City for Ransom

“It’s beautiful.”

“They found it somehow in Philo’s possession. Merielle had promised under no circumstance to ever part with it, and CITY FOR RANSOM

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the last time I saw her alive, she had it on, and next they find it in Philo’s pocket.”

“What?”

“Made me, for a moment, believe Keane murdered my Mere, the way Kohler sprung it.”

“Nathan’s good at that.”

“Sure is. Hey, look . . . I wanna thank you for the other night when you eased my pain.”

“Easing a headache, ahhh . . . that’s nothing. To ease a broken heart, now there . . . anyone capable of that will make a fortune and have patients galore. Have I told you how very sorry Gabby and I are for your loss? It was evident you loved Merielle.” “I’ve arranged for a small wake—Donegan’s on Halsted, tomorrow night. If you can be there.”

“If you’re sure you want me.”

“As yourself, yes . . . not the doctor. He will be unwelcome.”

He placed the diamond ring onto his pinky finger. “Won it in a card game,” he lied, “same as Polly Pete. Thought she and it belonged together.”

“How’d Keane come by it?”

“Philo was in no condition to discuss it; he thinks she slipped it to him on the sly, something about repaying a debt.”

“Keane seems to value your friendship.” Jane lifted his hand, again examining the ring’s beauty in the sun when a dark cloud came over. “A lovely setting. This could have purchased a lot of photographic plates, film, even a new camera.” “He came the other evening with his newest baby in hand, talked nonstop about it, but when he saw the victim was someone he cared for—”

“The Mandor girl?”

“Yes, dropped his new camera, fell to his knees. It proved the start of this trouble for him, that show of weakness.”

“Like when the vultures threw you in the Bridewell?”

“Thanks again for getting me out.”

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ROBERT W. WALKER

She ignored this. “Right now our getting him out of that cell takes priority. I’m sure McCumbler will be successful, and we’ll buy Keane’s freedom.”

“What is all this we talk? We’ve got a problem . . . and we buy his freedom?”

“I want to help you, Alastair.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, damn you, I just want to.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?”

He looked long into her eyes, until waiting cabbies began staring. “I want to see Dr. Jane Francis open a practice here in Chicago and soon . . . and an end to Dr. James Phineas Tewes for good and all.” She smiled wide, the mustache curling. “I hear a rumor that Tewes has plans to return to New York.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumor clackin’ about. To catch a frigate to California, start anew there.”

“In time . . . in time, Alastair.”

A cloud burst released a silver rain that suddenly began pelting them. Together, they stepped into the nearest cab and trundled in through the swinging door not built for Ransom’s size. Once inside, laughing, he reached over and informed her that her makeup had begun to run. She leaned into him, preparing to accept a kiss as his large hand touched her cheek, his gentleness causing her pulse to race. But he patted down her mustache instead, telling her, “I’d kiss you if it weren’t for the whiskers.” He laughed. After a moment, she laughed. Curious of their laughter, the coachman opened his small window on the cab to study his passengers.

Ransom reacted to the sliding door as it opened, staring back at a pair of eyes that he only half recognized, unable to place. The eyes of the coachman proved most certainly familiar but somehow out of place, out of time.

“Ahhh, begging your pardon, sirs, but where’re you off CITY FOR RANSOM

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to?” Water dripped in from the open panel that looked out on the coachman’s seat. The sound of an unhappy horse up there came through with the rainwater.

“To the Palmer House, my good fellow,” announced Ransom, and to Jane he added, “where we’ll drink and dine and—”

“No, no! It’s no time for that! Take me straight ’way to my Belmont office. From there, Inspector Ransom can give you his destination.”

She hadn’t given the young fellow an address, and Ransom asked her about this.

“He knows where Dr. Tewes lives. Most everyone this far north knows where he lives.”

“I see. Dr. Tewes tips well.”

“True, but this coachman knows you as well.”

“Really now, and who might that high-pitched voice and those beady eyes belong to?”

“Waldo, of course.”

“Denton?”

“Says he hardly makes a scrapping apprenticed to your friend Keane. Says he makes more money on tips. Afraid he calls your friend a skinflint.”

“Skinflint? Philo?” He laughed.

“Waldo says Keane thinks him his indentured servant!”

“OK, he’s a skinflint. But at heart, a good man.”

“So we haul Denton into the courtroom as a character witness?”

“Perhaps not. The village idiots might draw a straight line between a skinflint and a murderer, as they’ve drawn a line from Philo’s art to murder.”

“Art some are calling pornography.”

“I’ve seen it and I tell you it is art.”

“Have you . . . ever purchased from him?”

“Yes, photos of Merielle when I only knew her as Polly.

Later, I bought up his entire inventory.”

“And you still have these, ahhh . . . artistic renderings?”

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ROBERT W. WALKER

“I do.”

“I’m sure of their artistic merit,” she teased. “Look, if you want my advice, you will burn them.”

“For you, I will do it.”

“No for me.”

“For myself then.”

“Damn it, man, if Nathan can orchestrate Keane’s arrest, and if he turns him over to the right interrogators, men like yourself . . . your friend Philo can be persuaded to point you out as having an obsession with one or more of the victims, and then you give Nathan the kindling to amass this fire under you in the form of these . . . artistic renderings?” “Yes, I take your point.”

“I’m sure you would’ve concluded the same, but even had you . . . well, I imagine you’d hold on to one or two of the photos.”

“I’ll destroy them all.”

“Else turn them over to the care of someone you trust.”