The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

Chapter 19—Exchanges

The following day, Freddie set out with high hopes of learning something useful about Sidley’s past. Since
State Street
was only a few blocks from his office, the young man ducked out during his lunch hour and assumed he could wrap up his investigation without being missed.

He managed to find the building where Hart And Hudson was located, only to be confronted by a shaded window and a locked office door. He was informed by the building manager that no one had rented that particular office for the past decade. The only significant clue Freddie derived from this wild goose chase was that Sidley had lied about his previous place of employment.

He then reasoned that if he couldn’t trace Sidley to
Blackthorne
, maybe he could trace
Blackthorne
to Sidley. With that purpose in mind, he sauntered off to the Merchant's Bank And Trust where
Blackthorne
worked to see if Sidley had ever been employed there as well. After being informed by the personnel manager that no one named Sidley had ever worked there, Freddie was running out of ideas.

“Some reporter I’ve turned out to be!” he said to himself. “Chasing down leads that end up being blind alleys. Following hunches that don’t pay off! I can’t go back to
Engie
with this. She’s counting on me to find something, and right now I feel like a complete fool!”

He walked out of the bank in a dismal mood. By now it was 1:30 and he had been away from the office for over two hours. He had no desire to return and had no idea what to do next, so he headed for
Lake
Park
and found a shady bench where he could sit and indulge his misery. He sat motionless in an attitude of despair for so long that the park pigeons began to flock around him. Whether they came looking for food or because they mistook him for a new, oddly-shaped statue would have been hard to tell.

Freddie’s eyes were still fixed on the ground when he noticed a shadow obscuring the patch of sunlight he had been focusing on. He looked up to find his own figurative shadow standing beside him.

“Aloysius, what in God’s name are you doing here! I didn’t think my day could have gotten any worse!”

“Simpson, do you know what time it is?” the company spy asked anxiously. “Your uncle will be asking me where you are and why you aren’t at work.”

“I know the hour is late, my friend. And getting later. You may tell my uncle that I have decided to commit suicide by sacrificing myself to the park pigeons. You will find my bones picked clean by tomorrow morning.”

“Simpson, what’s wrong with you? Do you really want me to tell your uncle that?”

“Aloysius, does the word ‘hyperbole’ have any meaning whatsoever to you?”

“Of course it does, but I find it a useless bit of nonsense to engage in just the same.” Waverly's nose twitched in disapproval. “Really, what shall I tell your uncle?”

“Whatever you like, whatever the hell you like!”

Waverly sat down beside him. “Look, I’m trying to help you. Don’t you see?”

Freddie studied him contemptuously for a few moments. “I’m sure you expect some recompense for the trouble you’re taking on my behalf?”

Aloysius looked down at his shoes. “Well, you were rather generous last time.”

“As my desire to live diminishes, so does my fear of reprisal. I’ll give you five dollars to tell my uncle I went home sick. Not a penny more.”

Waverly hesitated, apparently realizing that Freddie’s present mood made bargaining a waste of time. “Very well.”

Freddie opened his billfold, counted out the money, and gave it to Waverly. “Aloysius, the five dollars is also to buy some privacy. I don’t expect to see or hear you again for the remainder of the day.”

Waverly stood up and nodded. “I was never here.” The company spy walked away to fabricate a plausible lie.

Freddie sighed. A pigeon standing on the ground by his left foot gurgled sympathetically. The young man put his head in his hands and said to himself, “
Engie
, old girl, if there ever was a time when I needed to speak to you, this is it.”

Freddie tried to imagine what his friend would say if she were there. The image took such control of him that he could see her pacing the sidewalk in front of him, dressed in purple silk, hands clasped behind her back. Finally she wheeled to face him, eyes flashing. “Think, man, think! For God’s sake use your head for something other than a hat rack!”

Freddie chuckled at the image he had conjured. “Well, that sounds like
Engie
, all right.”

“Freddie, what do
Blackthorne
and Sidley both have in common?”

“Well, they’re both connected to Elsa Bauer somehow.”

“Yes, we know that!” The manifestation stamped her foot impatiently. “But what about their past? What do they share in their history?”

Freddie wracked his brain and could come up with nothing.

“What do they do for a living?”

“One’s a banker and one’s an accountant,” Freddie said, half-aloud. “They both have a background in finance.”

“Quite so.”

“But,
Engie
,” Freddie defended himself, “I’ve already tried tracing Sidley to
Blackthorne’s
bank and it didn’t pan out.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps he used an alias.”

“But the clerk didn’t recognize his picture either.”

“It’s a big bank, and Sidley may have left there three years ago.”

“You know, you really aren’t helping me!” Freddie said out loud in exasperation. Evangeline’s image smiled and sat down beside him.

“Maybe we just need to go a little farther back in time...,” she trailed off and then evaporated.

Freddie cocked his head to one side, evaluating the idea. “Well, it’s worth a try. I’d be no worse off than I am now. Hmmm...” He stood up abruptly, causing pigeons to flutter in all directions. Dusting feathers off his coat with great resolution, Freddie marched westward once more to the Merchant’s Bank. He intended to find out the name of Jonathan
Blackthorne’s
previous employer.

***

A half hour later, Freddie stood before an imposing edifice known as the Chicago Exchange. This was the building where all of
Chicago
’s commodities were traded. Architecturally, it resembled a Gothic cathedral—a cathedral dedicated to the worship of fatted calves and pigs.
Blackthorne’s
former employer was Dresden And Company, a brokerage firm located on the fourth floor. As Freddie turned the door handle to the company’s office, he was sent spinning by a messenger rushing down to the trading floor.

“Sorry, sir, are you all right?” The boy helped Freddie regain his balance. “Have to run. I have to get this trade downstairs right away!” With that, the boy flew out the door leaving the young man to collect himself.

Dazed by this encounter, Freddie wandered into the waiting room, where a small multitude of the firm’s clients were checking quotations being updated on a chalk board suspended from the wall. All around him, he heard a sea of turbulent voices muttering angrily. The muttering increased to a collective shout of rage with the appearance of an innocent-looking number newly chalked in the column for May wheat. Though Freddie didn’t dabble in commodities trading, he could smell financial ruin in the air and guessed that someone had just tried to corner the market in wheat futures.

To his horror, he saw one of the spectators pull a gun out of his coat pocket and point it at his own head. Before the man could pull the trigger, two others tried to wrestle the gun away from him. A shot fired and whizzed into the wall above Freddie’s shoulder. The battle for control of the gun continued as a dozen other bystanders ran for cover. Another shot tore through the air.

Freddie ducked low to the ground, frantically searching for somewhere to hide. Spying an unmarked door at the back of the waiting room, he crawled to it for cover and shut it behind him. His head was still spinning as he uttered a silent prayer of thanks that his father had been a lawyer instead of a broker.

The serenity of the inner room was shocking in contrast to the donnybrook going on outside. A middle-aged, balding man sat at a desk immediately before him. He looked up and said mildly, “May I help you?”

It was all Freddie could do to bleat, “Personnel?”

The man at the desk smiled reassuringly. “You’ve found it, sir. I’m Mr. Wallace, the personnel director. In what way can I be of assistance?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I regain my hearing.” Freddie noticed a dizziness along with the ringing in his ears.

“Yes, it can be a bit much out there, can’t it. You picked an unfortunate time to arrive. The market is just about to close, and it’s been an unusually active day of trading.”

“But... but... ,” Freddie stammered, “I just saw a man try to shoot himself!”

Wallace sighed. “Yes, that does happen from time to time. Very unfortunate. Well, what can I do for you?”

Freddie looked askance at the man’s composure. “But shouldn’t you do something? Call someone for help?”

Wallace smiled, unruffled. “Don’t worry. The security guards will be up soon. They’re accustomed to handling situations like this.”

“Oh... ,” Freddie trailed off in a small voice, trying hard to assimilate the meaning of business-as-usual in the world of stock brokers. Realizing that Wallace was still looking at him quizzically, he attempted to state the reason for his visit. “Well... you see, Mr. Wallace, well... ahem... yes... well... my name is Frederick Simpson, and I represent the firm of Simpson And Austin.”

At first tentatively, and then by degrees more confidently, Freddie launched into a story about how his law firm needed some background information on Jonathan
Blackthorne
. The personnel director, apparently used to far stranger scenes than a lone attorney asking for information, nodded and went in search of the employment file. Freddie managed to calm himself as he waited for the man to locate it in the back room. His attention was drawn to a group photograph hanging on the wall behind the personnel director’s desk. “These things seem to be all the rage now,” Freddie said to himself. He walked behind the desk to get a closer look.

When Wallace returned, he noticed Freddie’s interest. “That’s a photograph of all the members of our firm, about fifty of us.”

Freddie scanned the faces and located
Blackthorne
standing in the top row, looking serious and financially responsible. He pointed to the face and turned to look at the personnel director for confirmation.

“Yes, that would be the man you’ve inquired about. That’s Jonathan
Blackthorne
. I remember him well. A very quiet young fellow, as I recall.”

On an impulse, Freddie pulled out the Mast House picture. “I wonder if you might recognize another gentleman in this photograph I have. I’m not at all sure he ever worked here. His name is Jacob Sidley.”

Wallace looked at it for only a second. “Oh yes, I quite remember him, But his name isn’t Sidley, it’s
Kingston
, Jacob Kingston. That’s him right here.” Wallace pointed to one of the figures in the group portrait on the wall, standing in the row below
Blackthorne
. Freddie could make out a face that exactly matched the one in his own photograph. In the
Dresden
picture, however, Sidley was sporting
muttonchop
whiskers which made the resemblance more difficult to see at first glance.

“Good Lord, it’s him!” Freddie exclaimed. It’s really him!” He looked at the date in the lower right corner of the picture. “This was taken in 1889?”

“Yes, I realize it’s a bit out of date. But there seemed no reason to have it redone since only two men have left the firm in the interim.”

“Let me guess which two.” Freddie began to feel a sudden chill.

“Yes, now that you mention it, you’re right. If my memory serves me correctly,
Kingston
left early in the winter of 1890 and
Blackthorne
in the fall of the same year. How odd.”

Freddie’s pulse began to race. “I would consider it a great favor if you could give me the exact dates when these two men left and also the previous employer of Mr. Sidley, that is, Mr. Kingston.”

Wallace, appearing somewhat taken aback by the feverish intensity in Freddie’s voice, nodded and went into the file room to retrieve the
Kingston
file. He returned quickly, studying a page in the manila folder he was holding. “It says here that Mr. Kingston’s previous employer was a bank in
Iowa
.”

“The exact name, please!” Freddie reached in his pocket for a notebook and pencil.

“It was in Dodgeville. The First Dodgeville Savings Bank is the name of the institution. He was a bookkeeper there. That was also the position he occupied here. He came to us in 1889 and left on January 21, 1890.”

“Would you happen to have the name of the person who wrote his letter of introduction?”

Wallace examined the application file further. “The letter is signed by Harcourt
Smythe
, a vice president of the bank,”

“One final question. Can you give me the same information regarding Mr.
Blackthorne
?” Freddie turned another page in his notebook.