Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (4 page)

“How do you know this?”

“I followed them. Followed him, actually.”

“Because?”

“Because I overheard him tell one of the runners to stop by his house and tell his wife he had to work late, only I knew he didn’t. When he left the store, I followed him to see what he was up to. I know it wasn’t a very nice thing to do, but neither was it nice for him to lie to his wife or tease Mrs. Adkins. I followed him to the Washington. Did you hear they might put a tunnel underneath the hotel? Right through Denny Hill, instead of taking the hill down. Makes more sense to me.”

The leveling of Seattle’s streets was a sore subject with Bradshaw and one he didn’t care to discuss with Billy, but he did agree a tunnel made more sense than tearing down a hill.

“You said you followed Doyle to the Washington?”

“That I did, and I saw Mrs. Adkins there, too.”

“Why are you so sure they were together?”

“If they weren’t, it seems awful strange they both went into the President’s Suite.”

“Did they see you?”

He shook his head. “When you work at a department store, you learn how to follow people without being noticed.”

The boy had the makings of a detective, but Bradshaw refrained from saying so. He didn’t want to encourage the boy’s spying on coworkers simply to satisfy his own curiosity.

“It’s best you don’t share what you learned with anyone, other than the police if they ask.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t! I haven’t told anyone but you.”

Bradshaw highly doubted that. Would a boy of eighteen withhold such gossip from his friends? And why go to all the bother of tailing Doyle if not to somehow make use of what he learned?

“Describe for me, please, exactly how you found Mr. Doyle this morning.”

“Like I said, I got to the Men’s window late. I knew I didn’t need to make any changes. I just needed to give it a quick look to see that all was as it should be.”

“Were the window lights on when you entered?”

“Mr. Andrews turns them on at seven and it was half past.”

“What did you notice?”

“What do you mean?”

“As you approached the window, did anything seem wrong? Anything alarm you? Anything look out of place? Did you see, hear, or smell anything unexpected?”

Billy studied the tape measure in his hands, turning the small crank to wind it in completely, all while his knees jiggled. “No, no, no, I just went to do my job. I saw Doyle lying there as soon as I stepped into the window. I shouted for help and Mr. Olafson came. He said Doyle was cold. That he was dead.” Billy chewed his lip, and the tape unspooled and rewound.

Bradshaw didn’t like his three consecutive denials. No, no, no.

“Professor, does that mean he’d been dead for a long while? Being cold? A very long while?”

“Possibly.”

“You don’t get cold right away when you die, do you? It takes time.”

“It depends on the circumstances.” Bradshaw knew well that factors such as the cause of death played into how quickly a dead body would feel cold to the touch. Once the life force was gone, the body became an object like any other and its temperature leveled to the surrounding temperature. But he didn’t believe such facts would help this young man recover from the trauma of discovering a dead man.

“In this case, I estimate Mr. Doyle died before seven.”

Billy’s head snapped up and his jiggling momentarily ceased. “How much before?”

“I’m not yet sure.”

The fidgeting began again. “I was afraid. Well, I was afraid that maybe if I’d gotten to the Men’s window sooner, I might have found him before he died.”

Bradshaw watched young Billy’s face carefully as he said, “The coroner will determine the approximate time of death. He’s often able to pinpoint very closely in circumstances such as this. You should not blame yourself for doing your job and arriving at the window when you did.”

Billy nodded, but he kept his eyes on the tape measure as he chewed his lip.

Bradshaw did not say, for he did not know, if Vernon Doyle had been alive when Billy Creasle signed his timesheet at six that morning. Could the boy have saved Doyle if he’d arrived at the window sooner, preventing someone from throwing the switch that sent a lethal current through the electrician? Or had Billy been the one to throw the switch, returning at half past seven to pretend to find Doyle dead?

The house was quiet as Bradshaw continued to study Billy. The ticking of a clock in the room, and the muted sounds of traffic outside, were slowly drowned by the return of a steady, heavy rain.

“Billy, if you have something to tell me about Mr. Doyle’s death, it would be best to do so now. The truth will be learned.”

Billy looked up, his eyes wide and pleading. “I have nothing more to tell, Professor. Honest. He was lying there in the window when I got there. That’s all I know.”

Chapter Five

The Globe Building on First and Madison housed offices, retail shops, and hotel rooms for single men. John Maddock, Attorney at Law, had secured a room on the fourth floor, and Professor Bradshaw found the door extensively stenciled with Maddock’s name and credentials, and the assertion that he was the “Seattle Representative of Thomas A. Edison, Specializing in Patent Purchasing, Pre-Patent Sales, Infringement Litigation, and the Sale of Genuine Edison Inventions and GE Products for Home and Office.”

Bradshaw stepped into a small room that had been fashioned from a much larger one, subdivided by panels topped with privacy glass patterned like water droplets. Detective O’Brien was already there, examining shelves of products for sale. Electric coffee percolators, fans, phonographs, and related paraphernalia. Telegraph kits, small dynamos, meters, electric chandeliers, and storage batteries. There were incandescent bulbs in assorted shapes, sizes, and colors, and a large stack of the new colorful Christmas light festoons. From the next room, the clackety-clack of a typewriter came through to them, and the whir of a fan, and the deep tones of a male voice, the precise words obscured by the typing and whirring.

Under the same audible cover, Bradshaw quietly told O’Brien about his interview with Billy.

O’Brien said, “The boy could come in handy with his habit of snooping. He didn’t mention the burnt handkerchief?”

“No, and I gave him the opportunity. He knows something, but he isn’t eager to share.”

“What he knows may implicate him in some way. He’s certainly not shy about tattling on his fellow employees. Which reminds me, the senior window dresser, Troy Ruzauskas, swore he knows nothing of a misplaced handkerchief in his window, and he swore he was not to blame for any fire hazards, or electrocutions, not ever.”

“The vehemence of innocence or protesting too much?”

“Too soon to say, but I don’t think he’s our man. A clerk in Men’s Shoes, adjacent to Men’s Wear, said the store manager, Ivar Olafson, is overly fond of the little boys working at the store and smitten with Billy. Gives the lad preferential treatment, promoting him out of turn.”

“I don’t like the implications.”

“Neither do I.” O’Brien eyed the percolator shaped like a miniature potbellied stove. “How well do those work? Do you think Lorraine would like one?”

“Your wife doesn’t like coffee, you do.”

“This would make it easier for her to make it for me, wouldn’t it?”

“I advise you to think about that question, Jim.”

O’Brien shrugged. “Mr. Andrews is in the clear. He was home all night. Four roommates verified the apprentice spent the entire night at the YMCA, and the Bon’s other electrician is indeed on his way home from Portland.”

“You had a profitable morning.”

“The miracle of the modern telephone, my friend. Before coming here, I paid my respects to Doyle’s wife. If I’m any judge, her shock was genuine, but she doesn’t have an alibi. She was home alone, she claims.”

“You think there’s a chance she did it?”

“As a married man, you bet I do.”

“You may be a selfish lout, but Lorraine loves you.”

“And your point would be? Just promise we’ll have this wrapped up by Christmas.” O’Brien grinned, then his face went serious, and his voice lowered to a near whisper. “Why has he not paid you a call, Ben? This attorney. If he’s searching Seattle for clues to Daulton’s invention, I’d think he’d start with you.”

“I have no doubt Mr. Edison informed him of our conversation a few months ago, and that I said I knew nothing more than what was already publicly known.”

O’Brien tipped up the brim of his hat and narrowed his eyes. “There are times your nerve surprises me, Ben. Thomas Alva Edison brought light to the world. Every child in this country knows his name. Are you saying you lied to him?”

“A power greater than Edison brought light to the world, Jim. And Mr. Edison hired a team of men to devise a long-lasting filament to capture the light at a profit. I sell my soul to no man, and I certainly don’t give it away. He tried the direct approach with me and failed. His representative—” Bradshaw silenced as the typewriter suddenly ceased its clattering, and the inner door opened with a squeak of its hinges.

A gaunt man emerged, looking more like an undertaker than an attorney, in a crisp black suit with a high white collar. His mouth was wide, his lips thin, and one of eyes drooped at the corner, giving him a perpetually sad countenance that was out of kilter with his jovial tone. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. What may I do for you today? An invention to sell? A patent to file? Or are you in search of a good bargain on the hit of the holidays, Mr. Edison’s holiday lighting outfits?”

Bradshaw said they were interested in none of the above and introduced himself. Maddock’s wide mouth fell open with a gasp. “Professor Bradshaw! It is a pleasure, sir. Well, now, I do understand why you’re here, but I must say it is a pleasure, nay, an honor, sir.” He extended his hand and shook Bradshaw’s with firm enthusiasm. “An honor, sir,” he repeated. “Truly. Your reputation for electrical forensics, as you coined the phrase, is legendary. My favorite case so far was the one you solved just this summer at the ocean, with the electrotherapeutic chair. I’ve been studying your patents, too, and I must tell you your inventions are brilliantly conceived. Simplicity of design, so streamlined yet incorporating the latest advances in electrical theory. Inspired! I’m John Davenport Maddock. My friends call me J.D., and I hope you will, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Maddock.” Bradshaw trusted instant informality even less than exuberant praise. “This is Detective James O’Brien with the Seattle police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly, come through to my office.” He led them through the door into a room so small it could be crossed with two generous strides. An overabundance of furniture, books, and files made it feel all the smaller. A candlestick telephone rose above the clutter of a rolltop desk that was situated within arm’s reach of a stern-looking woman dressed entirely in black, who sat at a typewriter. She greeted them with a curt nod, and the tight bun on her head never wavered.

“Miss Finch,” Maddock said, “complete your typing, then you may take your lunch break. I placed several letters in your outbox. Please be sure those go out today. I’ll be in the next room. Could you bring me back a sandwich, egg salad on white? That’s a good girl.”

Miss Finch returned to her typewriting without a word, and the vigor with which she hit the keys gave Bradshaw cause to believe she resented being called a “good girl.”

Maddock pulled a manila folder from the desktop stack then said, “This way, gentlemen,” and led them to the next room, which proved to be the largest and included a window with a view of the adjacent brick building. The room had a parlor feel, with several chairs arranged about a round table, but it obviously did double-duty as Maddock’s living quarters. A fold-up bed was secured to the wall, its rectangular undersurface inadequately disguised with a poster of the Edison film,
The Great Train Robbery
, on which a narrow-eyed cowboy with a fat mustache and a handkerchief at his throat leveled a pistol directly at anyone sitting in Maddock’s guest chairs.

“Now, I’m certain we can take care of business quickly,” Maddock began, opening the file to reveal a typed page that had the look of a legal document. “We’d love to avoid a long drawn-out case as much as you, and I’m sure we can find terms that are mutually agreeable.”

Bradshaw said, “Excuse me?”

“I know, we aren’t off to the best footing, Professor.” He nodded toward O’Brien. “The good detective at your side speaks volumes. Usually, inventors arrive with their attorneys, but I’m no stranger to the other sort of law man, you know.” He laughed. “In this business, competition is fierce, and the rules can get complicated. I assure you, it is a minor matter of the law and civil not criminal, yet I perfectly understand the instinct to bring a policeman to such a confrontation. I hold no hard feelings, I assure you, and please know this is simply business. My respect for you could not be greater nor more genuine. It’s really with great regret that I was obligated to proceed.”

With his tone now matching the sadness of his drooping eye, Maddock truly did appear regretful, but Bradshaw was still baffled. He said, “Mr. Maddock, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Maddock’s surprised gaze shifted back and forth between them. “The lawsuit? For patent infringement? Oh, dear. You didn’t get served this morning?”

“Only breakfast by my housekeeper, and since then I haven’t been home.”

“And you didn’t teach your class today at the university, I’ll wager. I gave that as your primary working address. I understand you also keep an office in town, but you are not regularly there.”

“Are you telling me you’re suing me for patent infringement?”

“I’m afraid I am, or rather, the Thomas Edison Company is.”

“On what?”

“Your detective microphone.”

Bradshaw clamped his jaw tight. It was all nonsense. Edison had no case against his microphone or anything that he had patented, he was sure of it. But it would take money to prove it, possibly a good deal of money, in a long drawn-out legal battle. He’d seen many such cases play out in the past few years.

“Well, Ben,” O’Brien said, “this clears up why Maddock didn’t come to see you. When the direct approach failed, Edison switched to extortion.”

Maddock frowned as if faced with a child about to steal a cookie. “Detective O’Brien, that’s a very serious accusation. Are you sure you want to make it?”

O’Brien stiffened. “Are you sure you want to sue Professor Bradshaw for infringement? I don’t know how things operate back East, but out here in the Wild West, we don’t take kindly to false accusations.”

Bradshaw put a calming hand on O’Brien’s arm, and for a moment they spoke not at all. The typing in the next room ceased, a chair scraped the wood floor, then the tap of a pair of women’s heels (more delicate than Bradshaw thought Miss Finch capable of) receded, and a door closed.

Maddock sat back, his thin mouth smiling, his drooping eye gleaming. He appeared completely sure of himself, enjoying his role.

Bradshaw said to O’Brien, “Do you want to ask him, or shall I?”

“I’d like to, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“He’s all yours.”

While they said this, Maddock eyed them curiously, a single brow raised.

O’Brien made a show of pulling his notebook from his pocket, licking the tip of his pencil, and holding it poised before asking, “Mr. Maddock, where were you yesterday morning from nine a.m. until this morning at the same time?”

The joy slid off Maddock’s face. “What?”

“You heard the question.”

Maddock sat up, adjusting himself in his chair. “I did, but I don’t understand why it’s being asked.”

“Are you refusing to answer?”

“Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“Did you do something the Seattle police would consider trouble?”

“Of course not.”

“Then please answer the question.”

“I was here, I went out to eat, I filed papers at the courthouse, I did some holiday shopping, I came back here.”

“What time did you return here last evening?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“And did you go out again?”

“No, I was here all night. Alone.”

“You’re sure?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Detective.”

“Where did you do your holiday shopping?”

“The Bon Marché.”

“Did you speak to any employees of the Bon Marché while you were there?”

“Of course I did.”

“Who?”

Maddock stared at O’Brien, then his eyes shifted to Bradshaw, his expression controlled. Bradshaw could see he was thinking, reviewing whom he spoke to, what was said, what he did, that might have been observed or overheard. His focus glazed for a moment, and then a smile crept onto his face. He shook his head, not in denial, but as if in disbelief.

O’Brien said, “Mr. Maddock, would you like to speak to your attorney before answering, or do you represent yourself?”

“Only a fool represents himself, Detective, but no, I have no need of an attorney. Is this about Doyle? Vernon Doyle?”

“It is.”

“What did Mr. Doyle say occurred in our conversation? I have a right to know what I’m being accused of.”

“Mr. Doyle hasn’t accused you of anything, not directly.”

“Then what has he said? We had a vigorous but gentlemanly discussion regarding a subject of mutual interest on which we disagreed. If he said otherwise, he’s lying.”

“He said nothing at all.”

“Then why are you here asking about my visit to the Bon?”

“Mr. Maddock, tell me about your conversation with Mr. Doyle.”

“It was a private conversation concerning business matters.”

“Are you refusing to speak?”

“Yes, Detective. I am refusing to speak on matters of no concern to the police.”

“But your conversation with Mr. Doyle does concern the police, Mr. Maddock.”

“Why on Earth should it?”

“Because Vernon Doyle is dead.”

Maddock’s smile froze, but the joy had gone out of it. “Good God.”

“He was found this morning in the Men’s Wear display window, clutching a string of Edison GE Christmas festoons.”

Maddock’s mouth fell open with a small gasp and the hint of a smile. If Bradshaw was not mistaken, Maddock was greatly relieved by O’Brien’s statement. His gasp slid into a controlled frown. “This is about the holiday festoons? The new Edison lamps?”

“It’s about Vernon Doyle’s death.”

“Edison’s product is certainly not to blame. I’m sure you will find after a thorough examination that the building’s wiring or Doyle himself is to blame for the unfortunate accident, not Edison’s festoons. Have you examined the scene yet, Professor?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“The case is still under investigation. I’m not at liberty to reveal details.”

Maddock extended his hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. “I’m sure you have found Mr. Edison’s product to be completely blameless. I do appreciate your letting me know about the matter. As Mr. Edison’s legal representative in Seattle, I can certainly handle any issues that arise from this unfortunate accident.”