A Study in Revenge (6 page)

In any event, those records showed no promise of any connection to the current inquiry. Lean pushed those thoughts aside, gathered his hat, and exited the police station from its basement home in City Hall, emerging from the side doors onto Myrtle Street. He rounded one of the building’s square corner towers and crossed Congress Street, then strolled down Market amid a light stream of foot traffic. The lower section of the block was occupied by an elegant building of white Vermont marble that housed Portland’s post office on the ground floor and various court offices above. The sight of Perceval Grey leaning against a carriage with a newspaper in front of his face surprised Lean. As he
approached, he realized that Grey wasn’t actually reading the paper. His eyes were aimed just over the top edge, focused on something inside one of the tall, arched windows that lined the entire side of the post office.

Lean threw an inconspicuous glance inside. There were a few people milling about at a bank of small post-office boxes. He surmised that Grey was studying a middle-aged man in a tan coat and matching gloves. The man held a cane, with which he was casually tapping several of the doors to the wooden boxes.

“I thought we were meeting at Mitchell’s Restaurant.”

“You’re early,” Grey said, without looking at Lean.

“Are you watching out of mere curiosity, or is it a professional interest?”

“Professional.”

“What’s the man doing?” Lean asked.

“Sending a signal, I believe. What it is and to whom, I cannot yet say.” Grey folded his newspaper and turned away from the window.

Lean glanced over his shoulder and saw the man with the cane was walking toward the front of the post office. “Well, I won’t delay you. I assume you mean to follow the man.”

“Unnecessary. He’s revealed all that he will on this day.” Grey finally looked Lean in the face. His eyes dropped for a second to Lean’s neck and his shredded bow tie. “I hope you’re not trying to start some new bohemian trend in men’s neckwear.”

Lean shook his head in disgust. “Emma picked this out.”

“Obviously. It goes well with your suit. I take it you’re still working on the inflammatory matter of Frank Cosgrove?”

“Yes, but all his associates are scared. This business with the burned corpse has them looking over their shoulders. I thought I might be close to a dead end.”

“A dead end? A bit ironic, given the circumstances.”

Lean chuckled. “But I’ve just recently come across some news. A former accomplice of Cosgrove’s has been back in town recently. He’s boarding down on Fore.”

“So much for Mitchell’s Restaurant. On to Fore Street it is,” Grey said.

They walked on, passing by the front of the post office, where three round-arched entryways led into a narrow portico. Above this, fronting
the second and third stories, a series of Corinthian columns supported a low-pitched triangular pediment that completed the look of a Greek temple. The white marble glistened in the sun, giving the building a formal, aloof air and setting it off from the familiar, ruddy brick that dominated the other buildings nearby.

Lean summarized his findings from the second postmortem and the undertaker as the two men proceeded along, soon turning in to the narrow confines of a side street where the three-story brick buildings were enough to cast them in shadows as they passed over the uneven paving stones. Farther down they entered into sunlight again by the Silver Street Market. In a futile attempt to escape the din of the haggling voices that surrounded the dozen stalls of provisioners, fishmongers, and purveyors of pork and mutton, they crossed the street. The smell of corn cakes enveloped them as they passed Goudy & Kent’s steam bakery.

“What’s this man’s name?” Grey asked.

“Chester Sears, an old partner of the dead man. He was around a few days ago, staying at Darragh’s boardinghouse.”

“He’s not local?”

“From Boston originally and headed back there a couple years ago, after they pulled one of their bigger heists.”

They entered the boardinghouse’s front room, which barely had enough space for the reception desk. The manager sat smoking a thin cigar with his head tilted back, reading the paper through dusty glasses.

“Help you?” he said with the briefest of glances at Lean and Grey.

“Chester Sears in?” Lean asked.

“I’d say you missed him.” The cigar, wedged in place of a missing bottom canine, trembled when the man spoke. Ashes tumbled down onto the faded black vest he wore over a dingy shirt.

“What time’s he usually get back in, then?”

The corners of the man’s mouth turned down, and he shook his head the merest fraction. “Nah. Mean I think you missed him for good.”

“What—he’s checked out?”

“Nope. Paid through the month. But he left in a hurry yesterday.”

“What time?” Grey asked

Lean glanced at Grey, then waited for the answer while the boardinghouse owner gummed his cigar in thought.

“Came rushing in the door early. Not long after seven. So I s’pose he was out all night. Often was. Only queer ’cause that means he’d usually sleep the day through. Not Friday, though. Couldn’t have been more than three minutes before he came tearing back downstairs. Bag in hand, looking like he’s seen the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.”

“Maybe he had,” said Lean as he showed his badge to the man. “I need the spare key.”

“Sorry. I’ll lose business if I start letting coppers go looking about in guests’ rooms.”

“We’ll be discreet. Or else I’ll start announcing how we’ll be back to search every room. See how much business you keep then.”

“All right.” The man retrieved a key from under the front desk, made sure no one was approaching from the inside stairs or the front door, and slid it across to Lean. “But be quick about it. One floor up, Room G.”

The detectives climbed the spongy, cracked stairs and entered a thin hall unlit except for a lone, grime-covered window at the far end.

“So did Sears put Cosgrove’s body in the house at Vine Street?” Lean wondered aloud.

“Or did he only flee when he heard about it?” Grey countered.

They passed several doors, including one that, from the odors emanating, must have been the common toilet. Lean found G and unlocked the door. The room was sparse and cheerless. Faded wallpaper blended into a wooden floor that hadn’t seen polish or even soap in many decades and a ceiling that could no longer lay claim to any true shade of white. A frayed curtain hung in the thin window frame. The only furniture in the room was a small, unmade single bed, a dresser with each drawer partly open, a wobbly side table, and a wastebasket. A quick search of the room revealed a comb, a lone sock in one of the drawers, and a bit of loose change along with an almost empty packet of cigarettes on the side table.

“I see why he doesn’t spend much time here. Not much bigger than a prison cell.”

“Then he should feel right at home,” Grey said as he picked up the waste bin.

“Lived sparely,” Lean said, “almost monastic.”

“Hardly,” Grey said as he drew out one liquor bottle, then another from the bin.

“Can’t blame him all that much. Even you’d take a nip or two confined within these filthy walls.”

“A remarkably charitable assessment coming from you,” Grey said after regarding Lean for a moment. “It leads me to conclude that congratulations are in order. I take it you’ve been blessed with your second child and finally managed to purchase the new home you wanted.”

“Yes. Thanks for asking—in your own peculiar way. Don’t suppose you care to elaborate on just how you figured that.”

“You used to worry about the impending birth and whether you could afford to move from your apartment to a house of your own. Nothing in your manner indicates that you’re still dealing with grief, or your lovely wife’s grief, over the loss of a child. So the birth occurred without incident. And now, seeing Sears’s squalid quarters, you exhibit only pity, not commiseration, meaning he’s less fortunate than you. Thus you are no longer in the similar position of being forced to make do in a cramped residence.”

Grey pulled a newspaper from the bin and handed it to Lean. It was Thursday’s morning edition. Next Grey retrieved a crumpled bit of paper, which he smoothed out and studied in the dusky light from the window.

“What’s that?” Lean asked.

Grey didn’t respond, so the deputy peered in.

The paper was a three-by-five-inch sheet with the words
TREMONT HOUSE
imprinted across the top. Written in neat block letters in ink was
HORSFORD—BRATTLE ST. CAMBRIDGE
. Below, in pencil, a messier hand had scribbled
“Tues. 7–11”
and then a series of random words and numbers:
“boy 22 horse 78 dog ink sun.”

“Three days from now,” Lean said. “And Tremont House—that’s in Boston?”

“Yes. Curious why Sears would have this stationery. One of the most expensive hotels in the city.” Grey motioned about at their current meager surroundings before returning his attention to the paper.

“This code is most peculiar.” After a moment Grey added, “I’ll telephone ahead to Walt McCutcheon in Boston. Have him check the guest registry at the Tremont House and look into the identity of this Horsford of Brattle Street. We need to know the connection to Cosgrove.”

Lean smiled. He hadn’t heard the name of Grey’s old colleague in a while. McCutcheon, a Pinkerton detective who was memorable for his carefree manner and oversize appetites, had helped them on their investigation a year earlier. Lean’s smile faded as he recognized Grey’s meaning.

“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t impose. This is strictly a police matter. You’ve got your own business to attend to.” Lean reached out for the handwritten note. “I can’t expect you to volunteer your time and energies—”

Grey’s eyes flicked from the note to Lean’s hand, then up to his face. He made no movement to turn the paper over. “I can certainly spare a day or so. Besides, I’ve been meaning to get down to the city. Take in a concert or some such.”

Lean didn’t believe that last bit, but he didn’t want to object too strenuously. Grey’s familiarity with Boston, and his connections there, would surely be useful.

“I’ll need time to make arrangements at the station, get the marshal’s approval,” Lean said.

L
EAN WAITED AT THE BASE OF THE MAIN STEPS OF
C
ITY
Hall. Word had been passed down that he was to meet Mayor Baxter there at half past six. As he watched the doors, his eyes drifted up the light yellowish brown Nova Scotia Albert stone to the building’s grandiose center dome, which loomed 160 feet above him.

Only a minute later, the mayor appeared, took in the scene from the top steps, and smiled down at Lean. The mayor was in his early sixties, and his bowler hid a severely receding hairline. His rounded face and slightly bulging midsection reflected his hugely successful business ventures in the canning and packing industry. A thin salt-and-pepper goatee circled down below the jawline to leave his distinctive chin cleft exposed.

“Deputy, walk along with me. I wanted to speak with you about this poor fellow who went and got shot last week or whenever. Cosgrove, I think his name was.”

“Oh, of course, Your Honor. Didn’t realize you were following the matter.”

“As mayor, my time is put to better use working on the broad issues and efforts at civic improvement. So while my approach to police work in the city may be rather hands-off, that doesn’t mean I keep my ears closed.”

Baxter’s reputation for a keen intellect, along with his sharp eyebrows, lent a certain gravitas to the man’s comments.

“Every Monday morning I have a chat with the marshal about various goings-on. He told me about this murder you’re investigating. And someone went and dug the poor fellow up. Very disturbing. I understand you’ve requested permission to go to Boston to seek out his murderer.”

“Just a known accomplice, but he may well be aware of what happened.”

“And you’ve involved an outside investigator, Perceval Grey.”

Lean considered a response as they passed a wide flight of stone steps leading up to the First Parish Church. It was a solid, elegant structure, old enough to have a spacious lot around it despite its location in the heart of the city. He glanced up at the clock face set in the church’s front tower of undressed granite and realized he couldn’t delay his response any longer.

“I wouldn’t say ‘involved,’ ” Lean answered. “Not in any official capacity by any means.”

“Don’t worry yourself, son, I haven’t called you here to drag you or this Grey over the coals. Quite the opposite. You see, I received the queerest package a few months back, shortly after I took office. Sent to me with a letter from a Mrs. Helen Prescott. I knew her from her position at the historical society.”

“Of course.” Lean was well aware of Baxter’s many philanthropic efforts in and around Portland. Not the least of these was his funding the construction, several years earlier, of the city’s new building to house the public library and historical society.

“I also knew her uncle, Virgil Steig. The package she sent contained a journal that he’d started last summer. It detailed his work on the body of a murder victim by the name of Maggie Keene. Not the sort of thing a city surgeon would normally devote an entire journal to. But, as you well know, the investigation took some rather bizarre turns.”

Two gentlemen standing outside a handsome block of brick stores that included the entrance to the Odd Fellows Hall tipped their hats and bade the mayor a good evening. Baxter was very popular; Lean had noticed other passersby smiling or waving at the mayor as they walked. Baxter possessed an uncanny ability to graciously acknowledge his well-wishers with a nod, a wave, or a return tip of his hat without so much as a pause in his conversation with Lean.

“An additional murder out of state,” Baxter continued. “A missing woman reported in the city, not so peculiar, until Dr. Steig mentions her body being inexplicably found in one of the city tombs. Entrance to which was apparently gained without any legal authorization. The suspicion of the murder falling upon the son of one of our city’s prominent citizens despite the young man’s being locked up in an insane asylum in
Massachusetts. The journal ended prematurely, of course, when Virgil died. Natural causes was how I heard it.”