Devil’s garden

26

They didn’t speak to Maude the entire way out of the city, rumbling along in a black Dodge Brothers, the kind with the steel-frame construction and hard top. All business, the only action coming from the fatheaded cop, Kennedy, when he cracked open the windshield as they drove over the county line. They headed out onto a bumpy road, hugging the coast-line south, hardscrabble vegetation clinging to the rocky edge, the roadway growing thin and narrow. The cops didn’t have to say it, but she figured she was headed back to Madera to face the last one, Cassius Clay Woods, in court and then finally all the way back to Wichita to face Mr. Delmont. Or would they get it all over at once? Maude hoped it was the latter, she thought, as the road wound and curved, snaking more and more the farther south they got, breezing through wide, rolling green pastureland, cows impossibly perched on the vertical hills, grazing, Maude not sure she knew how they found their footing.

She lit a cigarette and offered one to Big Kate, but Big Kate didn’t even acknowledge the question as the smoke flitted out the side window, a cool breeze shooting through the open cab and between the two lunkhead detectives dressed identically in black suits. Just as Maude settled in, flicked the cigarette from the window, and laid her head against the window, the car slowed.

Nothing around but the dirt road, a long fence, and those goddamn crazy cows making their way up the steep cliff.

“We outta gas?”

“Out,” said Griff, the lunkhead driver.

“I’m not squatting before you men.”

“Out,” Kate Eisenhart said, nudging her in the ribs with an elbow, pushing her toward the door being opened by Tom Reagan. She stood in the roadway, the sun high and golden. Maude pulled her hat down to shield her eyes.

“You are not to step foot back in San Francisco,” said Reagan, his head shaped like a bullet. Big head. Good teeth.

“Am I to walk back to Los Angeles?”

“Up to you,” said Griff Kennedy. He lit a smoke and leaned back against the Dodge Brothers business model, arms across his chest.

“What about the charges you mentioned?”

Detective Reagan shrugged. “It’s all up to you now, Mrs. Delmont.”

“Hopper-Woods,” Kate added.

“You’re a laugh riot,” Maude said.

Kate stood wide-legged in a big black dress, black coat, and matador hat.

Her double chin bunched under her disapproving mouth.

“Is that it?” Maude said. “You can spare the lecture.”

“I don’t think she heard us, boys,” Kate said.

“Kate,” said Reagan, grabbing her arm, “c’mon, let’s go.”

“I’m not through with the twist.”

“Kate,” Reagan said again.

Kate shook his beefy hand off her. She walked toward Maude and Maude looked at her and shook her head with pity, gathering her black dress from her feet and starting for the road. Kate grabbed hold of her dress and spun her around. “You are to never return. Not under any name.”

“I heard you.”

“Good.”

“Please remove your hand,” Maude said.

Kate slowly let go, still staring right at Maude, but before Maude turned she gathered a good deal of spit in her mouth and let it fly into Kate’s chubby face. Kate hauled back with the palms of her hands and pushed Maude to the ground and, red-faced and angry, marched back to the machine.

Maude found her hands, looking for her feet.

“You people,” Maude said. “You don’t want to know what happened.”

“What happened?” Tom Reagan said, offering her hand.

She stood on her own and dusted herself off. “You’ll never know. You idiots.”

Big Kate returned from the Dodge, coat flying behind her, matador hat hanging crazy on her head, clutching a baseball bat. Her face heated, breathing excited, she looked as if her body would swell and explode like a balloon. Tom blocked her path.

“Outta my way, Detective Reagan. This saucy bitch needs a talkin’ to.”

“Not like that,” Reagan said.

Griff Kennedy remained leaned back on the machine, flicking the butt of his cigarette and coolly lighting a new one, watching the action play out through the smoke.

Kate hoisted the baseball bat in her hands. Tom stood in her way.

“Don’t you care?” Maude said, screaming. “Don’t you care? Rumwell is a liar.”

“Dr. Rumwell is respected,” Kate said, getting a better grip. “You are gutter trash.”

“Dr. Rumwell is an abortionist. A killer of children.”

“Liar,” Kate said, howling. “Black liar.”

Tom made a move for the bat, but Kate eluded him, circling Maude Delmont in all that open, hilly green space. The wind cold and salty off the Pacific. Overhead, a hawk circled.

“He killed her,” Maude said. “There you have it.”

“Black liar.”

“He removed the child from her the day before the party,” she said. “She was ill. I don’t care if you crucify the fat bastard, but there you have it. Take it.”

Griff Kennedy perked up at her words and moved in beside Tom, Tom slacking his shoulders as if the other Irishman could talk down the dyke. Instead, he handed Tom a cigarette, the bullet-headed man looking over at his partner, the partner slipping his arms around his big shoulders and leading him away.

Kennedy looked back at Maude. “I didn’t hear what you just said, and I hope for your sake you never repeat it.”

“You don’t want it,” Maude said, laughing. “I serve the truth to you on a silver platter, but you’re so far gone with it you don’t want it. How wonderful. How pious.”

Kate choked up on the bat, the cop Reagan trying to get away from Kennedy when the fat policewoman took the first swing into Maude’s stomach, knocking out all the air, the second blow knocking out her legs, and then two hard blows against the back, pushing her in the dirt. The beating was savage and quick and dull and hard, until the screaming and profanities from Kate become gibberish, her fat ass pulled from Maude’s back. The big Dodge started and pulled off, moving away from the sun and into the shadow, and above and over a hill, until they were gone.

Maude spit out sand and blood. Her dress torn, ribs cracked, body battered. She wavered to her feet and tried to find the road south.

SAM WAS ON THE DECK of the Sonoma all of ten minutes before he was introduced by the captain, a man named Trask, to Daisy Simpkins. Daisy smiled at Sam and shook his hand as the captain explained she was a federal dry agent snooping for any alcohol that may have made it to Pier 35 unchecked. He kind of smiled about it, like it was such a big joke, as the morning sun shone over Oakland, the wind harsh in his ears. Behind Daisy, the light made her hair seem more gold than white, a lock covering up one of her silver eyes, red mouth pursed into a wry smile.

Sam walked beside her on the long, endless deck of the ocean liner, other Pinkertons interviewing hundreds of passengers and checking their trunks and suitcases before they could head down the gangplank. City cops prowled the guts of the big ship, Sam spotting Chief of Detectives Matheson and Tom Reagan; Reagan caught Sam’s eye but turned back to interviewing the purser.

“I heard it’s not a half mil,” Daisy said. “They carried a half mil, but the robbers only got a hundred and a quarter.”

“Still, a nice haul.”

“Would set me up for a while.”

“You check every boat that comes in?”

“We had a tip about LaPeer,” Daisy said, walking beside Sam, strolling the top deck like an average couple taking in the sights, through the backed-up passengers and out onto the aft deck loaded down with bunches of green bananas. Daisy wore a cape with a blue jumper dress, and the wind blew the cape up off her shoulders while they walked. “But I figure they already dumped the hooch at the three-mile limit.”

“You miss me?”

“I ached,” she said. “In the gut.”

“Funny girl.”

“How ’bout you? How’s that baby?”

“A girl. Very pretty.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mary Jane.”

“Wife okay?”

“Dandy.”

“I like the tie.”

Sam looked down to see which one he put on with the tweeds that morning. Red with blue dots. He readjusted the cap on his head to block out the morning sun, finding the end of the boat and then turning around the bow and heading back around.

“So what happened, after you were south?”

“You shoulda seen Jack Lawrence after the bit with the lion. He was scared to death of me, practically begged to work for us. I think it was the lion balls in his face that did it, emasculated him. So, I set up a little meeting in Frisco with my boss, F. Forrest Mitchell, and he thought Lawrence was on the square, too. And we turned the son of a bitch loose.”

“And he ran.”

“No, not then,” Daisy said. “He was a good boy for a while. He went back to the same ring that supplied the booze for Fatty and ended up getting sent to Plumas County to help run a moonshine still with this fella named Clio. This old-timer Clio. You shoulda seen this guy, looked like a real miner forty-niner type with the whiskers and flop hat and all. He ran a fifty-gallon still in this abandoned lumber camp that was only eight miles from the Blairsden railroad station, where they’d move a lot of the stuff. We knew every move LaPeer was going to make but played it patient waiting for the good stuff to make its way from the Philippines or up in Canada. But all of our plans got shot to shit.”

A little girl in a straw hat with a pink ribbon turned to stare at Daisy with an open mouth and then leaned back over the ship’s railing and tossed bread crumbs to a dozen seagulls. The seagulls just hung in the wind, barely moving their wings, catching and fighting over the crumbs, another dozen joining the others squawking and fighting.

“LaPeer sniff him out?”

“Mr. Mitchell and I figure we got a rat on the inside,” Daisy said. She stopped walking and found a spot to lean over the rail and look out at the fishing boats heading out through the Golden Gate. “A few weeks back, LaPeer sends Jack Lawrence back to the old lumber camp with a letter, telling him to hand it off to Clio. And of course what does Lawrence do but open the son of a bitch. It read something like, ‘I don’t know whether to trust this Australian bastard or not, keep one eye open.’ That being kind of a joke between LaPeer and Clio, I guess, because Clio only had one eye.”

“Then he ran?”

“Scared shitless.”

Sam offered her a smoke.

“Don’t you have a coat?” she asked.

“I hocked it.”

“For what?”

“A nice cut of meat.”

“Hard times.”

“Not too bad,” Sam said. “I got some bum lungs and a lousy job. You read about all these vets who come home shell-shocked out of their mind and end up checking out early with a.45.”

“That’s a solid way to look at things, Sam.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, leaning over the railing with her, about the same spot over the edge and meeting her eye. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

“Don’t you need to work?”

“Guess so,” Sam said. “Waiting for the cops to finish up with the purser and then I’m headed down below.”

“What’s below?”

“Where they kept the money,” he said. “Stronghold. So they say it’s an inside job?”

“That’s what I heard.”

Sam nodded, still staring back at Daisy. He wanted to touch her face. She had a lovely cleft in her chin.

“They pulled me off the Arbuckle case.”

“This is a big job.”

“Wasn’t the job.”

“What was it?”

“Greed.”

“From who?”

“You ever feel like you’re no better than a prostitute?”

“Every day,” she said. “You got an alternative?”

THE THREE HUGE WOODEN DOORS were brought in during lunch and placed within the witness-box. Roscoe knew about them and the fingerprints, expected them, but didn’t think they were going to get into the whole mess today. When the jury was brought in, the men and women stared at the doors, as if they’d propped up a corpse for the viewing, something tangible, the first physical piece of the St. Francis they’d laid eyes on. Roscoe poured some water from the pitcher and leaned back into his seat. He took a swallow, and as U’Ren began Roscoe started to examine his cuticles, glancing up to the man sworn in by the judge.

E. O. Heinrich. A tall, gangly man in a rumpled black suit. He wore glasses but still needed to stare up at the judge and out at U’Ren. He was nervous and bookish and that all suited U’Ren well as the bastard continued to call the witness “Professor” on every occasion.

McNab waited a minute for the accolades and then pushed back his chair, standing and cutting off U’Ren’s reading of Heinrich’s résumé credentials.

“Your Honor, we challenge this witness as an expert.”

“On what grounds?” Louderback asked.

“We have no issue with Mr. McNab asking the witness a few questions before we proceed,” U’Ren said, a cracked smile showing. “In fact, we insist.”

McNab pursed his lips, nodding, moving toward the witness, wasting no time. “What cases have you testified for in this state?”

“In this state?” Heinrich asked.

“Yes.”

“None in this state.”

“So you have never testified in the state of California on fingerprints for any district attorney.”

“No, sir.”

“Where else have you testified in the Superior Court or a court of criminal jurisdiction?”

“In the state of Arizona and the state of Washington.”

“How often have you testified on fingerprints in the state of Washington?”

“Once.”

“How often in the state of Arizona?”

“Once.”

Brady and U’Ren stood in unison, Brady putting his mitt to U’Ren’s shoulder and seating the boy. He said, “Perhaps it would please Mr. McNab to have Professor Heinrich take the fingerprints of every jury member, have them secretly numbered, and then test his abilities.”

McNab stuck a thumb in his vest pocket and looked over the jury box and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

Louderback yawned and told U’Ren to please resume questioning the witness. And there were degrees and citations and awards and scientific papers, and as they continued McNab started to fidget and tighten his jaw, his rough, old-man breathing growing louder until he pushed back the heavy chair and stood. “I think we’re quite aware of Mr. Heinrich’s gold stars. May we continue?”

Louderback rolled his fingers for U’Ren to move on and U’Ren smiled with his ragged little teeth and asked for the assistance of Miss Salome Doyle, who worked in Heinrich’s lab.

She was a skinny redheaded woman, flat ass, no tits, and a nervous little grin, aware of everyone watching her and loving it, as she set up an artist’s easel. Roscoe half expected her to curtsy. On the easel was an enlarged photograph with what looked like fingerprints made of silver. Roscoe leaned in, nicked a rough cuticle off with his mouth, looked down at his hands and then back at the easel.

This skinny fella Heinrich was led by the nose through the setup: Three doors from the St. Francis. Two handprints on a panel. One belonged to Virginia, with an overlay of prints belonging to Roscoe.

Roscoe looked over to McNab, but McNab showed nothing. His hands crossed over his big chest, breathing, resting like an old fighter in the corner. Roscoe thought McNab might doze off in the heated courtroom.

“And what does this pattern say? How does it speak to you, Professor?”

“It says that at some point Mr. Arbuckle had his hands over Miss Rappe’s by the door.”

“In what manner?”

“It’s of a scientific opinion that there was a struggle,” Heinrich said.

“Objection,” McNab said, on his feet. “The witness is an expert in identifying fingerprints. No body of work exists that allows Professor Heinrich or Salome Doyle to read them like tea leaves.”

“What did scientific methods show?” U’Ren said, glad of the correction, smiling and pacing. Mouth closed, waiting for Heinrich to spill what he’d been coached to say.

“My methods conclude me to believe that Mr. Arbuckle was trying to prevent Miss Rappe from leaving the room. You can plainly see the patterns formed in the aluminum dust.”

“Objection,” McNab said.

“Sustained,” Judge Louderback said. “The jury will disregard the witness’s testimony as to the events precipitating the fingerprints.”

Several jurists scribbled into notebooks. Roscoe looked at them and then back at his hands. Big paddle fans wheeled above them all. Stray coughs and seat shuffles while U’Ren drove home his points.

When he finished, McNab took his place, pulling his watch out on its gold chain to check the time and buttoning back his black coat.

“Is it possible to have these doors reexamined?” McNab asked.

“No.”

“Because too many hands have touched them.”

“In the courtroom.”

“Perhaps even wiped down with a cloth.”

“Perhaps.”

“Calling up your methods and as an expert in such matters, could these surfaces show sufficient prints after being wiped down and scrubbed with a cloth?”

“I would say not.”

“Prints would be obliterated.”

“Yes.”

McNab nodded, thoroughly interested, digesting what Heinrich had to say, slowly looking over to skinny Salome Doyle and nodding at her.

“On what days were these doors removed from the St. Francis and taken to your laboratory in Berkeley?” he asked.

“I don’t recall.”

“Did you not make notes?”

“I most certainly did,” Heinrich said, opening a thick but small ledger.

“September sixteenth. It was Friday.”

McNab smiled.

“Eleven days after Miss Rappe took ill?”

“The room had been sealed.”

Brady was on his feet and the judge motioned him over and there was much squabbling, words that Roscoe couldn’t hear. And then Brady walked back to the prosecutor’s table and sat back down.

“Was the room encased in glass?”

“The doors were locked.”

“And not a single person touched these doors since Miss Rappe was moved into 1227.”

“Yes.”

“A record of the events frozen in time.”

“Most surely.”

“And you’re sure even the most gentle wiping of a dustcloth would remove such evidence?”

“The tests could only be conducted in my laboratory with Miss Doyle’s help.”

“Not to be repeated now.”

“Yes.”

“Because the doors are tainted.”

Brady stood and frowned. “Judge?”

Judge Louderback looked down at McNab. “Cover new ground.”

“Your Honor,” McNab said, “to ease the confusion of the court and the jury, I wish to call a rebuttal witness at this time.”

Louderback waited.

“A Miss Katherine Brennan.”

Louderback looked annoyed and bored. Roscoe poured some more water.

“And who is that?” the judge asked.

“The good woman who cleaned that room the day after the Arbuckle party. Since we’re calling her work into question, it’s only right that she has the opportunity to respond.”

THE STRONG ROOM on the Sonoma was a solid steel box, sealed with a solid steel door that took three keys to open. The keys belonged to the first officer, the purser, and the captain. According to the rules, all three had to be present when the door was opened and when it was closed and locked. The captain told Sam he’d made regular trips, night and day, to test the door’s integrity. But he did not open the door nor could he see inside. The strong room had no windows, no barred peepholes, and, as far as the captain knew, the loot had been stolen shortly after he’d seen the safes loaded inside at Honolulu. Fifteen chests, each one containing ten thousand gold sovereigns.

“Mr. Houdini couldn’t find his way out.”

“How much do they weigh?” Sam asked, examining the three locks.

“The chests?”

“Eighty pounds.”

“And five are missing?”

The first officer nodded. The purser joined them and then Captain Trask.

Each man showed Sam the lock procedure. Repeating it twice more. “Fifty thousand gold sovereigns. Four hundred pounds,” Sam said.

“Could they have been off-loaded with the booze?”

“What booze?” Captain Trask asked, mustache twitching.

“The booze crates you dropped at the three-mile limit.”

The captain’s eyes were very clear and very blue, and he soon blinked and simply said, “No. I watch that shipment myself.”

Trask pushed open the steel door and it groaned and clanged against the inside wall. The men waited for him outside as if their presence would taint his work. The strong room was oval and painted with a pink primer to stop the rust. Sheets of metal formed the curved corners, rivets driven in flush with each piece. Sam felt over the smoothness of the room, the gentle curves, and below him he could hear the humming and pulsing of the engine room, a woosh, woosh sound that was comforting.

The ten remaining chests lay in an orderly row, side by side. Everything else had been removed from the hold. Sam dropped to his knees and touched the blackened scars on the pink primer where chests had been dragged from the room. The black marks went straight for the steel door, and there were no signs that any other point of entry was possible, no ventilation ducts, no signs of drilling. Sam felt the tracks, gouging deep into the paint, where the gold was ripped from the room. He moved his hands along the path, feeling something wet and, smelling his fingers, knowing it was some really good Scotch.

The Scotch formed a very small puddle in a low spot in the steel sheeting. At some point, maybe this voyage or maybe one from years ago, a single rivet had been yanked away in the path. Most of the Scotch had drained out through the tiny hole and Sam wondered if there wasn’t a lucky crewman below who thought his prayers had been answered.

He stood in the room for a long time, hearing that gentle woosh, and cursing himself for not seeing the obvious.

“Sir?” asked the first officer.

Sam turned.

“We need to lock back up,” he said.

Sam nodded and stepped through the bulkhead. The door sealed and locked by all three men.

“Any clues?” Captain Trask asked.

“Your lock is brass, not steel like the others,” Sam said. “The thief or thieves changed out the captain’s lock before the trip and made impressions of the other two keys.”

The purser and first officer exchanged looks.

“It’s an inside job by someone who could get close enough to you two,” Sam said. “Now, let’s start with a list of the crew.”

The captain said he’d get a list, and they walked back through the mail room and out to a stairwell, and Sam told the men he’d like to snoop around a bit. He wound his way around the guts of the ship, through hallways of staterooms and offices. There was a barbershop and a shoeshine stand. An empty restaurant with tables changed out with fresh linen and crystal and silverware laid out for the cruise back to the Pacific. Daisy Simpkins was back by the kitchen with another dry agent. When she saw Sam, she said something to the agent and he bounded around Sam and headed up the stairs to the top deck.

“Your booze is gone,” Sam said.

“Half Moon Bay?”

Sam shrugged and Daisy followed him out to the dining room. “You know which way is up?”

She smiled. “You lost?”

He nodded.

They followed a long hall through the guts of the ship and then up a ladder to a level with passenger cabins. Everyone was up on deck, clamoring and pissed off at the search, doors wide-open into the little rooms with unmade beds and piles of linen. You could hear the feet above and the wind around the ship, portholes open, a biting cold coming through the halls in all that desolate space. As they walked, Sam was aware of Daisy grabbing his hand and pulling him into the next empty cabin, closing the door, leaving the light off, and kissing him full on the mouth.

“If they don’t find the gold, the office wants me to take this tub back to Australia.”

“How long?”

Sam shrugged. She kissed him again.

“What about Arbuckle?”

“Like I said, they pulled me off it. ’Sides, he’s too far gone anyway.”

“He’s gettin’ what he deserves.”

“It’s not that simple.”

They kissed for a while in the dark room. She smelled wonderful.

“The girl came up to The City with something,” Sam said. “She got hurt when it was taken from her. She was dying before she stepped foot in that party.”

“You want to talk straight?”

“I can’t, angel,” Sam said. “How ’bout you?”

“Shut up,” she said. “I hate talk. It’s all in what you do.”