8

CHAPTER 8

St. Paul, Minnesota
Saturday, August 15
1925

Hogan cast Christopher's runabout a disparaging glance as he climbed in and braced for the customary lurch Model T's gave when put in gear. He yelped when the 'souped up' vehicle leaped from the curb with enough oomph to make him grab for his derby. By the end of the block they were rolling flat out at 42 miles per hour.

The Millers, Christopher informed Chance, were an upper middle-class family whose patriarch managed St. Paul's busy F. & W. Woolworth & Company's department store. While Christopher saw no difference between women who worked in such stores or factories and women who worked in brothels to earn a living, he couldn't help smiling when he thought how society matrons trying on gloves or examining chemises at Woolworth's would react upon learning the manager's wife was once one of Nina Clifford's ladies.

Althea's family home, a Dayton Avenue row-house in the Ramsey Hill district, might have been transported en masse from San Francisco. Chance felt right at home amidst these precursors to modern day condominiums - long, narrow apartments, frequently three stories tall. Each interior unit shared an inside wall with its neighbor and all shared a single roof. The Millers', like so many St. Paul structures, was built of common red brick, but decorative designs achieved with different size, color, or position of the bricks embellished the front façade.

Identical white stone stair steps graced all four entrances, but only one door, second from the end, bore a black mourning wreath.

Christopher brought the runabout to a precipitous halt at the curb. Hogan clambered out and the men trotted up the entrance steps. Infected by Christopher's urgency, Hogan thumbed the doorbell again and again until at last the front door opened.

The tall Negress wore a black uniform, a rumpled white apron, and a white cap. She carried a feather duster tucked under one arm. She eyed them as if they were fish mongers peddling yesterday's catch. "You don't need to ring the bell more than once," she said. "How may I help you."

Christopher thought she sounded less like a domestic servant than a school teacher addressing a scapegrace third grader. He'd bet she ruled the household.

"I need to see Whitney. Right away," Hogan said.

"This is Saturday. Mr. Miller will be at his office until one P.M. If you'd care to leave your card - "

"Mrs. Miller, then. Tell her it's Dan Hogan."

The Negress sniffed. "Maybe you didn't notice the wreath. This household is in mourning."

"Fatima," Christopher said, "You are Fatima, am I right? I'm working for Althea. We're trying to capture the man who murdered her sister. We don't need to disturb Mrs. Miller if you could let us see Willa's room - "

The woman's eyes flashed fire. All trace of the dignified diction she used when answering the door fled her voice. "I know who you are! Reporters! Of all the low-down, conniving, underhanded tricks to play on a grieving family - "

"Who is it, Fatima?"

The low, sweet voice sounded very much like Althea's. Christopher felt his heart stutter even though he knew it must be her mother.

"Me, Danny," said Hogan, causing Christopher's head to swivel. " 'Tis sorry I am to intrude at a time like this. This is Christopher Chance. He's a detective. We have a line on the man hired to kill your daughter. We need to have a look at her room. For evidence."

"Of course. Fatima, thank you. Everything's fine. Go back to your duties."

"Yes'm."

Fatima shot them a withering look, marched down the hallway, and disappeared. In a moment they heard the murmer of an electric vacuum cleaner.

"You'll forgive me if I don't accompany you," Mrs. Miller said, motioning them inside. "I…can't bear to go near it. It's on the second floor, last door on the left."

Willa's room was pitch black, the ceiling light off, drapes drawn, the two dormer windows giving onto a communal back yard tightly closed. Christopher felt for a light switch, found it, and pressed the "on" button.

"Damn."

Expecting stained, rumpled bedding and the smell of blood and cordite lingering in the closed-up space, Chance and Christopher gazed with dismay at the spotless bedroom. Someone had cleaned up every speck of blood spatter. The bed had been remade as if Willa would return tonight and climb between the freshly ironed sheets. The only detectable odor was furniture polish recently applied to the vanity, chest of drawers, and wardrobe.

The carpet, except for an area beside the bed where it felt somewhat damp, looked recently vacuumed, with the vacuum cleaner's wheel tracks visible here and there in the pile.

'Check under the bed,' Chance sent Christopher. 'Maybe just this once the maid got lazy.'

Christopher looked under the bed, beneath the vanity, moved the chest of drawers before giving up. "Nothing," he said, getting to his feet.

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Chance sent, 'Hear that?'

'Hear what?'

'That sound. Someone's vacuuming downstairs.'

'So?'

'So c'mon!'

Christopher pounded downstairs with Hogan at his heels. They followed the sound of the vacuum cleaner, which increased from distant humming to a muffled growl, to a deafening roar when they opened the parlor door. Above the din, Fatima was singing: "Rock of Ages, cleft for me-e-e-ee…." and rhythmically pushing the cleaner head back and forth over the carpet.

Her back to the door, she neither saw nor heard the men enter. When Hogan touched her arm, she uttered an ear-piercing shriek, dropped the cleaner handle, and grabbed a fireplace poker from its stand.

"Keep away from me, you devil, or I'll - Oh. It's you two." Fatima glared at the men, poker held like a baseball bat.

Christopher righted the vacuum cleaner, found the switch near the top of the handle and pressed it. The room became very quiet.

Fatima put the poker down. Her hands fisted on her hips. "What's wrong wit'chu people, sneakin' up on a woman tryin' to do her work?"

"Take it easy, Fatima," Christopher said. "We didn't mean to scare you. We just need to ask some questions."

"I got three more rooms to clean. Got no time to answer questions. You a detective, why don't you go dee-tect who killed poor little Miss Willa?"

"That's what we're doing," Christopher said. "That's why we're interrupting. It won't take long, I promise."

"Humpf."

"Was it yourself who cleaned Willa's room after the shooting?" Christopher asked.

"You see anyone else workin' round here? Cook's in the kitchen where she belong, but'chu see any housemaids dustin' or carpet-sweepin'? All you see is me - The Housekeeper - doin' maid chores 'cause they all run off, scairt the killer gonna come get them next. Like to see him try with me."

'Me, too,' Chance sent.

Christopher smothered a grin. Banjo Barnes wouldn't stand a chance.

"It must have been difficult for you, Fatima," he said. "You had to remove the bed sheets - "

"Burned 'em. And scrubbed poor Miss Willa's blood from the wall an' the carpet. Like to never got the blood outta that carpet."

Only someone listening very closely, as Christopher was, would have noticed the slight break in the woman's voice when she spoke Willa's name. "Did you vacuum Willa's room after the shooting?"

"Course I vacuum it. Someone s'posed to vacuum it every morning, soon as Miss Willa come down for breakfast. Only I couldn't 'til after I clean up the blood, and I couldn't do that 'til this morning when I ask may I clean the room before the blood start to stink."

"Fatima," he said, "did you notice any shell casings in the bedding or on the floor?"

"Shell casings? What's they, like seashells?"

"No, metal cylinder-shaped things that bullets come out of."

"Oh, them. Vacuum cleaner wouldn't touch 'em."

"So…what did you do with them?"

"Toss 'em in the burn-barrel."

Grumbling with every step, Fatima led the men through the rear entrance, down a utilitarian concrete staircase, and across the back yard. Beside a tool shed stood a 55-gallon drum half full of ash and as yet unburned trash and debris.

She pointed. "In there." She turned on her heel and marched back to the house. Halfway there, she stopped. "They's tool in the shed. Put 'em away if you use them. You need in the house again, ring the bell--once."

After about twenty minutes of sifting through the debris, Christopher spotted the twinkle of untarnished .38 caliber brass.

"Here we go."

"Now what?" Hogan asked.

"Now we go see a friend of mine."

The Pinkerton Detective Agency rented space in an office building on 6th Street in Minneapolis, not far from Donaldson's Department Store. The men drove directly there.

The metal risers of an outside staircase clanged and clattered as the men climbed it to the second floor side entrance. Inside, a waiting area held chairs, a leather couch, a rack filled with magazines, pedestal ash-trays. A wrought iron stand with a five-gallon glass tank dispensed drinking water into paper cups pointed like ice cream cones. Chance knew he was gaping, but couldn't help it, particularly when he spotted a directory marquee listing the floor's tenants. After each name a stylized hand shaped exactly like a computer curser's pointing finger indicated which of three hallways to follow.

Christopher led the way. Three doors down an empty, echoing hall was a sign bearing the Pinkerton name and their motto, "We never sleep." The illustration of a wide-awake eye seemed to probe them with menacing intensity. Through an open transom came the rattle of typewriter keys. A bell tinkled when Christopher opened the door.

The receptionist, a stunning redhead in an intricately pleated white shirtwaist pounded her typewriter at a furious pace.

Glancing up from a pile of hand-written pages, she said, "Oh, it's you, Christopher - Oh, my gracious, what happened to your face?" She stood, her green-eyed gaze zeroing in on Hogan. "Did he do that to you?"

"No! No, Hazel, this is my…associate, Mr. Hogan. We came to see Mike Tilghman - "

"Are you sure he's not wanted?" She pushed rimless eye-glasses higher on her nose and peered at Hogan. "I'm almost positive I've seen that mug in the Rogues Gallery. Take your hat off again, would you, bub?"

Christopher wished he could give Hazel a good kick in the ankle to shut her up. If Hogan took umbrage, it was all over.

Hogan, however, gave Hazel a toothy smile, removed his hat and made a courtly bow. "I'm entirely harmless, Madam, I assure you."

"Hazel!" Christopher said, "would you please be seein' if Mike's around?"

"He's around. He's in the lab - where else?"

"Okay if we go in?" Robert Pinkerton II didn't like former agents, or anyone else, for that matter, wandering unescorted through the premises.

"Go ahead. You know the way."

"Thanks, Hazel, you're a peach. If ya weren't a married lady, I'd elope with ya." He leaned across the desk and planted a kiss on her cheek, then gestured Hogan toward a closed door leading from the reception area.

As the door swung shut, Chance heard Hazel mutter, "But he knows I'm not married…," then add some very unladylike comments about Christopher's forebears.

'She's a real honey,' Chance sent. I think she likes you.'

'The same as wolves like spring lambs. And don't go askin' how I know.'

'Bet I can guess,' Chance sent, and to his utter amazement, felt Christopher blush.

… … … … … …

It was far from a fully equipped forensics lab. Pinkerton's didn't need one. It had come together piecemeal with clutter carried in by agents needing to satisfy their curiosity about various items of evidence. Mike Tilghman, with his background in chemistry and physics, had inherited the job of overseeing the experiments and making sure untrained agents didn't accidently blow up the building.

To Chance it looked like a hodge-podge of battered lab equipment, glass-fronted display cases filled with junk, mis-matched worktables and what might be a functioning still tucked away under the sink. In its day, moonshine called 'Minnesota 13' enjoyed a nationwide reputation. Gramps used to rave about the mellow taste and sneak-up-on-you kick. Chance wondered if some was being produced here, right under Allen P. the Second's nose.

To Christopher, the workroom was a wonderland of mysterious gadgetry, the most compelling of which was the comparison microscope Mike build himself, using plans he'd obtained from the Bureau of Forensic Ballistics.

Mike Tilghman, a slender young man in horn-rim glasses and a grubby lab-coat, started to shake hands, saw Christopher's knuckles, and punched him in the shoulder instead, with enough force to stagger him.

"Still haven't learned to keep your guard up high enough, I see," Mike said.

'Likes to box,' Christopher sent. 'Don't let him talk us into a sparring match.'

'We can take him. He's never KO-ed Tommy Jergensen.'

… … … … … …

"You know nothing we do here will hold up in court," Mike said when Christopher finished explaining what he wanted. "I'm not qualified as a ballistics expert even if the court system here agreed to admit the evidence."

"Doesn't matter, as long as Mr. Hogan here is satisfied."

Mike glanced at Hogan, who nodded.

"Okay, show me what you've got."

"Shell casings from the crime scene," Christopher said, placing the items on a worktable. "Weapon that we need to demonstrate fired them." He put the .38 beside the fired cartridges. "Fresh ammunition." He set the clip next to the pistol.

"No slugs?"

"We'll have to make do with shell casings," Christopher said. "The bullets weren't recovered. The victim was a schoolgirl. The parents refused to allow an autopsy."

"Damnation. Who'd want to kill a schoolgirl? Was it an accident?" Mike asked.

"No accident. Long story. I'll buy ya a beer when we're done here and tell ya all about it."

"Let's go fire some test rounds."

Mike led them to an alcove lined with tall wooden file cabinets. A wooden crate packed with thick batting, an opening in one end, sat in the middle of the floor. Mike pulled a wad of cotton from one of the file drawers and packed some in each ear. He offered the wad to the other men.

'Take it,' Chance sent when Christopher waived it off, 'or when you're fifty and deaf as a post, you'll wish you had.'

Handling the pistol with obvious relish, Mike loaded it and fired through the opening into the crate. Even with cotton earplugs, it sounded like a cannon going off. He unloaded the pistol, handed it back to Christopher, then opened the hinged top of the crate. Four spent casings lay in the tattered batting. Mike collected them, dug out the flattened slugs, and closed the crate.

"Here's what you'll need to look for," Mike said as they returned to the main work area. "When the firing pin strikes the cartridge, it leaves a tiny indentation. If the two cartridges have been fired by the same weapon, the size, shape, and location of the marks will be identical."

Mike mounted one crime scene cartridge and one test casing, and placed them under the microscope. He studied them for a moment, made some adjustments, then stepped back. "See what you think."

Christopher gestured for Hogan to look.

"You're looking at the ends of the two cartridges side by side," Mike said. "See how the dent in each is identical in size and position? Now, here's a cartridge from another pistol, same caliber." He replaced the test cartridge with one he'd taken from a drawer. "As you can see, they look nothing alike."

"Damn microscope gives me a headache," Hogan said, straightening and rubbing his eyes. "You do this all day?"

"Nah, sometimes when my eyes start to hurt, I take a brake and go pester Hazel." He grinned at Christopher.

"And a sight for sore eyes that one is," Hogan agreed. "Too bad she's married."

"Oh, she's not - "

"Mike," Christopher said. "Will ya show the man the ejector marks?"

"Oh. Sure." Mike removed both cartridges and replaced them with a second set turned so their sides were visible. "Now, see those tiny scratches? Those are extractor and ejector marks. Again you'll see they're identical."

Hogan peered again. "Well, I'm sold. That's quite a demonstration, young man."

"One more thing," Mike said, replacing the mounted cartridges with the first set. "You maybe didn't notice it, but this is the icing on the cake. See that little crimp on the edge of both cartridges? It's not supposed to be there. There's some sort of flaw in the works of this gun that's causing it. Your case just went from 99.9 percent probable to 100 percent certainty."

Hogan glanced around the lab, then asked, "Is there a telephone I can use?"

"Let's go back to Reception," Mike said. "You can get an outside line from there."

Hazel had stepped away from her desk. Mike handed Hogan a telephone, then carefully shook hands with Christopher. As the men made plans to meet for a beer, Chance was certain he heard Hogan ask the operator for Lefty's Garage.