by Fedora Amis
The pair stood for a minute, basking in their collective triumph. Jemmy noted reactions across the room. Some nodded and smiled. Miss Turnipseed stuck her nose in her typewriter. Amadee Boudinier clapped his hands slowly in snide approval. He sauntered over to ask, “What did you two do to deserve Hamm’s precious claro cigars? Didn’t steal a crime beat story from me, did you?”
Boudinier had grounds for being jealous and territorial. Jemmy trod on his toes every time she encroached on his police beat. Of late, such offenses kept him sore-toed more often than not. Still, the true source of his resentment came from personal secrets Jemmy knew about him—secrets he didn’t care to have revealed.
From time to time, Jemmy made use of her knowledge to secure Boudinier’s cooperation. She always felt ashamed to take advantage but rationalized the guilt away. Her future was at stake. If she didn’t get the goods, story-wise, she’d lose her job. Getting fired would ruin her only hope of running her own life. When a little pressure would secure Boudinier’s help on something important, a teensy bit of blackmail could make him knuckle under.
Hal rocked up and down on his toes, something recently learned from Miss Leimgruber. “Pleased an advertiser. The fellow was so grateful, he doubled the size of his adverts. Likes my photogs.”
“Are you two showing a little business savvy? Amazing!”
Hal stuck his chin in the air. “People don’t call me ‘Flash’ for nothing.”
“People don’t call you ‘Flash’ at all.”
“Maybe not, but I keep asking them to.”
Boudinier shook Hal’s hand while he looked at Jemmy. “I’m impressed. I thought you two were all about big-time news stories. Imagine Miss Ann O’Nimity coming up with her own idea instead of filching stories from a veteran reporter’s wastebasket.”
Jemmy ignored the insult as she shed her cape. “I’ve been working here for nearly a year. You shouldn’t be surprised I’ve become a professional journalist.”
“In that case, I salute you.” He made such an absurdly deep bow that his arm brushed the floor.
Jemmy had been trawling for a juicy murder story when she fell into the lap of the god of commerce. She had no idea writing a feature on an advert customer would warrant kudos from the boss. I doubt Boudinier would be joking if he knew the truth.
Smug with undeserved satisfaction, she strolled to her desk. Maybe I am beginning to think like a newspaperwoman—at least in my subconscious mind. She tucked the notion away to enjoy.
She concentrated on writing a piece to please Mr. Barr and Mrs. Willmore and Editor Hamm. Forget pleasing Hamm. There is no pleasing Suetonius Hamm.
An idea struck when she saw Hal return from tending his photographic plates. She motioned him to her desk and tucked her own prize cigar in his pocket.
Hal smiled. “You’re sweet to give me your Lorillard. I forgive you.”
Jemmy scowled. “It’s not for you.”
“Uh-oh, here we go again.”
“Nothing bad. A little gift for your uncle—you know the one.”
“A bribe, you mean.”
“No, of course not. A little token of good will for the smartest detective on the police force, nothing more.”
“What do you want this time?”
“Find out all you can about the Sproat investigation. And be sure to find out what evidence the police have against Frank James.”
“You’re hoping he did it. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Hoping he’s guilty? No. If he should turn out to be guilty, I’m hoping to get the real story—and get it first.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“While you’re at it, see what you can dig up on the actor who plays Tom Loker and Simon Legree at the Crystal Palace Theatre.”
“What’s his real name?”
“I keep forgetting to look it up in the program.”
“How about your review notes?”
“Not there, more’s the pity.”
“You don’t expect my uncle to tell me anything without a name, do you?”
“It couldn’t hurt to try.”
Hal looked at Jemmy as though she’d just slobbered on his collar. He turned to leave.
“One more name—John Folck. There’s something shifty about him. And Hal, take your camera. I think your uncle might be more talkative if you were taking his picture. What’s he done lately that’s newsworthy?”
“Shot a squirrel in the attic that was keeping him up nights.”
“That’s not precisely what I had in mind, but it may have to do. I’ll think of some way to make it sound heroic.”
After Hal left, Jemmy meandered over to the sports desk. “Mr. Flinchpaugh, I have a favor to ask.”
He didn’t look up. “What favor would that be?”
“Come with me to the Northside Turner Hall. I have to speak to Handsome Harry Benson.”
He tapped his pencil on his desk. “My dear girl, you know the place is for men only. What’s the point?”
“The boxers must stop training to eat. Perhaps they might be having lunch at their favorite restaurant when we just happen by.”
Flinchpaugh hunkered down even lower. “When a boxer is in hard training, his manager has special food brought in. I doubt they’ll leave the hall at midday.”
“Is Benson scheduled to fight soon? What about his job in Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
“Some people have more than one job.”
“But he’s a big-name fighter all the way from Chicago. If he were on a sports card locally, surely I would have read about it in your column.”
Flinchpaugh pushed back his chair with a sigh. “He’s fighting Friday night. It’s the kind of fight no one advertises in the papers.”
“An illegal fight? The kind that breaks noses and knocks out teeth? The kind that could turn Handsome Harry into Quasimodo?”
Flinchpaugh nodded.
“Why would he? Does he need money badly enough to risk turning Handsome Harry into Horrifying Harry?”
Flinchpaugh shrugged. “Maybe he thinks he’s too good to get hurt. Maybe he likes the danger or the pain.”
“Then I simply must speak to him now. It can’t wait until after his fight. Who knows if he’ll even be able to talk afterwards? And tomorrow is a holiday. I must see him now, today. It’s most urgent.”
“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why your need is so desperate.”
“I regret that I cannot. It’s of a delicate nature.”
Flinchpaugh scrunched his eyes and gave his head a quick shake. Jemmy imagined he was thinking unsavory thoughts about Handsome Harry and Jemima McBustle. Well, let him. If that will gain his help, let him think I’m a fallen woman. Time enough later to set him straight.
Flinchpaugh walked Jemmy to the cloakroom. From time to time, he sneaked a peek at her midsection. Jemmy sailed down the stairs in front of him, head held high as if she dared him to ask the big question.
At the Northside Turner Hall, he parked her outside the rear door while he went in. Seconds later Handsome Harry came out bundled in a raccoon coat with a towel loosely draped around his head. Red flannel underwear sprouted up from the soft black leather of his boxing boots.
He jogged in place. Each exhalation of air curled upward in gusts of fog. He smelled of sweat and Watkins liniment.
“Autley said a beautiful young girl had news for me. He was right about the beautiful part. How may I help you?”
“Tell me about the woman.”
“What woman?”
“The woman who was supposed to meet you at Union Station yesterday.”
Harry stopped jogging in place and leaned over with his hands on his hips. “Women don’t desert Harry Benson. Whoever told you a story like that is a liar.”
“No one told me. I saw for myself.”
Harry’s eyes bored into Jemmy’s, but she stared back every bit as fiercely. He said, “Stay out of things that don’t concern you. And if you’ve been following me, stop right n
ow.”
“I’ll stop when you tell me what I want to know.”
“Bossy females get hurt when they don’t mind their own business.”
“Are you threatening me? I’ll have you up on charges. You’d have to miss your big fight.”
When he raised his arm as if to hit her, Flinchpaugh stepped between them and gently walked Harry backwards. “Wouldn’t do to hit Miss McBustle. Think of your reputation with the ladies.”
“Then make her forget about seeing me at the station.”
Jemmy stood on tiptoe to make herself bigger. “I won’t forget. I’ll find out somehow, so you may as well tell me and make your life easier.”
“Maybe you should tell her what she wants to know. She hangs on like a bulldog once she’s got her teeth into something.”
Harry backed Flinchpaugh up a step or two. “She damn well better keep her teeth out of me.”
“No need for foul language. Why not tell her whom you expected to meet? Can it be as harmful as what Miss McBustle might do with her typewriter and a three-inch column in the Illuminator?”
Harry might not have been the sharpest needle in the sewing basket, but he finally saw common sense. “All right. All right. Do you promise to leave me alone?”
Jemmy put a hand over her heart. “I swear.”
“I was supposed to meet Pervia Benigas.”
“I owe you many thanks for helping me. You’re very kind.”
Jemmy could feel Harry Benson staring after her as she walked away on Flinchpaugh’s arm.
“I’ve never seen Benson so wrought up outside the ring. You’d best be more careful.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”
“Do you know this Pervia person?”
“Yes, she was a classmate of mine at Mary Institute.”
“What does her failure to meet him signify?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
“I can’t say. Not until I—” Jemmy broke off in mid-sentence. She was too deep in thought to hear Flinchpaugh’s next word.
Pervia must have jilted Benson because she stumbled across me. I wonder why my old classmate didn’t want me to see her meet Harry.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wednesday Afternoon, November 23, 1898
“You haven’t heard a single word, have you?” Autley Flinchpaugh muttered into Jemmy’s good ear, but it didn’t penetrate her brain until he raised his voice.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to understand why my old classmate jilted Harry just because she saw me at the station.”
“People often take extraordinary steps to avoid members of the press, especially people with secrets.”
“Yes, of course.” Her stomach growled like a drunken katydid singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” She put her hand over her middle to quiet the rumbling.
He chuckled. “On the other side of Hyde Park is a cafe that serves a tasty chicken pot pie. Let me treat you to lunch.”
“I admit to being hungry. Still, I must refuse your kind offer. I have an engagement elsewhere.” That wasn’t strictly true. Jemmy had no advance agreement to meet with Pervia. But the thought of getting answers from the snooty Miss Benigas made Jemmy’s heart beat faster. A talk with her might break through this welter of confusion that had Jemmy stumped.
A trolley ride and a brisk walk later, Jemmy stood on the doorstep of the Benigas mansion on Lucas Place. The housekeeper answered the door with a pleasant “Good morning.” She was dressed in dark-blue fustian. Her well-cushioned shoulders extended forward and around her sunken bosom like an upholstered wing chair. “Miss McBustle. So nice to see you again.”
“I hope Pervia is ready for our luncheon date. I’m famished.”
“Please come in. Miss Pervia is in the music room.”
The housekeeper’s ample rump bumped up and down as she led Jemmy to the piano. Pervia’s deft fingers filled the whole downstairs with echoes from a Chopin etude.
When Jemmy entered the music room, Pervia stopped in mid-measure.
Jemmy flattered, “How wonderfully you play. You should be on the concert stage.”
“I am. I’m performing in Cincinnati on Saturday.”
Jemmy gushed on in hopes the housekeeper would leave. “I waited for you in the hotel lobby until people started to stare. It’s not like you to miss a luncheon appointment. I came to see if you’re ailing and forgot to send word you weren’t coming.”
Pervia played along with Jemmy’s ruse. “I get so wrapped up in my music that I scarcely can remember where I live. I must apologize. I fear we’ve already eaten lunch, but I can have something prepared for you.” She motioned to the housekeeper.
“No, please. Don’t trouble. I have another commitment and cannot stay.” The housekeeper bobbed her head and left.
Pervia scooted to the edge of the piano bench. “We had no luncheon date, as you very well know. Why did you come here?”
“You never did spend much time on small talk, did you?”
“I have to practice. Please get to the point.”
“Harry Benson told me you jilted him at the train station yesterday. I want to know why.”
“Oh, I see. Harry’s little girlfriend is jealous of big bad Pervia.”
“I’m not Benson’s girlfriend, nor am I jealous. Why did you jilt him?”
“If you’re not his girlfriend, why do you care whom Harry meets or doesn’t meet?”
“I know that Harry is fighting bare knuckles on Friday. Before then I have to find out why you jilted him. It’s because you didn’t want me to see the two of you together, isn’t it? Don’t try to deny it. Benson himself told me he was waiting for you.”
Pervia slammed the keyboard lid on the grand piano with a thwock. She seemed genuinely surprised as she slipped off the bench. “Since you know so much, tell me where this fight is to be held?”
“I don’t know.”
Pervia rose to her full height. Her hot breath bored down on Jemmy’s forehead. “You seem to know rather a lot. Surely you know something as important as where an illegal fight is to be held.”
“I don’t, but I can find out. I might be persuaded to share that information if you tell me why you jilted Harry at Union Station.”
“The truth is, I don’t travel in circles with persons who engage in pugilism. Mr. Benson is the only boxer I know.”
“But you seem quite interested in this fight.” Jemmy stuck out her chin and leaned forward until her nose hit a veritable wall of Pervia’s perfume. Even if the scent of the woman’s Jicky made her feel so lightheaded she couldn’t say a sensible word, Jemmy was not about to back down.
Pervia must have thought she’d won. “I find blood sport quite barbaric as a rule, but you must have noticed how attractive Mr. Benson is.”
“Is he your beau?”
Pervia threw back her head and laughed. “Asking questions like that could get you into trouble.”
“Well, is he?”
Pervia eased back onto the piano bench and said nothing for half a minute or more. “Very well. Quid pro quo. Something for something. When you tell me where the fight is to take place, I’ll tell you why I failed to meet Mr. Benson and what our connection might be.”
Convincing Pervia had been too easy. Jemmy took a deep breath and tried to think of something else to say, something else to ask. Nothing came.
“We can trade information at the matinee at Mary Institute tomorrow. If you have no other business with me, I’ll show you to the door.”
Jemmy did think of something else to ask, but not until after Pervia left her on the front porch. Is Pervia just another one of Handsome Harry Benson’s female admirers? Or is there something sinister between them?
Jemmy’s stomach rumbled loudly enough to draw notice from a passerby.
A nice little diner on Fourteenth Street served breakfast all day long. Jemmy’s mouth watered with the thought of hotcakes slathered in butter and maple syrup. She
walked halfway there before she remembered she had not a penny in her reticule. Worse still, Autley Flinchpaugh was no longer around to pay for her trolley rides. She’d have to pick her way across icy sidewalks all the way back to the Illuminator.
By the time she reached the office, she was well-nigh frozen. Her hunger had disappeared, though not the stomach rumbles. Miss Turnipseed’s head bobbed up from her typewriter. “Please do something about your digestive system. It sounds like a tom cat in a trash can.”
“I haven’t eaten anything today. Maybe some water will quiet my insides.” At the drinking fountain, she filled paper cone after paper cone, but the rumbling only ratcheted up from baritone to soprano.
At length, Miss Turnipseed sacrificed her own afternoon pickme-up. Every day at four o’clock exactly, she ate a shiny, red apple. “Thank you, Miss Turnip—I mean, Miss Buckley. You can’t imagine how grateful I am.”
Jemmy set the apple down on her desk while she breathed on her fingers to warm them.
Before her hands felt properly thawed, Hal bounded in from the darkroom. “Here’s the picture you wanted. Pretty darn good—excuse the language—pretty good. If I do say so myself.”
Hal handed her a picture of his uncle holding a dead squirrel by the tail. “What do you think? Will this make a good subject for a line drawing by the art boys?”
“Cut the picture so it’s just his head and enough chest to show his badge.”
“But the squirrel is the best part.”
Jemmy feigned a shocked look. “But that’s a squirrel with rabies—perhaps. Can’t have our hero holding up a possibly rabid squirrel—not even a dead possibly rabid squirrel.”
Hal offered a resigned, “Oh, I see—a little journalistic license.”
As he turned, Jemmy caught him by the sleeve. “What did you find out?”
“Which do you want first—the good, the bad, or the indifferent?”
“This is no time for games. Just tell me.”
“You have to choose.”
Nobody, not even sister Randy, could exasperate Jemmy so quickly as Hal. “Any one will do.”
“No, no. Pick your poison.”
Jemmy heaved a shuddering sigh. “All right, all right. Let’s hear ‘indifferent.’ ”
