Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Read online

  Bradshaw stepped into a small room that had been fashioned from a much larger one, subdivided by panels topped with privacy glass patterned like water droplets. Detective O’Brien was already there, examining shelves of products for sale. Electric coffee percolators, fans, phonographs, and related paraphernalia. Telegraph kits, small dynamos, meters, electric chandeliers, and storage batteries. There were incandescent bulbs in assorted shapes, sizes, and colors, and a large stack of the new colorful Christmas light festoons. From the next room, the clackety-clack of a typewriter came through to them, and the whir of a fan, and the deep tones of a male voice, the precise words obscured by the typing and whirring.

  Under the same audible cover, Bradshaw quietly told O’Brien about his interview with Billy.

  O’Brien said, “The boy could come in handy with his habit of snooping. He didn’t mention the burnt handkerchief?”

  “No, and I gave him the opportunity. He knows something, but he isn’t eager to share.”

  “What he knows may implicate him in some way. He’s certainly not shy about tattling on his fellow employees. Which reminds me, the senior window dresser, Troy Ruzauskas, swore he knows nothing of a misplaced handkerchief in his window, and he swore he was not to blame for any fire hazards, or electrocutions, not ever.”

  “The vehemence of innocence or protesting too much?”

  “Too soon to say, but I don’t think he’s our man. A clerk in Men’s Shoes, adjacent to Men’s Wear, said the store manager, Ivar Olafson, is overly fond of the little boys working at the store and smitten with Billy. Gives the lad preferential treatment, promoting him out of turn.”

  “I don’t like the implications.”

  “Neither do I.” O’Brien eyed the percolator shaped like a miniature potbellied stove. “How well do those work? Do you think Lorraine would like one?”

  “Your wife doesn’t like coffee, you do.”

  “This would make it easier for her to make it for me, wouldn’t it?”

  “I advise you to think about that question, Jim.”

  O’Brien shrugged. “Mr. Andrews is in the clear. He was home all night. Four roommates verified the apprentice spent the entire night at the YMCA, and the Bon’s other electrician is indeed on his way home from Portland.”

  “You had a profitable morning.”

  “The miracle of the modern telephone, my friend. Before coming here, I paid my respects to Doyle’s wife. If I’m any judge, her shock was genuine, but she doesn’t have an alibi. She was home alone, she claims.”

  “You think there’s a chance she did it?”

  “As a married man, you bet I do.”

  “You may be a selfish lout, but Lorraine loves you.”

  “And your point would be? Just promise we’ll have this wrapped up by Christmas.” O’Brien grinned, then his face went serious, and his voice lowered to a near whisper. “Why has he not paid you a call, Ben? This attorney. If he’s searching Seattle for clues to Daulton’s invention, I’d think he’d start with you.”

  “I have no doubt Mr. Edison informed him of our conversation a few months ago, and that I said I knew nothing more than what was already publicly known.”

  O’Brien tipped up the brim of his hat and narrowed his eyes. “There are times your nerve surprises me, Ben. Thomas Alva Edison brought light to the world. Every child in this country knows his name. Are you saying you lied to him?”

  “A power greater than Edison brought light to the world, Jim. And Mr. Edison hired a team of men to devise a long-lasting filament to capture the light at a profit. I sell my soul to no man, and I certainly don’t give it away. He tried the direct approach with me and failed. His representative—” Bradshaw silenced as the typewriter suddenly ceased its clattering, and the inner door opened with a squeak of its hinges.

  A gaunt man emerged, looking more like an undertaker than an attorney, in a crisp black suit with a high white collar. His mouth was wide, his lips thin, and one of eyes drooped at the corner, giving him a perpetually sad countenance that was out of kilter with his jovial tone. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. What may I do for you today? An invention to sell? A patent to file? Or are you in search of a good bargain on the hit of the holidays, Mr. Edison’s holiday lighting outfits?”

  Bradshaw said they were interested in none of the above and introduced himself. Maddock’s wide mouth fell open with a gasp. “Professor Bradshaw! It is a pleasure, sir. Well, now, I do understand why you’re here, but I must say it is a pleasure, nay, an honor, sir.” He extended his hand and shook Bradshaw’s with firm enthusiasm. “An honor, sir,” he repeated. “Truly. Your reputation for electrical forensics, as you coined the phrase, is legendary. My favorite case so far was the one you solved just this summer at the ocean, with the electrotherapeutic chair. I’ve been studying your patents, too, and I must tell you your inventions are brilliantly conceived. Simplicity of design, so streamlined yet incorporating the latest advances in electrical theory. Inspired! I’m John Davenport Maddock. My friends call me J.D., and I hope you will, too.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Maddock.” Bradshaw trusted instant informality even less than exuberant praise. “This is Detective James O’Brien with the Seattle police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Certainly, come through to my office.” He led them through the door into a room so small it could be crossed with two generous strides. An overabundance of furniture, books, and files made it feel all the smaller. A candlestick telephone rose above the clutter of a rolltop desk that was situated within arm’s reach of a stern-looking woman dressed entirely in black, who sat at a typewriter. She greeted them with a curt nod, and the tight bun on her head never wavered.

  “Miss Finch,” Maddock said, “complete your typing, then you may take your lunch break. I placed several letters in your outbox. Please be sure those go out today. I’ll be in the next room. Could you bring me back a sandwich, egg salad on white? That’s a good girl.”

  Miss Finch returned to her typewriting without a word, and the vigor with which she hit the keys gave Bradshaw cause to believe she resented being called a “good girl.”

  Maddock pulled a manila folder from the desktop stack then said, “This way, gentlemen,” and led them to the next room, which proved to be the largest and included a window with a view of the adjacent brick building. The room had a parlor feel, with several chairs arranged about a round table, but it obviously did double-duty as Maddock’s living quarters. A fold-up bed was secured to the wall, its rectangular undersurface inadequately disguised with a poster of the Edison film, The Great Train Robbery, on which a narrow-eyed cowboy with a fat mustache and a handkerchief at his throat leveled a pistol directly at anyone sitting in Maddock’s guest chairs.

  “Now, I’m certain we can take care of business quickly,” Maddock began, opening the file to reveal a typed page that had the look of a legal document. “We’d love to avoid a long drawn-out case as much as you, and I’m sure we can find terms that are mutually agreeable.”

  Bradshaw said, “Excuse me?”

  “I know, we aren’t off to the best footing, Professor.” He nodded toward O’Brien. “The good detective at your side speaks volumes. Usually, inventors arrive with their attorneys, but I’m no stranger to the other sort of law man, you know.” He laughed. “In this business, competition is fierce, and the rules can get complicated. I assure you, it is a minor matter of the law and civil not criminal, yet I perfectly understand the instinct to bring a policeman to such a confrontation. I hold no hard feelings, I assure you, and please know this is simply business. My respect for you could not be greater nor more genuine. It’s really with great regret that I was obligated to proceed.”

  With his tone now matching the sadness of his drooping eye, Maddock truly did appear regretful, but Bradshaw was still baffled. He said, “Mr. Maddock, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
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  Maddock’s surprised gaze shifted back and forth between them. “The lawsuit? For patent infringement? Oh, dear. You didn’t get served this morning?”

  “Only breakfast by my housekeeper, and since then I haven’t been home.”

  “And you didn’t teach your class today at the university, I’ll wager. I gave that as your primary working address. I understand you also keep an office in town, but you are not regularly there.”

  “Are you telling me you’re suing me for patent infringement?”

  “I’m afraid I am, or rather, the Thomas Edison Company is.”

  “On what?”

  “Your detective microphone.”

  Bradshaw clamped his jaw tight. It was all nonsense. Edison had no case against his microphone or anything that he had patented, he was sure of it. But it would take money to prove it, possibly a good deal of money, in a long drawn-out legal battle. He’d seen many such cases play out in the past few years.

  “Well, Ben,” O’Brien said, “this clears up why Maddock didn’t come to see you. When the direct approach failed, Edison switched to extortion.”

  Maddock frowned as if faced with a child about to steal a cookie. “Detective O’Brien, that’s a very serious accusation. Are you sure you want to make it?”

  O’Brien stiffened. “Are you sure you want to sue Professor Bradshaw for infringement? I don’t know how things operate back East, but out here in the Wild West, we don’t take kindly to false accusations.”

  Bradshaw put a calming hand on O’Brien’s arm, and for a moment they spoke not at all. The typing in the next room ceased, a chair scraped the wood floor, then the tap of a pair of women’s heels (more delicate than Bradshaw thought Miss Finch capable of) receded, and a door closed.

  Maddock sat back, his thin mouth smiling, his drooping eye gleaming. He appeared completely sure of himself, enjoying his role.

  Bradshaw said to O’Brien, “Do you want to ask him, or shall I?”

  “I’d like to, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “He’s all yours.”

  While they said this, Maddock eyed them curiously, a single brow raised.

  O’Brien made a show of pulling his notebook from his pocket, licking the tip of his pencil, and holding it poised before asking, “Mr. Maddock, where were you yesterday morning from nine a.m. until this morning at the same time?”

  The joy slid off Maddock’s face. “What?”

  “You heard the question.”

  Maddock sat up, adjusting himself in his chair. “I did, but I don’t understand why it’s being asked.”

  “Are you refusing to answer?”

  “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

  “Did you do something the Seattle police would consider trouble?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then please answer the question.”

  “I was here, I went out to eat, I filed papers at the courthouse, I did some holiday shopping, I came back here.”

  “What time did you return here last evening?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “And did you go out again?”

  “No, I was here all night. Alone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Detective.”

  “Where did you do your holiday shopping?”

  “The Bon Marché.”

  “Did you speak to any employees of the Bon Marché while you were there?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Who?”

  Maddock stared at O’Brien, then his eyes shifted to Bradshaw, his expression controlled. Bradshaw could see he was thinking, reviewing whom he spoke to, what was said, what he did, that might have been observed or overheard. His focus glazed for a moment, and then a smile crept onto his face. He shook his head, not in denial, but as if in disbelief.

  O’Brien said, “Mr. Maddock, would you like to speak to your attorney before answering, or do you represent yourself?”

  “Only a fool represents himself, Detective, but no, I have no need of an attorney. Is this about Doyle? Vernon Doyle?”

  “It is.”

  “What did Mr. Doyle say occurred in our conversation? I have a right to know what I’m being accused of.”

  “Mr. Doyle hasn’t accused you of anything, not directly.”

  “Then what has he said? We had a vigorous but gentlemanly discussion regarding a subject of mutual interest on which we disagreed. If he said otherwise, he’s lying.”

  “He said nothing at all.”

  “Then why are you here asking about my visit to the Bon?”

  “Mr. Maddock, tell me about your conversation with Mr. Doyle.”

  “It was a private conversation concerning business matters.”

  “Are you refusing to speak?”

  “Yes, Detective. I am refusing to speak on matters of no concern to the police.”

  “But your conversation with Mr. Doyle does concern the police, Mr. Maddock.”

  “Why on Earth should it?”

  “Because Vernon Doyle is dead.”

  Maddock’s smile froze, but the joy had gone out of it. “Good God.”

  “He was found this morning in the Men’s Wear display window, clutching a string of Edison GE Christmas festoons.”

  Maddock’s mouth fell open with a small gasp and the hint of a smile. If Bradshaw was not mistaken, Maddock was greatly relieved by O’Brien’s statement. His gasp slid into a controlled frown. “This is about the holiday festoons? The new Edison lamps?”

  “It’s about Vernon Doyle’s death.”

  “Edison’s product is certainly not to blame. I’m sure you will find after a thorough examination that the building’s wiring or Doyle himself is to blame for the unfortunate accident, not Edison’s festoons. Have you examined the scene yet, Professor?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “The case is still under investigation. I’m not at liberty to reveal details.”

  Maddock extended his hands, palms up, in a gesture of innocence. “I’m sure you have found Mr. Edison’s product to be completely blameless. I do appreciate your letting me know about the matter. As Mr. Edison’s legal representative in Seattle, I can certainly handle any issues that arise from this unfortunate accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Maddock blinked. “Not—you mean it was intentional? How does one intentionally kill oneself with a festoon of lights? Did he hang himself?”

  “He was electrocuted.”

  “Intentionally? Perhaps Mr. Edison has a claim against Doyle’s estate for misuse of product?”

  O’Brien said, “Don’t be daft, Mr. Maddock. It wasn’t suicide.”

  “Someone else misused Mr. Edison’s lights, bringing about the demise of Mr. Doyle? I will want to know who was at fault, of course, so that I can take appropriate legal action. Well, thank you for your consideration in coming here today. I know you will keep me informed of developments. Now, is there anything else—”

  “Yes, you can tell me about your heated conversation with Vernon Doyle. You weren’t exactly quiet in your discussion. There were witnesses.”

  “Then let your witnesses tell you what was said. I left the Bon before ten. My conversation with Mr. Doyle has no bearing on whatever occurred thereafter.”

  Chapter Six

  The rat-a-tat of a tapping telegraph key greeted Bradshaw as he approached the door to his own office in the Bailey Building, a couple blocks from the Globe. He wondered what it would be like if all the various tapping and hammering, banging and clanging sounds of the city could be brought into harmony to form a symphony, rather than unnerving discord.

  Seattle was a city in perpetual motion, with destruction and construction happening side-by-side, above and below,
and all the while business continued uninterrupted at a feverish pace. Like ants detouring around a leaf dropped onto their path, the people of Seattle found ways around the messes and just kept going.

  Bradshaw’s door was stenciled more modestly than Maddock’s with his name and “Electrical Forensics Investigator,” and below, “Henry Pratt, Assistant.” When he opened it, the tapping ceased, and a string of cuss words more suited to the Klondike than a place of business reverberated off the walls.

  “Henry!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “I could have been a client entering.”

  “It’s this dang-nabbit Morse code. Dots and dashes—they all blur in my brain. Look here, I just sent a wire and it came out gobbledygook.” Henry tore the paper from the ticker of the practice telegraph device, crumpling it into a ball that then met its siblings in the wastebasket. Taller than Bradshaw, broader, gruffer, but no less intelligent, Henry Pratt had the physique of a logger, the speech of a miner, and the education of a scholar. He could, if he disciplined himself, fit in with the highest echelons of society, but he preferred the dives of the lower regions where, he said, it was easier to spot the liars and cheats.

  He’d begun two projects recently. He was lifting weights in order to prevent a back injury from crippling him, and he was learning the art of the telegrapher. The exercise program was going exceedingly well, as was the academic portion of the telegraphy. But the dots and dashes were proving unexpectedly difficult for him.

  “At our age,” Bradshaw said, “it’s more difficult to learn a new language, and that’s what Morse is. Keep at it, and one day it will suddenly seem clear.”

  “You wanna bet? What are you doing here, anyway? Thought you had a class to teach this afternoon.”

  “We’ve got a new case.”

  “That fire in Ballard?”

  “I’d almost forgotten about that. No, that was a burned-out transformer, no one hurt, though the building’s a total loss. The new case is complicated, usual terms with the SPD, and I’ll need both you and Squirrel.” Squirrel was the nickname of the fact-finder they used to gather background information on persons of interest. “Do you know anyone who works at the Bon?”