Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Page 12

  I aimed my pebble, but myself

  Was all the one that fell

  Was it Goliath was too large

  Or was myself too small?

  “That’s uncanny.” O’Brien rubbed his arms. “And untrue. Three men were felled by his pebble. All of Seattle, I suppose, knows that you were the only friend Oscar Daulton had in the end, and that you inherited his possessions.”

  “I don’t know about all of Seattle, but anyone following the newspaper stories knew it.”

  “Why didn’t you put a lock on his things?”

  “Because there was nothing worth stealing. No one was interested in him as a human being, only as an inventor and assassin.”

  “If Oglethorpe hadn’t been such an ass—”

  “He might have lived, and he might have discovered the secret of Daulton’s box. But he tried to steal Daulton’s invention and thereby provoked his own death, which eventually led to the damn thing landing in Elliott Bay. What’s your point?”

  “No point. So what’s this?” O’Brien peered at the assortment of parts Bradshaw had spread before him.

  “The secret of Daulton’s device has done enough damage. If it’s no longer a secret, maybe the madness will stop.” He pointed at the article in the open journal.

  “The Submarine Signal Company,” read O’Brien. “And how will a fog signal help you learn the secret?” He continued to read as Bradshaw assembled. “Hydrophone? An underwater microphone?”

  “A standard carbon microphone in a watertight container. My detective microphone ought to work as well or better.”

  “But what do you want to hear?”

  “This.” He indicated the cigar box and explained about the clockworks he would mount inside, powered by an eight-day mainspring. He needed something rugged, something that would work no matter what its orientation, and it had to be small enough to fit into the cigar box so that it could mimic the approximate size and shape of Daulton’s invention. The clock was now resting inside the cigar box. He picked up the box and released the pin that set the gears in motion. A ticking sound immediately issued. He handed it to O’Brien, who examined it curiously.

  “You’re going to throw it overboard?”

  “That’s the plan. Professor Taylor’s going with me. We’ll hire one of the wrecking outfits to follow it, and they’ll send down a dive crew.”

  “Pardon my saying so, but won’t it be hard to hear the ticking underwater?”

  “Set it on the workbench.”

  O’Brien did so, and the ticking grew louder.

  “Sound carries far better through liquids and solids than air, although it does take more energy to generate a sound wave. I’ve placed the clock flush against the box, to maximize the resonance of the ticking, and—”

  A deep gong rang from the clock in the box.

  Bradshaw grinned, pleased with the volume. “It’s the hour gong from a parlor clock. It’s set to strike every thirty seconds. The mainspring will run a clock for eight days, and I calculated the additional bell will bring that down to six. The biggest trouble will be attempting to hear the ticking through the other noises in the sea, especially the ships.”

  “You know, it’s sometimes quite fun being friends with an inventor. You have an ingenious solution for everything.”

  “I wish that were so. I haven’t any solutions at all for our current case or the break-in.”

  “Do you think it’s related to Doyle’s death? Mrs. Prouty being lured away and your house searched?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, but I’m not you. I go for the obvious. Isn’t this too obvious for you?”

  “Sometimes it is what it appears to be. Doyle was killed and my home was searched because someone is desperate to learn the secret of Oscar Daulton’s invention.” But even as he said it, he knew he wasn’t certain. His fear had spoken, not his logic. “I don’t know, Jim. It could be that they are only tangentially related. Doyle’s boasting could have drawn attention, and then his death, no matter how it came about, brought me to the scene investigating and the newspapers keep spreading speculation and gossip. Someone may have thought I learned something about Daulton, taken something from the scene. I don’t know. Doyle’s death might be completely unrelated to Daulton. Henry is finding out what he can at the Bon, and I’ll send him to the Tenderloin again tonight. And I don’t believe Maddock is above burglary to get what he wants, just like he’s not above using our legal system to bully for Edison. It’s the sort of behavior Edison encourages. The window dresser is sweet on a girl he can’t afford, and I’ve seen men do stupid things when they’re desperate over a girl. That said, the fact remains my home was invaded and searched, and that puts my family in jeopardy, and I won’t have it.”

  O’Brien picked up the false advertisement again. “Looks real enough. The letterhead, anyway.”

  “Mrs. Prouty tells me that letterhead is available free of charge in the Bon’s new women’s waiting room. Anyone could have helped himself to the paper. The wording mimics their ad copy, with the exception of the secret sale. A comma is missing from the third sentence. Otherwise, the spelling and grammar are correct, and the layout of the paragraphs and select use of capital letters reflects an eye for design and an understanding of the psychology of ads. The ink is faded and irregular, suggesting the ribbon in the typewriter had been well used, and the precision of the return and centering of the body of the letter tells of an expert hand at the keys. The letter arrived at my door in an envelope addressed to ‘Preferred Loyal Customer,’ and my house number. The postage is first class, two cents, and the postmark is this morning, the earliest post, the main post office in Seattle.”

  “You figured out everything but who typed it.”

  “I’m working on that.”

  O’Brien said, “The Bon’s owners returned today, and I filled them in. Mrs. McDermott speaks Chinook jargon. Did you know?”

  “Is that relevant in some way?”

  “No, just interesting. An admirable woman with good business sense. Both she and her new husband spoke well of Mr. Olafson. They trust him, as did the late Mr. Nordhoff. I asked in a general way if she’d ever heard anything untoward about Olafson, and she said he was highly regarded and respected. They consider themselves lucky to have him. I haven’t spoken to Billy about this yet. I thought he might find it easier to confide in you.”

  “I’ll talk to him again tomorrow.”

  “The Nordhoffs brought the penny to Seattle when they opened their first store.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Before they set up shop, no one had bothered to bring enough pennies to Seattle to make it a commercially viable coin. Nordhoff brought bags of them so he could entice shoppers with penny goods, and other stores had to follow suit to compete. I remember when it happened.”

  “Relevant?”

  “Interesting.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Armed with a ham sandwich from home and a flask of coffee from the Cherry Street Grill on the first floor, Bradshaw entered his downtown office in the Bailey Building and found Henry asleep on the cot in the back room, wearing a stocking cap. He poured a mug of the coffee, and the aroma pried Henry’s eyes open.

  “Good morning,” said Bradshaw. “What time did you get in?”

  Henry moved his half-open eyes to the mug, hauled himself to a sitting position, then took the mug, and a drink, before saying, “About three. What time is it now?”

  “Eight. Sorry. I’ve got a full agenda today. I’m on my way to the Bon before I head up to the university.” He made room on the nightstand for the sandwich and noticed a brass object shaped like an oversized bullet.

  “What’s that?”

  “Huh? Oh, won that last night. A genuine German torpedo siren whistle. Makes the most obnoxious high-pitched whooping sound you’ve ever heard.”<
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  “You’re not thinking of giving it to Justin, are you?”

  “Keeping it for myself. Never know when such a thing will come in handy, especially in some of the places you force me to visit.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and sighed. “Last day?”

  “No, another week before the Christmas break.”

  “I meant before Missouri comes home.”

  “Another week until then, too. She wired. Apparently, the Wright brothers in North Carolina are attempting flight again. Colin Ingersoll has been working for them. It’s my understanding he’s been sworn to secrecy about what he sees, and apparently they trust him since he was allowed to invite her.”

  Henry scowled. “Dang nabbit, that girl. You got nothing to worry about, you know. She’s stubborn and independent but honest to a fault. I tried to teach her the value of a white lie, but she just can’t do it. If she’d given up on you, she’d have told you.”

  “She’s fond of Ingersoll. If I hadn’t spoken up, she’d likely have married him.”

  “Not yet, she wouldn’t have. She’s determined to become a doctor. You’ve got time, but not much. Talked to the padre yet? No need to answer, I can see you haven’t. So, do you think they’ll do it this time? Fly, I mean.”

  For a moment, Bradshaw’s mind let go of his worries of Missouri and the case long enough to imagine the achievement. He’d seen sketches and photographs of the Wrights’ earlier aircraft models, and he felt a twinge of excitement and inventor’s jealousy over the vision of a craft taking flight. Such a thing had the potential to change the world.

  Henry brought him back down to earth, saying, “Squirrel came up trumps yesterday as usual and sent a whole file on Mr. J. D. Maddock. It’s on your desk. It’s men like him that give the legal profession a bad name. Do you know how many lawsuits he’s filed on Edison’s behalf? A hundred and twenty-two! Do you know how many he won? None. Zero. Zilch. Know how many inventors and companies he’s left bankrupt? How many patents and inventions found their way, in one way or another, to Edison’s companies?”

  “A hundred and twenty-two and counting?”

  “Maddock’s job isn’t to win suits but to shut down the competition by making it too difficult for them to go on. He’s good at it. And you’ve read about all the trouble Edison’s been giving his competition with motion pictures. Ben, I don’t mean to scare you, but I hope you’ve got your house and personal accounts separated from your patents because if his record holds, you and your boy and your housekeeper will be moving in here, and I’m not sharing my cot with Mrs. Prouty.”

  “He can’t win.”

  “Haven’t you been listening? He doesn’t need to win, he just needs to push on until you’re too broke to stand. And that suit about defamation, that one’s going to be a hard go. The reporter swears you blamed the Edison outfit for Doyle’s death, and he’s not backing down.”

  Bradshaw shook his head and waved a dismissive hand.

  “You know, Ben, as cynical and curmudgeonly as you are, you’ve got a core of innocence in you. You believe good and right will triumph over evil and greed, and that just ain’t so. Maddock is on the attack and you’d better get your affairs in order and protected before it gets bloody. We’ve got no evidence he’s ever killed before, but there’s a first time for everything.”

  “Do we have anything yet on Maddock’s activities the night Doyle died?”

  “No, but I’m on it. I’ve found the lunch counter where he usually gets his grub, found his barber and tailor, and I’ve got a list of his neighbors in the office building. I thought I’d leave them to you. They’re the sort that would respond better to a professor than an ex-miner. Maddock’s a quiet man and not a drinker, darn his eyes. But if there’s proof he went out in the night, we’ll find it.”

  “Has he made any statement yet through his attorney?”

  “Nope. Can’t O’Brien get him down to headquarters for a chat?”

  “Not without reasonable suspicion. He knows his rights.”

  “The fact he was seen arguing with the deceased that evening’s not enough?”

  “I’m afraid not. We’ve got to find more of a connection between Doyle and Maddock, and it’s most likely to be found in the hunt for Daulton’s box. So far, there’s a connection through Galloway Diving. Both men did business with him. Can you ask around about that? Galloway said Maddock looked into the other diving outfits before upping his offer. What about Billy Creasle? Did you learn anything from your friends at the Bon?”

  “The Notions girl is not only a looker, but smart, too. I may have to stock up on a few things.”

  “And she said that Billy—?”

  “Oh, right, she thinks he spies on everyone at the store and tattles and gets people fired. Says she’s got a little brother just like him. Too smart and ambitious for his own good. If he can’t find any dirt, he makes his own. Last year, she’s pretty sure he switched products in an order, you know, swapped a cheap pocket watch with an expensive one, to get the sales clerk fired so he could have his job. There’s a hierarchy to positions and departments. He made a big leap, though, from the watch counter to assistant window dresser.”

  Bradshaw took his small notebook from his pocket and jotted the details of Billy’s alleged shenanigans.

  “Did she report this to anyone?”

  “No proof. Her word against his, and most everyone at the store likes the lad, including the manager, Olafson.”

  “Yes, that I know. What about Mrs. Adkins, the seamstress?”

  “She stayed at the Washington with Doyle. Billy wasn’t lying about that. Roosevelt’s room. He signed the register as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, but the staff wasn’t fooled. They knew who he was and who she is. She’s stayed there before as Mrs. Smith.”

  “I don’t suppose she was reprising her role as Mrs. Smith at the Washington on the night Doyle died? O’Brien says she claimed to be home alone all night, diligently stitching.”

  “Huh! The other gals say she’s got an undeserved reputation for inseams and cuffs and they don’t understand why customers ask for her by name, but since she gets paid the same as them per garment and she’s slow and doesn’t cut into their share, they tolerate her, but not warmly. I’ve got a sample of her handiwork.” Henry handed him the sleeve of a man’s white shirt, the sort with an attached cuff. He examined the stitching and found it decent, but he was no expert. He rolled up the sleeve and tucked it in his pocket.

  Henry said, “Her husband works for one of the big fishing outfits. They’ve got no kids and she works for her pin money, spends it on fancy restaurants and such.”

  “Her husband doesn’t dive, does he?”

  “Nah, he’s not really even a fisherman. He’s a cook. Makes darn good money, and he must dish out good grub or he’d not last a season, they’d toss him overboard with the chum.” Henry shuddered as if a wave of seasickness were washing over him. He’d once spent a season on such a boat, belatedly learning that the smell of fish in such large quantities tripped his gag reflex. “He’s gone for weeks at a time, leaving her on her own.” His expression changed abruptly, and his eyebrows waggled.

  “I get it, Henry. Anything on Ivar Olafson?”

  “Respected, tough but not unfair. He’s been with the Bon almost since the beginning. Good with the cash boys and runners. He was married in the old country, but his wife died before he immigrated here ten years ago. Don’t know about children. He’s educated, business and music. Worked for Frederick & Nelson for a few months when he first arrived. Squirrel’s looking into what he did before coming to Seattle.”

  “Talk to all former employees fired in the last few months, and find a few former cash runners and delivery boys who no longer work at the store.”

  “What am I fishing for?”

  “Anyone who feels unjustly fired or as if they’re hiding something, refusing to talk. Are you
going out again tonight?”

  “I could.”

  “Do. See what’s the scuttlebutt on recent robberies. We got burgled yesterday.”

  “No!”

  Bradshaw filled him in on the previous day’s events and Henry punctuated the tale with colorful interjections. When Bradshaw checked his pocket watch, he saw an hour had passed since he arrived. He got to his feet and pointed at the cloth-wrapped sandwich. “Mrs. Prouty’s sourdough, smoked ham, and New York cheddar.”

  Henry grinned. “Hook up the iron for me on your way out.”

  Bradshaw did as asked, screwing the plug of the electric flatiron into the light socket near Henry’s desk. The iron would be used not to press Henry’s shirt but his sandwich, toasting the bread and melting the cheese.

  When Bradshaw left the Bailey Building, he found the streets flooded with sunshine and shoppers. With twelve days until Christmas Eve, the stores were outdoing each other with flashy placards and displays, and men and boys wore sandwich boards, touting store sales. Musicians and singers made merry with holiday melodies, and street peddlers hawked their wares.

  Was it the spirit of Christmas he felt, as he navigated the crowded sidewalk, walking in the street when necessary? Certainly this sudden spring in his step and lightness of mood he felt could not be due to his frustrating case with its lack of clues nor to the fact that he had been served with two vicious lawsuits and his home had been burglarized. No, there was something else at work here.

  He’d always liked Christmas. As a child, the anticipation had been about what he might find in his stocking or under the candle-lit tree on Christmas morning. Now, as a parent, the joy was even greater, seeing Justin pad down the stairs and run into the parlor, his eyes bright with wonder at the glowing incandescent lights on the tree. Bradshaw always added a few extra strands of lights very late on Christmas Eve so that Justin’s first sighting in the morning was magical. Justin boasted of their electrically lit tree to his friends and schoolmates and a showing was arranged each year after Christmas. This year, Bradshaw had thought of adding the lights Thomas Edison had given him, but after seeing other such festoons clutched in Vernon Doyle’s dead hand, he changed his mind. And this year, Missouri would be spending the day. She had spent the past two Christmases with them, but this year was special. This was the first Christmas he could look at her without disguising his feelings, the first year she knew he loved her. And the first year he knew she loved him.