Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  “I’m afraid my Latin is not sufficient to—”

  “Eggs today are better than chickens tomorrow.”

  “In that case, I offer you the best of both worlds. I always deliver eggs today. You must admit my stories sell papers.”

  Hamm dipped his head in an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.

  “I solemnly promise to also deliver chickens tomorrow.”

  “Please don’t stretch the metaphor any further. It’s about to snap like a cheap garter.” No sooner did the words escape his mouth than Hamm apologized. “Pardon my lack of delicacy.”

  “I’d be pleased to drop the metaphor if you’ll print banners for newsboys to hold up. The banners should say ‘James Letter Safe in Boatmen’s Bank.’ I’d also like the same notice posted on the sandwich board out front.”

  Jemmy smiled sweetly. “And, don’t forget, you specifically asked me to consult you if I wished to write a news story featuring an advertiser.”

  “All right. All right. Take Dwyer and get a picture at the bank. I’ll call Boatmen’s president and pave the way, but don’t forget you have a regular assignment. I expect your articles on time. I won’t tolerate your slipping by on your looks just because your whims and fancies please a few advertisers.”

  As Jemmy turned to leave, Hamm stopped her with a request. “Before you go, would you please fetch me one of those aspirin powders.”

  Jemmy poured a glass of water and brought him a paper packet from the top of his file cabinet. Hamm tossed the powder to the back of his throat and chased it with water. He shuddered at the sour taste. “Yaacch. Why on earth would Frank James give the name of the killer to you in a sealed envelope?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  Hamm pushed up his glasses and rubbed his temples. “I shall never understand why the newspaper gods continue to smile on you. Why can’t they beam just a little ray on a real reporter from time to time?”

  Hamm’s words hurt. As if that weren’t painful enough, another male ambushed her the minute she left the editor’s office. Amadee Boudinier blocked her exit from the cloakroom. “If it isn’t little miss know-it-all-before-anyone-else.”

  Jemmy could hold her tongue no longer. “Perhaps you should spend more time on the streets of the city and less time at your warm and comfortable desk. Maybe then Frank James would choose you to carry his mail.”

  Boudinier stuck his oversized nose in her face. His breath smelled like sour milk and green onions. “Don’t forget I’m the ace crime reporter around here. I have more contacts and a better nose for news than anyone else at the Illuminator.”

  “So that’s why it’s growing longer. Silly me. I thought the legend of Pinocchio was just a children’s story.”

  “Watch out, little miss smarty mouth. Knowing too much can get a person in big trouble.”

  Somewhere deep in the recesses of her consciousness she realized one truth. Sparring with enemies could never come to anything good. Even so, she couldn’t stop ranting. “I guess that’s why my stories sell papers. You must never have noticed that big trouble means big stories.”

  Boudinier stomped off. “Stick to your assignments. I’d say covering the Hebrew fair would be about right.”

  Oddly enough, Boudinier had done Jemmy a favor. She’d forgotten she was slated to interview the president of the fair that morning. She mumbled to herself, “What’s a girl to do? My newspaper job keeps interfering with my real newspaper job. How am I supposed to get to the bottom of an important murder story when I have to spend hours at flower shows and bazaars?”

  She longed to re-visit the elixir lady to find out the names of her customers. Jemmy thought she’d even buy a potion if that was the only way to get the woman to talk. Her interview with Mabel Dewoskin would have to wait until she’d been to Boatmen’s Bank and to the Jewish fair.

  While Hamm telephoned Boatmen’s president, Jemmy reread the message on the outside of the envelope: “This envelope to remain sealed until Quisenberry Sproat’s true killer is discovered, at which time it is to be opened by Miss Jemima McBustle IN PRIVATE.” The last two words were capitalized and underlined.

  Why does Frank James want me to be the one to open the letter, and why must I be alone? Jemmy had little time to ponder Frank James’s methods. She and Hal had news to make and news to cover.

  Hamm’s telephone call to the bank brought excitement to the dignified hush of the bank’s cold and substantial marble. Entrusting Frank James’s letter to the vault pleased the Boatmen’s Bank staff in a big way. The president struck a majestic pose as he accepted the envelope from Jemmy. After Hal’s flash lit up the scene, the assembled tellers applauded. When the president emerged from the vault, he insisted Jemmy and Hal have tea with him in his office.

  “Miss McBustle, what are your thoughts on the best way to handle the letter once the culprit who killed Mr. Sproat is brought to light?”

  “I hope to return, follow the directions on the envelope, and then make a public announcement.”

  Hal nudged her with his elbow.

  “Of course, Hal will come, too. He’ll take a picture of the two of us with the opened letter.”

  “That’s all well and good, but I really can’t have my business disrupted again as it has been today. My clerks are all in a dither and getting very little work done.”

  “Don’t you agree that free publicity is good for your business? Won’t people remember that Frank James and trustworthy Jemima McBustle chose the big vault at Boatmen’s as the safest place in St. Louis?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t thought of these events in those terms. Still, I hope you’ll plan to come near the close of business hours.”

  All the way back to the Illuminator, Jemmy glowed with special awareness. By pure chance, she had stumbled onto a grand way to conjure up a story when news was slow. All she had to do was cook up a pretense to feature an advertiser in a news article.

  Of course, her immediate problem was to scout out a story no one could advertise—at least not in newspapers. She needed to know more about the bare-knuckles fight. She had to find information to trade with Pervia Benigas. Without Pervia’s help, she had no way of discovering why Harry Benson had been johnny-on-the-spot to replace Sproat after he was murdered.

  While Hal was off developing his photographic plates, Jemmy had a few precious minutes. She stopped by Autley Flinchpaugh’s sports desk. “Be a dear and tell me what time the bare-knuckles fight is to start.”

  He looked up in alarm. “Miss McBustle, you shouldn’t know such brutality even exists—a young lady like yourself, and in such a delicate state.”

  Jemmy started to deny she was in any state except Missouri but thought better of it. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “How can I make you understand, dear Mr. Flinchpaugh? This is my only chance to see him—you know, my young man.”

  “In my opinion you’re better off without him.”

  She placed her hand over his. “My necessity is urgent. After tonight, I think he will go back to Chicago.”

  “What do you hope to achieve?”

  “I must tell him something very personal. Perhaps I can persuade him to remain in St. Louis.”

  Autley sent a furtive glance around the room to see if anyone was watching. He slid his hand out from under Jemmy’s and said, “Won’t a letter do?”

  “Some news must be given face to face.”

  “Well, then, I suppose you must go—and I suppose I must go with you. You’d need a shoulder to lean on if—Well, you need a true friend to help you face him.”

  “Bless you, Mr. Flinchpaugh. I’d be eternally in your debt.”

  “I’ll collect you from your home at ten o’clock this evening. The fight is scheduled after usual business hours.”

  “Perhaps now you feel free to tell me when it starts.”

  “Well, I suppose I could tell you but only if you promise I will be allowed to accompany you. Do I have your word?”

  Jemmy nodded solemn
ly.

  “The fight is to begin at Uhrig’s Cave at midnight tonight.”

  Jemmy shuddered. A cave—why does it have to be a cave?

  She felt guilty at deceiving the sports reporter but not guilty enough to tell him the truth—not just yet.

  When Hal appeared from the darkroom, he and Jemmy set off for the Coliseum to report on the last day of the Hebrew charity fair. The fair had been in full swing all week. Jemmy interviewed the president of the United Jewish Societies, Julius Lesser.

  President Lesser reminded Jemmy of a bramble bush after the leaves have fallen in November—all crossed twigs and bristles. He sported a full beard spurting from his high, round collar. A little round cap perched atop the crown of his curly-haired head. Dark hair sprouted from every bit of skin peeking out from his three-piece suit. Most remarkable of all were his eyebrows. They looked like the pelt of a small, furry rodent.

  Jemmy was well-nigh hypnotized by his eyebrows. With every syllable President Lesser spoke, they twitched like an animal caught in a trap.

  “I’m more than happy to tell the Illuminator that the fair is exceeding all our expectations. We hoped to raise thirty thousand dollars to build a free school to teach poor children skills needed in industry. I now believe we’ll raise forty thousand or more.”

  Mr. Lesser rubbed his hands together in his excitement. “You should have been here for the matinee on Tuesday. Six thousand people came to watch the acrobats from Japan. And the Monster Cake Walk—more than a hundred couples cutting monkey shines.”

  Jemmy had learned a little praise will often bring out the best in an interview subject. “The Coliseum has never looked better. Where did you find such glorious flowers to decorate every booth? I see red, white, and blue bunting in graceful swags everywhere I look.”

  Mr. Lesser chortled and grinned. “St. Louis can be proud of this grand place. We should thank the tornado of ’96. Who would have thought St. Louis could construct a bigger and better one in just two years? It does show up well in the lights—eight hundred electric lights. When they were first turned on, I thought I’d go blind.”

  “How many booths do you have?”

  “Thirty-five. Let’s walk down Dewey Avenue to see a few.”

  “I see you named your streets after heroes of the Spanish-American War.”

  “Yes. It seemed natural to name our biggest thoroughfare after the admirable admiral. We are nothing if not patriotic. Your Mr. Dwyer missed a wonderful photograph. At the opening, one hundred and twenty-five school children of about the same height became a living flag with forty-five stars.”

  “What a novel idea. But I see you have many excellent ideas. Which are your most popular booths?”

  “They’re all splendid. We sell everything from furniture to candy. We’re particularly proud of our orchestra booth.” He nearly popped a vest button in his exuberance.

  “The orchestra is in Milwaukee, but you can hear it over a telephone wire right here.”

  He bent to speak softly into her ear. “To tell the truth, I think pretty girls are our biggest draw. One of the most popular booths is manned—I suppose I should say ‘girled’—by lovely young ladies from Mary Institute. They sell copies of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.”

  Jemmy blinked.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have named your rival. No doubt you can’t mention that other newspaper in your article.”

  “The Post is an evening paper, Mr. Lesser. Since The Illuminator is a morning publication, we’re not in direct competition.”

  The three walked on in silence until Mr. Lesser stopped in front of the burlesque booth. “I’ll take you inside, but you must promise not to reveal what you see here until after the fair closes tomorrow night—and no photographs, please.”

  Jemmy was intrigued. What would she find on the other side of those blue velvet drapes?

  The booth displayed signs over items presented as if they were genuine memorabilia in a museum. But those banners bore tongue-in-cheek descriptions. “Early home of Washington” was propped up in front of a cradle. “Assistant Editor” stood comic guard over a pair of scissors.

  Hal hooted and pointed at a spoof on the army, “Mustered In and Mustered Out,” behind a pair of mustard jars, one full and one empty.

  They strolled on past the Tennyson Club, the Palmistry Booth, and the Beer Knelpe. Mr. Lesser treated them to lunch in the restaurant. “Be sure to try the knishes” were his parting words as he was called away to solve some crisis involving the Turkish tobacco booth.

  After taking a few steps, he rushed back to hand free passes to the pair. “Be my guests tomorrow night for the grand finale. We’re announcing the winner of the Most Popular Girl Contest, and we’re closing with a confetti battle. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  Jemmy wrote her Hebrew fair article between bites of savory chicken soup with tasty dumplings called matzo balls. Hal agreed the food was excellent. “I’ve never had a better sandwich than the spiced beef tongue.”

  Story finished and camera equipment secured, the pair headed for the exit nearest Washington Avenue.

  A high voice called out, “Stop. Red hair man. Red hair woman. Stop, damn you. I say stop.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Friday Afternoon, November 25, 1898

  As Jemmy and Hal were leaving the Jewish fair, a tiny member of the Japanese acrobats darted in front of them. Jemmy thought the girl could be no more than ten. She stood less than four feet high and couldn’t have tipped the scales above seventy pounds carrying a cannonball.

  “Stop, damn you! I say stop. Damn, damn rude not stop.”

  Hearing cuss words from that tiny female shocked the pair into following orders. Jemmy looked at Hal. His brow furrowed in surprise and disgust.

  “Photo san. I show ass trick.” She whipped off her sky-blue kimono embroidered with yellow butterflies and scarlet birds. In her pale tights and clinging silk jersey blouse, she looked like an enormous white grub worm.

  “I make letter M. Watch, damn you. I make you shitface happy.” The girl bent over backwards until her head formed the middle of a capital M inside her two legs.

  “How you rike Kyoto Nakamura hijinks?”

  Neither replied.

  When she righted herself, no one could have called Kyoto’s face happy—with or without obscene qualifiers. Hal had been so immobilized by the filth erupting from this nearly naked girlchild’s mouth, he had not even set up his camera. The color in his pink ears deepened to red.

  “Shitbrain, why you no take photo? I do double letter good.” She stood glowering with arms akimbo and hands on hips.

  Jemmy said, “I didn’t quite get your name. Could you please spell it for me?”

  “I sperr name for newspaper bitch if shitbrain man take photo.”

  At Jemmy’s nod, Hal unslung his equipment. With scarlet ears and pursed lips, he banged his tripod on the floor.

  Jemmy opened her notebook and took down the spelling. “K-Y-O-T-O. May I please have your age for my article?”

  “I twenty-six year.”

  Jemmy dropped her pencil. “You look much younger.”

  “No eat. Fat hog no can bend. No bend, no pisshead job.”

  Jemmy had never heard such cussing in her entire life—and from a grown woman. She’d had about enough of Miss Nakamura’s offensive speech. “I don’t believe I can interview you any longer if you insist upon insulting my ears with curse words.”

  With praying hands, the girl gave a little bow. “My Engrrish bad. I hear in circus cuss words. Arr time cuss words. I beg forgive Kyoto.”

  Jemmy nodded. “Well, then, Kyoto, if I may call you ‘Kyoto’ in my article?”

  Kyoto nodded.

  Hal said, “Hey, isn’t Kyoto the name of a city?”

  Kyoto nodded. When she opened her mouth, she pronounced the words slowly. “Kyoto home, not true name. Nariko girr name. No can come here if girr. Make rike Chinaman have thing from pig ass on head. No—no, bad word.�
�� She put her hand over her mouth.

  Hal said, “I think she means ‘pigtail.’ ”

  Kyoto cocked her head. “Kyoto get. Say ‘tairrl’ okay. Say ‘ass’ not okay. Kyoto know now.”

  “I see. You pretended to be a Chinese boy in order to get into this country?”

  Kyoto nodded with enthusiasm. “You smart-tail missy.”

  “But why did you do that? I thought Chinese women were barred from coming here, but not Japanese.”

  “White men thick in head. No see with eyes. Think China woman, Japan woman—same.”

  Jemmy knew right well the feeling of being misunderstood. She considered herself a serious journalist; but other people, especially men, didn’t. All too many of both sexes lumped her into the category of giggling schoolgirls with nothing on their minds but pretty clothes and cute boys.

  “I’d like to use your real name if I might.”

  “Nariko. Means child work hard. But acrobat name Kyoto. You use prrease.”

  “Nariko is a lovely name, and clearly you are a hard worker. However, I will call you ‘Kyoto’ if you wish.”

  “Kyoto thank missy.”

  “Miss Kyoto, how long have you been in the United States?”

  “Since I am fourteen year.”

  “Have you always been an acrobat with the Japanese company?”

  “Kyoto acrobat even before come U.S. of A. First work circus.”

  “I’ve always found the circus thrilling. Are you sorry you left?”

  “Not Kyoto. Circus have three ring. Too much. Must finish same time in three ring. Many show. Work too hard. Much better work for acrobat master. Sensei much worthy.”

  “Just now, you dislocated your shoulders. Doesn’t that hurt?”

  Kyoto shrugged. “When master first teach, hurt much. Now, not much.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Six, seven. Who know?”

  “Didn’t your parents stop him?”

  “Parents trade Kyoto. Get two pig.”

  Jemmy’s heart went out to this tiny woman who could twist her shoulders in and out of their joints but who’d never had a warm shoulder to lean on. “When did you go to school?”