CHAPTER SIX
Parkington Whiskey
Alexander Martin picked up two bag of grain off the wagon and turned to face Murdoch. The weight didn't even cause him to break a sweat. "Yeah, Brendan Walsh clocked me with a shovel. Doesn't mean I killed him," he told Murdoch, hefting the bags into the waiting hands of the men next to him.
"I never said you did," the detective countered. "I asked why he hit you." Next to him, John Brackenreid watched the exchange intently.
"I may have said something," Martin shrugged, handing off another load.
"Mr. Martin," Murdoch spoke up, his patience rapidly fraying, "if you'd like, we can continue this down at the station house. Perhaps a less busy environment would jog your memory?"
Martin rolled his eyes, motioning for another man to take over. He walked a few feet away from the storehouse, Murdoch and John following. "Look, it's no secret that I didn't like Walsh. Ask any of the boys. Fact is, he was after my job back then, he and I got into it, I called him a few names and he cracked me in the head with the shovel." He touched his scalp near his hairline, and Murdoch caught the start of a jagged pink scar. "Can't say I didn't deserve it."
"Why didn't he get your job?"
Martin eyed him. "Mr. Parkington appreciates men he can count on. Men with a certain…background."
John frowned, confused. Martin caught the look. "I've been here longer and I'm from here," he said pointedly. Realization dawned on John and he refrained from rolling his eyes.
"Old wounds sometimes fester," Murdoch suggested.
Martin gave him a thin smile. "Not this one," he said. "All healed up. If there's nothing else, Detective, I'd like to get back to work."
John stood beside him as Murdoch waved Martin away. "You think he did it, sir?" John asked as they moved further out into the plaza away from prying ears.
The detective stood, watching the workers. "I think he's certainly strong enough to have choked him unconscious," he said. "But right now, it's his word against a dead man's." He raised his chin toward the other buildings. "Perhaps we should ask around. If it's no secret he didn't like Walsh, then perhaps someone else around here has some more information for us. Why don't you ask around here," Murdoch suggested, nodding in the direction of Connor O'Neill, who was watching them from the doorway. "I'll go ask around the rest of the distillery. Let's see if there's any loose tongues around here."
For the next few hours as the sun rose above Parkington Whiskey, John was certain he'd interviewed every man who worked at Parkington Whiskey. Except for Connor O'Neill, who seemed to cleverly be wherever John was not. Probably because he lied to us about the fight. The detective'll want to bring him back in for questioning, I'm sure.
His notebook was empty. No one he'd spoken to seemed to have anything to offer them about Alexander Martin, Brendan Walsh, the altercation, or any of the safety issues at the distillery. A very frustrated John met back up with Murdoch at the street entrance to the distillery, slapping the cover on his notebook shut. "I think I'd have had a better chance of getting information by talking to this gate," John complained as he tucked his notebook away. "Did you have better luck, Detective?"
"I'm afraid I fared about the same," the older man admitted. "No one is going to want to talk to a constable and a detective, especially since much of the men here are immigrants, and working for a man who clearly cares very little for their health and safety."
The two of them were walking as they were talking, heading up the street. "So what might be our next move, Constable Brackenreid?" Murdoch asked him. The younger man's eyes lit up, flattered to be asked for his input from the more experienced of the two.
John pondered the question as he walked. "Well, we could bring them down for questioning to the station house, away from Parkington's eyes and ears," he suggested.
"But?" Murdoch pressed.
"But," John continued, "chances are if they're not gonna talk here, they won't talk there." He turned to Murdoch. "We've already had one man lie to us. And I don't know that if it was me I'd want everybody else to know who's been talking to the police, either. Especially since whoever murdered Brendan Walsh probably works there."
"Agreed," Murdoch said. "So then, John, what do we do?"
John was quiet for a block or two and the detective let him mull it over as they turned down the street toward the station house. Finally, before they reached the door, John snapped his fingers. "What if we could get a man on the inside? A constable to go undercover, maybe?"
Murdoch clapped him on the back. "Very good, John." John smiled proudly. "Who would you suggest?"
"Well, they've seen your face and mine, Detective," John said as they headed for the Inspector's office. "Sir, I would send in-"
"Detective Murdoch, I have your photos and some information on those boots," George Crabtree cut him off, handing over a file folder. The constable didn't miss the look that passed between Murdoch and John. "What?" he asked. "I miss a spot shaving this morning?"
Murdoch smiled. "George. A word?"
The Star Room
"Stay," Nina whispered in George's ear. The Star Room was long closed, but back in the dressing room, the show had continued. Nina rested in the crook of George's arm as the two of them lay in bed, George's fingers running idly up and down her bare arm.
George smiled, craning his neck so he could see her. "You know I can't," he reminded her. "I've got to work in the morning."
Nina frowned. "George, that's a terrible excuse. You work every morning." She pulled the sheet farther up and rolled so she was resting on her side. A piece of her hair fell over her ear and George reached over and tucked it back.
"Well, tomorrow's a little different," he said. "I'm going undercover tomorrow at Parkington Whiskey."
"Parkington?" Nina asked. She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh."
"You're not a fan of whiskey, then?" George asked her. "It seems to me I've seen you knock back a glass or two before," he pointed out. He winked at her. "Lying to a constable is a punishable offense, you know."
"Then I'll lie to you more often," Nina teased him, running a hand below the sheets. George sucked in a breath. "The whiskey is fine," she said. "It's our delivery man that's…ugh." She made a face. "His name's Kenneth Smith. Tells us girls to call him Kenny. He's handsy."
George looked at her seriously. "He ever get more than that?" he asked her.
She shook her head. "No. He's just a dope," Nina explained. "None of us girls like him much, but the whiskey sells out, so we put up with him. He's harmless, but he likes trying to take things that aren't his," she finished.
"Maybe I give him a warning if I see him," George suggested, flipping on his side so he was facing her. "Tell him to lay off."
"Please," Nina rolled her eyes. "Trust me, if he tries anything again he'll be missing some fingers," she assured him. "Or he'll get a bottle of his own product upside the head. He's not worth your time."
He snaked a hand under her arm and around her back, pulling her tight against him. "And exactly what is your time worth, Miss Bloom?" George questioned her, looking into her eyes.
Nina trailed her fingers up his back, making him shiver. "Stay," she said, "and find out."
He wanted to argue, he really did. "Yes, ma'am," he said instead.