Have Your Ticket Punched by Frank James

by Fedora Amis

  With a blinding flash, Jemmy knew just where she was—the deep recesses of Uhrig’s Cave. A stroke of head pain spurred her brain awake. She had slid on the mossy floor and knocked herself out when her head hit the rock wall. Someone had dragged her unconscious body into this cave room and tied her hands behind her back. Who was it? Who would want to pull me in here and to overpower this man? Who and why?

  Jemmy’s head ached more as she tried to identify the man in the tweed suit. Is it Loker-Legree? He has a tweed suit.

  But no, this man had dark, straight hair and a mustache. Actor Tom Rafferty was blond and clean-shaven. If only she could see that face without the rag that divided it in half.

  Jemmy strained to imagine the face the way it ought to look for a minute, then two. At length, little pieces started to congeal—the heavy shoes—the droopy mustache—the dark, limp hair.

  Jemmy snapped from her wooziness in one quick stroke of recollection. She recognized the man, but the recollection only brought more questions.

  This man is Handsome Harry Benson’s manager. What is his name? Jemmy agonized to call up the man’s name. She grew angry with herself because it would not come to mind. Why can’t I remember his name? My brain doesn’t want to function.

  Jemima Gormlaith McBustle, pull yourself together. You don’t have time to worry over names. You’ve got to get out of here before whoever did this returns. Med—Med—something . . . that’s it.

  “RaRaRaRa.” The man jerked rapidly backward and forward in his chair like a little boy urging his rocking horse to an imaginary finish line. Medley—Amos Medley. That’s his name.

  “RaRaRaRa.” Jemmy couldn’t identify the words, but the man’s meaning was clear enough. He wanted help.

  She thought she might be able to loosen his ropes with her teeth. Jemmy snaked her body along the floor in an attempt to reach the man’s hands. Each movement scraped her shoulder on the jagged floor as she inched toward him.

  One of his hands was tied at the corner post where the seat meets the chair leg. Jemmy couldn’t fit her head behind the chair. The knot was out of reach between his chair and the wall—mere inches from the wall. She pulled up her feet and pushed at the front chair leg. The man figured out what she was trying to do and lifted his weight as best he could.

  The chair came around with a scrape and bang. Jemmy could see the knot, but it was still too high up. She couldn’t reach the bindings with her teeth—not even when she ground her shoulder against rock till it bled. Even when she managed to prop herself up against the wall, she still couldn’t reach the knot.

  Jemmy had one more thing to try, though she wasn’t at all sure it would work. If her corset would let her bend enough, she might be able to scoot her body through her hands. She stretched her arms as far as possible and began passing her rump through the loop.

  When she was halfway through her hoop of arms, when she could all but taste the freedom having her arms in front would bring, a wave of panic struck. Something was pulling at the rope. It took an agonizing minute to discover the rope was caught in a crevice in the floor. She spent another precious minute freeing the rope’s tail. Every movement brought another jab of her corset. The stays knifed her flesh and stifled every breath until she believed she would faint.

  After what seemed hours, she managed to slip her hands past her feet in a swish of petticoats. Her hands were now in front. She shook them to bring back the feeling and began to pick at the boxing manager’s knot.

  As if by magic, the knot floated apart. Jemmy had to curl her body aside when the man began a furious assault on the loosened ropes. He twisted his body and banged the chair against the floor until he could pull himself free.

  He yanked off his gag and stretched his mouth. He rubbed at the red marks along his jowls. Jemmy held up her fettered hands. He pulled her to her feet, but before he could untie her, a sound behind him made him turn.

  Pervia Benigas came rushing on them like a hellcat. She raised a carriage whip and began slashing at Medley’s back. So Pervia Benigas is the killer. Jemmy couldn’t have been more amazed if the whip wielder were Archbishop Kain, all decked out in miter hat and white gloves.

  Medley cringed. He wheeled around to face Pervia and presented his shoulder to her barrage of blows. When he moved toward her, Pervia spun around. She raced toward the arch some thirty feet away. Before she got there, Medley caught her skirt. She turned back toward him and began beating his hand with the whip handle. When he let go, she slashed at his face. He put up his arms to deflect the blows. The lashes fell on his tweed jacket instead of his flesh.

  While the pair kept up their battle, Jemmy pressed her back against the wall and sidled along it. When she stood directly behind Pervia, she took a deep breath and lunged. With hands still tied together, all she could manage was to give Pervia a good shove.

  Jemmy’s catching Pervia off guard gave Medley the chance he needed. He grabbed one of Pervia’s wrists. He smacked at her other hand until she dropped the whip. Then he picked her up bodily. She thrashed and screamed like a banshee on Halloween, but her strength couldn’t match his. He carted her across the room and slammed her down in the chair that had so recently been his own prison.

  She fought and struggled to no avail as he trussed her up like a holiday turkey. Jemmy picked at the knots on her hands with her teeth as she watched the manager subdue Pervia.

  All of a sudden, Pervia took notice of Jemmy. “Stupid, stupid girl! Look what you’ve done—set a murderer free.”

  “Poisoning Miss McBustle against me won’t work. Anyone can see that you’re the killer.”

  He turned toward Jemmy. “You’re my witness. She was trying to cut me with that poisoned whip.”

  “Don’t believe him, Jemmy. The greedy bastard killed Quisenberry Sproat. Do you know why? For money, that’s why. That’s why he killed my lovely boy.”

  “This woman is deranged. Why would I harm Sproat? He was my best boxer—my meal ticket. Give me one reason why I would want to kill him.”

  “He found out you were cheating him. I proved it. I have connections in this town. I showed him the numbers—the expenses for the fights—how much you made off of his sweat and blood.”

  “I had off-the-books expenses that don’t show up on ledgers. I swear I treated him fairly.”

  “Off-the-books expenses like whores and paregoric for you and those other two so-called crew?”

  “The paregoric was for Sproat’s mother. As for the boys, yes, I paid for them out of my end. That’s what good managers do.”

  “Jemmy, you can’t believe a word this viper says. He knew Q.B. was going to leave him high and dry, but he’d already set up tonight’s bare-knuckles fight. It cost him plenty to rent this place and bribe the police and everything that goes with an illegal fight. Without a big name like Q.B. to fight, old Amos here would be just about broke.”

  Jemmy dropped the ropes and rubbed her sore wrists.

  Pervia turned to Medley. “I know what happened. You tried to change his mind—get him to fight—but he refused. He told me so himself.”

  “Don’t fall for this tripe. Gasbags here is trying to pull the wool over your eyes. I knew Sproat was leaving. Of course, I knew. Why else would I have called Harry Benson? May I point out that he arrived before Sproat died?”

  Pervia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I know that temper of yours. You went backstage to beat Q.B. with a whip. When he didn’t meet me at my carriage before the play a week ago Thursday, I went to his dressing room. I found him lying on the floor groaning. He named you.”

  Medley said, “What a ridiculous thing to say. Sproat was a boxer in tiptop condition. Do you think he’d let me lay open his back with a whip?”

  “He’d been unconscious. Before you beat him, you hit him over the head.”

  “Miss McBustle, I certainly hope you’re not being taken in by this woman’s mad rantings. She’s just trying to cover up her own guilt. Look what she did to me and to you. Tied us both up.�
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  “Liar—you tied Jemmy.”

  “She’s the murderer. You can believe that.”

  “I would never kill Q.B. I loved him. I planned to marry him. Don’t you see? I had to stop Q.B. from fighting. He was ruining his hands.”

  “Stop talking such drivel.” Medley finished tying the knot and stepped back. “I’ll give you a taste of your own gag if I can find it.” He glanced around at the floor.

  Jemmy’s face flushed as a slow realization crept up her neck. Something in Pervia’s words rang true. How did Medley know the whip was poisoned unless he put the poison there himself?

  Tears trickled down Pervia’s face. “I can’t stand the thought of Q.B. breaking his fingers in a bare-knuckles fight. It’s criminal to treat precious hands like mere instruments of brutality. Hands are the essence of humanity. Hands separate humans from beasts.”

  Jemmy began a slow retreat toward the arched doorway. She might have succeeded if she hadn’t stooped to pick up the whip handle.

  Medley’s head shot up. “What are you doing, Miss McBustle? Mustn’t touch the whip. Belladonna—nasty way to die.”

  “So you said earlier. I was just going to take it to the police as evidence against Pervia.”

  Medley took one step toward her. “Give it to me. I wouldn’t want you to accidentally harm yourself.”

  Jemmy got a better grip on the whip handle. With her free hand she grabbed her skirts and took to her heels. She raced through the doorway and down the hall as fast as her legs would churn.

  She slid on the slippery floor over and over again. She couldn’t count the times her hip slammed into a rock wall or her shoulder ached from hitting an outcropping in the rough limestone. Grit and moss underfoot made the going even more treacherous. She could see practically nothing.

  She knew Medley was gaining on her. She had a weapon. But what use was a whip, even a poisoned one, in such tight quarters?

  Just one possibility presented itself. If it failed, she shuddered to think what would become of her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Late Friday Night, November 25, 1898

  Jemmy slowed down. She had no room to swing the whip. Still, it might be of some use if Medley were close enough. She flattened herself against the wall. She laid the whip leathers on the floor and gripped the whip handle in both hands. Heaven help me if this plan doesn’t work.

  Every fiber of her body quivered with the desire to run. Sweat popped from her forehead despite the cold. Medley’s huffing breath grew louder as he stumbled along the corridor. She could hear his hands smacking against the rock. Each thwack brought another obscenity erupting from his mouth.

  In seconds, his footfalls placed him mere feet away. He muttered, “Shoulda killed the smart-ass bitch when I had the chance.”

  Then she felt his foot hit the whip tail. She yanked the handle. Her elbow rammed into the cave wall. Pain shot down her arm like flame on straw. The plan worked.

  Medley hit the floor with a strangled cry. Jemmy surged forward. She left him there howling and scrabbling to get back on his feet.

  Skirts gathered in one hand, Jemmy stumbled toward the glimmer of electric lights. Chest heaving against her stays, she ran. Lack of oxygen made her light-headed. Heavens in a handbag—how’s a person supposed to breathe? I’ve a good mind to scandalize the world and stop wearing corsets altogether.

  Behind her, she could hear Medley grumbling and gaining ground as she rounded the last corner by the boxers’ changing rooms. At the entrance into the great auditorium, human-like shadows blocked the way. Who are those people?

  She stopped herself in mid-flight. Maybe those fellows are Medley’s corner men. No, they must still be at the bare-knuckles fight. But what if the fight is over?

  Indecision pulled her in two different directions. She hadn’t heard Medley sneak up behind her. “I’ve got you now, Miss McBitch.”

  Medley grabbed Jemmy’s right arm and twisted it to the middle of her back. He clamped his other around her waist and lifted her bodily off the cave floor. “You’ll not be telling tales out of school against me now.”

  Jemmy squealed like a stepped-on rat.

  “Jemmy, is that you?” The voice of Hal Dwyer had never sounded so good. A rush of energy surged to her feet in her heavy Snow Queen boots. She aimed kick after ferocious kick in the direction of Medley’s legs. She landed a solid hit on his shin. “Kick me again and I’ll slam your head right into that rock.”

  Voices from the hall grew louder. “We’re coming, Jemmy.”

  “Take heart, Miss McBustle.”

  “Who can run on this wet floor?”

  “I damned near fall down every time I take a step.”

  Footfalls and scuffles from the rescuers caught Medley’s attention. He shoved Jemmy in their direction. Surrounded by friends, she fell in a heap on the cave floor.

  Hal wheezed, “Are you all right, Jemmy?”

  She pointed back down the dark corridor and choked out the words, “Pervia—save Pervia Benigas.” With lanterns raised, Hal and Lieutenant O’Rourke stepped over Jemmy and disappeared around the corner into the dim hall.

  “Of course, she’s not all right. Her shoulder is bleeding.” Autley Flinchpaugh bent down to Jemmy. “Do you think you can stand? If I help, do you think you can stand?”

  Tom Rafferty brushed him aside and fell to one knee. He pulled Jemmy to sitting position, then scooped her up in his arms. Autley stood by in awkward silence.

  “Move your bones, Flinchpaugh. Can’t you see you’re blocking the way?”

  Lucy’s voice offered, “I’ll just get your lantern off the floor so you don’t knock it over.”

  “Thank you, Miss Leimgruber. Now if Flinchpaugh would please get out of the way.”

  Jemmy regained her breath well enough to walk, but if Tom wanted to carry her, well . . .

  The pair squeezed by Flinchpaugh. Tom carried her to the first changing room. He laid Jemmy down gently on a sheet-covered table. “How do you feel? Is anything broken?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Let me tend her, Mr. Rafferty.” The ever-practical Lucy had already dipped water from the barrel into a pan. She scuttled about piling first-aid supplies on the table.

  Tom caressed Jemmy’s cheek with one hand and smoothed her hair with the other. Lucy washed Jemmy’s scraped shoulder and treated other abrasions with iodine. Bits of skin peeping through her torn shirtwaist gleamed red-orange under the single light bulb of the room.

  “I can’t find any other damage. I think the patient will live.”

  Tom crooned to Jemmy. “Do you think you can sit up?”

  Autley Flinchpaugh took Jemmy’s hand to pull her upright. “I thank you for your pains, Mr. Rafferty, but I’ll take over now.”

  Flinchpaugh is becoming a nuisance. The time had come for Jemmy to do something about him. She did. She pretended to faint.

  “Look what you’ve done! You made her faint. She wasn’t ready to sit up. Stand aside, man.” Tom maneuvered Flinchpaugh to the foot of the table. He took Jemmy’s hand and rubbed it. “Lie still, Jemmy. You’re going to be fine.”

  Tom looked at Lucy, who was patting Jemmy’s other hand. “Do you think she might have a concussion?”

  Lucy dropped the hand and began exploring Jemmy’s head with her fingers. “Oh, my. She has a grand lump on her head. I hope it’s not brain fever. When the brain swells, nothing will do but to drill holes.”

  “We’d best get her to the hospital.” Tom scooped her up like a bouquet of flowers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Late Friday Night, November 25, 1898

  Tom carried Jemmy, but the pair didn’t get as far as the doorway. The sound of obscenities echoed from the hall. Medley burst through the archway with O’Rourke pushing from behind.

  Jemmy couldn’t hold in a little scream. She abandoned the fainting pretense and threw her arms around Tom’s neck.

  “Shut your yap, Medley, or by thunder I’ll sla
p you senseless.” O’Rourke let go of Medley’s manacled hands and shoved him against the wall. He drew his truncheon and smacked it once across his palm. Medley scowled but stopped cussing under his breath.

  O’Rourke called back over his shoulder, “Is Miss McBustle all right?”

  Lucy said, “Nasty lump on her head. Perhaps a concussion. She should see a doctor.”

  Medley piped up. “I didn’t do nothing to her head.” O’Rourke raised his blackjack and took a step toward his prisoner. Medley cringed while he spoke. “It’s not my doing. Ask the other one. Ask Pervia.”

  All heads turned to Pervia and Hal in the archway.

  O’Rourke asked, “Is Medley here telling the truth, Miss Benigas?”

  “Isn’t anyone interested in whether I’m all right? Does anyone care whether I might have a concussion?”

  Hal helped Pervia cross the room and lifted her up to sit atop the sheet-covered table. On the way, he glared at Tom, who was still carrying Jemmy in his arms.

  Tom offered, “I didn’t want her to catch a chill.”

  “Gentlemen usually give ladies their coats when ladies are cold.”

  Tom set Jemmy back on the table. He removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. He chafed her hands, then held them between his.

  O’Rourke asked again, “Is Medley telling the truth, Miss Benigas?”

  “You might give me a minute to catch my breath. But the answer is ‘Yes.’ I heard her screech outside that hole where Medley had me tied up. Jemmy must have fallen and hit her head all on her own.”

  O’Rourke said, “Miss Benigas, Do you feel up to telling us what’s going on? It’s clear this Medley fellow had you tied up in the bowels of the earth. I can’t think of any good reason a good man would do such a thing. He must have had some evil purpose.”

  Medley defended himself. “I was about to go find the police. You should thank me for catching a killer. She’s the one—that Pervia woman. She poisoned Quisenberry Sproat and Mabel Dewoskin, too.”