The Detroit Electric Scheme (29 page)

When he dropped me off in front of my building, the lawn and sidewalk were empty. It looked like the reporters were going to leave me alone—at least for now. Still, I was dispirited. I had been certain Frank had murdered John and the Doyles. If he hired someone to do it, we would have to sift through thousands of people to find the killer. If Frank was eliminated as a suspect, it seemed certain that either Judge Hume or the Employers Association was behind the murder.

Frank was probably the only person who could put all the pieces together. And he had disappeared, no more tangible now than the half of John Cooper pulverized in the roof press.

Frank had been in Denver. I was back to square one.

But still, the car nagged at me.

 

One of Sutton's men was sitting in a wooden chair at the base of the stairway. Before heading up to my apartment, I shook his hand and thanked him for his help. I didn't even want to think about how the last couple of weeks would have gone without these men.

I locked my apartment door behind me and grabbed a bottle of bourbon before heading into the bathroom. I wasn't sure I could handle seeing my reflection, so I kept my eyes averted from the mirror while I took off my clothes and climbed into the tub. After a long bath and about half the bottle, I fell into my bed and slept.

The next morning I braved a look in the mirror. The swelling on my nose had gone down a little, but now both my eyes were blackened and a cut on my lip had scabbed over. I looked like a deranged raccoon.

I sat at my desk and flipped through my accumulated mail. My father had sent me a check for one hundred dollars. God knows I needed it, but it was humiliating to have to rely on his charity. I threw it onto the desk and sat back. This had to end.

Even though I couldn't leave the state to look for Frank, I could still try to run down a lead or two. I phoned the Employers Association. J. J. Whirl, the EAD's secretary, had never returned my call; though, to be fair, between the tenement apartment and the Bethune Street jail I hadn't been home enough in the last two weeks to receive phone calls
from anyone. Again, a secretary told me he was unavailable and took a message for him to call me back.

By lunchtime I still hadn't heard from him, so I shrugged on my coat and hurried through driving sleet to the trolley stop. Not only was I a manager at Anderson Carriage, I was the son of the owner. If I showed up on Whirl's doorstep he would have no choice but to talk to me. It was a short wait for a streetcar, and even better, I was able to get inside it, out of the weather. All the way downtown, wet snow splatted against the car's wooden top and splashed to the pavement around it.

At the EAD office I asked for Whirl and was promptly “escorted” from the premises by a pair of rough-looking men. They didn't even listen when I told them who I was. I tried to get in again. They had locked the door. I stood outside in the soaking sleet for an hour, accosting everyone who left the office, but the closest I came to getting any of them to speak with me was a few threats. I hadn't been expecting much, but I certainly hadn't expected this.

There didn't seem to be any point in continuing to freeze, so I headed over to the Detroit University School to speak with Edsel. I didn't know what time it let out, and had to wait almost an hour. My clothes were soaked through, but fortunately, I was able to spend that time inside the stately gray granite building. I stood next to the radiator and had nearly dried out by three fifteen, when young men began to hurry past, out of the building. A few minutes later I saw Edsel walking toward me, deep in conversation with another boy.

“Edsel!” I called.

He looked startled. “Will.” He said something to his friend and patted him on the back before trotting over to me. His black oilskin duster billowed out behind him like a cape. “I've been trying to get hold of you for a week,” he said.

“Didn't you get Wesley's messages?”

“Wesley phoned me?”

“Numerous times.”

He shook his head and sighed. “My father. I knew I shouldn't have told him I'd met Wes. He doesn't approve of show folk. Please give Mr. McRae my apologies.” He hesitated, his face tight with anxiety. “Say,
Will, I wanted to ask you about him.” He leaned in and whispered, “Is he, you know, a homosexual?”

“Edsel, Wes is a good man. Isn't that enough?”

He thought for a moment. Nodding, he said, “Yes. I suppose it is.” Seeming satisfied, he pointed to my face. “How is it that you look worse now?”

“It's a long story.” I took him by the elbow and walked him toward the doors. “I need you to stop looking into the murder. It's too dangerous.”

Edsel grinned and arched his eyebrows. “Don't you at least want to know what I've discovered?” He opened one of the doors and nodded toward a restaurant across the street. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

We waited for a coal wagon and a pair of men on horses to pass, then walked carefully over the slippery cobbles to the little coffee shop, and more carefully still on the slick white tiles covering its floor. A dozen or so wet customers sat at the small walnut tables, most with both hands around a steaming coffee cup. The air was filled with the comforting scents of coffee and fresh-baked bread.

After stripping off our wet coats, we sat at a table in the back corner, away from the other customers. A matronly woman in a stained white apron took our order for two coffees. I had a chill in my bones coffee wouldn't warm, but unfortunately, coffee shops didn't serve my preferred beverage.

While we were waiting, Edsel leaned in and said, “You knew John Cooper killed someone in a football game?”

I nodded.

“He was accused of a variety of crimes by union organizers over the past couple of years—assault and battery mostly—but since the police and the Employers Association have the same agenda, he was never arrested. Our source with the state police said Cooper was involved in the EAD's bribery of Judge Hume, though he didn't know to what extent.”

“Did you hear anything about John talking to the cops?”

Our coffee arrived. Edsel tipped some cream into his cup and idly stirred the coffee, waiting for the waitress to leave. “No, we had a hard time just confirming he was involved. Now, Judge Hume. Of course,
he's never previously been arrested or even accused of a crime as far as I can tell. Most people who know him aren't exactly complimentary, but no one thought he would kill John Cooper.”

“That's what Mr. Sutton said.” I frowned. “It seems to me a man like the judge would do anything to stay out of jail.”

Edsel shrugged. “I'm just telling you what I heard.”

“How about whoever was behind the bribery at the Employers Association?”

He blew over the top of his coffee and took a sip. “That trail seems to end at Cooper and Van Dam. No one at the EAD is saying anything, and the state police say they have no evidence that anyone other than the two of them was involved. And that brings us to Frank Van Dam.” He leaned forward again with both elbows on the table, looked up at me with narrowed eyes, and whispered, “He's the killer.”

I thought I'd hear him out before disabusing him of the notion. “Why do you say that?”

“First of all, he'd already tried to kill a man.” Edsel sat back, waiting for my reaction.

I disappointed him. “I know. When he was thirteen.” I quickly recounted to him Mr. Sutton's findings.

“Oh. He told everyone he was moving west, but I didn't know he'd gone to Denver. And he was there when Cooper was murdered?”

I nodded, grimacing.

“So much for that.” He threw up his hands and fell against the back of his seat.

I pulled a pair of cigarettes from my case, handed one to Edsel, and tapped mine on the tabletop a few times. Sticking it in my mouth, I said, “I know. It's frustrating. He seems like the only one besides the judge with a motive.”

Edsel took a drink of coffee. “Frank told everyone he'd had enough of the big city and was thinking of ranching. Funny thing, though . . .”

I leaned forward, lit his cigarette, and then mine. “What's that?”

“Another man at the labor bureau, apparently a friend of Frank's, said Frank told him Cooper was moving out west with him.”

“Why would he . . . Maybe they both were going to run.”

Edsel pushed his coffee aside. “Perhaps. Or he was setting it up so that when John disappeared no one would be the wiser.” He wasn't giving up easily.

I took a drag off my cigarette and shook my head. “That
might
have made sense. But John would have had to disappear for anyone to believe that story.”

“Frank must have had a change of plans. There's no reason he would have killed Cooper so publicly other than to frame you.” His head tilted a little to the side. “Did something happen between the two of you recently?”

I looked away, thinking of Elizabeth. “Not that I remember.”

“I could have someone at our Denver dealership look into Frank's whereabouts. Perhaps they could find something.”

“No. It's too dangerous. And Sutton's hired the Pinkertons to find him.”

“I'll keep digging.”

“No. Listen to me, Edsel. Since we last talked I found out that Frank and Judge Hume were both involved with violent criminals. And you already know Frank's an attempted murderer. This is way too dangerous.”

Edsel picked a spot of lint off the crease of his trousers before fixing me with his dark eyes. “I'll be careful.”

“No. You're done. I appreciate what you've gotten for me, Edsel. It's a real help. But I'm not going to have you risk your life.”

He looked into my eyes and then glanced away with a shrug. “All right. I'm not a dunce. I get it.”

“You're telling me the truth?”

“Sure thing, Will. I'm too busy anyway. My father said I'm to stay home this weekend with my schoolwork, and I'm going camping with him and Mr. Edison next weekend. It'll be all I can do to stay caught up on homework next week.”

“Good. I don't want you getting in over your head.” Even though Edsel's maturity outpaced his years, I had to remind myself he was seventeen years old. At his age I was invincible. Now I knew how fleeting that feeling could be. I didn't want Edsel learning the hard way.

On the way home, I stopped and bought a pair of Browning M1900 semiautomatic handguns, one for Wesley and one for myself, along with two boxes of ammunition. The pistols would fit in a coat pocket or belt, and would fire seven .32 caliber bullets in the time it took to squeeze off two shots with a .45. I'd never owned a handgun before. Now felt like the right time.

Before I left the store, I loaded one, switched on the safety, and stuck it in the small of my back. The gun went in the drawer of my nightstand, where it would be handy. I planned on carrying it everywhere until the murderer was caught.

The next morning I gave one of the guns and a box of bullets to Wesley and then stayed inside my apartment most of the next two days, leaving only for newspapers and bourbon. Exhausted and beat up, I needed a little time to recharge my batteries, so to speak. I didn't see a single reporter on my lawn either day. It looked like they had given up for good, or at least until the trial. I thought I'd call Mr. Sutton and have him pull the guards—no sense wasting any more of my father's money. But I didn't. The security blanket was much too comforting for now.

When I flipped through my mail on Monday, a letter in an Anderson Carriage Company envelope caught my attention. Inside was a pair of tickets to the Miles Theater for Saturday night, along with a note from Mr. Wilkinson saying my father had gotten me the tickets so I could relax a little. My father, never a fan of vaudeville, apparently knew how badly I needed to be distracted.

The headliners were Blatz the Human Fish and Millie DeLeon, “the Girl in Blue.” All I really knew about either was that they were immensely popular. The show had sold out in hours.

I sat at my desk with a glass of bourbon, trying to decide whom I should ask. After almost four years courting Elizabeth and the last year spent in a daze, I had no woman friends. I decided to invite Wesley. He needed some fun as much as I did.

I walked across the hall and asked him. He couldn't go because he
was going to be making his return to the Wayne Williams Orchestra on Saturday, though only as the featured vocalist. The bandages had finally come off his hands, but he was still far from able to play the piano. I congratulated him, and we had a drink to celebrate.

When I got back to my apartment, I sat in the parlor, again puzzling over whom to ask. Edsel was going out of town. I wouldn't ask Elwood or Joe. Perhaps I could ask Ben Carr as a peace offering, though Ben didn't seem the kind of man who approved of vaudeville. But I kept coming back to Elizabeth. She was the only person I really wanted to ask. This was ridiculous. I needed to move on. I vowed I would do it, but it didn't seem to take right away since the rest of the day was fogged by a bottle and a half of bourbon.