Rafferty's Last Case, page 2
The detective also had a reputation as the police department’s chief cover-up artist, able to make criminal matters vanish, for a price, if the accused was someone of wealth and influence. Grimshaw’s work, often performed on behalf of the mayor of St. Paul or other powerful politicians, did not go unrewarded, and he lived well beyond a detective’s pay grade in a fine house just off Summit Avenue. Rafferty regarded Grimshaw as “the dirtiest of the dirty coppers,” but that didn’t necessarily make him the murderer.
Suspect number two was Bertram Abbey, the poet. Before young Scott Fitzgerald came along, Abbey had been St. Paul’s leading literary figure, a dashing man who in 1919 had earned a Columbia University Poetry Prize for a lengthy opus called “The Body of the Poet.” The prize was supposedly a big deal, although Thomas wasn’t much for poetry and knew little about it. Later, Abbey had turned to writing mystery novels, at least one of which became a best seller, or so Thomas had heard.
Thomas didn’t know Abbey personally but had seen him a few times. Invariably dressed in a mauve-colored suit, an ascot, and a slouch hat decorated with a feather, he enjoyed cruising around in a bright red Hupmobile coupe, if for no other reason than to draw attention to himself. Born to wealth, Abbey lived in a Summit Avenue mansion. Although he’d been married for a time, he was reputed to harbor a taste for young men and usually kept at least one handsome servant in his employ. Abbey hardly seemed the murdering kind, but as Rafferty liked to say, “Any man will kill if it is the only way to save his own miserable hide.”
The third and to Thomas’s mind most unlikely suspect was the priest, Monsignor Pierre Denis, rector of the St. Paul Cathedral. Rafferty had long been an agnostic, allowing only that if “there were some proud drinkers among the angels,” he might consider eternity in the Elysian Fields. Yet for many years he’d lit a candle every week at the cathedral in memory of his long-lost wife and son. During one of those visits he’d met Monsignor Denis and had “a nice long talk about God and other ethereal topics,” as he later told Thomas, and in so doing Rafferty reopened the door to faith.
Rafferty and Denis met occasionally for lunch at the Ryan’s café, and Thomas sometimes joined them. The monsignor was about fifty, tall and gaunt, with thinning hair, a narrow face, and piercing blue eyes. He was “crazed with religion” in Thomas’s jaundiced view, but Rafferty seemed to enjoy his company and also respected his intellect. The newspapers described Denis as “Archbishop Austin Dowling’s right-hand man” and noted he was also “well-versed in the art of politics at city hall.” The monsignor was thus firmly connected to the two great sources of power in St. Paul. But could he really be a murderer?
The fourth and fifth suspects were politicians—Mayor Richard O’Donnell and his chief aide and adviser, Montgomery Meeks. Thomas didn’t know either man very well. The mayor, in his second term, seemed to be a classic politician. Born to an old St. Paul family and trained as a lawyer, he was tall and silver-haired and spoke in a sonorous voice “smooth as flowing honey,” or so a newspaper columnist had once written.
O’Donnell had won office by proclaiming the need to return to what he called “old-fashioned morality.” Yet as far as Thomas could tell, the mayor also believed in old-fashioned politics. Despite his high-toned manner, O’Donnell headed a formidable political machine that raked in regular “contributions” as the price of doing business with the city, especially its police. “He is just another grifter in a fancy suit,” Rafferty had once said of him. Yet it was a big step up from graft and corruption to murder, and Thomas found it hard to believe the mayor could have been involved in St. Aubin’s death.
Meeks, the final suspect, was an even slicker operator than his boss. Known simply as Monty, he possessed superb political instincts, a quick wit, and a nimble mind. He enjoyed the mayor’s full trust and was an expert at handling delicate problems that required a smooth touch. One newspaper article described him as St. Paul’s “fixer-in-chief, a man who gets things done where others have failed.” Thomas recalled a particularly vivid conversation with Rafferty regarding Meeks. “He is a very clever fellow, the fox who thinks he can outfox all the other foxes. But I am inclined to think he may be nothing more than a common street magician in the end. Sleight of hand will only get a man so far.” Thomas didn’t really know Meeks beyond his reputation as a political schemer. Even so, murder seemed a stretch for such a man.
Five suspects. Many questions. Few answers. Thomas thought it was going to be a hard business to bore down to the hidden truth and flush out a killer.
* * *
“HAVE YOU SEEN THE NEWS?” the first man asked, a copy of the Pioneer Press on the table in front of him.
“What news?” came the reply on the other end of the phone line.
“News that isn’t good for us,” the man said before revealing what the newspaper had reported.
“Is that a fact?” said the other man. “I didn’t even know he’s still alive. He must be ninety by now.”
“More like in his seventies, I’d say, and still going strong by all accounts. Didn’t you follow that big case of his in England a year or so back?”
“No, why should I care? Besides, if he’s in England, how did he get here so fast?”
“You should read more, my friend. He was in Chicago for a lecture tour. Once he gets here and starts digging into Rafferty’s murder, he’s going to be trouble. Big, big trouble.”
“I don’t see how. Everything’s been taken care of.”
“Has it? Nothing is ever airtight, and he has a way of finding things out. It’s what he does.”
“Well, we can take care of him if we have to.”
“Yes, we could, and then what? The whole damn world will want to know what happened to him, that’s what. We have to be smart about this.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“I’m working on it. The first step will be to try to figure out what he knows and what he doesn’t. We’ll go from there. People think he’s God, but he isn’t. Trust me, we’ll deal with him one way or another.”
2
“It Is the Darkest of Days”
[From “Murder in St. Paul,” a manuscript by Dr. John Watson left behind after his death]
On the evening of January 21, 1928, Sherlock Holmes delivered his third and final lecture on the “Art of Detection” to a spellbound audience at the Auditorium in Chicago. We had been touring in America since the first of the year, a trip undertaken after the success of my most recent collection of tales celebrating Holmes’s exploits. Chicago was our final stop.
When Holmes finished his lecture, we returned to the lobby of the Palmer House, where we were staying. A telegram awaited us. Holmes read it, and his face turned ashen.
“What is it, Holmes?”
Wordlessly, he handed me the message, which said, “Shad has been murdered. It is the darkest of days. Come to St. Paul if you can. The funeral will be Wednesday. G. W. Thomas.”
“My God! How can this be?”
“I do not know,” Holmes said, rising from his chair. “But I intend to find out. Let us see if there is a night train to St. Paul.”
So began an extraordinary case, which would test Holmes’s genius to the utmost. Rafferty’s murder, we soon discovered, was but one chapter in a tragic saga rife with cruelty, deceit, and death. We also discovered, as Rafferty had, that powerful men in St. Paul were prepared to cover up the terrible truth at any cost.
WE FOUND AN OVERNIGHT TRAIN on the Burlington Route, and as we hurtled north through the darkness I found myself thinking about Rafferty. He’d called us on the day of our arrival in Chicago, and it had been wonderful to hear his voice again. He told us his health was poor and so he couldn’t travel to join us. But we were able to reminisce at some length about our many adventures together over the years. Rafferty also mentioned a new investigation he had taken up in St. Paul but provided few details.
By this time, it had been nearly eight years since we’d seen Rafferty in person, during the case of the Eisendorf Enigma in southern Minnesota. But he’d corresponded on occasion, usually to report on some interesting new case which occupied his attention. His most recent letter had made clear his health was failing, and yet he never complained and instead seemed to take a sly amusement in his own descent into what he called “the pit of old age.” Of course, Holmes and I were hardly young either, and so it was easy enough to commiserate with our friend.
Thinking of Rafferty and the Eisendorf case, I could not help but reflect on all that had happened since we had seen him in 1920 in that cursed little village shadowed by high bluffs. The case marked a profound turning point in Holmes’s life and career, coming at a time when I and the world believed his days as a consulting detective were over. He’d announced his retirement in the early years of the century and moved to the solitude of an estate in Sussex, where he became an unlikely beekeeper. His lonely house on the South Downs seemed to suit him well enough. With no distractions he had ample time to pursue his interests in chemistry and writing. He produced several notable monographs, including one devoted to the interpretation of blood stains, which has proved invaluable to Scotland Yard and police agencies throughout the world.
Yet Holmes ultimately grew weary of his isolation and began to yearn for a return to a more active life. At about this time, however, he began to experience a significant health problem in the form of persistent shortness of breath, and so I recommended in 1920 that he travel to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota to seek treatment. His condition turned out to be emphysema, brought on by decades of smoking, and there was no cure. But he was told that giving up tobacco would be the only sure way to keep his condition from deteriorating. By a heroic effort of will, he managed to do so, and I account it a remarkable achievement given the hold tobacco had on him for so long.
Following the Eisendorf affair, which nearly cost him his life as he pursued an old nemesis, Holmes made the fateful decision to “permanently retire from retirement,” as he put it. He soon undertook a series of secret investigations at the behest of His Majesty’s government, and so remained largely out of the public eye. But in 1926 his dazzling solution to the murder of young Laura Pemberly in London thrust him once again into the limelight. The next year, I presented some of our much earlier adventures in a collection called The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, and so began what I can only regard as a kind of Holmes mania among the public.
This popular enthusiasm for Holmes led the famed promoter William Atherton to offer him a very large sum of money to undertake a series of lectures across Europe and the United States. The tour proved to be a triumph, Holmes speaking to rapt audiences wherever we went. By the time we reached the end of the tour in Chicago, Holmes and I were very much looking forward to returning home. Then came the sickening news of Rafferty’s murder.
Now we had only memories of Rafferty. All through the night, as we raced toward St. Paul, Holmes and I shared stories of our many grand adventures with him. What a great and good friend he was! And how sad to know he had met such a terrible end!
WE REACHED ST. PAUL at half-past nine in the morning of the twenty-second. Rafferty’s old friend and associate George Washington Thomas met us at the new Union Depot, which proved to be much grander than the cramped old station we’d become accustomed to on our earlier visits. It was a great pleasure to see Thomas once again. He is a tall, slender Negro, somewhere in his seventies, but still sharp of mind and quick of movement.
“Welcome,” he said, giving us both vigorous handshakes. “I trust you traveled well.”
“As well as can be expected under such terrible circumstances,” Holmes replied. “As you said, these are dark days.”
Thomas shook his head slowly and his shoulders slumped. I saw he had begun to cry. I stepped forward and patted Thomas on the shoulder. “It will be all right,” I said.
“This is indeed a time for tears but also for action,” Holmes said with a touch of sternness. “You must tell us everything you know about Mr. Rafferty’s murder.”
Thomas wiped away his tears and his head snapped back up. “You’re right, Mr. Holmes. Once we get to the hotel, I’ll fill you in. I’ve booked rooms for you at the Ryan, where Shad lived and where he was murdered. I’m sure you remember it.”
The name did indeed summon up many memories. We’d stayed at the hotel during the ice palace affair and had spent more than a few hours in Rafferty’s famed drinking establishment there. I remembered in particular that awful night when Rafferty, incensed by the wanton killing of his beloved bulldog, vented his fury with such force it required the strength of four men, including Holmes and myself, to restrain him from taking murderous revenge against John J. O’Connor, then the city’s chief of police. Yet many wonderful incidents also came to mind, for Rafferty was a man with a rollicking sense of humor and an irrepressible love of life, as well as a brilliant detective in his own unorthodox way. That he was dead now seemed utterly impossible, as though some great glimmering star had suddenly gone dark.
DURING OUR SHORT CAB RIDE to the hotel, I was reminded once again that January in Minnesota can be remarkably frigid. “Don’t think it will reach zero today,” Thomas observed. “‘A bit nippy’ is how Shad would have described it. Of course, he had plenty of padding to keep him warm.”
The hotel was much as I remembered it—a busy pile of red brick and white stone, its walls animated by numerous bays and balconies culminating at the roofline in an unpruned abundance of towers, turrets, and pinnacles. “It possesses a mad gothic style unknown to the cathedral builders of old, and I highly doubt it will go down as a monument for the ages,” Rafferty once told me. He also explained how the unlikely structure had been built at a cost of one million dollars by a silver mining magnate from Nevada named Dennis Ryan, who “arrived in St. Paul at a time when he could conveniently be separated from his fortune by the usual hoodlums in charge of civic affairs.”
Rafferty loved the hotel, where he lived for decades in an apartment above his famed saloon, and he viewed it as the true heart of St. Paul. By 1928, however, Holmes and I found the Ryan looking rather the worse for wear, and a much newer hotel—called simply The St. Paul—had drawn away much of its business. Even so, the Ryan’s long skylit lobby proved inviting enough, as did our worn but neatly kept rooms.
After we’d settled in, having agreed to meet Thomas within the hour for breakfast, Holmes ordered a copy of the city’s morning newspaper, the Pioneer Press. On a normal day, the front page undoubtedly would have featured an interview with the daring explorer Richard Byrd, who was in St. Paul touting his plan to fly over the South Pole. But the intrepid aviator was pushed aside by the news of Rafferty’s murder, which was bannered across the front page. A lengthy story reported all that was known about the crime, while another article reviewed Rafferty’s storied life. I was surprised to see that a box inserted in the main story announced our “pending arrival” in St. Paul.
“I imagine Mr. Thomas told the newspaper of our plans,” Holmes said as he pored over the main story. He took particular note of the following paragraphs:
Chief of Detectives Jackson Grimshaw stated last night he is convinced Rafferty was stabbed to death by a thief who had broken into his apartment.
“We learned of several recent thefts from rooms at the Ryan, so we know a thief has been on the hotel premises,” Grimshaw said. “We think Rafferty was killed when he surprised the intruder. When we find the thief, we will have our murderer.”
However, Grimshaw noted that hotel thieves are known to go from city to city plying their trade. “I doubt the man who committed this crime is still in St. Paul,” he said. “But I am confident we will track him down in the end.”
Grimshaw also stated he “has no reason to believe” Rafferty’s murder was in any way connected to the death last month of Daniel St. Aubin, scion of a prominent Summit Avenue family. Rafferty had been investigating the death and had strongly suggested St. Aubin was murdered, despite an official coroner’s verdict of suicide.
“St. Aubin’s death has never been suspicious to the police, and I fear Rafferty was on a misguided mission,” Grimshaw said. “But his murder is certainly a great tragedy, and we will do everything in our power to find the person responsible.”
“Well, what do think?” Holmes asked after I’d read the story.
“It’s obvious the police already have a theory as to what happened.”
“Yes, and it is lazy theory at best. It is easy to blame a crime on some unknown thief, thereby absolving the police of any duty to ferret out the real truth. I do not expect we will have much cooperation from the police. It is just as well. The police are more often an impediment than an asset when it comes to a proper criminal investigation.”
It became fully clear just how much of an impediment Grimshaw might be after we met Thomas at the hotel’s café for breakfast. He said Rafferty had been convinced that Grimshaw and other authorities had conspired to cover up the true cause of St. Aubin’s death.
“The coroner’s office officially ruled it a suicide, but Shad was suspicious right from the start,” Thomas said. “He knew it was murder through and through. In fact, he thought Grimshaw himself might have done the deed or knew who did.”
Thomas then told us everything he knew about the circumstances of Rafferty’s death. He also provided a full account of the St. Aubin case and the five prime suspects Rafferty had identified. One detail was particularly striking. Thomas said that Rafferty, on the day of his murder, had telephoned to report an “astounding development” in the case. Unfortunately, Rafferty didn’t reveal what he had learned but promised to share the information with Thomas later at dinner. Before that could happen, Rafferty was dead.
