Chapter Three
First thing the next morning, William dropped Julia off at the morgue to conduct a full autopsy with Miss James on Mr. Snow, while over at the station house, he conferred with George and Henry over the evidence the constables obtained from searching the reporter's lodgings and searching for the victim's missing valuables. The three of them compiled the findings with what was known so far about Norris Snow; the detective had already pulled his chalkboard out and drew a grid with straight even lines.
Henry began. "We found no other witnesses willing to come forward. I found his watch and a pen had indeed been pawned together yesterday about seven blocks away, by a large soft-spoken man in a large black coat—or a small man in a large coat…" Higgins coughed, then shrugged, when the detective raised his eyebrows. "The shop-keep was unclear about a description, other than seeing a large silhouette; it was definitely not the homeless man, John Evans, who found the body. The shop-keep said the man had clean hands and, er… did not smell. The time was about half past five in the afternoon. We found some of Mr. Snow's identification – a library subscription card and a wad of calling cards stuffed in the trash a block away from the pawnshop. No billfold or change purse and no money, of course." He put his notebook down. "If the robber had anything else, whether he threw it out or left it in the open, it is long gone. Nothing goes to waste in that neighborhood. In addition, if someone local did the robbery, then he also did not flash any of the cash in the neighborhood—we had no indications of that, no gossip at all when we canvassed the streets and shops and saloons."
William thought that was an insightful comment. "Thank you, Henry, well done. We have no idea if the person who pawned the watch and pen was the murderer, the robber—both or neither. However, it seems we can indeed rule out Mr. Evans as either the killer or the robber, especially since Dr. Ogden does not think the homeless man was involved in any sort of altercation and it is beyond reasonable he would return to the scene of the crime and blatantly discover the body. I believe we can cross him of the list."
The detective did just that. "George what did you find?"
"Mr. Snow had only what you would expect in terms of personal effects in his room—three suits, one of which is marvelously tailored and exceptionally expensive, shirts, a pair brogans and one set of boots, undergarments, grooming paraphernalia, some medicine bottles, a bank book, calendar, a half empty whiskey bottle…really nothing out of the ordinary. I found no cash money other than some loose change. He lives simply and his bank account was healthy enough." George reached his hand into the evidence box and placed items one at a time on the detective's worktable. "I found several reference books from the library on a wide range of subjects—including the law, the history of Toronto and medicine. He seems to have been working on a novel, the manuscript for which was under his mattress in a leather brief, plus he had several very fine pens," George paused only briefly to admire the heft and balance of one before moving on. He quirked his mouth in a sly grin. "I took the liberty of leafing through the novel—it is rather risqué, and I suspect he did not want his landlady to know about it which is why it was hidden. I have to admit if I knew that newspaper writing paid so well I might have turned to that instead of the novel form…" George felt Henry's nudge and got back in track. "Er…He had no personal letters, which I thought was odd, and he had a series of maps, including this one." George spread a damaged rectangle of paper out for his superior to look at. "I suppose that should not be unusual as he only recently moved to town."
William took the page and held it up to the light for a moment, then replaced it on top of the pile. "Henry, please ask Constable Stanton to take fingermarks off the watch and pen—not that I expect to find much at this point, and look at whatever fingermarks you can get from the calling cards to start comparisons with our exemplars. I want a list of names off the cards as well, for us to look at as sources of information if we need it, ask one of the other men to stay back and do that. It still seems to be a robbery, since his editor said he got his weekly pay the day he went missing, and so far no money has been found."
"Sir? Do we know what he was doing over by the soap-works in the first place?" Henry asked.
George piped in. "Do we know if it was related to one of his news stories?"
"Very good questions. No, we do not." William crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the meager lists on his ever-present chalkboard. "We have a tentative motive, a large window for time of death so therefore an ill-defined timeline for opportunity, and no definitive means." He looked at the time. "Gentlemen. We will have to wait for Dr. Ogden and Miss James to finish their work to answer two of those questions. In the meantime, Henry, please get someone to look in the records for any felons who fit the profile of beating someone to rob them, cross checking with those who inhabit the ten square blocks around the crime scene."
William sent his constables about their duty, and he turned back to contemplate the evidence, such as it was. He seldom allowed himself to feel sentimental since it clouded one's judgement, but every once in a while the remains of a human life struck him as sad and hollow. He glanced at the manuscript, and the reference books. None of it appeared particularly revealing. He pulled the map off the top of the pile and held it up to the light. Rather than randomly caused by tacking the map to a wall with a pin, the pin holes seemed to follow a pattern. His mind flipped through some of the recent reports he had on various crimes, and settled on another map which he'd recently seen.
Vice! Didn't Mr. Wick from the Tattler say that Mr. Snow was investigating vice in Toronto the Good?
William excitedly pawed through the wide, flat drawers of his map chest. Finding the street survey he wanted, he put his own map side by side with the one George found in Norris Snow's room. A knowing smile blossomed on his face. Mr. Snow was looking into prostitution! He has indicated locations of known brothels and neighborhoods where streetwalkers ply their trade.
Looking out at the bullpen, William saw George and Henry, thinking: Here might be the answer to both of their earlier questions. Like hiding his novel from his landlady, it seemed Mr. Snow had a habit of secrecy—William wanted to know why.
Logic stated that as the higher-ranking constable, William should take Higgins to canvas the brothels, but common sense mandated that taking the aspirational lady-killer known as Henry Higgins to a brothel would be asking for trouble at a time when great delicacy was needed. William laid the maps out and copied out the addresses and locations into separate defined search areas to assign to his men.
He came out of his office and called out. "Gentlemen. We have a new lead on Mr. Snow's death. I now believe he was looking into prostitution in some way because he has made a map of where those services are obtainable. It might have been why he was near the soap works in the first place. We have thought it must be a male who beat him, but it is not unheard of for a female to rob one of her customers, or her pimp to protect his investment in a girl. Perhaps it went too far. I have divided the search area into four sections. Higgins, Jackson?' He handed Henry as page of paper. "I need you two to take a photograph of Mr. Snow and show it to the streetwalkers around the docks in these areas. I'd like the rest of you to take a photograph, form up in pairs and discover if Mr. Snow has had any contacts with the ladies. Find out what they know. George? You will accompany me to the brothels and we will do the same," William instructed.
"Sir, given George's penchant for ladies at such employment, perhaps it would be better if I go," Higgins interjected.
His eyes flashing in anger, George turned on his sometime-friend. "Higgins! I hardly think you would exercise restraint in such a place. In fact, I wouldn't put it past you to use your position to gain favors with the ladies. In fact…" he began.
"Enough. I've made my decisions and as acting Inspector, you are to consider them orders. Higgins, you'll have to search for potential lady friends on your own time, NOT police time," William barked.
Somewhere in the background, Constable Jackson and other constables were heard snickering. "Come along Henry, maybe you can ask them if they have special police rates and return later this evening," Jackson chided. More snickering ensued.
"Move along, gentlemen!" William ordered. "George?" he asked, gesturing towards the door, and noticing the constable's smirk. "We will be visiting the bordellos, but first, I think, to the Tattler."
"Yes sir, allow me to get my helmet." George replied.
# # #
Later….. George went down the steps ahead of his detective, carting their box of evidence to a police carriage waiting for them on the street. Grunting in effort he asked, "Detective, what do you make of Mr. Wick's assertion that Norris Snow had not been in Toronto long enough to have made any enemies? That seems rather naïve."
"I agree, George, considering what Mr. Snow had been writing about…" William paused with a new thought. "…Supposedly writing about. I am almost wondering if Mr. Snow was pulling the wool over his editor's eyes in some way; perhaps he was not actually writing the stories he sold to the paper… considering the lack of notes or rough drafts in his office. You did say that his rooms offered no evidence of him keeping his work there."
"Plagiarism?" George was shocked.
"Well, it is something to consider—Mr. Wick said Mr. Snow was prolific—what if that was because he was not the author of what he passed off as his own work? I want you to check into the angle, and see if that was part of the spot of trouble he had in Chicago that drove him out of that town- out of the country for that matter. It makes me wonder if this prostitution angle is we are about to embark on will be a dead end."
"I see what you mean about that. His fellow reporter, Mr. Bannon did confide he thought if Mr. Snow was visiting bordellos it wasnot for business, but strictly pleasure. However, Mr. Bannon did not approve of how Mr. Snow spent his free time, he kept going on about what a reprobate the man was, and how sinful he was for visiting such places. Although it is hard to imagine that anyone would be so diligent in locating the services of women that he'd need a map…." George gave an order for the carriage to return to the station house to deliver and secure the evidence, while he and the detective would walk a mere two blocks to the address of the first brothel on their list. "Well, he worked on something, typing away." George stopped and smirked. "Although, I can imagine an enterprising man developing a guidebook of sorts for fellow travelers new to town, where one could…"
He stifled the next ideas because he did not need to actually hear it - a sharp "George!" coming in a frustrated manner coming from the detective. The constable cleared his throat and went on, smiling to himself and deciding it was not a bad idea after all. "Still," he said in a serious tone, "there do not appear to be many leads through his office however, everyone seems broken up about his death, even the secretary… even if she did complain about how particular he was about his writing equipment, his pens, he did have very nice pens sir, demanding a certain quality of the paper he used, even changing the typewriter ribbons after a single run through—His editor, Mr. Wick at least thought the eccentricity and extravagance were worth it. I suppose professional jealousy could be a motive."
"Perhaps. It is possible we did not get everyone's honest opinion of Mr. Snow; no one willing to speak ill of the dead. The funeral hasn't even happened yet, and I suppose we may get more information trickling out in the next few days. But, you saw the headline for today's Tattler evening edition: Mr. Wick is using his employee's demise to sell more papers. He is proving to be an unsentimental soul." William scowled at the unseemliness of it all, almost bypassing by the first address on their list—a non-descript one-story white brick house with black trim and no entrance door visible from the street. Considering it was early yet (by the standards of the sex-trade) William expected to have to rouse the house to conduct his interview.
"Ah—here we are. George, we can take turns-will you do the honours?"
# # #
William had had to guess about a couple of addresses which indicated houses of ill-repute; matching the pin holes on Norris Snow's map to the locations of bordellos known to the constabulary was not an exact science. Many of them were rather small or fly-by-night rooms, consisting of a single woman who sold herself, or a pair who looked out for each other, picking up stakes when either the law or some other party took exception to their commerce, while others were well-established consisting of large private homes and a stable of girls overseen by a ubiquitous "Madam."
His still felt the blood in his face from sheer embarrassment and humiliation at knocking on the last door and assuming he'd find a call girl and instead confronted a Mother Superior who had taken over the residence for her Sisters only a week before. George tried in vain to distract him from his misery.
"Well, sir, after all. It was possible that the lady was not really a religious person and only wearing a costume. I had to ask, didn't I? My aunt Petunia had a gentleman caller who asked her to dress as a milkmaid one time. Perhaps there are men who fantasize about nuns…"
William had a sudden, intrusive image which caused him to shudder. "Enough! You are not helping." He swerved to grab George's uniform tunic. Under his breath in a controlled, even voice he stated: "And if you ever repeat this story no one will ever find your remains—and you know I'd know how to do that!" He saw George's eyes get wide and then a grin settle back on his face.
"Of course sir. Won't do my reputation any favours either. Ah—here we are. Number seventeen on our list." George waited to allow the detective to knock on this door first, himself.
"Let us hope it is 'lucky' seventeen. Six and a half hours of this have not been fruitful," William commented. Unlike when the two of them started out this morning knocking on doors, the day had worn on so that by the afternoon the brothels were coming to life, with most of the inhabitants and workers at last awake and likely to answer the door quickly. So far, the pair had showed Norris Snow's photographs at eleven addresses (or attempted to show—five others had been abandoned or transferred to new tenants) following a mathematical search pattern for maximum efficiency.
George took the detective's word for that. My feet still hurt from all the tramping around, he groused, then he tried not to laugh at his own joke about 'tramps'…
Most of the addresses clustered within a few blocks. The story was the same at each: Norris Snow's picture was vaguely familiar, but unless a particular man stood out for either extremely positive or negative reasons, all the clientele, especially of the average-looking-late-twenty-to-early-thirties-medium-build-Caucasian-male variety, sort of blended together in the women's minds.
More than one of the ladies suggested that they'd have remembered such a handsome detective if he had a mind to enjoy an evening out. The propositioning went from embarrassing, especially with George in attendance, to uncomfortable to annoying and now it was just…old.
Either Mr. Snow was a one-time visitor, used a disguise, or some other subterfuge—regardless, he did not make any particular impression. Unless Henry and the other men discovered something on their beats, William was ready to believe that Mr. Bannon was wrong: Norris Snow sought sexual relief anywhere but with payment to a female.
This particular house did make an impression. It was large and imposing on a corner lot, with broad eaves and arched windows, set back far enough from the sidewalk in front to make it hard for a passer-by to peek in. William noted to the right of the structure was a wide driveway leading to a carriage house in the rear and a service alley behind that, with a quiet side street to the left, making it well situated for discretion. It was one of the two 'high end' establishments extant in Toronto and he had been to this place before when it had been Madam Dupree's establishment back in 1902 at the time Mr. Masterson was in Toronto.
A tall, hatchet-faced man in butler's livery answered the door. "Bon après-midi," the man intoned.
The detective did not believe for a second the servant was French-speaking by birth and was tired enough to have no time for pretense. "Detective William Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary. This is Constable George Crabtree. We are here on official business investigating a murder. I need to speak with everyone in residence here." When the butler hesitated, William set his foot on the threshold. "Please announce us—if only to get us off your doorstep."
William proceeded followed by Constable Crabtree, into a wide foyer open to the salon, where they waited on the Madam. The salon space was familiar but the décor was totally revamped. In place of over-done red velvets, the furnishings were cream and blue with an excellent landscape over the fireplace. Aubusson carpets covered the gleaming floors. The chandeliers were lead crystal.
William bridled his discomfort, as it was hardly the first brothel he'd ever been in. For a moment he remembered seeing Ettie Weston again, after so many years, teasing him about how it was possible for anyone to sneak in or out of a locked establishment if they had the will…just as he had once to see her during the course of a case. This place was also nothing like Ettie's. It looks like what I imagined a refined drawing room in an old European mansion looked like—except for the illustrations of sexual acts prominently displayed on the walls, tasteful and explicit, if that combination was at all possible. Julia would be intrigued and I must admit, I am as well.
The scintillating sexual positions aside, the inventor in William could not help but admire some of the unique pieces of furniture for the act of love which were therein depicted. He thought he was protecting George from corruption by drawing his constable's attention away from the pornography to a grand piano set up by the window, but George made a beeline for the large framed sketches, accompanied by the start of a story about one if his aunts. Of course, remembering that George had essentially been raised by prostitutes and had even had a dalliance with a burlesque performer, William acknowledged that George was probably already aware of such things. Perhaps more so than me, he reminded himself.
William was grateful when the Madam, a handsome woman who gave her name as Marie-Elise Le Chabanais, swept through the archway a few minutes later. Unfortunately, Mme. Le Chabanais caught George leaning over a divan to get a better look at one of the depictions on the wall.
"Monsieur, do you like? I am told you are from the Gendarmes. Is this a private call or are you here on business?" She did not wait for an answer before explaining that the drawings helped her clientele choose their desires for the evening—much like a menu. William had to cut George off from expressing how clever he thought that was, to get them down to business.
Mme. Le Chabanais was enraged in much less than two minutes after hearing Mr. Snow, whose photograph she recognized, was a reporter—not just any kind of reporter—but the muckraking kind. William noticed her accent faltered the more upset she got, which he took as a sure sign she was: 1) also not a native French speaker; and 2) probably telling the truth when she said she was completely unaware of Snow's occupation before hearing about it from the constabulary. To her, he presented himself as the heir to part of the Hudson's' Bay Company, introduced by another regular client. Perfectly respectable, she insisted.
Her fear about exposing her business to the wrong sort of publicity bought the cooperation of her employees, who were agreeable to be interviewed in their boudoirs by the two lawmen. George took the ladies on the first floor and William the second floor. They completed their interviews rapidly and met on the sidewalk to hail a cab.
"What did you think, Sir?" George was a little afraid to ask. He himself was comfortable in such places, although he had never indulged as a customer and certainly never seen such elaborate rooms set up for a man's pleasure before. Detective Murdoch seemed composed, apparently unmoved by what he'd found. "It seems to be a nice place. The ladies are well cared for, make a decent, er…wage, and seem to get along with the management. I suppose I have a hard time seeing this as being all that bad…"
William was unconvinced about that but thoughtful about the case. Mr. Snow was a regular customer, had no favourite girl, and was well enough liked by the ladies. He spent a great deal of time in the salon chatting with other men, was polite and charming and did not become intoxicated. "I am not sure what I think, George. Mr. Snow used a pseudonym and gave a false story about himself—hardly unusual for a man who desires anonymity for his predilections."
"Do you think it leads to his killer?" George went right to the bottom line.
"It occurs to me an establishment like this is a great place for a reporter to rendezvous with contacts, with no one else being the wiser."