Robert Walker - Shadows in the White City

“The Anit-Christ, I see.”

“Sounds like enough to put God off His throne, but it also comes off as unbelievable balderdash.”

“Claptrap, drivel, tripe? Not to someone facing death on the streets in a daily battle to survive, and at the same time, remain good and pure.”

Shaken, Alastair returned the pages and photos offered up as evidence. “Philo, thank you for discussing this with me so openly.”

“Not at all. I am pleased someone is showing an interest in the shelter children.”

“You mean someone not wanting anything from them-especially their hides?”

“Someone in authority, you.”

“Haven’t seen you worked up over any cause ever, my friend. Have to tell you this takes me by surprise.”

“One can sink his teeth into this cause and get attached by the jaw,” replied Philo, his eyes alight with fervor.

Alastair instantly knew that Philo would one day create the photo array of the homeless he spoke of, but he wondered if anyone owning a gallery would support such a showing. He doubted it but would say nothing to quench Philo’s thirst for his plan. Not even William Stead with all of his contacts and influence as a correspondent for the London Times had made a dent, unable to get his book into print, so far as Alastair knew.

“Do what you can to end this predator’s life-the one they’re calling Leather Apron, will you, Alastair?”

“Count on it.”

“And I will do what I can to expose the city’s disgrace in all this.”

“It’s a pact.”

Ransom still felt that this mythology of the street children had little to nothing to do with his investigation, and now it’d interfered with his drink, his smoke, and his relaxation.

As if reading his thoughts, Philo said, “You always trust your first instinct, Alastair. What does it tell you?”

“Aye, I do trust myself…my intuition. Sometimes with your back to the wall, it’s all you have, and there is a bit of naggin’ about this Bloody Mary.”

“And in matters of the heart? How goes it with Jane? Has she put your back to the wall, yet?”

“Police investigation is easy compared to mysteries of the heart.”

“Perhaps, Alastair, you could remedy that.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

“If you’d just tell Jane exactly how you feel about her, old man.”

Bosch got word to Ransom through Muldoon that the meeting between Ransom and the daughter of the seamstress, who’d been on hand during the Haymarket Riot, was set. The inspector must go to the lady. Bosch supplied the time and place, an address in the worst part of the city, a place infested with the flotsam of human life here in Chicago. There were more homeless and destitute on the streets in Hair Trigger Alley than in all the rest of the city combined. Oddly, it would seem to be the easiest and best hunting grounds for Leather Apron or anyone wishing to abduct a child, but this had not been the case; in fact, this was the only area in the city where children suspected of being victims of this maniac had remained untouched. Something to be said for street smarts and street myths, Ransom thought.

As Ransom moved among the crowds here, as he took one alleyway to gain another while searching out the address, he theorized that homeless people-especially those on the street for any length of time-had developed street savvy: the intuition and instinct to respect their own first impulse, to pay heed to their first fear. As a result, in a sense, such people, men, women, and children, knew who was and who was not violent, who was and who was not dangerous, who was and who was not conning them. Like an evolved animal in the wild, an “evolved” street-smart person’s intuition and experience might well have kept a whole segment of the city safe from Leather Apron.

Ransom’s cane announced his approach, when another cane tapped out a familiar rhythm as well, its noise in syncopation with his own. It was Henry Bosch’s wooden peg leg-the reason others rudely called him Dot ’n’ Carry. But what was the old fool doing here, now, in the dark courtyard?

“Bosch? What’re you-”

“Get out of here!” Bosch shouted across to Ransom. “It’s all a setup!”

“Setup?”

“Just go, quickly!”

Ransom instead grabbed Bosch by his lapels. “What’s really going on here, Bosch!”

“Kohler!”

The single name said it all. Kohler had set him up for an assassin’s bullet. Ransom pulled out his gun and somehow managed to hold on to the squirming Bosch, who pleaded to let him go. Bosch added, “Soon as I figured it a hoax, I came rushin’ to warn you!”

“How much did Kohler pay you, Bosch?”

“All right, I took money from him, but only to keep tabs on you, Inspector. I never knew he meant to cut you down!”

A shot rang out, the bullet ripping a hole in Alastair’s coat where it flapped in a sudden breeze. A second shot followed immediately, and its thunderous result came so close to Alastair’s ear that he dropped to the dirty unpaved alleyway, letting go of Bosch in the process. He looked to his right to find Henry Bosch’s form disappearing over a fence, and it made him wonder how agile the old veteran was, peg leg, cane, and all.

Alastair lay in a mud puddle, imagining dying here in Hair Trigger Alley, a perfect cover for Kohler’s plot, for if he were to die here as the result of a gunshot, any number of scenarios could be brought to bear as to why. What was Inspector Ransom doing here alone and without backup? Without telling his superiors of his purpose in a known danger zone? How many enemies did Inspector Ransom have in Chicago? How many secret deals had Alastair Ransom brokered? Had one come back to bite him in the ass? These theories of his assassination would go on unsolved forever, or until Chicago simply forgot the existence of one Alastair Ransom.

Such thoughts fueled his anger, but the notion that Nathan Kohler would live on and benefit from his disappearance truly fueled his desire to see this night out, and to see Nathan Kohler again at his earliest convenience. While all he had to go on was Henry Bosch’s word that Kohler had set him up for murder this night, Ransom did not doubt it.

Another bullet pierced the earth in front of his eyes, and too late he turned his head away. Eyes stinging with dirt, unable to see clearly into the deep shadows and recesses of doorways and stairways and wooden fire escapes, Alastair could locate no one, and mysteriously, the entire area in all directions had become deserted. Three shots had come so suddenly that he’d not seen the source or direction, but from the result, each hitting so close, he surmised the approximate direction. He rolled over and crawled to prop himself against a trash can, paper and debris raining round him. Another second and a fourth bullet hit the can, opening a hole beside him.

“Damn it!” he cursed, lifted and fired into a black hole ahead of him, then dropped behind cover again. Alastair knew it’d be the height of luck to actually hit someone, but as luck would have it, his single shot resulted in a cry. Someone was hit.

Alastair carefully inched his way to a standing position. There could well be two assassins as one, and the one he hit could still be alert enough to fire again. Alastair called out, “Chicago Police! Drop your weapon or I fire again!” As he did so, he walked, cane in one hand, gun in the other, searching the blackness of the hole into which the man he’d shot had fallen.

When he got within inches, he saw the man’s hand reaching for the revolver he’d used, his fingers twitching, slithering still toward the weapon, still wanting only one thing-to kill Alastair Ransom. Ransom’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness here, and people had begun materializing all around him, some shouting for police. Several uniformed cops rushed in with handheld lanterns, but even before the light hit the assassin, Ransom knew who he was: Elias Jervis. The slimy snake bastard.