The Detroit Electric Scheme (2 page)

“No.” He'd asked before. I'd always declined—politely. But now I couldn't stop shivering, and the bourbon in my kitchen was calling me.

“Just one?” He held up a half-f bottle of Usher's Scotch whiskey. “It'll warm you up.”

I opened my apartment door. Without turning around, I said, “No. Thanks.” I flipped on the lights and swung the door closed, then hobbled to the kitchen and grabbed one of the bottles of Old Tub from behind the flour and sugar in an upper cabinet. I took a long drink, and another.

It wasn't fair. I slammed my fist onto the kitchen countertop. A sob escaped my throat. I tried to choke down the next one, but the thought of Elizabeth grieving John Cooper opened the way for the events of this night to catch up to me. I fell to the kitchen floor with my head in my hands, crying for Cooper, crying for Elizabeth, but mostly, I'm ashamed to admit, crying for myself.

Some time later, I stood and leaned against the icebox, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. I picked up the bottle again but hesitated. My mind wasn't functioning very well as it was, and I needed to think. When I set down the bottle, I noticed a dark smudge on the white linoleum floor. I bent down and ran my finger over it, coming up with a crimson smear. Shocked, I looked at my black oxfords. The shiny finish was dulled and streaked. Dark spatters blemished the cuffs of my brown tweed trousers. My mind again filled with images of Cooper's torso and legs, his hands, his ring, his blood.

I pried off my shoes with my toes and dropped them in the garbage pail. My trousers, stockings, and garters followed them. I threw on some clean clothes, hiding my features with the flipped-up lapels of my tan duster and a black derby pulled down around my eyes, then grabbed the trash bin and hurried to the door. There I stopped and listened for a moment. It was quiet.

I began to open the door but stopped short, remembering that the key to the Victoria was still in the pocket of my trousers. I fished them out of the trash, pulled out the key, and dropped it in my pocket before opening the door and peeking into the hall. Seeing no one, I crept down the stairs with the trash bin and slipped outside to the muddy alley behind the house next door. Almost no light shone here. I could just make out the vague rounded shapes of the metal garbage cans lining the alley, but I had no trouble finding my way. It was a late-night trip I'd made many times before, though this was the first time I was carrying anything other than empty bourbon bottles.

I pushed aside some of the contents in the first can and emptied my trash bin into it. A small animal bolted away, startling me. My arms jerked back, and the metal bin hit the side of the can with a clang. I stood motionless for a moment, listening for a response. When I was as sure as I could be that no one had heard, I covered my clothing with the other trash and retraced my steps to my apartment. Along the way I examined the carpet on the landing and hallway, and the finish of the maple stairs. There were no stains I could see.

I slipped back into my apartment and scrubbed the bloodstain off the kitchen floor. My mind raced. I couldn't go after the Victoria or my
cap even though they were certain to lead to me. Being seen near the factory was too big a risk.

If the cap was in the machining room I could say I'd left it there earlier. But the Victoria would seal my fate. The garage's record book would show I had picked up the automobile at 11:30
P.M
., thirty minutes before the police found it next to the building that contained John Cooper's freshly crushed body.

I could report the automobile stolen, but with it sitting next to the factory no one would believe me. I couldn't very well say anyone else had left it there. No one but me had driven the Victoria for months. I had to change the record book, to make it feasible I had left the automobile there earlier. To do that, I would need the cooperation of Ben Carr, the night supervisor. It was my only chance.

I again donned the hat and coat, and limped back to the Woodward Line streetcar stop. After what seemed an interminable wait, the southbound car came in. I dropped a nickel into the fare box and sat on the scarred wooden bench seat in the back row. Scattered about were eight other people, most of them asleep. The car started up with a jerk and began to rattle down the track. I shivered and snugged the duster around me. Twice, the conductor walked down the aisle, giving a gentle kick to the feet of his regulars, waking them at their stops. My head felt heavy and dull. Raucous curses and laughter poured from a few saloons on the way, but most of the city was quiet, a huge mausoleum in the cold night.

When I disembarked in the business district, I hurried to the Detroit Electric garage, leaning into the frigid Canadian wind whistling in from across the river. I passed our tiny showroom with a few automobiles lurking in the dark, and skirted the brick pillar that supported the right side of the red iron archway overhanging the main entrance and garage doors.

I took a deep breath and rapped on the window in the door. A few moments later, Ben Carr peeked through the glass. He was a small man of about fifty, with elfin features and a sharp chin, dressed in the chargers' gray-striped coveralls.

He opened the door and stood back. “Mr. Anderson, sir.” He touched
the brim of his cap, and a worried look crossed his face. “You're out mighty late. You didn't have a problem with the Victoria, did you?”

I stepped inside, wincing as I came down on my injured ankle, and closed the door behind me. “No, but I wanted to talk to you about that.” The garage buzzed with the sound of stored electricity and smelled of ozone, like the fresh-air scent of an approaching rainstorm.

He glanced down at my feet with a little frown. “You okay, Mr. Anderson?”

I looked around the shop. Dozens of shiny blue, green, and maroon Detroit Electrics lined the room, mostly the coachlike coupés and broughams, with a few open-bodied runabouts and Victorias sprinkled in. No one else was in sight. I put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm fine, Ben. I just need a favor.” My voice trembled.

“Sure, anything, Mr. Anderson.”

“Come on, Ben, I'm Will.”

“Okay, uh, Will.” The name that had come so easily from his mouth when I was a child now stuck in the back of his throat.

I pulled him into a charging bay between a pair of coupés. “Who else knows I took the Vicky out tonight?”

He squinted while he thought. “Charlie was washing cars up here, but,” Ben tapped the side of his head, “he don't notice nothing. The other two were charging in the back. So, probably nobody.”

“Okay, good. See, the reason I took it out was that I couldn't sleep. I've been worried about the mileage test.”

Ben shrugged and nodded.

“Here's the thing. I drove down to the factory, figuring I'd take it out on the test track and then perhaps I'd be able to sleep. But I had just gotten there when a police car came barreling in. I left the Vicky and went home before they saw me.” I toed the scuffed wooden floor and bowed my head. “See, I haven't exactly been doing a bang-up job at work, and I thought if I got mixed up in this my father would have finally had enough. I'm afraid if he finds out I was there, he'll fire me.” I glanced up at him. “You can cover for me, can't you?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“No one from the day shift was in early yesterday, were they?”

He shook his head.

“Then all I need you to do is change the pickup time from 11:30
P.M
. to 5:30
A.M
. It'll just look like I took out the car in the morning. Nobody will know the difference, right?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess.”

“So you'll do it?”

He hesitated a moment before nodding his head.

“Thanks, Ben.” I clapped him on the back. “I won't forget this.”

When I limped out the door, he was looking down at the floor, his forehead creased in thought.

I finally got home around three o'clock. Leaving the lights off, I grabbed one of the bottles of bourbon from the kitchen and hobbled to the sofa in the parlor. I sat sideways with my feet up and took a long drink. The bottle shook against my lips. My ankle was swollen and throbbing, and I knew I should ice it, but it seemed just too much effort to chip off the ice.

I lit a cigarette and lay back, trying to still the tremors in my hands. In the dark, all I could see was half of John Cooper's body dangling from the maw of the gargantuan press, one swallow away from disappearing altogether.

 

I was startled upright by a loud pounding on my front door. The bottle of bourbon fell onto the wood floor with a thunk and rolled away, glug-glug-glugging as it emptied. The room was dark, and it took me a moment to orient myself. My ankle throbbed. The horror of the night flooded back. I swung my legs off the sofa, closed my eyes, and leaned forward, cradling my head in my hands.

The pounding continued, a rhythmic thump that got louder and louder. I pushed myself up from the sofa and limped to the door, each step accompanied by a grunt at the pain in my ankle. I bent and looked into the peephole.

My father's secretary, R. W. Wilkinson, in a gray homburg and winter coat, was beating on my door with his fist, his mouth in a tight grimace, his full beard and mustaches shuddering with the effort. It was frightening behavior from the neat, compact, and nearly unflappable man who had worked for my father since we moved to Detroit in 1895.

The fifteen years that had passed since then seemed to flow away. Again, I was that skinny seven-year-old boy, needing my father, or more often Mr. Wilkinson, to make it better.

I swung open the door, squinting against the electric lights in the hallway.

“Thank God you're home!” He pushed past me into the foyer. “John Cooper has been killed.”

“Cooper? Killed?” My voice sounded phony, even to me.

“Yes. At the factory. In the machining room. Your machining room.”

I switched on the light and pulled out my watch. The hands pointed to 3:53.

Wilkinson took hold of my arm. “Your father wants to know if you need his help.”

I rubbed my eyes, stalling. “His help?”

“Do you need his help?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Victoria is parked beside the factory, and what appears to be your cap is on the bench near the window from which the police say the killer escaped.” He looked me in the eyes. “And there's not much question about motive, is there?”

“I had nothing to do with it.” I struggled to remember my alibi. “I forgot . . . I forgot to bring the automobile back to the garage after work. And I must have left my cap there yesterday.”

His head tilted to the side, and he squinted a little, appraising me. “Your touring cap?”

I shrugged, trying to look casual. “I wear it at work sometimes.”

“And you say you left the Victoria parked at the factory?”

I broke eye contact. “Yes. I drove it in the morning before work and didn't have time to return it without being late. I was going to bring it back after work, but it slipped my mind. I came in the side door and left through the front door. I didn't see it. I forgot.”

“That was foolish.”

“I know, but I always take the streetcar. It's just habit.”

“You're lucky it wasn't carted away in pieces. Or perhaps not, under the circumstances.” Wilkinson frowned and glanced at the doorway. “Your father told the police the car belonged to the company and he didn't recognize the cap. You do the same.”

I nodded once.

“Now get dressed. We're going to the factory.”

“Why?”

“The police want you to confirm the identity of the body.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You know . . . er, knew him better than anyone else in the company. Your father mentioned to the detective you were college friends before he realized . . .” He trailed off.

“Realized what?”

Wilkinson set his jaw. “That you may be in trouble. Get dressed.” He pushed me toward my bedroom.

I limped through the parlor. It smelled like a saloon.

He called out from behind me. “I telephoned you twice. Where were you?”

“I was asleep. I'd had a few drinks.” I hoped the smell and the Old Tub bottle on the floor helped confirm my answer.

My hands shook as I dressed in a plaited white shirt, a wing collar, a black sack suit with matching waistcoat, and a striped gray and ivory tie. It took me three attempts to manage a reasonable-looking Windsor knot. I grabbed a new pair of calfskin boots I had been planning to return. Even though they were marked as tens, they were much too large for my feet. This morning I could barely get the right one over my ankle. I hoped if it came up, the boots would also leave a larger footprint than my other shoes.

I grabbed the duster and black derby from the coatrack by the door, and followed Wilkinson outside. The wind had whipped up from downtown, and a cold drizzle slapped me across the face. At least now I had an explanation for my shivering.