long.”

  They’d made a point of getting together often right after the war, riding a hundred miles to meet at a convenient stagecoach inn and eat and drink and smoke cigars into the morning. They remembered comrades and retold stories of good times and bad. There are no such friends as comrades-in-arms, and those who hadn’t gone through a war couldn’t understand. But as Catfish and Henry began new lives, their visits grew fewer and the years between them greater, eventually becoming decades. Reconnecting was never hard, though, because the bond forged by shared peril held fast.

  It had been almost ten years since they’d last been together. Now they were both in their sixties. Henry couldn’t really be as old as he looked; Catfish mostly just felt old inside. There were some advantages to age, to be sure, starting with the obvious one: A long life was preferable to a short one by a country mile. But of the things most satisfying about old age, chief among them was old friends. A long life made lifelong friendships, and Henry Sweet, God bless him, was such a friend.

  “And this must be Houston,” Henry said, facing Harley.

  Catfish glanced away. He should have written him about Houston long ago.

  Harley smiled easily. “No, sir, Houston was my brother. I’m Harley.”

  They shook hands.

  “Happy to meet you, Harley. Your father wrote me about you. You’re practicing together, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” He took Henry’s bag.

  Harley had always been perceptive, Catfish thought approvingly. He put his a
rm around his dear friend and led him through the terminal.

  “Come with us. I know you want to see your own boy as soon as you can.”

  “I do.”

  They loaded his bag onto the surrey and headed for the county jail, down Bridge Street directly for the bridge across the Brazos to west Waco. Harley took the reins while he and Henry sat in the back talking. The colonel nestled beside Catfish.

  “How’s Cicero holding up?” Henry asked.

  Catfish squeezed Henry’s arm. “As well as anybody could in the county jail. He hasn’t been charged with anything yet. While you visit with him, Harley and I’ll see about posting bond. The judge wasn’t in when we were there before.”

  “I’m good for whatever amount is needed.” Henry locked eyes with him. “He didn’t shoot the girl, did he?”

  “I don’t believe he did, but the state will have a strong case if they charge him.”

  “Any eyewitnesses?”

  “That’s their weakness.”

  “I see.” Henry pondered that a moment. “How’s he feeling?”

  “They’re treating him fine. He’s a confident boy, but I know he’s worried. Problem is, he can’t remember much about that night.”

  Catfish leaned close to Harley’s ear. “Pull over when we get halfway across.”

  Harley nodded.

  The horse clopped onto the suspension bridge, rattling the timber deck and making it hard to talk. The long wire rope cables of the bridge hung from one tower, dipped gracefully toward the center point, and sloped up again to the opposite tower. This was a busy thoroughfare, with carriages, pedestrians, and beasts going both ways. Young Toby Topper was doffing his tattered old top hat to folks as he rode his bicycle.

  When they reached the middle of the bridge, Harley pulled over to the side. Thirty feet below, the Brazos ran high from recent rains.

  Catfish pointed across the river, up Washington Avenue. “You see that two-story brick building on the right side of the street?”

  Henry strained to follow his direction. “I do. Is that where it happened?”