Shall We Not Revenge by D. M. Pirrone

Author:D. M. Pirrone [Pirrone, D. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction/Mystery & Detective/Historical
ISBN: 978-0-9890535-4-9
Publisher: Allium Press of Chicago
Published: 2014-07-16T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FOUR

Detective.” Guthrie took a moment to collect himself. “Hanley, isn’t it? Your mother requested a sewing machine, if I recall rightly.”

“Yes.” The unexpected question rattled Hanley somewhat, but he recovered quickly. “Can I ask how likely it is she’ll get one?”

“I haven’t read Mrs. King’s report yet.” Guthrie’s half-smile couldn’t hide the weariness in his face. “But Miss Wentworth told me enough that I’d like a second look.”

“Thank you,” Hanley said and meant it. “I have other questions for you, related to Rabbi Kelmansky’s death. If we could talk in your office—”

“I’d rather not.” Guthrie sounded abrupt. “It’s a small place and Miss Wentworth might be distressed if she overheard. As it happens, I’ve an appointment. Some other time—”

“This won’t take long. I was told Kelmansky came to see you late last Thursday afternoon. Is that true?”

Guthrie turned up his coat collar and began walking toward State Street. “Yes. Though I’m afraid I can’t discuss it. I’m due at the Desplaines Street depot for inspection, so I can write up my report for the executive committee.”

“I’ll walk with you.” Hanley fell into step beside him. Guthrie glanced at Hanley’s cane and slowed his pace a fraction. They passed Red Jack, who waved, and continued west along Randolph toward the nearest horsecar stop. “How long was he with you? Do you recall?”

“Not long.” Guthrie walked faster, dodging occasional pedestrians without appearing to see them. “Really, Detective, I don’t have time—”

Hanley kept up, though it took effort. “What did you talk about?”

“He asked for help for some neighbors of his. I said I’d consider it.”

“A friend of Kelmansky’s told me he regularly got supplies from a riverside warehouse near Market Street. South Water west of LaSalle, in fact. Is that warehouse being used by the Relief and Aid? And would you know who owns it?”

Guthrie cleared his throat. “A lot of the deeds to those properties went up in the Fire. Left quite a mess to sort out.”

“I was outside the Court House when it went. Part of the bucket brigade.” Hanley recalled it vividly—the long line of men, and some women, passing boxes and file drawers stuffed with legal papers to safety while the fire roared through the building. They’d fled only when the heat grew fierce enough to explode the stone façade. The nerve-shattering roar and the rain of marble fragments had reminded him of artillery fire from the massed guns at Gettysburg. At the time, the only thing stronger than his terror was an overwhelming desire not to sully his badge by being the first to break ranks. “So you don’t own the warehouse by South Water and LaSalle?”

From up ahead came a child’s voice, sharp with the effort to be louder than the wagons that rattled down the street. “Souvenirs! Pieces of the Fire you can hold in your hand! Penny a piece, your choice. Sooo-vuh-neeers!” In the gap left by a passing matron, Hanley saw the souvenir-seller—a scrap of a girl in a linsey skirt and a flannel shirt several sizes too large.

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