Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (5 page)

“It wasn’t an accident.”

Maddock blinked. “Not—you mean it was intentional? How does one intentionally kill oneself with a festoon of lights? Did he hang himself?”

“He was electrocuted.”

“Intentionally? Perhaps Mr. Edison has a claim against Doyle’s estate for misuse of product?”

O’Brien said, “Don’t be daft, Mr. Maddock. It wasn’t suicide.”

“Someone else misused Mr. Edison’s lights, bringing about the demise of Mr. Doyle? I will want to know who was at fault, of course, so that I can take appropriate legal action. Well, thank you for your consideration in coming here today. I know you will keep me informed of developments. Now, is there anything else—”

“Yes, you can tell me about your heated conversation with Vernon Doyle. You weren’t exactly quiet in your discussion. There were witnesses.”

“Then let your witnesses tell you what was said. I left the Bon before ten. My conversation with Mr. Doyle has no bearing on whatever occurred thereafter.”

Chapter Six

The rat-a-tat of a tapping telegraph key greeted Bradshaw as he approached the door to his own office in the Bailey Building, a couple blocks from the Globe. He wondered what it would be like if all the various tapping and hammering, banging and clanging sounds of the city could be brought into harmony to form a symphony, rather than unnerving discord.

Seattle was a city in perpetual motion, with destruction and construction happening side-by-side, above and below, and all the while business continued uninterrupted at a feverish pace. Like ants detouring around a leaf dropped onto their path, the people of Seattle found ways around the messes and just kept going.

Bradshaw’s door was stenciled more modestly than Maddock’s with his name and “Electrical Forensics Investigator,” and below, “Henry Pratt, Assistant.” When he opened it, the tapping ceased, and a string of cuss words more suited to the Klondike than a place of business reverberated off the walls.

“Henry!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I could have been a client entering.”

“It’s this dang-nabbit Morse code. Dots and dashes—they all blur in my brain. Look here, I just sent a wire and it came out gobbledygook.” Henry tore the paper from the ticker of the practice telegraph device, crumpling it into a ball that then met its siblings in the wastebasket. Taller than Bradshaw, broader, gruffer, but no less intelligent, Henry Pratt had the physique of a logger, the speech of a miner, and the education of a scholar. He could, if he disciplined himself, fit in with the highest echelons of society, but he preferred the dives of the lower regions where, he said, it was easier to spot the liars and cheats.

He’d begun two projects recently. He was lifting weights in order to prevent a back injury from crippling him, and he was learning the art of the telegrapher. The exercise program was going exceedingly well, as was the academic portion of the telegraphy. But the dots and dashes were proving unexpectedly difficult for him.

“At our age,” Bradshaw said, “it’s more difficult to learn a new language, and that’s what Morse is. Keep at it, and one day it will suddenly seem clear.”

“You wanna bet? What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you had a class to teach this afternoon.”

“We’ve got a new case.”

“That fire in Ballard?”

“I’d almost forgotten about that. No, that was a burned-out transformer, no one hurt, though the building’s a total loss. The new case is complicated, usual terms with the SPD, and I’ll need both you and Squirrel.” Squirrel was the nickname of the fact-finder they used to gather background information on persons of interest. “Do you know anyone who works at the Bon?”

“I know a few. Fellow in shipping, one of the drivers. I’m friendly with a gal in Notions, but I can’t say as I know her. She knows me, though, and hides in the back room when I come in.”

The grin on Henry’s face told Bradshaw his friend enjoyed his game of cat and mouse with the Notions girl.

Bradshaw hung his damp coat on the rack. “See what you can find out from the gossip at the Bon, then we’ll compare notes.” He gave the facts of Vernon Doyle’s death and what he’d learned from interviews thus far. Like O’Brien, Henry cringed at the shoe salesman’s use of “overly fond” and “smitten” in regards to Mr. Olafson’s feelings toward the boys and Billy Creasle.

A cursory knock came simultaneously with the door’s opening. A smiling young man stepped in, looking windblown but congenial, and he handed Bradshaw a thick, plain, rain-spattered manila envelope. The young man spun on his heel and left, and the door clapped closed behind him.

Bradshaw had no need to look. Without opening it, he handed the envelope to Henry, who grunted his disgust and tossed it in the wastebasket. It struck with a
thunk
and the basket tipped over.

“My sentiments exactly, Henry. Now, fish it out and take it to my attorney.”

Henry uprighted the can and kicked the envelope toward his desk, a workspace as clean and tidy as Maddock’s had been cluttered. Henry was a minimalist, even with paperwork. The things he liked to collect were friends. Physical possessions mattered to him only in the moment, to use or enjoy, then dispose of or pass on to someone else. When he’d hunted gold in Alaska, it was the hunt that excited him. He’d never given much thought to what he’d do if he ever struck big, although he could tell a good tale of the life he truly didn’t want to lead. “You really think this could be about Daulton’s invention? Would Maddock have sent his man around with these papers if last night he offed Doyle at the Bon? Wouldn’t he be trying to play nice instead?”

“The best defense is a strong offense. And if he’s our man, he’d know it would look suspicious if he didn’t follow through with the suit. No, we can’t read anything into his proceeding. And as yet I have only the coincidence linking them. There are several other equally plausible explanations and therefore suspects, so keep an open mind when you ask around.”

“You ought to put in a few hours in your basement tinkering, Ben. Figure out what Daulton did and put an end to it.”

“It’s not that simple, Henry.”

“If it were simple, the Wizard would have hired someone to figure it out by now and not sent Maddock to town to harass you.”

Bradshaw crossed to the window and looked down on the blustery bustling street, but his vision was turned inward. Even more than the puzzle of Oscar Daulton’s invention was the moral dilemma tainting it. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for bringing to the world an invention birthed through anger and stained with blood. Neither did he want Edison to profit from it.

He took a deep breath and turned away from the window. “Who else is searching for Daulton’s invention, Henry? And which of them knew Vernon Doyle?”

“Good question. A visit to the docks and the diving outfits ought to give us something. They were all fishing for the thing when it first went overboard, and I know I read something about some recent dives.”

“Who do we try first?”

“Oh, Jake Galloway of Galloway Diving. He’s the best. No question about that. The man’s got skill and nerve. Holds the record for deep diving, in these parts anyway.”

Bradshaw didn’t doubt Henry’s assessment. With his gregarious manner and enjoyment of a good chat over coffee or anything stronger, he made friends wherever he went and gathered details of Seattle life that often proved useful in investigations.

“I’ll begin at Galloway’s tomorrow.”

“You don’t sound sure of yourself.”

“Because I’m not. Doyle had a cocksure manner, and he bragged about knowing Daulton when it was to his advantage. That tendency to feel connected to something of perceived importance wasn’t likely limited to lost inventions. He might have annoyed someone for an entirely different matter.”

“Well, the chief hired you to look into this angle, right? And O’Brien is poking around the Bon and Doyle’s private life. So with me and Squirrel digging, we’re sure to catch a scent of the right trail soon. Don’t worry, at least not yet. Say, maybe Jake Galloway will take you for a dive. Cheese and crackers, Ben, I’ve never seen a man turn green so fast. You want me to go?”

“I can handle the docks. If diving is necessary, I’ll leave that to you.”

“Nah, they weigh you down something fierce to get you to sink, and I don’t think my back could take it. So when’s my niece due home?”

“Five days.”

“Ha! That brought your color back. That reminds me, I got her a present. Can’t wait ’til Christmas. I’ll show you.” Bradshaw followed Henry into the small storage room where they kept records on closed cases and an array of handy tools of their trade, including several of Bradshaw’s detective microphones. A cot against the wall was neatly made with a wool blanket and white-cased pillow. Henry often slept there when an investigation went late, or whenever he was in the mood for solitude. It had been a few days since Henry had slept at Bradshaw’s house, in the bedroom that had been his ever since Bradshaw moved to Seattle. There were a few times over the years when Henry had gone off to find adventure, including the spring and summer of ’01 when he’d been in Alaska and his niece, Missouri Fremont, had temporarily moved into his room.

Bradshaw thought back to that spring evening two years ago when he’d opened his front door to find her standing there, skinny and pale, her amber eyes warm and wise and looking deep into his soul. He’d known then that his life would never be the same, but he denied it. For a very long time, he denied it to everyone, even himself.

“It’s full of homeopathic remedies.” Henry interrupted Bradshaw’s drifting thoughts. “Ain’t it the prettiest box you’ve ever seen?”

It was indeed a fine wooden case of polished cherry. Inside, lift-out trays were divided into small felt-lined compartments, perfect for glass vials to travel safely. On the outside of the case, a blank copper tag awaited an inscription.

“I was gonna have her name engraved, but I didn’t know what to put.”

Henry caught Bradshaw’s eye, and they both looked quickly away. Henry cleared his throat, and a dull ache squeezed Bradshaw’s heart. Should the case say “Dr. Fremont” or “Dr. Bradshaw” or, heaven forbid, some other last name, should things turn out disastrously?

The tag was attached to the case by a leather sleeve. Bradshaw slid out the tag.

Henry snorted. “I’ll put the bow there.”

Chapter Seven

The smoke emitted by the handkerchief held a particular sharpness. The kerchief was made of a cotton and silk blend, dyed a deep indigo. Bradshaw thought it likely the dye was at fault for the smoke’s potency, but Mrs. Prouty cared not for explanations. She threw open the door at the top of the stairs and shouted down to Bradshaw in the basement, wanting to know how much longer she was expected to endure the odor.

He’d burned worse. His sulfur experiments a couple years ago had driven her out of the house. “I’m done,” he called out, and the door slammed shut.

He’d replicated the Bon Marché’s incandescent show window lamp with a silver reflector, and using several of the same brand and color handkerchiefs as the one he’d found scorched, he’d replicated the window particulars. He recorded his findings in precise detail in case they were needed for a criminal trial. From the time the lamp was energized, it took one minute and ten seconds for the cloth to scorch, another two minutes to smolder, and another three minutes to fully ignite if the handkerchief was not removed. If the handkerchief was removed at the time of scorching, fire was prevented. If the handkerchief was removed at the time of smoldering, the sudden increase in oxygen burst the cloth into flames. What were the odds of someone entering the show window at precisely the right time, just before the removal of the cloth would lead to fire? And since it was an impossibility that whoever removed the cloth didn’t see Vernon Doyle lying dead, why did they not report it?

Bradshaw’s experiments brought him to the irrefutable conclusion that the handkerchief had been intentionally placed over the lamp and intentionally removed. The cloth could not have fallen accidentally into such a position to create such scorch marks. This placement must have occurred sometime between midnight—when the window lights were shut off—and seven, when they were turned on again.

Had it been placed, then, after Doyle was killed? By the killer, hoping that when the lights came on, a fire would ensue and destroy any evidence of what had happened in that window? Why else would anyone have placed the handkerchief over the lamp? Yet, if fire had been the goal, why had the cloth been anonymously removed? Had it been placed prior to Doyle’s death, but after midnight, after the window lamps were turned off? For what purpose? Again, intentional fire-setting seemed the only logical answer. Motive? An angry employee? Anarchism? Personal vendetta? And why remove the cloth prior to setting fire? Had Doyle’s death complicated an arson attempt and thus motivated the arsonist to abandon the attempt? Or were the two crimes even related?

He didn’t have enough information to begin to form an opinion. He needed more facts. It was time to head to the waterfront.

***

A monster climbed out of the deep. Tethers of rope and hose ensnared the bulky dripping canvas body, and the otherworldly domed copper helmet with three round glass eyes winked in the sudden sun break. Two tenders sprung into action, aiding this creature onto the dock. One tender removed the lead-weighted belt from the monster, while another detached the helmet, revealing a man’s head of thick black hair and a pale clean-shaven rugged face. The man stepped out of the weighted boots and stood with canvas-clad feet on the rain-darkened dock. The tenders peeled off the diver’s dress, leaving the man in thick woolen underwear and barefoot. He reached down into the legs of the vacated suit and pulled out thick wool socks, but he didn’t don them. He was given trousers and a flannel jacket, and then a tender pointed in Bradshaw’s direction. The man nodded his chin in acknowledgement.

Bradshaw retreated into the office to wait. Located north of the modern new piers and warehouses that stretched from the Moran Brothers shipyard to Broad Street, Galloway Diving shared a weathered dock on an old wharf riddled with mismatched buildings. From the outside, Galloway’s office could best be described as a shanty, but inside, all was shipshape. And warm. Bradshaw examined the many charts covering the walls. Old charts from Seattle’s pioneering days, charts of Puget Sound, the Washington coast, Elliott Bay, and one dated 1895 indicating the depths in fathoms of the hundreds of wrecks in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Many of the charts had little pins with colored flags marking locations.

A diving suit stood on display in the corner. It looked well used, the canvas patched, and the copper helmet had developed a dark patina. But the three glass plates gleamed. What would possess a man to put himself into such a getup and drop himself into the sea was beyond him. No treasure of the deep could be worth that.

A percolator sat bubbling atop the coal stove in the center of the room, reminding Bradshaw he’d missed his morning coffee. He moved to the stove to warm his hands, and his thoughts drifted.

The newspaper had hit his front porch this morning before he’d had breakfast, bringing news of Doyle’s death and a secondhand quote from Bradshaw. The reporter had used his statement out of context in such a way as to be inflammatory and misleading, insinuating that the Edison GE bulbs were faulty. Bradshaw hadn’t spoken to any reporters, but he did recognize the words to be his. He’d said them at the Bon Marché while speaking to O’Brien when only employees had been around. It was not the first time a reporter had rushed in and interviewed witnesses to a crime investigation then presented their findings inaccurately, and it wouldn’t be the last. But in this particular case it was more than annoying.

Under the article had been another smaller one, given less space because it was sadly so common. A suicide by carbolic acid. The sight of it lanced him. He’d crumpled the page and tossed it into the parlor grate with a glance toward the stairs, toward his son’s room. The boy knew his mother had taken her own life many years ago, but not the manner in which she’d done it.

His stomach no longer receptive to food or coffee, he’d headed out of his house, and when he opened the front door, he found standing there the same young man who had served him papers the previous day at his office. He was handed another plain manila envelope, which he accepted without argument or evasion. He’d dropped the envelope at his attorney’s office on the way to the waterfront. J. D. Maddock was efficient, Bradshaw gave him that.

Now, as Bradshaw stood warming his hands at the coal stove, the smell of the coffee made him light-headed. He moved away, taking a closer look at the bulky diving dress. It was composed of two layers of thin canvas, sandwiching a layer of rubber. He was examining the way the heavy rubber collar was vulcanized to the suit when Galloway came padding in, his feet still bare.

“That was my first diving dress,” Galloway said proudly, extending a strong, cold hand. They exchanged greetings then Galloway explained, “Old Gus gave me the outfit, God rest his soul, and he taught me to dive. He was tough as they come, and not afraid of anything but ghosts.”

“Ghosts?”

“He saw one down below and it nearly took his life. Divers don’t tend to be superstitious, mind you, not like sailors and fishermen who won’t set sail if they see a cat just before boarding. When you’re down deep, you can’t afford to be spooked by nonsense. So when Gus said he met up with a ghost, I knew he meant it.” Galloway shuddered and made a small sound in the back of his throat.

“What about you? Seen any ghosts down below?”

“No, thank goodness. But I did see one on land. Once was enough. Coffee?”

Bradshaw returned to the stove and accepted a mug gratefully. He’d never seen a ghost, and he didn’t care to hear about Jake’s experience, but he understood what it felt like to be haunted. They stood together drinking while outside the weather turned nasty again and sent raindrops pinging against the glass.

“Has the technology changed much since you began diving?”

“Oh, not with the suits. That old one still does the job. The compressors are better, though, so we can go deeper.”

“You go down all times of year?” Bradshaw asked.

“Oh, the temperatures below aren’t much better in summer, maybe mid-fifties on the hottest day of the year. Today, I think we measured forty-nine. As long as there’s no danger of the hoses freezing, I work. The worst is wind. The wind makes it miserable, and dangerous.”

“Are you working here? On this dock, I mean?”

“No, I was just testing out a new suit, making sure she’s airtight and well-fit before I go deeper. There’s a wreck in about a hundred feet of water, went down last week with all her cargo. We’ll be lightening her soon, then patching her up if she’s not too bad. Hopefully get her floating again.”

“That takes a large crew, doesn’t it?”

“It does, more than I have. I’ll be diving for the Alaska Company Wreckers. They have all the big equipment, the tugs and pontoons and pumps and sweepers.”

“Do you work for other outfits often?”

“Just Alaska. I like to keep up my skills, and the pay is top dollar.” He lifted his steaming mug toward the window. Lashed to the end of the dock was Galloway’s salvage boat, a small steamship with the profile of a tug crossed with a trawler. It looked as strong and capable as its owner. “It’s my livelihood and my home. I can’t sleep on dry land anymore. If the floor isn’t rocking, the room spins.”

“I take it you’re a bachelor.”

“It suits me,” he said, topping off his mug, and doing the same for Bradshaw. “I’ve got no patience for children, and no woman would tolerate my way of life.”

“It’s a young man’s profession.”

“That it is. You begin to lose your nerve after a certain age and so many dives, or so I’m told. But I figure I’ve got another decade at least before I hang up my gear, so I earn what I can. It never hurts to bring in a little extra. This is not a cheap business to run. I own my boat, and I’m equipped to take two men down at a time, do some minor repairs, retrieve cargo, that sort of thing. I employ six men full time, and others part-time who float between outfits.” Galloway stretched his back and moved his shoulders as if working out kinks from muscles more developed than Henry’s, and a good sight stronger than Bradshaw’s.

“My men told me you’re here about a treasure hunt, Professor. I specialize in those, but if it’s Oscar Daulton’s invention you’re after, I can’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got an exclusive contract with a client.”

“And who is your client?”

Galloway’s broad chest puffed a bit. “Mr. Thomas Edison of Menlo Park, New Jersey.”

“I see. And when did you sign this contract?”

“Monday, with his Seattle legal representative, Mr. J. D. Maddock.”

“Monday? But Mr. Maddock has been actively searching for information regarding Daulton’s invention for many months, ever since Mr. Edison came to town, in fact.”

“He didn’t make me a high enough offer until Monday.”

“You were confident he would eventually make such an offer?”

“Of course. I don’t mean to boast, Professor, but I’m about the best deep diver in the Pacific Northwest. I work almost exclusively in Puget Sound, mostly right here in Elliott Bay, so I know these waters like other men know their own backyards. When Maddock first approached, I knew he needed me, but he had to try everyone else before he realized I was worth the price.”

“Weren’t you taking a chance?”

“What, on losing a big contract? No, it was a sure thing. I knew no one else would have any luck.”

“Why were you so sure?”

“Like I said, I’m the best. They’ve had more than two years to find it, and they haven’t.”

“You’ve had the same two years.”

Galloway shrugged, but his smile stayed as confident as ever. Bradshaw wondered if Galloway’s real business, at least in regards to finding Daulton’s box, was selling hope. He made money as long as treasure-seekers believed he could find it.

“Can you provide me with the names of the other divers Mr. Maddock hired?”

“I can, but you’ll be wasting your money hiring them.” Galloway went to a desk and his pen scratched noisily for a few minutes.

“Mr. Galloway, could you add the names of all those who hired you over the past two years to search for Daulton’s invention?”

Galloway’s eyes narrowed. “What do you need my client list for?”

A ship’s horn sounded from a slip nearby, and seagulls cried as if in protest.

“I won’t harass your clients, Mr. Galloway. Not unless one of them has committed murder.”

Galloway’s hand froze halfway to his coffee mug. “Is this about the electrician at the Bon?”

“Why would you think so?”

“It’s front page news. The paper said you were investigating and that you blamed Edison’s new holiday lights for Doyle’s death. Now you’re here asking about my clients, and Vernon Doyle was a client. If you’re not here because of Doyle, it seems a strange coincidence.”

“What was your relationship with Vernon Doyle?”

“He was a customer. He paid for a few dives. He was hoping to find the lost invention. But I don’t see how the names of my other clients would help you.”

“When you say he paid, do you mean he went diving?”

“No, he was afraid to dive.” He said this without scorn, but Bradshaw felt an insult nonetheless. And what would Galloway make of his own terror of any sort of depth or height? Or small spaces?

“Doyle paid for me to dive and search. He believed he knew something about the invention and that he was entitled to it. Is that true?”

“I’ve been hearing similar reports from others. I haven’t yet untangled fact from tall tales.”

“Huh. Now it’s your turn. What happened to Doyle that didn’t get into the papers? And what has it got to do with Galloway Diving?”

“I’m afraid I can only ask questions at this stage of an investigation, not answer them. How well did you know Vernon Doyle?”

Galloway shrugged. “Had a drink with him now and again, but his wife doesn’t know. She’s not fond of drink.”

“When did he last hire you?”

“Oh, this fall. October?”

“Can you check your log book?”

“We can find the dates on the chart.”

He strode across the room, still oblivious to being barefoot. Surely the wood floor was like ice. He stood before a chart of the bay near West Seattle with the wavy lines indicating various depths. Numbered flags were pinned near the Maryland Street dock where the ferry from Seattle landed daily. Bradshaw made note of the dates and number of dives, while Galloway cocked his head and studied the map. Bradshaw could only imagine what Galloway knew of those waters and what lay deep below. There were fish of all sorts in the bay, and seals and killer whales. What else lay below? Giant octopuses, ghosts? Whatever Galloway was paid, it was not enough.