The Dame on the Dock Read online

  THE DAME ON THE DOCK

  LOUISE GORDAY

  Copyright © 2020 by Louise Gorday All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book Cover Design by Damonza.com

  Formatting by Polgarus Studio

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Mom

  One of the brightest, most caring people I’ve ever met

  Also by Louise Gorday

  The Pickle Boat House

  Bayside Blues

  The Clockwise Carousel

  The Church at Parkers Wharf

  Spirit of the Law

  Edgar and the Flyboys

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One Down in the Dumps

  Chapter Two Incentives

  Chapter Three Heaven Sent

  Chapter Four Tobacco to Cabbage

  Chapter Five A Convenient Cover

  Chapter Six Forget the Why

  Chapter Seven Room 29

  Chapter Eight Running Scared

  Chapter Nine Penny Candy, Dollar Bribes

  Chapter Ten No Dumb Dora

  Chapter Eleven Sparrows and Chickens

  Chapter Twelve Betrayal and Revenge

  Chapter Thirteen Fitting in a Little Softball

  Chapter Fourteen Calvert Cliffs

  Chapter Fifteen Mirror Image

  Chapter Sixteen Wrong Guy

  Chapter Seventeen Coping

  Chapter Eighteen Slow Cows and Fast Tails

  Chapter Nineteen Old Faces and Lost Places

  Chapter Twenty New Players

  Chapter Twenty-One Brother’s Keeper

  Chapter Twenty-Two Dependability

  Chapter Twenty-Three The Dance

  Chapter Twenty-Four Singing in the Key of C Note

  Chapter Twenty-Five T. Winks and Dead Marty’s

  Chapter Twenty-Six I Do and You Can’t

  Chapter Twenty-Seven If Initials Were Birds

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Behind Locked Doors

  Chapter Twenty-Nine The Nunnery

  Chapter Thirty Smuggling and Snuggling

  Chapter Thirty-One Always About the Bones

  Chapter Thirty-Two A Dead-End

  Chapter Thirty-Three One Big Party

  Chapter Thirty-Four An Innocent Blunder

  Chapter Thirty-Five Making Hal Roach Proud

  Chapter Thirty-Six A Final Token

  Chapter Thirty-Seven A New Beginning

  Chapter Thirty-Eight Big Trees, Little Towns, Forever Moments

  Chapter One

  Down in the Dumps

  December 16, 1922

  Tate “Shoe” Shoemaker stopped at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Eleventh Street, smoothed his hair in the reflection of the pool hall window, and studied the figure behind him lingering in the afternoon shadows across the street. He recognized a tail when he saw one; he had spent the last six months perfecting the art. Smartly dressed and of dignified bearing, the gentleman was definitely not one of the local crooks who still trolled this area of Washington, D.C., looking for an easy mark. Shoe didn’t fear for his own safety, of course. He lived under the generous protection of Keith Henry, the informal king of the thugs, whom he had helped out of a legal jam. Given the current state of Shoe’s financial affairs, the stalker had to be a bill collector.

  Shoe continued his walk at a brisk pace. He wasn’t going to get excited. This section was controlled by Henry’s underling Lucky Lewis, and his hoodlums regularly handed out muggings on the next block. And Shoe didn’t feel guilty about the man’s fate. The bill collector should consider himself lucky. There were scores of other nameless individuals who would gladly shake him down, cut him ear-to-ear, and dump his carcass in the Washington City Canal.

  Shoe turned at the next block onto Tenth Street, right around the corner from the Washington Evening Star newspaper building on Eleventh and Pennsylvania, where he’d broken his acclaimed story about corruption in a small bayside community in Maryland. They’d offered him a decent-sized office and pretty good pay, but he’d turned them down. Competition at the newspaper was fierce, the staff packed with old saws vying for stories. Just like his stint at the Evening Star in Nevis, he would be at the end of the receiving line when it came to the handing out of assignments. That wouldn’t do. He’d almost won a Pulitzer, for heaven’s sake. So, he went freelance—freedom to choose projects, flexible hours, and a chance to be his own boss. If he kept up that mantra, the negatives sort of fell away.

  Dead ahead sat the storefront that housed his investigative services—Shoemaker & Shoemaker—the name stenciled in fancy script across the storefront glass. There was no other partner, but two names always seemed more successful than one. He nodded to the group of usual suspects hanging out in the usual places. Poorly dressed and reeking of alcohol, cigarettes, or both, the men looked like common unemployed bums as they leaned against lampposts, lounged in doorways, and shot the breeze in small groups. In fact, they were all self-employed and, at the moment, deep in thought as to whom they could hustle or beat up to earn their dough. Shoe steered courteously through and left them be, as did the other residents and shop owners. During daylight hours they all played nicely. At night, even with Keith Henry’s assurances, it was no holds barred.

  Shoe unlocked his office. Inside was an efficient, barebones affair: a desk for his assistant, and two gray file cabinets butted up back-to back, creating a cubbyhole for his desk in the corner. It wasn’t the Willard Hotel, but there was plenty of potential space if one wanted to hang things on the walls. The only extravagance in the room was a comfortable upholstered rocking chair Shoe used when he needed to cogitate. He threw his hat on his desk and went straight to the window to check on the tail. There was no sign of pursuit. Evidently Lucky Lewis had defended his territory well.

  Shoe eased into the rocking chair and unfolded last night’s copy of the Washington Evening Star. If no one came knocking with work, he’d be forced to drum up potential business from the newspaper. Begging for work was not his preferred method, but his girl, Fannie Byrne, and her thirteen-year-old brother, Jack, depended on his financial support and right now the cupboard was pretty bare.

  His research lasted almost all of a peaceful minute. That was when a willowy brunette got up from the assistant’s desk and sailed a folded sheet of paper over the top of his newspaper. “Let’s see you abracadabra this one, Mr. Shoemaker.”

  It might be Mister Shoemaker this morning, but by afternoon she would be in a better mood and back to calling him Shoe like the rest of his acquaintances. “Good morning to you too, Fannie.” He gave the official-looking document a cursory review and then handed it back. “Put it in Pending.”

  Fannie threw the invoice into a box with the other past-due notices. “Boss, filing systems work best if they have at least two files. Pending and Paid would be a good start.”

  “Not necessary. I have a good feeling about today. Several good leads right out of the gate.” He pointed to a published list of overnight assaults and murders along the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Street corridor—the part of the District of Columbia historically known as Murder Bay. “We’ve had a nice uptick in the temperature recently and a corresponding increase in petty crime and delinquency in the city. And over here,” he said, sliding his finger across the page to a two-column article above the fold, “it seems your hometo
wn, Nevis, has something to natter about—a rather gruesome murder on the waterfront which is gaining notoriety. No,” he said, shaking his head solemnly, “violence is on the uptick. Unfortunate for others, but definitely good for us. I can feel it in my bones. Someone’s going to come striding through that door with business that’ll fill our coffers.”

  Fannie pulled a cardigan off the back of her chair and slipped it on. “You think it’s warm? Get the heat turned back on in here, that’s warm.” As she fastened the bottom button, a knock came at the door.

  Shoe threw her a smug look. “I’d best get that. They say opportunity only knocks once.” He opened the door to a boy wearing a dark suit and a stiff cap with a Western Union Telegram band encircling the brim. He had a telegram in one hand as he balanced his bicycle with the other.

  “Telegram for Tatum Bartholomew Shoemaker,” the messenger said in a high-pitched voice that had not yet experienced the embarrassing cracking of adolescence. He handed Shoe the message and hung about for a moment. When it became apparent there would be no tip forthcoming, he mumbled something and left with his two-wheeler.

  Shoe threw more gloating Fannie’s way. The only other time he’d received a telegram was when they nominated him for the Pulitzer Prize. This little piece of paper was sending happy vibrations all through him. He borrowed Fannie’s letter opener and sliced it open with a flourish.

  “Please tell me you’ve inherited from a long-lost aunt,” she said.

  Shoe read the letter silently several times before giving its message voice. “‘Representing a client who has urgent need of your services. Stop. Substantial retainer. Stop. Arriving Union Station 9:30 train. Stop. Please arrange to meet. Stop. Respectfully Douglas Emerson. Stop.’”

  “What’d I tell you?” Shoe said, waving the communication in front of her as he sat down on the edge of her desk. “A most interesting case has just fallen into our lap. Where’s your brother?”

  “School. And I do hope you’re not going to pull Jack out for some loco scheme of yours. The agreement with Mother was that he could stay in Washington as long as you were a good influence and could keep him in school. Otherwise, she wanted him back in Nevis.”

  The trio hadn’t been back in Maryland since the night they hopped a midnight mail express out of Nevis and fled to Washington with a news scoop that brought Shoe recognition but little jingle in his pocket. He didn’t anticipate any problems with Mother.

  “Loco?” Shoe raised an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, by the sound of this missive, I think you can stamp all those invoices paid. It costs a bit of change to send a telegram. The sender says it’s an urgent matter, the retainer will be substantial, and that our investigative office”—he consulted the telegram one more time— “has outstanding credentials speaking directly to the matter at hand. Someone seems to think I’m the fox’s socks.”

  She stared a moment and then went back to her filing. “Yeah, you’re a duck’s quack.”

  Shoe looked at Fannie, the sting of her testiness lingering. He loved this woman and had proposed often. She politely declined every single time. No longer the naïve young woman who had followed him blindly into the night, Fannie had become an independent, modern woman who wanted a career and a good highball more than she wanted to keep house and have a boatload of kids. He didn’t get it.

  He slid the letter back into its envelope and handed it to her. “I need you to meet this Emerson at Union Station this morning. Nine fifteen.”

  Fannie consulted the watch dangling from a chain around her neck. “You want me down at Union Station by half an hour ago?” She snatched her purse out of a desk drawer and pulled a navy felt cloche down over her bob. “Okay, boss, but it won’t come cheap. There’s a nice pair of shoes in the window down at Hahn’s . . .”

  “Just get him,” Shoe called after her. He watched her pick her way through the local crowd, past the loungers on the front stoop and the other vagrants. She turned a few heads, but for the most part, they ignored her. He didn’t fret about Fannie’s safety. As long as she didn’t take any side trips, Miss Byrne walked freely under the same protect he did. No, it was more the view that concerned him at present. This morning’s new fish tugging on the line, what would he think of it? The vacant lot across the street was littered with bricks, empty wooden barrels, a broken cabinet, and the tumbled-down remains of an outhouse. He’d lost a few big ones recently because of office locale, but he’d always managed to find something to keep them afloat. Even though he would never share his concern with Fannie, the ever-growing pile of bills on her desk weighed heavily on him. He wasn’t sure how much more personal rejection he could stomach. Without any heat in the office, they’d be good until January, but if the phone service was cut off . . .

  “Jiminy.” Lucky Lewis was falling down on the job. Shoe watched the rapid approach of the stranger he had managed to dodge earlier. As the man wended his way around the local workers, Shoe gave him the duck test—he looked like a heartless son of a gun, and he moved like someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer . . . Yep, a definite collection agent. Shoe dropped below the window sill and cast about for a place to hide—a challenging prospect in the sparsely furnished room. He scrambled under Fannie’s desk and made a mental note to install a bolt-hole and back door in his next office.

  For the second time this morning, there was a polite knock at the door. Shoe’s stomach muscles tightened as knuckles assailed the door.

  “Mr. Tatum Shoemaker? Tatum Shoemaker!”

  The voice was insistent but rattled, which wasn’t surprising given the gauntlet the gentleman had probably just run. Shoe was impressed but not moved enough to offer sanctuary. Everybody in D.C. knew you took your chances when you ventured out alone around here.

  The knocking changed into loud hammering. “Mr. Shoemaker, I know you’re in there. I sent word earlier today that I’d be arriving by train. Please let me inside. I’m a little over my head out here, I’m afraid.”

  Shoe poked his head out of the kneehole. “Mr. Emerson?”

  “Yes, Douglas Emerson. The dialogue is good, sir, but could I speak inside where it’s, er, safer? I assure you, I come unarmed.”

  Shoe crawled out on all fours and let Emerson in. The poor man’s suit coat was a bit rumpled and his bowler misshapen, but he appeared physically unharmed. “Oh, dear,” Shoe whispered. He took Emerson’s hat and hung it on the hook near the door.

  “Yes, then,” Mr. Emerson said, adjusting his suit coat. “As we’ve already established, I’m Douglas Emerson.” He thrust out a soft hand that had never seen a day of manual labor. “Apparently my letter failed to arrive ahead of me. I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Shoemaker, that won’t wait.”

  “I’m so sorry. Unfortunately, your telegram just arrived. I dispatched my secretary right away, but obviously you missed each other.”

  “She’s gone out there alone?” Emerson asked, the inflection in his voice rising as he glanced toward the window.

  “Oh, it’s all right, we have an understanding with—” He dismissed the rest of his discourse with a hand gesture. “It’s really not important. This a downtown case?”

  “Oh, no,” Emerson said, shaking his head. “Nevis. Nevis, Maryland.”

  “Nevis? Now, that’s a real shame. You see, I’m not too popular there.” Hated might be more accurate. He had antagonized a huge chunk of the population, mainly men, by publishing a blistering exposé about the local government being in cahoots with booze runners out of the Delaware Valley. The town’s liquor had dried up pretty quickly after that. He offered Emerson his hat back. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, coming all this way. I’ll be more than happy to escort you back to Union Station.”

  Emerson ignored the hat and stepped further into the office. “At the present, not for love nor money.” He gave the office a once-over. “The size of the retainer I’m prepared to offer is enough to cure a whole lot of woes, Mr. Shoemaker. I believe it would be in both our interests to entertain
me. I promise not to keep you from, erm, other things.”

  Shoe gave a quick thought to all his woes sitting in Fannie’s box. “Perhaps I was a bit hasty. And after all it took to find your way here, it would be rude of me not to hear you out. You can call me Shoe, by the way.” He ushered his guest toward his upholstered chair and gave him a glass of water. “Sorry about the chairs. Cases mostly keep me out of the office.” He rolled Fannie’s desk chair over, studying his visitor as he did.

  Emerson’s suit was richly cut, his bearing aristocratic. Shoe posited his employer as monied and their working relationship long-term and trusted. He didn’t recognize him, even though it had been only a few months since he’d fled Nevis in the wee hours of the morning with a man of questionable intent hunting him down. “I suspect the temperance ladies are the only people in Nevis who wouldn’t want to see me drawn and quartered,” he said. “So, who sent you all the way from Nevis to retain my services? And what’s this all about?”

  “At the moment, I’m not at liberty to speak on the first.” Emerson gestured toward the rumpled newspaper Shoe had tossed onto Fannie’s desk. “You’ve read this morning’s?”

  “The atrocious killing in Nevis?” Shoe pulled the paper over and began scanning the account. “Quite sensational, but they aren’t giving much out, are they? A woman butchered on the town dock, and a second victim—young, male—found likewise murdered in an alley nearby. I’m guessing you know the vic. Got a name?”

  “I’m not at liber—”

  “Mysterious markings on the boardwalk body. Are they hinting at occult?” he asked, putting down the paper. “Spiritualism does seem to be all the rage these days.”

  “A little misinformation thrown into the mix to keep the true murderer on his toes. Police Chief McCall—you must remember him? Hardnosed, all about business? I don’t think he gives anything away for free, and I doubt he takes much stock in spiritualism.”