Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) (6 page)

“So, what do you think? We looking in the right area?”

Bradshaw shook off the nightmare images of the deep and studied the chart. He found the Marion Street dock and followed a dotted line from it to the landing in West Seattle. “Yes, I suppose. The general vicinity.”

“Passengers on board that day say there was a commotion a few minutes before docking.” He looked at Bradshaw for confirmation.

Bradshaw shrugged. “I really couldn’t say.” He’d been preoccupied, trying to stop a murder. He’d had no sense of the passage of time or the distance traveled across the bay. It was only an eight-minute trip from dock to dock. It was entirely possible that just a few minutes elapsed from the time Daulton threw the basket overboard until the ferry docked, but it had all passed in a blur.

Galloway said, “I read about it when it happened, like everyone else. I still don’t know exactly what it is I’m supposed to be looking for other than it’s in a cigar box. Some sort of electrical invention?”

“Yes. Was it you who found the basket?”

“No, a fisherman found that a day or so after it went over. Of course, it was made of wicker and floated.”

“The batteries would have gone straight down. They haven’t been found either.”

“Batteries?”

“Three dry cell telegraph batteries, strapped together.”

“That’s the first I’ve heard of batteries, Professor.”

“The reporters were fascinated with the invention inside the cigar box, not the ordinary batteries.” Daulton had made his device portable with the telegraph batteries, but Bradshaw had not seen it in operation with them. “How deep is it here?” Bradshaw pointed to the flags at the outer edge of the search.

“The maximum most deep divers are willing and able to go, about a hundred and twenty feet. That takes the best gear and four men pumping air. A man can’t stay down long at that depth. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at a time. That box must be deep, and that’s why the others have failed. It’s why I’ve failed, too, I’m afraid. I’ve put in my time and searched everywhere accessible. But until I got the new compressors yesterday, I didn’t have the air to go down any deeper. How come you’ve never looked for it, Professor? I’ve never heard of you hiring a diving outfit to search. Is it a tall tale? If the thing is worth something, why aren’t you looking for it?”

“Because I don’t want to find it. You’ve covered the area thoroughly.”

“It looks like that on paper. In reality, it’s dark down there, and where it’s not muddy, it’s rocky with crevices big enough to trap a man. In some places the bull kelp grows as thick as forests.”

Bradshaw tried and failed to block the image of the massive, long, thick tendrils of seaweed wrapping themselves around a man and pulling him deep into the depths. He felt an icy fog brush against his face and feared it meant the coming of a faint. He nodded and breathed and swallowed hard and the feeling passed.

Oblivious to Bradshaw’s internal battle, Galloway went on, “The thing could be two feet away, but if you don’t look in the exact right spot, you won’t see it.”

“Yet you seem confident of finding it for Edison.”

“With Edison’s backing, I can afford a more thorough search, and better equipment. That new suit I was testing came compliments of the Wizard. And the new pumps. I’ll be able to go deeper than anyone in the region and expand the search. As soon as I finish the job for Alaska, I’ll find that cigar box for Edison, Professor. You wait and see.”

“I would still like to see your client list. I will use discretion.”

Galloway hesitated but at last allowed Bradshaw to copy down the complete list of his clients who’d asked to search for Daulton’s lost box, going back to the spring of ’01. He only recognized one name, other than Vernon Doyle. Troy Ruzauskas. The Bon Marché’s window dresser.

Chapter Eight

Eager as he was to hear what the Bon’s window dresser had to say about his interest in diving for Oscar Daulton’s invention, Bradshaw was due up at the university to oversee the Dynamo Lab, and with term exams next week, he knew his students would be full of questions. Because of the changeable weather and myriad places to visit today, he’d left his bicycle—his preferred method of transportation—at home. He hiked up from the waterfront and caught a streetcar on the Lake Union Line at Eighth, transferring to the University Line once across the bridge.

He found the campus alive with holiday spirit, due in part to the decorating efforts of the Delta Alpha Sorority, who were still stringing garland as he climbed the steps and entered the main doors of the Administration Building.

Inside, he followed the winding concrete steps down to the basement labs, where more joviality awaited him. His students, four boisterous juniors, were entertaining an elderly white-bearded fellow with their class yell.

Rip! Rah! Roar!

Seek No More

Come Adore

Nineteen Naught Four!

The white-bearded gentleman was not Father Christmas but Grandfather Bagley, one of the State University’s earliest supporters. His full name was Reverend Daniel Bagley, for besides being one of Seattle’s first pioneers, he was also a Methodist minister, and his evangelical spirit included his passion for supporting institutions of higher learning. He’d been instrumental in establishing the Territorial University, which ultimately became the State University. He was beloved by the students and he visited frequently to encourage and inspire.

“Professor Bradshaw,” Grandfather Bagley called out, his eyes crinkling with laughter, “It’s hard to believe these young lads will one day be running our country. Have you an invention to tame them?”

“I do. When they get out of hand, I send them to the bicycle there in the corner, mounted to a dynamo. They charge batteries while riding out the nonsense.”

“Excellent, Professor! I will be on my way then, and leave the rascals to you.”

Grandfather Bagley’s departure rang with enthusiastic holiday wishes, and then Bradshaw kindly but firmly turned his students to task, taking a small glimmer of delight from their eyes by saying, as he pointed to the diagram of an electric generator, “This will be on the exam.”

Two hours later, Bradshaw grabbed a quick lunch of steaming vegetable soup and a cold roast beef sandwich at a diner near the university before heading back downtown. He met up with Detective O’Brien at the Bon, and they found a relatively quiet location on the second floor between the Ladies’ Furnishings and Millinery departments.

The chatter and buzz of the hectic store was mostly below them, rising like the warm-up notes from an orchestra. Leather chairs were conveniently placed near the balcony that overlooked the main floor, with the intention, no doubt, of providing a place of rest for weary husbands, not two investigators looking into murder. But they dropped into the chairs gratefully. Bradshaw’s position gave him a perfect view of the latest frilly and puffy fashions displayed on lifelike female mannequins. Toward the back, a headless female form was dressed in a simple gown of pale green. No silly frilly furbelows marred the elegant lines of the dress, and Bradshaw instantly envisioned Missouri in it. He’d never bought a woman an article of clothing before. How would he determine the correct size?

He did not ask Detective O’Brien, although, being married and the father of four girls, surely he would know.

Distracted by the gown, he missed some of what O’Brien was saying, catching only the end of his sentence, “…when I talked to the night guard, and not only did he see nothing unusual, it’s my guess he saw nothing at all save the inside of his eyelids. He has two day jobs that together run from seven in the morning until ten at night, and he starts here at midnight. He confessed he can sleep standing up and even while walking. Mr. Olafson fired him about an hour ago.”

“What about the store detectives?”

“Competent women, and discreet. They’ve dealt with a lot of theft lately—some from employees—and they know of several romantic back-room affairs, but they had nothing to pass on about Doyle that they thought would be helpful. He was honest with the timesheet and never took home anything that didn’t belong to him. They did admit they haven’t had any spare time to pay much attention to employees lately. With the holidays in full swing, they’ve had their hands full with shoplifters.”

“Why is it you never hear much about theft from the Bon?”

“Because they do their best to keep it quiet. Not good for business to have customers arrested daily.”

“You asked about Olafson?”

“The detectives said he was as upright and virtuous as they come.”

“Did you get a chance to talk with Billy Creasle?”

“I did, and what’s more, several of his fellow employees talked about him when I interviewed them about Doyle. The boy is universally perceived as a wonder, a prodigy. Great things are predicted for his future. They agreed he is the apple of Mr. Olafson’s eye. Only from the shoe salesman did I get the sense that Olafson’s interest was anything other than fatherly.”

“Tell me about this salesman.”

“Mr. Lewis Latimer, a stooped man in his fifties, worked here since the store moved to this location in ’96. I get the impression he’s been in sales his whole life and is competent at best. I interviewed him again, and he repeated that Olafson has an unnatural fondness for the young boys employed at the store, but when pressed, he said he’d never had occasion to observe any indecent behavior.”

“Did you lead the conversation?”

“I provided the same opening to everyone. I said that I’d heard Mr. Olafson seems to be liked by the employees, especially the young ones.”

“And from that Latimer supplied Olafson’s unnatural fondness?”

“He did, and he repeated that he felt Olafson was particularly smitten by Billy, but no one else took the conversation there. All others gave Olafson high praise for his ability to get work and loyalty from the boys.”

“And the boys themselves?”

“There are currently fifty of them between the ages of eleven and fifteen working part-time either as cash boys, runners, or errand boys. There are a few dozen up to the age of seventeen working in stockrooms or the mailroom or in delivery. There are far fewer girls, just a dozen or so who work in wrapping or as cash runners in the Ladies’ Department. All I interviewed gave honest praise of Olafson. If any of them lied, they are far better at it than my girls.”

“What’s your hunch?”

“Where there’s smoke…Of course, Mr. Latimer may well have reason to tarnish our view of Mr. Olafson, something we’ve yet to discover.”

Bradshaw took a deep breath. The holiday cacophony took on a sinister undertone. His glance swept the women perusing the displays of finery, moved to the little cash girl dashing for the stairs to the third-floor office, then he looked over the balcony to the main floor where the salesmen and saleswomen manned their counters, and customers stood three-deep in line. A few errand boys, distinctive in their dark knee-pants suits and white aprons, dashed through the crowds.

“Shouldn’t they be in school at this time of day?”

O’Brien had followed Bradshaw’s gaze. “They get around that by providing a school here for the day workers. On the whole, it’s not a bad job for a kid. Boys love to run.”

“I didn’t know you approved of child labor.”

“Well, I don’t want them down in coal mines, but I don’t see the harm in paying them something to run around a department store a couple hours a day. Keeps them out of trouble.”

“And exposes them to potential dangers.”

“Life is danger, Ben. You can lock yourself up and avoid all trouble, or you can live. Boys need to learn how to deal with it.”

“I don’t see your daughters running around the store.”

“Girls are different.”

Bradshaw didn’t completely disagree, and he knew the boys who worked at the Bon likely ate better and were better dressed because of it. He just hoped the lessons learned here didn’t include the darker, uglier side of life. “If the shoe salesman’s accusations prove valid, it could be that Vernon Doyle witnessed something between Olafson and Billy or one of the others and threatened to tell. It could be a motive for murder.”

“The upshot is, even if Olafson had nothing to do with Doyle’s death, I have to investigate. Convictions of indecent assault upon a child are almost impossible without third party testimony or physical proof. I won’t record a word in my notebook until I have something substantial, in case it turns out to be nothing but maliciousness.”

Moral depravity, perversion—those were the terms used by the press when reporting on such cases. Bradshaw knew in his soul that he wouldn’t kill to protect such a secret, but he would kill anyone who ever attempted such a thing with his son. And gladly accept the sentence, if any. If ever there was justification for lethal action, surely assault of a child would be one. He took another deep breath and turned his mind back to the case.

“When you spoke to Doyle’s wife, did she mention any particular friends or acquaintances?”

“No, she was fairly shaken.”

“We need to find someone who knew him well. Vernon Doyle may have been places and with people his wife knew nothing about.” He told O’Brien about Jake Galloway’s mention of drinking with Doyle. “A man with that complexion has spent many hours with a bottle.”

“Uh-oh. Mrs. Doyle is a temperance gal. Saw the sash hanging on the coat rack. Looks like we’ll be adding the Tenderloin to the search. With drinking comes gambling and it could be his debts followed him to the store. I told Mrs. Doyle you might want to see her.”

Bradshaw nodded. “Vernon Doyle may have been having an affair with Mrs. Adkins, a seamstress here.” He told O’Brien what Billy told him.

“Now there’s a motive. If she was being pressured into the affair, she might have found a way to permanently end it. I will speak to Mrs. Adkins.”

“What does the chief window dresser, Mr. Troy Ruzauskas, have to say about the scorched cloth?”

“That it wasn’t his fault, and neither was the last near conflagration.”

“Who does he blame?”

“He doesn’t, not specifically. He’s angry and flummoxed by the accusations.”

A bevy of women swept by, smelling of perfume from the Fragrance Department mingled with the damp wool of their outerwear, and chattering of an upcoming engagement for which they all required new gowns. Bradshaw’s eye was drawn once again to the simple, elegant gown in the back of the department, and he imagined Missouri wearing it, standing in the parlor in the soft glow of the—

“It’s called a chemise, Ben.”

Bradshaw’s glance snapped back to O’Brien.

“It’s not a dress, it’s an undergarment. That’s why it’s on a headless mannequin. You know, to make it less vulgar on public display. You give that to Missouri for Christmas, and Mrs. Prouty will clout you with her frying pan.”

Bradshaw cleared his throat, and gave a final, resigned glance at the forbidden garment. “Wh—”

“It’s gone on too long, Ben. You’re just torturing yourself.”

“This isn’t—”

“I wasn’t around when you went to pieces over your wife’s death, but I saw the aftermath, and it wasn’t pretty.”

“This isn’t—”

“Yes, it is. It’s exactly the same because she’s not right for you. She’s too young, too modern, too free-thinking. The longer you drag out this purgatory, the worse hell it will be when it ends. And you’ll go back to being the dour, plodding, miserable man I met a couple years ago. Yes, Missouri Fremont helped you get better, but you can’t seriously think you’ll ever find a way to marry her.”

Bradshaw sat stunned at O’Brien’s directness. “This really isn’t the appropriate time to be having this discussion.”

“I didn’t bring it up, you did. Your mind isn’t on the case, it’s on that undergarment you think is a dress, it’s on the conversation you haven’t yet had with Father McGuinness because you know how it will end.”

A sharp pain radiated along Bradshaw’s jaw and down to his shoulder, and he realized that the buzz in his head was the grinding of his teeth. Not willing to face his own anger nor the truth he would see reflected, he could no longer meet O’Brien’s eyes. As they sat, not speaking, not looking at each other, a saleswoman approached and asked if they needed assistance. Detective O’Brien flashed his badge, and the woman left them alone.

Bradshaw said curtly, “What did the window dresser have to say about Doyle’s death?”

O’Brien paused a moment, as if weighing his options. His heavy sigh signaled a truce. He said, “Ruzauskas and Doyle conferred on the placement and timing of the holiday lights at midnight, at which time Ruzauskas went home—alone—with the intention of returning the next morning to see the lights, but he overslept and didn’t awaken until his landlady pounded on the door to say he was wanted by the police.”

Bradshaw said, “Billy was here that night until midnight, too. Do we have a time of death?”

“Coroner says he’s near certain Doyle died between two and four. Rigor wasn’t far established and the stomach contents not much digested. Doyle was seen in the men’s lunch room at half past midnight, having a bite.”

“Did anyone see Mr. Ruzauskas leave the store?”

“He left through the employee entrance, signed the book. So did Billy Creasle.”

“Ruzauskas is a diver. Did he tell you? He hired Galloway Diving several times to take him searching for Daulton’s box.”

O’Brien’s eyebrows flashed up. “Now that’s interesting.”

“I agree. There were fifty or more employees here in various capacities, mostly in stocking and shipping, the night Vernon Doyle died. I’m not ready to disregard them all, but I believe we’re safe in eliminating anyone from suspicion who had no close relationship with Doyle. The location of the switch and the time at which it was thrown indicate an action of intent triggered by strong emotion, not casual irritation.”

“But must it have been an intent to kill? Could it have merely been an intent to turn on the tree lights?”