The Detroit Electric Scheme (9 page)

“Where's Frank Van Dam?” I said to the cop.

He shrugged. “Don't know. Thought I'd see Frankie here, too.”

My father came out and chastised me, though I heard a hint of pride behind his words. I returned to the managers' office and got back to work on the stack of paper, though I spent more time tapping my pencil on the desk, thinking, than I did working.

Did the Wobblies coming here today make them more or less likely to have been involved? I wasn't sure, though I thought it less likely, as it made more sense to distance themselves from the murder if they'd been responsible. On the other hand, I'd never heard the Industrial Workers of the World described as “sensible.”

The next time I looked at my watch it was two o'clock. I'd missed my lunch break by an hour and a half. That told me all I needed to know about my state of mind. I asked Cavendish if I could take a break to use the telephone. He glared at me for a moment, smirked, and shook his head.

It was clear from the phone call this morning that Frank's mother would never let me speak with him. My only chance was to catch him at work. Phoning Frank would have to wait until Monday.

 

The cake, chocolate with chocolate frosting, stood three feet high, in the shape of an automobile, though the elongated front end made it look more like a gasoline car than an electric. Inscribed on top in white frosting was
DETROIT ELECTRIC WORLD RECORD—211.3 MILES ON A SINGLE CHARGE!
It was quickly cut into pieces by two of our female typewriters and handed out to the men along with a tangy red punch.

My father stood on a wooden box and raised his arms over his head. “May I have your attention, please?”

The four hundred or so men who had been milling around and chatting while they ate turned toward him and listened. I was fidgeting, anxious to leave, though no more than many of the other men, who were late for their after-work smoke. Anderson Carriage employees were occasionally caught smoking at work, but most, knowing it was worth their job, managed to hold off until their lunch break or after six, and then smoke only off of the company's property. They had good reason. My father paid higher than average wages (more than five dollars a day for skilled craftsmen), limited the workweek to fifty-four hours, hired no one under sixteen years of age, and was known as a fair man, often keeping on employees who were unable to do their jobs because of age or injury.

My father cleared his throat and projected out over the floor. “I'll make this quick because I'm sure you are not interested in hearing anyone, even someone as entertaining as I, go on all night.” He smiled, and the men laughed politely.

“There are forty-six companies building electric automobiles in this country today. Well, actually, that was yesterday. Who knows how many more sprang up today?”

The men laughed again.

“Of those forty-six companies, only one made history yesterday—Detroit Electric. A Model A Victoria, powered by Edison batteries, driven by Will Anderson, and witnessed by Dr. J. O. Miller, went two hundred eleven and three-tenths miles on a single charge, breaking the Baker Electric record by almost ten miles!”

The men cheered.

“We will be running advertisements in
Horseless Age
and
The Automobile,
not coincidentally the same magazines in which Baker ran the advertisements for their record.”

The men laughed and gave a hurrah. They seemed to truly like my father, in spite of what some might feel was a bit of priggishness, and the general tendency of many men to resent their superiors.

“This gives us real momentum. The quality of Detroit Electric automobiles is second to no brand, be they electric, gasoline, or steam.” His voice had been steadily rising, and now he shouted, “This year we will overtake Baker as the number-one supplier of electric automobiles in the country!”

Applause and whistles echoed through the plant.

He held out his arms, quieting the men. “But our job has only begun. Remember, our competition is not just electrics but all automobiles.”

“Even Ford?” one man called out from the back.

The rest of the men erupted in laughter.

“All right, all right,” my father said with a chuckle. “I'll concede it may be a stretch to say all motorcar companies are direct competitors. But we can't forget about Pierce-Arrow, Lozier, and Packard, even Cadillac. They all compete with us for the same affluent customer. Remember,
in Detroit alone there are more than thirty companies that will produce over two hundred thousand automobiles this year. Our production is a small fraction of that.

“But . . .” He paused for dramatic effect. “The Edison battery gives us the opportunity to compete with gasoline motorcars in touring. This has been the only real obstacle in our battle against the manufacturers of internal combustion engines. But to continue to rise above the other makers of electrics, we will need to work together, striving hand in hand, to improve our quality even further, to build the best automobiles ever produced.”

He smiled again, warmly, and held out his hands as if to hug the entire group. “And the only reason this is possible is that you men are the best autoworkers in the country. Now go on, get home before your wives start searching the saloons.”

A cry went up. “Three cheers for Mr. Anderson!” As the men hurrahed, my father's face lit up, and his blue eyes sparkled. He loved his work. He loved his men.

After the party, my father asked me to join him in his office. We sat facing each other across his desk. He was no longer grinning. “I talked to Mayor Breitmeyer and the police commissioner. They both agreed to do what they could to keep you out of the investigation into Cooper's death. The commissioner said he would relay that message to Detective Riordan.”

“Thank you, Father.”

He shook his head. “But we can't have this kind of distraction at the factory. You're going on vacation. Starting tomorrow.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “All right.” It would give me time to work this out. “For how long?”

He shrugged. “Until I tell you to come back.”

“But I've only got a week coming.”

“You've got money saved, don't you?”

“Yes, some.”

He stood, signaling the meeting was over. I followed suit.

“I won't let you starve.” He came around to my side of the desk, put his arm around me, and steered me toward the door. “Will, I don't believe
you capable of murder, and I'll do everything I can to help you. I just don't think it's a good idea to have you around here right now.”

I nodded. “I understand. Thank you for your support, sir.” We shook hands, and I left his office.

I took a streetcar to Elizabeth's house. No lights were on, but I knocked anyway. I asked the neighbors on both sides if they knew where the Humes had gone. They had no answers. I waited on the porch for almost two hours, but no one appeared.

The streetcar ride home seemed to take only a few seconds. I was thinking about my predicament. Suspected of murder, banished from work, and unable to help Elizabeth. They say trouble comes in threes. I hoped it was true.

I put on my winter coat and sat out on the fire escape with a bottle of bourbon, smoking and thinking. I thought about John and Elizabeth, about Riordan and my father, about how I had been spiraling into the abyss ever since I ruined Elizabeth's life. At one in the morning, dispirited and staggering drunk, I went to bed.

I finally woke the next morning after ten with a bone-dry mouth and native drums pounding in my head. I made a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out how I could best help Elizabeth. Nothing of value occurred to me. When I walked out of the kitchen, I froze. A white envelope lay on the carpeting in front of my door. I picked it up cautiously, as if it might contain explosives. Just like the previous one,
WILLIAM C. ANDERSON, JR.—OPEN IMMEDIATELY!
was typewritten on the front. Had it been there when I first walked into the kitchen? I couldn't remember, but as bad as I felt, that wasn't remarkable.

I opened the door and stuck my head out into the hall. No one was there. I closed the door, ripped open the envelope, and unfolded the letter with trembling hands.

Dear Will,

I have decided to sell your clothing back to you. Bring $1,000 in an envelope to the clock tower at the downtown Michigan Central Depot at 5:00
P.M
.
tomorrow night.

Come alone and unarmed.

If you bring in the police or deviate in any other way from these instructions, the clothing will immediately be delivered to Detective Riordan. This is our little secret, Will.

See you tomorrow.

 

I didn't have a thousand dollars. The money I had on hand and in the bank totaled just over six hundred, a tidy savings for a twenty-two-year-old with an expensive drinking habit. But where would I get another four hundred dollars?

It was unthinkable to ask my father. He would force me to tell him what was going on. My mother wouldn't be able to get it. My sisters wouldn't give it to me. Elwood and Joe were the only people I could think of. They weren't wealthy by any stretch, but maybe one of them would surprise me.

I sat at the kitchen table and reread the note. In the first letter the blackmailer addressed me as Mr. Anderson. This time he called me Will. That seemed to indicate he knew me. I knew no one in the AFL or the IWW. I came back to Ben Carr and Wesley McRae. Ben was the only person who knew I had taken out the Victoria. He would have been able to follow me to the factory and then gone to my building. He could have seen me come out with the clothing. I couldn't imagine he had anything to do with John's death, but if the killer and blackmailer were two different people it might be possible. He didn't have much money. A thousand dollars would be a year's pay for him.

No. I was being paranoid. I had known Ben most of my life. He was a nice guy, an honest guy. Besides, he could never have written the notes. The grammar and vocabulary suggested a highly educated person, which he certainly was not. I doubted Ben even had access to a typewriter. I decided to forget those suspicions. It wasn't Ben.

Could it be Wesley? He was educated and articulate, and he knew I was out that night. His friendliness could be a ruse, an attempt to throw off suspicion. To get the letter up to my apartment, the blackmailer had to have access to the building. He either lived here or knew the trick to opening the back door.

But that wasn't exactly a secret. Anyway, Wesley had been friendly since I'd moved into my apartment. No one would wait a year and a half to spring a blackmail scheme. And a thousand dollars would be insignificant to him. He had plenty of money, that was certain. Just the settee and chairs I'd seen through his doorway were worth as much as my parents' entire houseful of furniture.

My mind reeled as I tried to think who else it might be. I had so little to go on. For a split second, I considered bringing the notes to Riordan, but that seemed like the worst thing I could do. Once he got my clothes, I was on my way to prison.

I would have to pay the blackmailer. If I got the clothing back, it might be possible to worm my way out of this. If not . . .

 

That afternoon, I crammed on board a streetcar, trying to ignore the irritating Wrigley's Spearmint Gum advertisements pasted everywhere. You couldn't turn around without seeing some sort of advertising for this gum. Wrigley was wasting an incredible amount of money trying to promote a flavor no one wanted.

A few minutes later, I hopped off and jumped another trolley that took me up Michigan Avenue. I figured I'd try Joe first, given that he was the elder of the two. Hopefully, he'd been able to put away some money. I walked the last two blocks, down Twenty-second Street to his house, a narrow white clapboard two-story with an enclosed brick porch on the front.

A metallic pounding on the other side of the house caught my attention. I walked up the drive, where I could see Joe's legs sticking out from underneath an old delivery wagon propped up on jacks.

“Joe?”

He slid out from underneath the wagon, a quizzical expression on his face. “Will. Hi.”

“Have you got a minute?”

He pushed himself to his feet and wiped grease off his hands with a rag hanging on the side of the wagon. “Sure. What can I do you for?”

I leaned in close to him. “If you've got it, I need to borrow some money. Quite a lot of it.”

“Sure. What do you need?” He pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers.

I hesitated. This was stupid. But I'd come all the way down here. “Four hundred.”

“Dollars?” He was incredulous. “What do I look like? J. P. Morgan?”

It was as I thought. Still, my heart sank. “Yeah, sorry. Never mind.”

“I could maybe come up with twenty bucks. But that's about it.”

“No, that's all right. Don't worry about it.”

With fear beginning to fog my mind, I took a streetcar to Elwood's house—same result. I was out of ideas. I returned home and paced the floor, much too nervous to sit. My father was my only hope. But he'd never give me the money unless I told him where it was going. No plausible lie occurred to me, and I couldn't tell him the truth. He'd involve the police, force me to tell them what I'd seen that night. Riordan would never believe it. I'd be going to jail for the rest of my life.

The blackmailer wasn't my only concern. I called the Humes' house, and Alberts answered. When I asked for Elizabeth, he said she wasn't home and declared in a frosty voice that he would inform her I had called. Should she be interested in speaking with me, she would call back.

I hung up and grabbed a bourbon bottle.

I drank and I thought. Eventually I just drank. By that evening, my apartment had begun to feel like a cell, so I climbed out the window and sat on the fire escape with my bottle, looking out over the back lawn, huddling down inside my greatcoat to stay warm. Three or four blocks away, a small fire flickered through the darkness. The faint odor of burning leaves carried over the wind.