The Anarchist (23 page)

Savin came closer and said calmly, “Who did it?”

Norris loosened his grip on Quimby, who slid down the wall until he was squatting, his chest heaving as he sobbed.

“I still think he’s acting,” Norris said. “Though I must admit he’s quite convincing.”

“Tell you what, Quimby,” Savin said. “Why don’t we drive out to the canal and have a look around. Maybe you’ll remember better?”

Distraught, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, Quimby nodded. Norris took him by the arm again, at first alarming the man, but then he helped him to his feet.

“That prostitute,” Quimby said, regaining his composure. “I tell you, she knew what she was about. I come and go from Buffalo, often aboard one of the barges. I’ve performed before audiences along the canal from here to Albany.”

“You returned to Buffalo aboard the
Glockenspiel,”
Norris said. “Something that Klaus Bruener failed to mention.”

Quimby said, “Yes, we returned to Buffalo. When I disembarked
it was evening, and being short of funds for a room in a boardinghouse I elected to seek shelter as the weather was turning inclement.”

Norris looked at Savin, who said, “That was one fine performance.” He seemed indecisive for a moment, but then said, “All right, I have a carriage waiting in the alley behind headquarters. We’ll drive out to that footbridge, and I promise you, Quimby, if you don’t give us everything we want this Pinkerton detective will demonstrate the fine art of persuasion, and then I personally will push you into the canal.”

“Can you swim?” Norris asked.

“Yes,” Quimby said.

Savin opened the door for them. “Just try it with a dislocated shoulder.”

They did not speak once to Quimby, did not even acknowledge his presence in the carriage during the ride to the canal. Savin ordered the driver to make haste through the muddy streets of Buffalo, which were filled with crowds—some were agitated and appeared hostile, while at other corners people were gathered as though in mourning. The sky was overcast—it had been raining on and off all day—and sudden gusts buffeted the carriage, causing it to rattle and creak loudly. When they reached the section of the canal where Clementine’s body had been found, the three men walked along the embankment and started across the footbridge. There was only one barge docked on the far side, and it was not the
Glockenspiel
.

Savin stopped when they reached the middle of the bridge and he pointed down at the water. “She was found there, we were told, by that piling.”

Quimby held on to his top hat because of the wind that rushed down the canal, and his coat collar was turned up. “It was a damp night, much like this, but a sight warmer then. When Bruener tied his barge up there on the embankment he told me I had to
get off. I protested, because of the weather, but he was unsympathetic. He is the sort that’s accustomed to getting his way without any argument. He seemed anxious about something, and I got the distinct impression that he was waiting for something or someone. So I bid him and his son adieu and wandered along the embankment until I came to this footbridge. I know this part of the canal well, and as it began to rain I knew I could find shelter—down there, beneath this footbridge. See,” he said, pointing, “at the base of the embankment, in that shed.”

“What’s in there?” Norris asked.

“That’s where various bargemen keep extra gear and store some of their goods. It’s locked most of the time, but there’s usually a window that can be jimmied.”

“You got inside,” Savin said.

“I did. And found myself a right snug spot in among some canvas tarps. I have trouble sleeping, so I did partake of the elixir I proudly represent. But my slumber was broken when the door was unlocked and I heard a woman’s laughter.”

“Clementine,” Savin said, lighting a cigarette. “Alone?”

“Hardly. I was tucked up in a berth out of sight, so I lay still, hoping to get back to sleep, but from the sound of things I knew that would be impossible.”

“You couldn’t see what was going on?” Norris asked.

“Not well. They had one lantern, and as I said I was quite nestled down in this pile of canvas where it was warm and dry.”

“They?” Norris said.

“They produced the most ardent, primitive sounds.” Quimby smiled. “This Clementine was soon out of her dress—I could see enough to appreciate her considerable endowments, and she did have, shall we say, a large appetite—”

“Who was she with?” Savin asked.

“Whom?” Quimby said delicately. “First, there were several Irish lads from another barge. And then a fellow who made these distasteful grunting sounds. And then there was a brief period
where nothing happened and I thought the lady had completed her nocturnal obligations. Thankfully, I began to drift off to sleep, but then I witnessed a rather unusual encounter. First, Bruener comes in and he speaks to this Clementine, mostly in German, mind you—did you know she spoke German?”

Norris shook his head. “In Buffalo I assume English is everyone’s second language.”

“Well, I have spent some time on the Continent, and I could understand enough to know that he had an unusual proposition for her, one which—well, at first the lady doth protest, but then Bruener’s manner became more persuasive.”

“He threatened her,” Norris said.

“In a manner of speaking. Darling Clementine demurred, and Bruener left, but a few minutes later his boy, Josef, enters the compartment, accompanied by another man. I could not get a good look at him because he insisted that the lantern be dimmed. I did not understand at first—because he too was speaking German, and in a dialect unfamiliar to me—but I then came to appreciate that this man possessed some deformity that he did not want the lady to gaze upon. Something about his face, I’m certain, because I saw his profile—and such scars. I truly do not have the verbal powers to describe how horrible they were.”

“The boy,” Norris said. “What was Josef doing in there?”

Quimby leaned against the railing of the footbridge, and it seemed as though he was reluctant to continue. “Gentlemen, we must come to an understanding.”

Savin caught Norris’s eye, and neither spoke.

“My associating with you has already put me in jeopardy. What I’m about to tell you—well, I really must leave Buffalo.”

“You’ll get your fifty dollars,” Savin said. He leaned over and dropped his cigarette butt into canal. “The alternative, as we said, is that you can swim to Albany.”

“Albany?” Quimby said. “You don’t understand. I will need to get away from the canal altogether. Word will certainly get
around that I’ve been talking with you. Workers, socialists—they’re a suspicious lot. They will assume the worst. I was thinking someplace out west, St. Louis, or perhaps Denver.”

Savin unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his wallet; he removed several bills and rolled them up in his fist. “What happened down there in that shed, Quimby? Something that led to this prostitute being killed?”

Quimby studied Savin’s hand a long moment, and then sighed dramatically, as though this were all a great imposition. “You see, it was the boy’s duty to perform, if you catch my drift, which I must say he did quite prodigiously, exhibiting remarkable youthful stamina.”

“I seem to recall,” Norris said, “that when we went down to look at her body on that barge Klaus Bruener said something to the effect that his boy had never before laid hands on a naked woman.”

“Right,” Savin said. “So, Quimby, this German with the scarred face—he watched?”

“Indeed, sir,” Quimby said.

“Is that all he did?” Norris asked.

“Well.” Quimby hesitated. “Yours is a pertinent question, one which I could not ascertain with absolute certainty because it was difficult to see. I can say that while the boy and the lady were thus engaged, as dogs might be, you understand, everyone’s respiration was becoming keenly elevated. Including the German’s.”

“He was masturbating,” Savin said.

For the first time Quimby seemed clearly at a loss for words. “I thought so, at first. I tried to get a better look without revealing my presence, but it was quite dark in there. I did manage to catch a glimpse of the German in flagrante delicto. He had his trousers down around his ankles but what I observed
down there
—well, like his face, it too was deformed.” Quimby took a moment to compose himself, and then he whispered, “He was indeed engaged in the practice of self-abuse, but to no avail. He couldn’t rise to the occasion.”

“Your voyeuristic talents are duly noted,” Savin said. “But how does all this lead to Clementine’s death?”

Now Quimby flushed, and looked quite frightened. “Yes, indeed. That. Well. Well, eventually the boy completed his deed with a mighty shudder, and there was a minute where no one moved. Lots of panting, you understand. And then the man tells the boy to leave the compartment immediately. He shouts this because the boy doesn’t hear very well. Once the boy leaves, Clementine makes a mistake, due, to be sure, to exhaustion and drink. She—well, you see, she laughed. She looked upon the woeful condition of his manhood and she laughed. Only briefly, but clearly it stung him. And then she did something else, which I believe was the fatal mistake. She called him by name. How she came to know it, I can’t say, but he was outraged.”

“What was his name?”

“Gimmel.”

Savin looked at Norris, who said, “Herman Gimmel. From Chicago.”

“The famous anarchist—one and the same, I believe,” Quimby said proudly. “He took a length of rope from his pocket, with one end tied in a monkey fist. Using this cudgel, he proceeds to beat the woman. She cries out, pleads with him, but he continues to beat her mercilessly. This goes on for a terribly long time, it seemed.”

“And of course you did nothing,” Savin said.

“The man was incensed! Enraged!” Quimby pleaded. “He was possessed like I’ve never seen before, gentlemen. And believe me, you see some hard behavior here on the canal. Even when the other man came into the shed and tried to restrain him, it was no use.”

“What other man?” Norris said.

“The Jew—that’s what Bruener calls him. A fellow who works on the barge, moving cargo, that sort of thing. He must have been up here on the footbridge when he heard her screams because I heard him running along these very boards beneath our feet, but
when he burst into the shed it was too late. Gimmel had beaten her to death. I mean, you could tell there was no life in that supple body. He tells this other fellow—Ascher, he calls him—to help him throw her in the canal. Ascher is reluctant, but Gimmel threatened to beat him. They picked her up by the arms and legs—she was stark naked, except for this yellow hat—and they took her outside. Moments later I heard the splash.”

“Ascher,” Norris said. “I know that name. I can’t remember where—”

“And that was it?” Savin said to Quimby.

“Not exactly,” Quimby said. “After a few minutes I climbed down from my berth and grabbed that piece of cloth—they had torn the dress into rags and made a hasty attempt at cleaning up the blood. Then I left the shed, thinking I would get as far away from there as I could. As I walked along the embankment I could hear an argument down below in the pilothouse of the
Glockenspiel
. It was raining quite hard at that point, and there was a dense fog. They were all very drunk by then, and Bruener insisted that Gimmel leave the barge. In fact, he made Ascher take him away—Gimmel not knowing his way about. Bruener insisted they couldn’t just leave the body in the canal. It was better if they pull it out and inform the authorities.”

“That’s what they did,” Savin said. “And we arrived at dawn.”

“Where did Ascher take Gimmel?” Norris said.

“No idea,” Quimby said. “You can be sure I was long gone from here by then.”

There was a moment when all three men gazed down at the dirty water in the canal. And then Quimby cleared his throat. Savin handed him the rolled-up bills.

“I would appreciate a ride to the train station,” Quimby said.

“You can walk,” Savin said.

“But certainly, sir—”

Norris turned to Quimby. “If you don’t get off this footbridge now, I promise you I
will
dislocate your shoulder and throw you in this canal.”

Quimby started back along the footbridge in great haste, once glancing over his shoulder in fear.

A few raindrops tapped on the dome of Norris’s bowler. “Always seems to rain when we come down here,” he said.

“I’ve heard of Herman Gimmel,” Savin said, “but don’t know why he’s so famous.”

“He’s an anarchist who has never been caught, for one thing,” Norris said. “And another is the Haymarket riot back in ’86.”

“In Chicago, the one where all the policemen were killed?”

“I’ve long believed that it was Gimmel who made the bomb and threw it, not any of those fools who were hung for it. It was the beginning of a long career. Herman Gimmel has been behind many anarchist attacks.”

“And he’s in Buffalo, where he kills a prostitute, who is working for a Pinkerton detective recently sent out from Washington.” Savin looked up at the sky. “I would like to get out of this rain.”

“I would like to remember where I’ve heard the name Ascher,” Norris said as they began walking back along the footbridge toward the carriage. “And find this barge as well.”

“It could be anywhere,” Savin said. “Hundreds of barges work this canal. It could be anywhere—Utica, Rome, Albany.”

“If Herman Gimmel’s still here in Buffalo,” Norris said, “the
Glockenspiel
’s here.”

At the end of the footbridge Norris paused and stared down at the canal. It was beginning to rain steadily now, the drops drumming on the hard dome of his bowler. He determined that when this was over, when he returned to Washington, he would buy a new hat and wear this one only on rainy days. There was a solution to everything, and somehow this one relieved his worry about getting this bowler wet. He continued on to the carriage, but paused outside the door. “I just remembered where I heard the name Ascher.” Savin didn’t seem interested; he was sitting to one side of the carriage, away from the open window that was admitting rain. Norris added, “This fellow Quimby mentioned—Ascher,
who helped Gimmel throw our voluptuous corpse in the canal—his sister is that Russian whore I told you about.”