Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (12 page)

“My housekeeper did not make the ad. It arrived in the mail.”

“Oh? Professor, my apologies. I didn’t mean to accuse—I, well, so it was a prank then? That does explain the other one. Gracious, I hope there aren’t more.”

“What other one?”

“Last evening before closing, another woman had one just like it. I thought it was the same one because it was all crumpled, liked she’d pulled it from the trash. She put up a fuss when we told her it wasn’t a legitimate ad.”

“May I see the Women’s Waiting Room?”

Olafson looked confused, but acquiesced, escorting Bradshaw to the second floor. A long narrow space overlooking the atrium had been outfitted with a row of writing desks and potted palms. Every desk was in use, and the chairs along the walls filled with chatting women.

“This area has proved highly popular since we opened this month,” boasted Olafson. “We had our saleswomen write the advertising, and I must say they know their customers.” He pointed to the sign at the entrance:

Welcome to the Women’s Waiting Room—just the cutest place imaginable for a meeting place for women. Here are combined many features of convenience for women who feel the fatigue of shopping. Do not fail to visit this pretty waiting and retiring room, and ask your friends to meet you here.

Bradshaw didn’t know about attracting women, but it certainly would repel men. He pointed to the letterhead on the nearest writing table. “Do many take this paper away with them?”

“Every day. The ladies can post their letters here, of course, but some prefer to write at home, and some simply want the paper.” Olafson shrugged. “We like to think of it as inexpensive advertising.”

Bradshaw asked, “Is there paper available for your gentlemen shoppers?”

“There are writing materials available at the counter in the Men’s Department, but we don’t provide a room such as this. Men don’t write for the same reasons as women. And they don’t like to gather to gossip, unless it’s over beverages, of course. They sometimes want to dash off a note to a colleague, but rarely do they write expansively.”

“Do you sell typewriting machines?”

“Certainly.”

Among displays of paper, pens, staplers, and other office supplies was a shelf containing the latest models of typing machines. Little signs forbade touching the keys without permission, but one model sat at a table with a chair. A little boy sat pecking at the keys. Olafson shooed him away, softening the lad’s disappointment with a candy cane.

“All day long, the machine is played with. Tap-tap-tap! It is good for sales to let customers try it out, but the children think it’s a toy. Some of them are good little typewriters. It’s the tool of their generation, I suppose, but what is to become of their handwriting if they are all using machines?”

The wastebasket beside the machine was full of crumpled sheets. Olafson tsk-tsked, but Bradshaw was pleased. He sat in the chair and began to methodically uncrumple and read the contents of the basket, but he found nothing similar to Mrs. Prouty’s false advertisement. “Do you ever supply store letterhead here?”

“Oh, no, just the inexpensive plain. As you see, it all ends up in the waste basket.”

“Could you remove the ribbon for me, please?”

Olafson fetched the harried clerk who efficiently replaced the ribbon, winding the old one onto a spool with the use of a lead pencil and depositing the spool onto a clean sheet of blank paper in Bradshaw’s hand.

“I only attempted to change a ribbon once,” Bradshaw said, “and was rewarded with black fingers.”

The clerk smiled. “Try it a few times a week, you’ll get better.” He hurried off to waiting customers.

Bradshaw sat, setting aside the old ribbon. He fed a clean sheet of blank paper into the machine, pulled Mrs. Prouty’s ad from his inner breast pocket, and began to slowly copy it.

He was not a trained typist, but he’d had enough experience with machines at the university that he knew how to operate one and could find the necessary keys. His slowness, however, seemed to annoy Mr. Olafson.

“I have much experience on the machine,” Olafson said tactfully in his Swedish-laced diction. “I could type that for you.”

“I would appreciate it,” Bradshaw said, relinquishing the chair.

Olafson flexed his fingers, hovered the tips over the keys, gave Mrs. Prouty’s ad a fixed stare, then began to type. The keys were soon clicking with a smooth rapidity. With as much skill as he played the piano, Olafson operated the typing machine, swiping the carriage return with a graceful swoop. In just a few seconds, he pulled the paper free and handed it to Bradshaw with a slight bow.

Bradshaw thanked him, then held the page next to Mrs. Prouty’s. While the ink of the newly typed letter was dark and crisp in comparison to the other, there were distinguishing commonalities. Most noticeably, in both letters, the uppercase
B
and the lower case
e
were missing portions, and an inspection of the keys revealed lint adhered to their striking surfaces.

“Whoever typed this,” Olafson said, nodding at Mrs. Prouty’s ad, “used a heavy hand. You can see the dents in the paper, compared to mine, with its lighter touch. Of course, with that old ribbon, the typist might have thought force was required to get ink onto the page, so it might not be a clue as to the identity of the typist. I will instruct my clerks to change the ribbon more frequently, despite the cost and inconvenience. We cannot sell typewriters that require such vigorous pounding!” He waved a clerk over and gave the command immediately, and Bradshaw asked the clerk if he’d been working the previous morning, or the evening before that.

“I was here yesterday morning.”

“Was the waste basket empty when you arrived?”

Olafson said, “Be truthful! It is important the Professor learns the truth. No one will be reprimanded for neglecting to empty the basket. This time.”

“But it was empty, I’m sure of it. I checked it myself, and the supply of paper, and the ribbon looked as if it could last another day.”

Olafson said, “But not this morning?”

“No, sir. When I arrived, I found a special order waiting, and I thought it best to fill it right away before seeing to my daily cleaning duties.”

Olafson nodded firmly, agreeing, yet not fully pleased. “It should have been emptied last night.”

“When were the keys last cleaned?”

“Three days ago. With the brush that comes with the machine.”

Bradshaw asked, “Did you notice anyone sitting here using the machine for any length of time? Or anyone who brought paper with them? In particular, store letterhead?

The clerk said, “At this time of year? As soon as those doors open, we’re overrun. I can’t even hear the keys being tapped most of the day at this time of year, let alone see who’s sitting at the machine.”

“Thank you. If something or someone does occur to you, will you let me know?” He gave the clerk his card then turned to Olafson.

“I have two favors to ask. I’ll need an empty ribbon spool and use of your office again.”

“Certainly, come.”

Olafson took an empty ribbon spool from the shelf behind the counter, then led Bradshaw upstairs to his own office desk near a large window.

“I have also the incandescent lamp. Please, sit. Use this.” He tore off his blemished blotter to reveal a fresh page, then left Bradshaw to his inspection of the old ribbon.

Using one lead pencil to unspool and a second to re-spool, he deciphered the letters pressed into the ribbon. It had been reused several times, so there were double and triple strikes in places, and the words of several typists blended. But he was able to read enough to find the section of ribbon where twice Mrs. Prouty’s letter had been typed.

He inspected the ribbon sections immediately before and after the typing of the letters, finding “A quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog” and several “dear santa please.” Names were typed, some of them in full, but only one in full near the section of ribbon under inspection. This fellow had taken the chair just after the false ad typist and had pecked out “dear santa I am arnold ryker I am 11 year old I want a.” No more could be deciphered through the double and triple strikings.

***

Bradshaw found “Ryker” in the Polk Directory and from the address made a guess as to young Arnold’s school. The boy was summoned to the principal’s office. Small for his age and possessed of a sharp, rather suspicious eye, Arnold remembered the man at the typewriter because he typed so fast. He wore a dark winter coat and hat, and he was shorter sitting than Arnold was standing beside him, even with the hat, which was a crusher. His hair might have been dark, the boy didn’t recall, the man’s hands were his focus, not what they looked like but what they were doing, moving on the keys, and the boy wanted to learn. Bradshaw held up his hands, which were pale, long-fingered, beside the principal’s hands, which were darker, broader, meatier. The boy said he thought Bradshaw’s were closer in appearance to the man’s at the typewriter.

“Only he had freckles,” said Arnold. “Lots of them. And I’d never seen freckles on a hand before.”

Bradshaw thanked the lad and gave him the miniature toy mechanical dog he’d purchased at the Bon for fifty cents. The boy’s face lit up. “Gee, Mister. Thanks!”

He had another in his pocket for Justin, but that one would be slipped into a stocking hung by the chimney with care on Christmas Eve.

***

He returned to his office in the Bailey. Henry was out, and the office cold. He turned up the steam, set the electric kettle to boiling for his Postum, and sat at his desk to go through Squirrel’s file on Maddock. As Henry had said, Squirrel had come up trumps, with newspaper clippings, personal notices, and a list of official records that spelled out the man’s life.

Born in Akron, Ohio, Maddock attended the usual series of schools, and he apprenticed at a law office while studying patent law and engineering. He established his own law practice, working solo, married in the First Baptist Church, and the following year welcomed the first of eight children. In 1898, he became one of Edison’s many legal representatives, and in August of this year, just prior to Edison’s visit, he relocated to Seattle, established the office at the Globe Building, which was also his personal residence. He had a home under construction on Queen Anne Hill, so it was presumed he would be moving his family out as soon as construction was complete.

Oh, joy, thought Bradshaw. John Davenport Maddock intended to stay permanently in Seattle, poking his legal stick at everything electrical. Bradshaw closed the file and sat for a moment, trying to focus his thoughts on the case, but they kept drifting to the personal task he’d not yet faced. He pulled the ring box out of his pocket and set it on the desk before him. He opened the lid and the diamond winked in the incandescent light.

A few minutes later, having come to no conclusions or resolutions, he snapped the box shut and shoved it deep within his coat pocket. He locked the Maddock file in the wall safe then headed for the Globe building. It was a fruitless journey. Maddock’s neighbors had neither seen nor heard anything that cast the least suspicion on him. He was a model tenant. He’d given them all boxes of Edison’s holiday lighting outfits. In their eyes, he could do no wrong.

Chapter Fourteen

It was time.

With every case, there came a time when enough information had been unearthed that Bradshaw felt ready to begin compiling a list of suspects, their possible motives, means, and opportunities. On Monday morning, Bradshaw knew it was time, but he wasn’t feeling positive about the outcome. Still, he spread a large clean sheet of paper on his office desk, and began to lay out a graph. He used to do this at home in the parlor at his rolltop desk, but now that he and Henry had an office, he preferred to compile and store the list here, in the wall safe. Not only did this prevent his young son from seeing notes of violence, it kept private the very personal and often sordid information he uncovered that ultimately had nothing to do with the solving of the crime.

At the top of the paper, he wrote, The Case at the Bon Marché, then filled in his list of suspects and their motives. When complete, he sat back examining them.

Billy Creasle. Motive: silence Doyle. If Doyle had discovered that Billy had forced fellow employees out of positions he wanted, or if Doyle had learned of something between Billy and Olafson, then Billy would feel threatened with exposure. After his last interview with Billy, Bradshaw no longer believed the shoe salesman’s insinuations, but he did believe Billy had criminally hastened his rise through the company. And the scorched handkerchief? Had that been Billy?

Ivar Olafson. Motive: silence Doyle. But if there was nothing to the shoe salesman’s accusations, then Olafson had no motive, at least none that had come to light.

Maggie Adkins. Motive: lovers’ quarrel. A crime of passion. That certainly fit the conditions of the fateful night. Had she gone to him that evening for a secret assignation? To break off the affair?

Troy Ruzauskas. Motive: nothing evident. Troy wanted money to impress the mother of the girl he loved, and also to support her in the manner she was accustomed. He’d been diving for Daulton’s box and discussed the treasure with Doyle. Had they gone into some sort of secret partnership? Had Doyle made boastful promises he couldn’t keep and angered Troy?

J. D. Maddock. Motive: greed. Doyle wouldn’t play Maddock’s game, likely because he didn’t have the knowledge he boasted of. Maddock, not knowing this, could have become increasingly frustrated and marched down to the Bon in the middle of the night to confront the electrician once again and lost his temper when he failed to get what he wanted. This seemed reasonable. Maddock could have returned to the Bon and typed the letter to Mrs. Prouty. Only, Maddock didn’t have freckled hands. Bradshaw clearly recalled that the attorney’s hands were pale and thin. He could have hired the freckle-handed man to type the ad so that he, or the hired man, could break into Bradshaw’s house. Yes, Maddock had motive to both kill Doyle in a moment of anger and to steal from Bradshaw’s house anything related to Oscar Daulton.

Usually at this stage, his mind swam with possibilities and his gut pointed him in the direction of the guilty party, no matter how unlikely. None of the suspects’ whereabouts had yet been confirmed for the time of Doyle’s death. They all claimed to be at home, sleeping.

Maddock seemed the most likely suspect, but Bradshaw felt nothing. He had details and facts all lined up with logical conclusions, but his gut was not involved at all. The thoughts held nothing visceral.

He stared at his list unmoved, at least unmoved in regards to Vernon Doyle’s death. He felt pangs of fatherly anxiety for Billy who was far too eager to get ahead, and those thoughts led to a cold dread about the accusations made about Ivar Olafson, who, even if he was innocent of the accusations, might find his life ruined by them nevertheless. He felt a commiserating heartache for Troy Ruzauskas, who loved a girl he might not win. And he felt a loathing for J. D. Maddock. He wanted Maddock to be guilty and he was by far the prime suspect. But Bradshaw didn’t feel it.

He didn’t feel it.

At the end of the list he wrote: Other Bon Marché employees: 400 plus. General population of Seattle: 100,000.

Maybe O’Brien was right. Maybe he was too distracted about Missouri to focus. He put his hand in his coat pocket and felt the velvety soft box. Where was the giddy joy he’d felt just the day before yesterday that had sent him into the jewelry store and racing foolishly up to the courthouse? He was as low today as he’d been high then. A special dispensation? Why not believe in elves and Santa Claus? He got up, opened the wall safe, and locked the ring box inside.

He dropped into his chair with a sigh. His emotions were consumed and so apparently was his intuition. Or maybe it had been a mistake to open an office. Maybe he should have stayed with electrical forensics and left the rest, the finding of the criminal, to the police and other investigators. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that his intuition might fail him? The responsibility of an investigation wasn’t something he could abandon simply because he didn’t feel it.

He thought maybe he needed something stronger than Postum to awaken his brain and was considering going out for coffee when footsteps thundered down the hall and the door burst open, bringing a gust of damp sooty air. There were times when Bradshaw wished Henry Pratt would practice restraint. It was like partnering with a rambunctious child. But it wasn’t Henry bursting in. It was Detective O’Brien.

Without preamble, O’Brien said, “Mrs. Doyle is in the hospital. She’s asking to see you. We’ve got to hurry, she might not make it.”

Bradshaw jumped up and grabbed his coat and hat, following O’Brien into the hall. “Wait,” he said. He turned the key in the office door and set the dead bolt. Then he ran with O’Brien down to the street, leaping onto the Second Avenue car just as it was pulling away. O’Brien rode the street and cable cars of the city with daring recklessness, trusting his years of experience to keep him from being crushed or shocked or trampled as he leaped and dashed. He never sat, but always stood holding a strap, prepared to jump. He and Bradshaw held straps now, watching for their corner.

“What happened?”

“She was attacked. Someone broke in.”

“Broad daylight again? Did she get an advertisement?”

“No, but she did get something from the Bon. A letter from the payroll department saying she was to come down straight away to sort out money owed to her husband.”

“Was it legitimate?”

“We don’t know yet. She had the letter in her pocket. Looks like she was on her way to the Bon then returned to the house, as if she forgot something. The patrolman posted in the neighborhood saw her leave, and he stationed himself closer to the house. He saw no one enter. About ten minutes later, he saw her hurrying home again. He stopped her because she looked agitated, and she told him she’d forgotten her coin purse for the streetcar. He circled the block again, and when after a quarter hour she didn’t come back out of the house, he knocked on the door. He got no response, so he went in and he found her on the floor in a pool of blood.”

“Did she say what happened? Who attacked her?”

“She’s barely spoken other than to say your name.”

At Madison, they switched lines, narrowly evading a full lumber wagon as they ran into the middle of the street to reach it. They rode silently up to Fifth Avenue to Seattle General Hospital, where two nurses uniformed in striped gowns and white aprons and caps greeted them at the door to Mrs. Doyle’s hospital room, warning them in hushed tones that the patient was very weak and should be kept as quiet as possible.

Bradshaw approached the iron bed slowly. Mrs. Doyle lay still, her head wrapped in a white bandage, one arm in a sling across her chest. Her gentle face was furrowed as if with pain, and her skin was white, chalky, bloodless. He was afraid he was too late, but when he said her name softly, her eyelids slowly raised.

Her lips moved slightly, and he bent low to hear her.

In a voice below even that of whisper, she breathed, “My photo.”

“The photograph of your sons has been stolen?”

Her eyes told him yes.

“I’ll find it,” he promised, because he could see she needed to believe he would. It was his fault. His distraction had landed her here. “Can you tell me anything about who was in your home? Who attacked you?”

She winced trying to shake her head. She gasped, “Behind.”

“He came up behind you? You didn’t see him.”

Again her eyes said yes, and she seemed relieved he understood. She closed her eyes with a small exhalation.

The nurses rushed over and felt her pulse, then told Bradshaw and O’Brien they would have to leave. The next twenty-four hours were crucial with such head injuries.

As they moved somberly down the hall toward the main hospital entrance, a chill shot through Bradshaw. He said, “It’s got to stop.”

“The insanity over Daulton’s invention? I agree. This must be connected to Doyle’s boasting. Someone needs to find that cigar box, and it had better be you. The photograph Mrs. Doyle wants, is it the one that was on her mantle, the Edward Curtis of her boys when they were little?”

“It’s her most prized possession.”

“Why would the thief want it? The photographer has some fame, but a personal portrait wouldn’t hold much value to someone not of the family. A few other things were taken, we think, but not sure what. Valuables like silver weren’t taken, but desk drawers were ransacked and papers may be missing.”

“Our thief was looking for information, not valuables to sell. The same as at my house. He might have believed something was hidden behind the photograph. If that’s the case, then the photo and frame will eventually be discarded. Let’s see what the Bon Marché has to say about the letter from payroll. Do you have it on you?”

They stepped back into the lobby of the hospital to get out of the weather while Bradshaw examined the letter. It had been typed with an old ribbon, the ink was faded, and the capital
B
and small
e
were flawed in the way Mrs. Prouty’s letter had been. Bradshaw’s stomach twisted.

A half hour later, the Bon’s senior accountant said neither he nor any of his staff had ever seen the letter before and weren’t responsible for it, although it was genuine Bon Marché letterhead. It was what Bradshaw expected, but he needed to ask anyway. He must be thorough from this moment on.

Downstairs, the harried department clerk, because of the previous inquiry, had been paying a bit more attention to the typewriting display. As O’Brien went through the wastebasket, Bradshaw, with growing anxiety, and a sense of futility, began to examine the ribbon, which the clerk then extracted for him.

It took just a few minutes. “It’s not on here,” Bradshaw said. He put a hand to his mouth and closed his eyes, staving off a fit of self-loathing. He’d missed it. Two days ago, he’d surely held a warning in the palm of his hand and he’d missed it.

And O’Brien realized it, too, although he kindly withheld accusation from his tone when he asked, “Where is it?”

“My office safe.”

Bradshaw felt a firm hand on his shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known.”

But he should have. He should have examined the entire ribbon with more care. If one false and luring letter had been typed, why not more? He shouldn’t have assumed.

He cleared his throat. “There are too many possibilities in this case, Jim. There are hundreds of employees, thousands of customers. And it’s possible that there are no witnesses and no incriminating clues to uncover. These letters and burglaries may be connected to Doyle only by the publicity surrounding his death and the attention Daulton’s box has been getting.”

“If we have two cases, we’ll solve them both.”

But Bradshaw couldn’t let go of the look in Mrs. Doyle’s eyes.

“I have a bit of good news. We can take the window dresser off our list of suspects. I spoke to his landlady. She said he came in dripping wet all over her floors just after midnight on the night Doyle died. His coat and shoes were soaked through, and he left them to dry by the kitchen stove as he always does, according to her. In the morning, when the police came to question Troy, the landlady fetched his coat and hat and they were bone dry. All her tenants keep their coats and shoes in a wardrobe off the kitchen, unless they’re wet, then they are hung near the stove to dry. She said she would have noticed a wet coat in the wardrobe or his room, when she went upstairs to clean, so we know he didn’t go back out into the night.”

“He never had a clear motive anyway.”

“True, but it’s nice to confirm his alibi nonetheless. Cheer up, Ben. If J. D. Maddock turns out to be our villain, those lawsuits against you will go away.”

“Will they? If they were legally filed, his arrest won’t stop them. Edison will simply hire another attorney.”

***

Henry was at the office when Bradshaw arrived in a black mood, grunted hello, and retrieved the typewriter ribbon from the wall safe. He sat at his desk and began to examine it.

“I might have a lead on your burglar, Ben.”

Bradshaw looked up, frowning but interested. Henry grinned. “There’s talk in the Tender about a new second-story man newly arrived from Chicago. He’s known for day jobs, and for advance work. His favorite trick is to send wires or letters to his marks to get them out of the house. The second-story tag got put on him because he’s been known to enter through top-floor windows or attics, but he’s just as likely to stroll through a front door.”

“You don’t say.” Bradshaw stared at the ribbon, not seeing it, pondering Henry’s news. “How new is he?”

“Hard to say, but it sounds as if he arrived about the same time as our good attorney, Mr. J. D. Maddock.”

“I don’t like coincidences. What does he usually steal?”

“That I didn’t learn.”

“Tell O’Brien. Mrs. Doyle’s been attacked. By a burglar. Does this second-story man have a moniker?”

“They’ve dubbed him Tycoon Tommy because he talks more like a rich businessman than a thief, but no one knows what he was called in Chicago.”

“What does he look like?”

“Average height, wiry, brown or red hair, there wasn’t a consensus.”

Redheads often had freckles. “Anything else?”