A Lesson in Love and Murder (18 page)

They set off into the bright day and took in a city that made Toronto's buildings seem like a child's model train set. Even the tallest building on Yonge Street would have seemed stunted in comparison. Jem was riveted by the store window displays while Merinda droned on about how brilliant it was to be in the employ of anarchists.

Realizing that Jem wasn't paying attention, Merinda cleared her throat. “Now, Jem, before this case goes any further, I think we should talk.”

“Merinda, I haven't heard that tone in your voice since you stole the answers for the ethics exam in college.”

“Now that I know what a precarious position you find yourself in,” Merinda said with a cough, “I recognize the severity of DeLuca just leaving you like that. Alone. Without word. Maybe forever.”

“
With
word,” Jem corrected. “Just not a lot of them. And you and I both know he'll come back.”

“I just think that in a sensitive situation like this, we should lay out the… I mean we should address… I mean I should reassure you that… that… Oh, cracker jacks!”

Jem giggled, her features softening. She leaned in and kissed Merinda on the cheek. “That you'll always take care of me and I'll never be alone? Whether changing nappies or infiltrating dens of anarchists?”

“Yes!” Merinda said, pleased that she had expressed herself so articulately. “Of course! Of course! All of that!”

“And I appreciate it.”

They strolled along several paces in silence. Then Merinda said, “It's dreadfully hot out, Jemima. I think I care less about touring the city than I do about finding ice cream.”

Jem, cognizant that joyful, carefree moments were fleeting, couldn't disagree.

Ray heard Jasper before he saw him. The constable's bright voice was easy to detect in the swarm of men hustling in and out of the corridor.

“You came!” he said brightly, shaking Jasper's hand and leading him to a clean but crowded room with two rows of military-style beds.

“Like police training,” Jasper said.

“The King Edward it is not,” Ray replied. Far more familiar with the unwritten rules of establishments such as this, Ray took the lead and Jasper's canvas luggage bag and tossed it onto a free bed. According to the trust system shared by all men down on their luck, this indicated it was occupied. Jasper watched Ray confidently move around the place, speaking to the men and securing their lodgings. With equal command, he motioned for Jasper to follow him, and not a moment later, they sat side by side on the fire escape. They were surrounded by grimy, noisy buildings ornamented only by broken windows and the lines of laundry that connected one side of dismal brick to the other.

Ray reached into his pocket. “Such a good story,” he said with a half grin, handing Jasper the little knot. From his other pocket he handed him a small bottle with the unmistakable Spenser's insignia.
Sirop d'Erable.

“Same knot, that's for sure.” Jasper matched it with the identical one from his own pocket. Then he cleared his throat.

“You got quiet all of a sudden,” Ray observed. “Putting all of this together? Linking it to Tad Spenser and Tertius Montague?” There was a sparkle in Ray's voice, one Jasper most often heard in conjunction with a story or idea.

“I suppose I should tell you I didn't come to Chicago alone.”

“Oh?”

Jasper chuckled lowly. “It's kind of amusing when you think of it,” he tempered, watching Ray intently. “Same car and everything… ”

Ray's right eyebrow rose slightly. “Jasper.”

“Jem and Merinda were on the trail. With that new client of theirs, Benny Citrone. He's a Mountie. His cousin has fallen in with the anarchist movement, and they think he might be here with a fellow named Ross who has been drumming up support in Toronto.”

“Jemima in Chicago!” Ray had heard little else. He hopped up and rattled the unstable step with the sudden movement. “Where are they staying? We're going there now and sending them home.” Ray was halfway down the rickety stairs.

“Now, Ray. You mustn't overreact.” Jasper rose too, albeit far more slowly.

“I am not overreacting,” Ray said a moment later, truncating a string of sentences in his first language that sounded very much to Jasper like an overreaction.

“They're staying at the Palmer House. They're fine.”

“A corpse in a tugboat. A tie to Spenser's in Toronto. I was just in a fight with my useless brother-in-law. Not to mention”—Ray's hands, Jasper noticed with interest, were moving almost as fast as his words—“it's hot as Hades and muggy and Jemima… and Jemima… ” He ran his hand over his face. “Well… this is a… ”

Ray wanted to say
conundrum
, but the word wouldn't come. “Jasper, what is it you say when things are completely… flummoxing and you're in a state and frustrated and… ”

“A pickle.”

“A pickle. This is a pickle.”

Benny Citrone was being tracked. He had started off in the direction of his guesthouse but didn't get far before instinct kicked in. A sense heightened by years of spending time alone in the woods.

He kept pace but jogged across the street just as a throng of people
were alighting from a streetcar. He heightened every sense but sight, knowing that if he turned his head over his shoulder his pursuer might disappear. And Benny wanted to know who his pursuer was.

Michigan Avenue was at least preferable to Toronto's gritty Yonge Street. It was bordered by green, and the buildings were widely spaced apart. With the exception of pedestrians and the occasional automobile, he was very much alone on the sidewalk. Which, in this case, made him even more conspicuous.

He let the nearing footsteps behind him draw closer, surprised that the man
^†
allowed himself such proximity. Finally, breaking the rules of his own guidebook, he turned around, just as a large green lion statue jutted out majestically from the walkway toward a russet red building.

And he found what he'd half hoped to find.

Jonathan.

He'd grown a moustache, and his light blond hair had been dyed a sleek ebony. But it was Jonathan. Same overbearing height, always seeming to stand at attention when everyone else was at ease.

“Jonathan,” Benny sputtered. Having imagined the scenario a thousand times, he was unprepared for how normal it seemed (despite the exaggerated disguise) for his cousin to be standing there looking at him with a sad smile.

Jonathan grabbed his hand and wrung it fiercely before pulling Benny into a quick hug. “Ben, I can scarcely believe it. I knew you would find me.”

“I… I'm supposed to be arresting you. Taking you back to Regina. Turning you in.”

“I know. I knew they would put you on this. And I knew once they did, you would find me.”

“You wanted to be found? You weren't running from me?”

“I was leading you somewhere.” Jonathan grabbed Benny's elbow
and steered him onto the lawn of the grand building. The Art Institute, Benny learned during a quick examination of the exterior. “And here you are.”

“Why lead me here?” Benny was perplexed. “Jonathan, you could hang! There's a dead policeman in Toronto on account of your bombs.”

“Not my bomb. No, not my bomb indeed.”

“Jonathan, no one else in the Western Hemisphere would use a Turk's knot to tie off a stick of dynamite at the edge of an amateur bomb!”

“Benny, I can't explain it all here. But I need your help.”

“Why should I help you at all?” Benny said, a strange, cold breeze flurrying his way.

“Because you need me. There's so much I need to tell you. So much you need to understand.”

Benny dug his hands deep into his pockets. Here in Chicago he didn't have the lawful ability to even wear his red serge, let alone arrest a wanted criminal. Still, the superintendent would understand, and Jonathan would get a fair trial and would be convicted on several charges, the most severe being murder, and then…

Benny squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, he saw Jonathan in a clearer light than the moment before. Tired, red-rimmed eyes. Worry etching the contours of his pale face.

“Ben? Lost in thought again.”

“Why don't you cut and run?” Benny said angrily. “Why don't you take your opportunity and escape? You know I was sent to track you. No matter the cost, and bring you ho—bring you back to Canada.”

“I know. But I won't run on you, Ben. Because for now, despite the fact that you have no reason to, I need you to trust me.”

Trust and Jonathan Arnasson were not currently two things that belonged in the same sentence, Benny thought. Nonetheless, he roughly said, “Go on.”

“There is a man far more dangerous than I.”

“Who?”

“David Ross. And I am here to stop him.”

Merinda and Jem returned to the hotel so Merinda could begin to prepare for the evening. “If we're going to be anarchist enthusiasts, we're going to play it right,” Merinda explained, unfolding a scrap of paper from her pocket. “I made some notes on the train.”

“And what are you going to do with them?”

“Find a print shop and make a pamphlet!” she said proudly. “Several copies. Look like I am one of them. Convictions and everything!” She was assuredly proud of herself. “We need black clothes, Jemima. All anarchists wear black clothes.” Merinda worked her teeth over her bottom lip. “And we brought nothing of the sort. Black clothes in this weather! Trust anarchists to expect theatrics!”

“Yes, women in trousers and costume moustaches don't smack of theatricality at all,” Jem said sarcastically. The cooling effect of the ice cream had worn off and she was hot, sticky, tired, and angry that she had not turned a corner and into Ray's arms as she had dreamily hoped.

“I am off to see to these pamphlets.” Merinda looked at the small timepiece affixed to her shirtwaist. “You see to the clothes. After, I'll head straight to the State Street address Ross sent us, and you can meet me there.

Jem nodded her acquiescence and watched Merinda saunter into the sunlight.

Jem mentally calculated how long it would take her to acquire the needed wardrobe pieces before setting out to find the boardinghouse address Jasper had given Merinda—and which she had subsequently pilfered while Merinda was counting change for the bellboy. She was streets away from Ray, and the entire world seemed alive. Far more alive than the last draining hours in Toronto or the incessant hours on the train.