mostly heavy oak and leather. His place was warm and brown, and his shelves had daguerreotypes of his mother and father. The neighborhood was pleasant, tree-lined, green, and well kept. He liked the people in the area, mostly Germans—“Dunkers”—who kept pretty much to themselves, were industrious, opened businesses like food kiosks and beer gardens, and Ransom liked their music and the colorful steins they served their beer in, not to mention the great wienersnitzel prepared at the Frauhouse or Mirabella’s.
All close to the Des Plaines police station where he worked.
Once inside, Ransom found his soap and indoor shower.
Not everyone enjoyed such luxuries, certainly not in Chicago, but Ransom had long ago had the shower installed and more recently the indoor toilet, a Thomas Crapper invention.
A shower and a shave and what was nowadays being called a crap all in the privacy of one’s own home.
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In the shower, Ransom soaked up and rinsed down, and he thought of nothing but Jane Francis, and he wondered why life is as it is, follows a straight path to disappointment and misadventure. Why’d she feel compelled to lie all this time, passing herself off as Tewes? Why’d she get herself into such a quandary with Nathan—to lie for him. Why he hadn’t met Jane far sooner, to’ve been there when she needed him most? He struggled against a knee-jerk reaction of anger toward her; all anger reserved now for the real fool here—himself! “And that little creep Bosch . . . right all along,” he said to the shower stall.
He toweled off and looked at the clock. Eleven-twenty already and he’d not reported in, but who was watching? He often worked the street, checked with snitches, talked to the neighborhood vendors, merchants, tavern owners to learn what was up, and who was doing what to whom, and how often and where and when, and in the end why. So no one would think it strange that he’d not checked in, and if anyone needed him, they could ring the bell or make a call now, as he’d had a phone installed.
He found clean clothes, a nice suit not slept in. A glance at his pocket watch on the end of its fob told him it was half past noon, and his stomach concurred. He wandered out and down the street to Mirabella’s, a German restaurant with outside tables and chairs. Along the way, he’d picked up a copy of the latest
Some Johnny-on-the-spot reporter had caught the sight moments before police doused the flames. No doubt whoever the photographer was, he’d collected a fine reward for the startling shot. But nowhere in the frame could a killer be found.
Once seated with a beer in hand, Thom Carmichael stood over him and declared, “
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fair phantom case. A logline below this read: “Chief Nathan Kohler nabs suspected multiple murderer.” This made Ransom sit up and almost spill his beer. “An arrest made? By Kohler?” People at other tables overheard. The more curious waited to hear more.
“Appears Kohler’s scored big. For the sake of the city and future victims, I pray it is a good arrest, but I have me doubts, Alastair.”
But Alastair only half heard as his rage erupted on reading the name of the accused:
Cursing Kohler, Ransom stood, swilled the last of his beer, tossed down a coin, and rushed for the station house, shouting back, “Where’re they holding Philo? Bloody fools!
And why didn’t you get this news to me sooner?”
“Your own house, of course! Des Plaines lockup—the Bridewell. The story’s selling newspapers!”
When he got to the station house, she was there—Dr. Jane Francis, but dressed as Tewes. “Whatever are you doing here like this? I thought once your ruse was up, that you’d’ve the decency to—”
“I came to plead your case with Kohler, but Kohler is out for your head, you fool, and you go about as if he were manageable. And meanwhile, people around the two of you get hurt.”
“Hurt. You speak to me of hurt?”
Police around them began to look askance.
“Children . . . you and me?”
“For a brief time, we shared the same teacher, Mrs.
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ROBERT W. WALKER
“Mrs. Onar?” he asked.
“Then you do recall the mad Mrs. Onar?”
“She kept a whiskey bottle in her bottom left drawer. Yes, I recall her.”
“Good, then you must recall little Jane? Little Jane Francis? Me!”
“I remember the dour old teacher, but you. Francis . . .
Jane Francis, I . . . I’m sorry.”
“I was pulled from the school, put in St. Albans, as Father could not abide Mrs. Onar and her rules and her lack of imagination and human compassion.”
“The milk of kindness she never knew.”
“My father was Dr. William Francis. You must remember him?”
“Not a whole lot about those years I’ve chosen to remember.”
“I never forgot you. You were instantly kind to me. You rescued me.”
“Rescued?”
“There was a bully named Evan . . . Evan Kingsbury.”
“Sorry . . . don’t recall him either.”
There lingered an awkward moment of silence during which their eyes met. He quickly broke off eye contact and said, “So explain to me now why . . . why all this charade, this living a lie?”
“Economic need mostly. People won’t go to a female doctor, unless, I suppose there is no other. I had thought to go westward—”
“California?”
“But there’s little hope of good medical schools out west for Gabby, so . . . so . . .”
“So you concocted an even crazier notion?”
“It would’ve served me well but for Nathan.”
“But how did he find you out when—”
“When you found it impossible?”
“Hold on. I was onto you . . . after a while.”
CITY FOR RANSOM
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“Yes, after I confessed.” She began to laugh.
He looked piqued at her laughter, then angry eyed, then he was fighting back his own laugh until he could contain it no more.
People heard their laughter rising up the stairwell, bouncing off stone walls.
When settled, he slapped open the
“Have you seen this? Damn fools’ve arrested Philo Keane for the murders?”
“Keane? No! Isn’t he the fellow with the enormous tripod at the train station?” She scanned the news account. “Says here he knew two of the victims intimately. Chesley Mandor and Polly Pete.”
