Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (11 page)

Chapter Twelve

Armed with a ham sandwich from home and a flask of coffee from the Cherry Street Grill on the first floor, Bradshaw entered his downtown office in the Bailey Building and found Henry asleep on the cot in the back room, wearing a stocking cap. He poured a mug of the coffee, and the aroma pried Henry’s eyes open.

“Good morning,” said Bradshaw. “What time did you get in?”

Henry moved his half-open eyes to the mug, hauled himself to a sitting position, then took the mug, and a drink, before saying, “About three. What time is it now?”

“Eight. Sorry. I’ve got a full agenda today. I’m on my way to the Bon before I head up to the university.” He made room on the nightstand for the sandwich and noticed a brass object shaped like an oversized bullet.

“What’s that?”

“Huh? Oh, won that last night. A genuine German torpedo siren whistle. Makes the most obnoxious high-pitched whooping sound you’ve ever heard.”

“You’re not thinking of giving it to Justin, are you?”

“Keeping it for myself. Never know when such a thing will come in handy, especially in some of the places you force me to visit.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and sighed. “Last day?”

“No, another week before the Christmas break.”

“I meant before Missouri comes home.”

“Another week until then, too. She wired. Apparently, the Wright brothers in North Carolina are attempting flight again. Colin Ingersoll has been working for them. It’s my understanding he’s been sworn to secrecy about what he sees, and apparently they trust him since he was allowed to invite her.”

Henry scowled. “Dang nabbit, that girl. You got nothing to worry about, you know. She’s stubborn and independent but honest to a fault. I tried to teach her the value of a white lie, but she just can’t do it. If she’d given up on you, she’d have told you.”

“She’s fond of Ingersoll. If I hadn’t spoken up, she’d likely have married him.”

“Not yet, she wouldn’t have. She’s determined to become a doctor. You’ve got time, but not much. Talked to the padre yet? No need to answer, I can see you haven’t. So, do you think they’ll do it this time? Fly, I mean.”

For a moment, Bradshaw’s mind let go of his worries of Missouri and the case long enough to imagine the achievement. He’d seen sketches and photographs of the Wrights’ earlier aircraft models, and he felt a twinge of excitement and inventor’s jealousy over the vision of a craft taking flight. Such a thing had the potential to change the world.

Henry brought him back down to earth, saying, “Squirrel came up trumps yesterday as usual and sent a whole file on Mr. J. D. Maddock. It’s on your desk. It’s men like him that give the legal profession a bad name. Do you know how many lawsuits he’s filed on Edison’s behalf? A hundred and twenty-two! Do you know how many he won? None. Zero. Zilch. Know how many inventors and companies he’s left bankrupt? How many patents and inventions found their way, in one way or another, to Edison’s companies?”

“A hundred and twenty-two and counting?”

“Maddock’s job isn’t to win suits but to shut down the competition by making it too difficult for them to go on. He’s good at it. And you’ve read about all the trouble Edison’s been giving his competition with motion pictures. Ben, I don’t mean to scare you, but I hope you’ve got your house and personal accounts separated from your patents because if his record holds, you and your boy and your housekeeper will be moving in here, and I’m not sharing my cot with Mrs. Prouty.”

“He can’t win.”

“Haven’t you been listening? He doesn’t need to win, he just needs to push on until you’re too broke to stand. And that suit about defamation, that one’s going to be a hard go. The reporter swears you blamed the Edison outfit for Doyle’s death, and he’s not backing down.”

Bradshaw shook his head and waved a dismissive hand.

“You know, Ben, as cynical and curmudgeonly as you are, you’ve got a core of innocence in you. You believe good and right will triumph over evil and greed, and that just ain’t so. Maddock is on the attack and you’d better get your affairs in order and protected before it gets bloody. We’ve got no evidence he’s ever killed before, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Do we have anything yet on Maddock’s activities the night Doyle died?”

“No, but I’m on it. I’ve found the lunch counter where he usually gets his grub, found his barber and tailor, and I’ve got a list of his neighbors in the office building. I thought I’d leave them to you. They’re the sort that would respond better to a professor than an ex-miner. Maddock’s a quiet man and not a drinker, darn his eyes. But if there’s proof he went out in the night, we’ll find it.”

“Has he made any statement yet through his attorney?”

“Nope. Can’t O’Brien get him down to headquarters for a chat?”

“Not without reasonable suspicion. He knows his rights.”

“The fact he was seen arguing with the deceased that evening’s not enough?”

“I’m afraid not. We’ve got to find more of a connection between Doyle and Maddock, and it’s most likely to be found in the hunt for Daulton’s box. So far, there’s a connection through Galloway Diving. Both men did business with him. Can you ask around about that? Galloway said Maddock looked into the other diving outfits before upping his offer. What about Billy Creasle? Did you learn anything from your friends at the Bon?”

“The Notions girl is not only a looker, but smart, too. I may have to stock up on a few things.”

“And she said that Billy—?”

“Oh, right, she thinks he spies on everyone at the store and tattles and gets people fired. Says she’s got a little brother just like him. Too smart and ambitious for his own good. If he can’t find any dirt, he makes his own. Last year, she’s pretty sure he switched products in an order, you know, swapped a cheap pocket watch with an expensive one, to get the sales clerk fired so he could have his job. There’s a hierarchy to positions and departments. He made a big leap, though, from the watch counter to assistant window dresser.”

Bradshaw took his small notebook from his pocket and jotted the details of Billy’s alleged shenanigans.

“Did she report this to anyone?”

“No proof. Her word against his, and most everyone at the store likes the lad, including the manager, Olafson.”

“Yes, that I know. What about Mrs. Adkins, the seamstress?”

“She stayed at the Washington with Doyle. Billy wasn’t lying about that. Roosevelt’s room. He signed the register as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, but the staff wasn’t fooled. They knew who he was and who she is. She’s stayed there before as Mrs. Smith.”

“I don’t suppose she was reprising her role as Mrs. Smith at the Washington on the night Doyle died? O’Brien says she claimed to be home alone all night, diligently stitching.”

“Huh! The other gals say she’s got an undeserved reputation for inseams and cuffs and they don’t understand why customers ask for her by name, but since she gets paid the same as them per garment and she’s slow and doesn’t cut into their share, they tolerate her, but not warmly. I’ve got a sample of her handiwork.” Henry handed him the sleeve of a man’s white shirt, the sort with an attached cuff. He examined the stitching and found it decent, but he was no expert. He rolled up the sleeve and tucked it in his pocket.

Henry said, “Her husband works for one of the big fishing outfits. They’ve got no kids and she works for her pin money, spends it on fancy restaurants and such.”

“Her husband doesn’t dive, does he?”

“Nah, he’s not really even a fisherman. He’s a cook. Makes darn good money, and he must dish out good grub or he’d not last a season, they’d toss him overboard with the chum.” Henry shuddered as if a wave of seasickness were washing over him. He’d once spent a season on such a boat, belatedly learning that the smell of fish in such large quantities tripped his gag reflex. “He’s gone for weeks at a time, leaving her on her own.” His expression changed abruptly, and his eyebrows waggled.

“I get it, Henry. Anything on Ivar Olafson?”

“Respected, tough but not unfair. He’s been with the Bon almost since the beginning. Good with the cash boys and runners. He was married in the old country, but his wife died before he immigrated here ten years ago. Don’t know about children. He’s educated, business and music. Worked for Frederick & Nelson for a few months when he first arrived. Squirrel’s looking into what he did before coming to Seattle.”

“Talk to all former employees fired in the last few months, and find a few former cash runners and delivery boys who no longer work at the store.”

“What am I fishing for?”

“Anyone who feels unjustly fired or as if they’re hiding something, refusing to talk. Are you going out again tonight?”

“I could.”

“Do. See what’s the scuttlebutt on recent robberies. We got burgled yesterday.”

“No!”

Bradshaw filled him in on the previous day’s events and Henry punctuated the tale with colorful interjections. When Bradshaw checked his pocket watch, he saw an hour had passed since he arrived. He got to his feet and pointed at the cloth-wrapped sandwich. “Mrs. Prouty’s sourdough, smoked ham, and New York cheddar.”

Henry grinned. “Hook up the iron for me on your way out.”

Bradshaw did as asked, screwing the plug of the electric flatiron into the light socket near Henry’s desk. The iron would be used not to press Henry’s shirt but his sandwich, toasting the bread and melting the cheese.

When Bradshaw left the Bailey Building, he found the streets flooded with sunshine and shoppers. With twelve days until Christmas Eve, the stores were outdoing each other with flashy placards and displays, and men and boys wore sandwich boards, touting store sales. Musicians and singers made merry with holiday melodies, and street peddlers hawked their wares.

Was it the spirit of Christmas he felt, as he navigated the crowded sidewalk, walking in the street when necessary? Certainly this sudden spring in his step and lightness of mood he felt could not be due to his frustrating case with its lack of clues nor to the fact that he had been served with two vicious lawsuits and his home had been burglarized. No, there was something else at work here.

He’d always liked Christmas. As a child, the anticipation had been about what he might find in his stocking or under the candle-lit tree on Christmas morning. Now, as a parent, the joy was even greater, seeing Justin pad down the stairs and run into the parlor, his eyes bright with wonder at the glowing incandescent lights on the tree. Bradshaw always added a few extra strands of lights very late on Christmas Eve so that Justin’s first sighting in the morning was magical. Justin boasted of their electrically lit tree to his friends and schoolmates and a showing was arranged each year after Christmas. This year, Bradshaw had thought of adding the lights Thomas Edison had given him, but after seeing other such festoons clutched in Vernon Doyle’s dead hand, he changed his mind. And this year, Missouri would be spending the day. She had spent the past two Christmases with them, but this year was special. This was the first Christmas he could look at her without disguising his feelings, the first year she knew he loved her. And the first year he knew she loved him.

It wasn’t rational, he knew, to feel a tingle of anticipation when their future together was so uncertain. So unlikely. But it
was
the season of miracles. When a jeweler’s festive window display winked at him, diamonds set in gold bands sparkling like glittering snowflakes on red velvet, the words “special dispensation” danced in his head. He ducked into the store and knew immediately which ring would look right on Missouri’s hand. A slender band, a simple setting, a precisely cut exquisite stone.

With a small plush box safe in his pocket, he strolled amongst the shoppers and hawkers and bell ringers, and allowed himself to believe. And then acting on that belief, he took a breathless detour up Profanity Hill to the county courthouse, realizing only as he gained the steps that he couldn’t get a license, not without Missouri, and he was fairly certain a medical exam was now required.

He laughed at himself, at his ridiculous race up the arduous hill. He didn’t know if it was the steep climb or the boldness of his act, but he found he had to sit on the steps for a few minutes to catch his breath. It was no hardship to appreciate the view of Elliott Bay and the snowcapped Olympic Mountains in the distance. The city, for all its messy construction, glittered and winked in the winter sunlight. An unfamiliar sense of joy washed over him.

He felt for all the world like Ebenezer Scrooge at the end of
A Christmas Carol
, behaving in a giddy fashion completely out of his nature. And he hadn’t even been visited by any ghosts. Or perhaps it was the ghost of Vernon Doyle haunting him, repenting for the mistakes of his own miserable life, driving Bradshaw to take such bold steps.

“Well, Mr. Doyle,” said Bradshaw, gaining his feet, “if it’s you inspiring me, I suppose I owe you the favor of finding your killer.” And with that, he headed back down the hill and hopped a northbound streetcar up Second Avenue toward the self-proclaimed Big Store, the Bon Marché.

Chapter Thirteen

Christmas took a decided turn for the retail worse when he entered the store. Saturday at the Bon Marché was a sight to behold, and one he would normally avoid. Much of the congestion could be blamed on the jolly elf himself, who was holding court in Toyland downstairs. Bradshaw climbed against the tide up the stairs, intending to ask Mr. Olafson to bring Billy Creasle to him. But on the landing, he spied Billy on the first floor below him, dressed in a fine dark suit that added perhaps six months to his young age, but no more. He held the elbow of a customer, a poor woman from the looks of her clothing. The woman was shaking her head, and another woman in a tailored suit joined them. Bradshaw understood at once what he was witnessing. Young Billy had spotted a shoplifter and summoned the store detective. A moment later, Mr. Olafson joined them. Bradshaw watched the discreet capture unfold. As oblivious shoppers went about their business, the shoplifter was guided to a corner where she pulled items from the folds of her clothing, and then the female detective walked her to the door.

A few minutes later, Bradshaw and Billy were alone in Olafson’s third-floor office. Bradshaw stood near the window, watching Billy pace restlessly.

“Do you spot many shoplifters?”

“You’d be surprised, Professor. There’s likely several out there at this very minute stealing something from us.”

“You don’t seem upset about it. You seem rather excited, in fact.”

“Well, it gets your blood racing when you spot a thief. And we have to be careful not to let on to the other customers. You hold it inside, till it’s all over, and then you feel a bit like a caged animal. Or like you just won a foot race.”

“Why do they steal, do you suppose?”

“Lots of reasons. The woman we just caught was hungry and she’s got six or seven kids to feed. We’ve caught her before. She only takes food. Since we moved the Grocery Department upstairs, it’s harder for her to sneak out. But we get rich people stealing, too.”

“Why do the rich steal?”

“Because they can. Because they don’t care. They don’t steal the same way the poor steal. Not usually. They do things like complain they were sent the wrong tablecloth, even though it’s the exact one they chose, and then they say it ruined their party. The store refunds their money but doesn’t make them return the tablecloth. That’s stealing in my book. Or they simply walk out of the store with some item, and the store does nothing about it.”

“Why wouldn’t the store stop a rich thief?

“Because you can’t very well chase down some rich woman and accuse her of stealing, can you? We’ve got one customer who is a genuine kleptomaniac. That’s somebody who can’t resist stealing. I can’t tell you her name, but you’d be shocked if I did. Her husband has a big reputation in this city.”

“Why does that matter?”

“They’re some of our best customers, and so are their friends. She rarely takes anything of much value, and we can easily make up for any losses.”

“Does she know you’re aware of her theft?”

“Goodness, no. That would take the fun out of it for her. She steals because she’s bored and it gives her a thrill. That’s what the kleptomaniacs need, to feel that thrill. She doesn’t need any of the things she takes.”

“You allow her to steal because she doesn’t need to steal?”

“Yes.”

“What about the poor woman? Was she allowed to keep any of the food she stole?”

“And give her the impression she can come back for more? Tell her friends they’ll leave with a tin even if they get caught? It’s not as backward as it sounds. One woman brings the store a profit, the other costs us. It’s as simple as that. The Bon Marché caters to shoppers of all sorts. We’ve got penny tin horns for the children of the poor and ten-dollar dolls for the rich. A man can get a decent suit for less than five dollars or pay fifty dollars, or more, for quality. When you have a spread of clientele like that, you can’t treat them all the same, because they’re not. You must understand business, Professor. We don’t help ourselves or the poor by letting them steal from us.”

“It all sounds like a complicated game.”

“I suppose it is, Professor. You’ve got to keep your eye on the profits when running a department store. It’s a people game, and it’s all about making impressions.”

“It sounds as if the lines between right and wrong become blurred.”

Billy shrugged and sat down, looking as if the excitement was draining from him.

“Is it the same for employees? Do some get away with breaking the rules while others don’t?”

Billy shrugged again.

“Are there ways of getting ahead that fit the blurry description?”

Billy looked away.

Bradshaw pulled his small notepad from his pocket and flipped through the pages. “You started as a cash boy six years ago, at the age of twelve, and since then you have worked in nearly every department, from delivery to your current notable position of assistant window dresser.”

“That’s right. It’s important for a store manager to know every job there is in a department store, and I mean really know it, not just from the job description, but know what it’s like to do it, the ups and downs, the troubles and such.”

“My sources tell me there were some lucky coincidences in your promotion history. For instance, a man named Saunders was fired when it was found he’d sold an expensive pocket watch at the price of a much cheaper one to a friend. He denied he’d done it.”

“That happens.”

“You were given Saunders’ position.”

“That’s right.”

“Earlier this year, a woman with fifteen years’ experience in department stores was hired as assistant window dresser. She was let go after it became public knowledge that she’d had a child out of wedlock.”

“So?”

“Are those examples of blurred lines?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then I’ll ask you directly. Did you set up Saunders so that you could have his job? Was it you who made your predecessor’s history public?”

“Saunders was an incompetent clerk, and Miss Tyler had no vision.”

“Is that your justification for getting them fired? You didn’t believe they deserved their jobs?”

“If they hadn’t done something wrong, they wouldn’t have been let go.”

“Billy, the more honest you are with me, the easier it will be for you. I’m not concerned with past indiscretions, I’m merely trying to establish if you’ve developed a habit of hastening people out of jobs you want for yourself.”

“What has any of this got to do with Vernon Doyle’s death?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Right now, I can think of two reasons you’d want to kill Mr. Doyle.”

“Me!” Billy jumped to his feet. “Me? You think I killed him? I did not. I did not! He was dead when I got to the window. I swear it. Give me a Bible, I’ll swear on it. He was dead when I got there.”

“Either Mr. Doyle witnessed you doing something to sabotage Troy Ruzauskas’ position or he learned something that caused you great personal distress and you wanted him silenced. Which was it?”

“Neither, Professor! I had nothing against Mr. Doyle and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. His death has nothing to do with me!”

“I know this is difficult for you.”

“Difficult? It’s stupid!” Billy paced, throwing his hands up. “I’ve got to get back to my windows. It’s the busiest time of year. Mr. Olafson won’t like it if I get behind.”

“Mr. Olafson knows this is more important than window displays. And he’s not the sort of man to punish you for speaking to me. Is he?” He watched Billy closely.

Billy sat again, seeming suddenly weary. “No, he’s all right.”

“Are you sure? Some of the boys have complained about him. The runners and cash boys have made accusations. They feel—uncomfortable—around him.”

Billy didn’t flinch or blush or cringe. He scoffed. Looking Bradshaw directly in the eye, he said, “Professor, where are you getting your information? Mr. Olafson is great with the cash boys and runners, and he’s been like a father to me ever since I started here, giving me advice, and giving me a chance on positions others said I was too young for. I think someone’s giving you the runaround and trying to pin the blame on me. I’ve never said a word against Mr. Olafson.”

“Mr. Olafson asks for nothing in return for his generosity?”

Billy pulled another face that, to Bradshaw’s grateful mind, was completely void of any embarrassment. “What do I have to give?” he asked innocently. “Can’t a fella be decent without there being some sort of motive? Never heard of Santa Claus?”

Bradshaw allowed a small smile. “What about Santa?”

“He’s good and generous and kind, but he expects you to be the same. That’s Mr. Olafson. He’s like Santa without the red suit, all year long. You don’t get promotions you don’t deserve, and he expects you to work hard at your job, but you get jolly fair treatment and genuine thanks for it.”

Bradshaw believed him. Billy was hiding something, but it wasn’t anything sordid about Mr. Olafson.

“Billy, someone deliberately placed a handkerchief on the floor lamp in that window so that it would catch fire when Mr. Andrews turned the lights on at seven.”

Billy looked down at his hands. His knees began to bounce restlessly.

“It was removed before it caught fire. Did you place and remove the handkerchief?”

“It wasn’t my fault. You said yourself that Mr. Doyle was dead long before I found him. You said so. I couldn’t have saved him even if I’d found him earlier, when I’d arrived at the store.”

“You saw him lying there when you placed the handkerchief over the lamp?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with his death. Can I go now?”

“Did you have anything to do with the handkerchief?”

“No.”

“Please look at me and answer once again.”

Billy’s brown eyes met Bradshaw’s, unblinking, hard, and guarded. “No,” he said, and he stormed out the door.

Bradshaw stood pondering. Billy’s alibi, that he was home asleep the night Doyle died, could not be confirmed or denied. His mother and sisters insisted he’d been in all night, but the boy had a window in his room and could easily have slipped in and out without notice, hurried down the hill to the Bon, tapped on the window to get Doyle to open the door to him. But it wasn’t plausible that this act was premeditated. Billy couldn’t have known Doyle would be in a vulnerable position holding that wire. Had he gone to speak to him about something? Something that had him so worried he’d get out of bed at two in the morning, just two hours after climbing in, on a stormy winter night, to confront Doyle? And then, when the conversation didn’t go his way, thrown the switch at an opportune moment? But what about the handkerchief? Would Billy have attempted to stage a fire if he’d killed Doyle? If Billy had not placed it there so that he could play the hero as he’d done the previous month, and cast blame on Troy, thus easing his way into the chief window dresser’s job, then who did place the handkerchief? And who removed it without reporting the body?

Billy was hiding something, Bradshaw still felt it, but he didn’t believe it was murder. He left Olafson’s office and made a tour of the store, from the third floor offices and daylight Grocery Department down to Delivery in the basement. He counted typewriting machines as he went, and kept his mind open to details. While in Toyville, he bought Justin drawing paper and a box of the new art crayons by Crayola. He found a model automobile kit with working doors and trunk and a small electric motor that turned the rubber wheels. At three dollars, it was expensive for a toy, but he knew the boy would get many hours of enjoyment from it, even after the assembly was complete. And what better investment for his patent royalties than a gift that brought joy and education to his son?

His final purchase was in the Music Department.

“Such a lovely choice, sir!” said the female clerk. “This carousel music box has been very popular. Would you like it wrapped in Christmas paper?”

“That’s not necessary. I purchased several items in the Toy Department less than ten minutes ago. Can you have this delivered with them? To Mrs. Prouty at my home.”

“Yes, sir, we have your address on file. On Capitol Hill? I’ll let them know to deliver them all together. They’ll arrive before school dismissal time, so there will be no surprises ruined.”

“Could I attach a message to the music box?”

“Of course.”

The clerk handed him a small white note card and he wrote simply. “Today’s your lucky day.”

The clerk politely inserted the card into an envelope without reading it, and his payment was handed to a young runner who raced off upstairs to fetch Bradshaw’s receipt. His purchase was placed in a metal basket and whisked away for wrapping and delivery.

The Bon certainly provided excellent customer service, yet, as always on an investigation, he was beginning to learn far more than he wanted to know. No longer would a trip to the Bon Marché be a pleasant journey through aisles of brand-new products and being helped by smiling, courteous faces. He’d now know the inner workings, the resentment behind the smile, the jealousy between clerks, the sordid details of their lives.

He found Mr. Olafson in the Music Department playing a rousing rendition of “Up on the Housetop” with children and mothers gathered around, and a boy of perhaps nine beside him on the bench. Bradshaw tried to observe objectively, and while he witnessed nothing at all untoward, and he believed Billy had not been assaulted by the man, he knew his perspective was tainted by the shoe salesman’s accusation. The seed of suspicion had been planted.

Mr. Olafson ended the song with a dramatic tumble from the bench, bouncing up like a jack-in-the-box and bringing a round of applause from his audience. He spied Bradshaw, and after handing out candy canes to the children, he extricated himself from the crowd, and they found a relatively quiet corner in which to talk.

Mr. Olafson had been told of the incident with Mrs. Prouty and he said with a shrug and a soulful expression that conveyed his sympathy for Bradshaw, “It’s not the first time someone has tried to fool us with a homemade advertisement, but this one looked better than most, and we did run a similar letter ad this summer. Being under your employ, we felt it best not to ban her from the store in future. I trust it will not happen again.”