Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Page 13

  It wasn’t rational, he knew, to feel a tingle of anticipation when their future together was so uncertain. So unlikely. But it was the season of miracles. When a jeweler’s festive window display winked at him, diamonds set in gold bands sparkling like glittering snowflakes on red velvet, the words “special dispensation” danced in his head. He ducked into the store and knew immediately which ring would look right on Missouri’s hand. A slender band, a simple setting, a precisely cut exquisite stone.

  With a small plush box safe in his pocket, he strolled amongst the shoppers and hawkers and bell ringers, and allowed himself to believe. And then acting on that belief, he took a breathless detour up Profanity Hill to the county courthouse, realizing only as he gained the steps that he couldn’t get a license, not without Missouri, and he was fairly certain a medical exam was now required.

  He laughed at himself, at his ridiculous race up the arduous hill. He didn’t know if it was the steep climb or the boldness of his act, but he found he had to sit on the steps for a few minutes to catch his breath. It was no hardship to appreciate the view of Elliott Bay and the snowcapped Olympic Mountains in the distance. The city, for all its messy construction, glittered and winked in the winter sunlight. An unfamiliar sense of joy washed over him.

  He felt for all the world like Ebenezer Scrooge at the end of A Christmas Carol, behaving in a giddy fashion completely out of his nature. And he hadn’t even been visited by any ghosts. Or perhaps it was the ghost of Vernon Doyle haunting him, repenting for the mistakes of his own miserable life, driving Bradshaw to take such bold steps.

  “Well, Mr. Doyle,” said Bradshaw, gaining his feet, “if it’s you inspiring me, I suppose I owe you the favor of finding your killer.” And with that, he headed back down the hill and hopped a northbound streetcar up Second Avenue toward the self-proclaimed Big Store, the Bon Marché.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christmas took a decided turn for the retail worse when he entered the store. Saturday at the Bon Marché was a sight to behold, and one he would normally avoid. Much of the congestion could be blamed on the jolly elf himself, who was holding court in Toyland downstairs. Bradshaw climbed against the tide up the stairs, intending to ask Mr. Olafson to bring Billy Creasle to him. But on the landing, he spied Billy on the first floor below him, dressed in a fine dark suit that added perhaps six months to his young age, but no more. He held the elbow of a customer, a poor woman from the looks of her clothing. The woman was shaking her head, and another woman in a tailored suit joined them. Bradshaw understood at once what he was witnessing. Young Billy had spotted a shoplifter and summoned the store detective. A moment later, Mr. Olafson joined them. Bradshaw watched the discreet capture unfold. As oblivious shoppers went about their business, the shoplifter was guided to a corner where she pulled items from the folds of her clothing, and then the female detective walked her to the door.

  A few minutes later, Bradshaw and Billy were alone in Olafson’s third-floor office. Bradshaw stood near the window, watching Billy pace restlessly.

  “Do you spot many shoplifters?”

  “You’d be surprised, Professor. There’s likely several out there at this very minute stealing something from us.”

  “You don’t seem upset about it. You seem rather excited, in fact.”

  “Well, it gets your blood racing when you spot a thief. And we have to be careful not to let on to the other customers. You hold it inside, till it’s all over, and then you feel a bit like a caged animal. Or like you just won a foot race.”

  “Why do they steal, do you suppose?”

  “Lots of reasons. The woman we just caught was hungry and she’s got six or seven kids to feed. We’ve caught her before. She only takes food. Since we moved the Grocery Department upstairs, it’s harder for her to sneak out. But we get rich people stealing, too.”

  “Why do the rich steal?”

  “Because they can. Because they don’t care. They don’t steal the same way the poor steal. Not usually. They do things like complain they were sent the wrong tablecloth, even though it’s the exact one they chose, and then they say it ruined their party. The store refunds their money but doesn’t make them return the tablecloth. That’s stealing in my book. Or they simply walk out of the store with some item, and the store does nothing about it.”

  “Why wouldn’t the store stop a rich thief?

  “Because you can’t very well chase down some rich woman and accuse her of stealing, can you? We’ve got one customer who is a genuine kleptomaniac. That’s somebody who can’t resist stealing. I can’t tell you her name, but you’d be shocked if I did. Her husband has a big reputation in this city.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “They’re some of our best customers, and so are their friends. She rarely takes anything of much value, and we can easily make up for any losses.”

  “Does she know you’re aware of her theft?”

  “Goodness, no. That would take the fun out of it for her. She steals because she’s bored and it gives her a thrill. That’s what the kleptomaniacs need, to feel that thrill. She doesn’t need any of the things she takes.”

  “You allow her to steal because she doesn’t need to steal?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the poor woman? Was she allowed to keep any of the food she stole?”

  “And give her the impression she can come back for more? Tell her friends they’ll leave with a tin even if they get caught? It’s not as backward as it sounds. One woman brings the store a profit, the other costs us. It’s as simple as that. The Bon Marché caters to shoppers of all sorts. We’ve got penny tin horns for the children of the poor and ten-dollar dolls for the rich. A man can get a decent suit for less than five dollars or pay fifty dollars, or more, for quality. When you have a spread of clientele like that, you can’t treat them all the same, because they’re not. You must understand business, Professor. We don’t help ourselves or the poor by letting them steal from us.”

  “It all sounds like a complicated game.”

  “I suppose it is, Professor. You’ve got to keep your eye on the profits when running a department store. It’s a people game, and it’s all about making impressions.”

  “It sounds as if the lines between right and wrong become blurred.”

  Billy shrugged and sat down, looking as if the excitement was draining from him.

  “Is it the same for employees? Do some get away with breaking the rules while others don’t?”

  Billy shrugged again.

  “Are there ways of getting ahead that fit the blurry description?”

  Billy looked away.

  Bradshaw pulled his small notepad from his pocket and flipped through the pages. “You started as a cash boy six years ago, at the age of twelve, and since then you have worked in nearly every department, from delivery to your current notable position of assistant window dresser.”

  “That’s right. It’s important for a store manager to know every job there is in a department store, and I mean really know it, not just from the job description, but know what it’s like to do it, the ups and downs, the troubles and such.”

  “My sources tell me there were some lucky coincidences in your promotion history. For instance, a man named Saunders was fired when it was found he’d sold an expensive pocket watch at the price of a much cheaper one to a friend. He denied he’d done it.”

  “That happens.”

  “You were given Saunders’ position.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Earlier this year, a woman with fifteen years’ experience in department stores was hired as assistant window dresser. She was let go after it became public knowledge that she’d had a child out of wedlock.”

  “So?”

  “Are those examples of blurred lines?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

 
“Then I’ll ask you directly. Did you set up Saunders so that you could have his job? Was it you who made your predecessor’s history public?”

  “Saunders was an incompetent clerk, and Miss Tyler had no vision.”

  “Is that your justification for getting them fired? You didn’t believe they deserved their jobs?”

  “If they hadn’t done something wrong, they wouldn’t have been let go.”

  “Billy, the more honest you are with me, the easier it will be for you. I’m not concerned with past indiscretions, I’m merely trying to establish if you’ve developed a habit of hastening people out of jobs you want for yourself.”

  “What has any of this got to do with Vernon Doyle’s death?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Right now, I can think of two reasons you’d want to kill Mr. Doyle.”

  “Me!” Billy jumped to his feet. “Me? You think I killed him? I did not. I did not! He was dead when I got to the window. I swear it. Give me a Bible, I’ll swear on it. He was dead when I got there.”

  “Either Mr. Doyle witnessed you doing something to sabotage Troy Ruzauskas’ position or he learned something that caused you great personal distress and you wanted him silenced. Which was it?”

  “Neither, Professor! I had nothing against Mr. Doyle and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. His death has nothing to do with me!”

  “I know this is difficult for you.”

  “Difficult? It’s stupid!” Billy paced, throwing his hands up. “I’ve got to get back to my windows. It’s the busiest time of year. Mr. Olafson won’t like it if I get behind.”

  “Mr. Olafson knows this is more important than window displays. And he’s not the sort of man to punish you for speaking to me. Is he?” He watched Billy closely.

  Billy sat again, seeming suddenly weary. “No, he’s all right.”

  “Are you sure? Some of the boys have complained about him. The runners and cash boys have made accusations. They feel—uncomfortable—around him.”

  Billy didn’t flinch or blush or cringe. He scoffed. Looking Bradshaw directly in the eye, he said, “Professor, where are you getting your information? Mr. Olafson is great with the cash boys and runners, and he’s been like a father to me ever since I started here, giving me advice, and giving me a chance on positions others said I was too young for. I think someone’s giving you the runaround and trying to pin the blame on me. I’ve never said a word against Mr. Olafson.”

  “Mr. Olafson asks for nothing in return for his generosity?”

  Billy pulled another face that, to Bradshaw’s grateful mind, was completely void of any embarrassment. “What do I have to give?” he asked innocently. “Can’t a fella be decent without there being some sort of motive? Never heard of Santa Claus?”

  Bradshaw allowed a small smile. “What about Santa?”

  “He’s good and generous and kind, but he expects you to be the same. That’s Mr. Olafson. He’s like Santa without the red suit, all year long. You don’t get promotions you don’t deserve, and he expects you to work hard at your job, but you get jolly fair treatment and genuine thanks for it.”

  Bradshaw believed him. Billy was hiding something, but it wasn’t anything sordid about Mr. Olafson.

  “Billy, someone deliberately placed a handkerchief on the floor lamp in that window so that it would catch fire when Mr. Andrews turned the lights on at seven.”

  Billy looked down at his hands. His knees began to bounce restlessly.

  “It was removed before it caught fire. Did you place and remove the handkerchief?”

  “It wasn’t my fault. You said yourself that Mr. Doyle was dead long before I found him. You said so. I couldn’t have saved him even if I’d found him earlier, when I’d arrived at the store.”

  “You saw him lying there when you placed the handkerchief over the lamp?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with his death. Can I go now?”

  “Did you have anything to do with the handkerchief?”

  “No.”

  “Please look at me and answer once again.”

  Billy’s brown eyes met Bradshaw’s, unblinking, hard, and guarded. “No,” he said, and he stormed out the door.

  Bradshaw stood pondering. Billy’s alibi, that he was home asleep the night Doyle died, could not be confirmed or denied. His mother and sisters insisted he’d been in all night, but the boy had a window in his room and could easily have slipped in and out without notice, hurried down the hill to the Bon, tapped on the window to get Doyle to open the door to him. But it wasn’t plausible that this act was premeditated. Billy couldn’t have known Doyle would be in a vulnerable position holding that wire. Had he gone to speak to him about something? Something that had him so worried he’d get out of bed at two in the morning, just two hours after climbing in, on a stormy winter night, to confront Doyle? And then, when the conversation didn’t go his way, thrown the switch at an opportune moment? But what about the handkerchief? Would Billy have attempted to stage a fire if he’d killed Doyle? If Billy had not placed it there so that he could play the hero as he’d done the previous month, and cast blame on Troy, thus easing his way into the chief window dresser’s job, then who did place the handkerchief? And who removed it without reporting the body?

  Billy was hiding something, Bradshaw still felt it, but he didn’t believe it was murder. He left Olafson’s office and made a tour of the store, from the third floor offices and daylight Grocery Department down to Delivery in the basement. He counted typewriting machines as he went, and kept his mind open to details. While in Toyville, he bought Justin drawing paper and a box of the new art crayons by Crayola. He found a model automobile kit with working doors and trunk and a small electric motor that turned the rubber wheels. At three dollars, it was expensive for a toy, but he knew the boy would get many hours of enjoyment from it, even after the assembly was complete. And what better investment for his patent royalties than a gift that brought joy and education to his son?

  His final purchase was in the Music Department.

  “Such a lovely choice, sir!” said the female clerk. “This carousel music box has been very popular. Would you like it wrapped in Christmas paper?”

  “That’s not necessary. I purchased several items in the Toy Department less than ten minutes ago. Can you have this delivered with them? To Mrs. Prouty at my home.”

  “Yes, sir, we have your address on file. On Capitol Hill? I’ll let them know to deliver them all together. They’ll arrive before school dismissal time, so there will be no surprises ruined.”

  “Could I attach a message to the music box?”

  “Of course.”

  The clerk handed him a small white note card and he wrote simply. “Today’s your lucky day.”

  The clerk politely inserted the card into an envelope without reading it, and his payment was handed to a young runner who raced off upstairs to fetch Bradshaw’s receipt. His purchase was placed in a metal basket and whisked away for wrapping and delivery.

  The Bon certainly provided excellent customer service, yet, as always on an investigation, he was beginning to learn far more than he wanted to know. No longer would a trip to the Bon Marché be a pleasant journey through aisles of brand-new products and being helped by smiling, courteous faces. He’d now know the inner workings, the resentment behind the smile, the jealousy between clerks, the sordid details of their lives.

  He found Mr. Olafson in the Music Department playing a rousing rendition of “Up on the Housetop” with children and mothers gathered around, and a boy of perhaps nine beside him on the bench. Bradshaw tried to observe objectively, and while he witnessed nothing at all untoward, and he believed Billy had not been assaulted by the man, he knew his perspective was tainted by the shoe salesman’s accusation. The seed of suspicion had been planted.

  Mr. Olafson ended the song with a dramatic
tumble from the bench, bouncing up like a jack-in-the-box and bringing a round of applause from his audience. He spied Bradshaw, and after handing out candy canes to the children, he extricated himself from the crowd, and they found a relatively quiet corner in which to talk.

  Mr. Olafson had been told of the incident with Mrs. Prouty and he said with a shrug and a soulful expression that conveyed his sympathy for Bradshaw, “It’s not the first time someone has tried to fool us with a homemade advertisement, but this one looked better than most, and we did run a similar letter ad this summer. Being under your employ, we felt it best not to ban her from the store in future. I trust it will not happen again.”

  “My housekeeper did not make the ad. It arrived in the mail.”

  “Oh? Professor, my apologies. I didn’t mean to accuse—I, well, so it was a prank then? That does explain the other one. Gracious, I hope there aren’t more.”

  “What other one?”

  “Last evening before closing, another woman had one just like it. I thought it was the same one because it was all crumpled, liked she’d pulled it from the trash. She put up a fuss when we told her it wasn’t a legitimate ad.”

  “May I see the Women’s Waiting Room?”

  Olafson looked confused, but acquiesced, escorting Bradshaw to the second floor. A long narrow space overlooking the atrium had been outfitted with a row of writing desks and potted palms. Every desk was in use, and the chairs along the walls filled with chatting women.

  “This area has proved highly popular since we opened this month,” boasted Olafson. “We had our saleswomen write the advertising, and I must say they know their customers.” He pointed to the sign at the entrance: