“They are rather busy making money, I am afraid.”
“It’s the dark underbelly of this place no one wants to take a hard look at, isn’t it?”
“Are you going to start a campaign? If you don’t, Gabby, who will? Jane Addams and other reformers like her need more people, but you have your studies, and now your rounds, and time in at the morgue, and atop that, you’ve taken a civilian job with the Chicago Police Department as some sort of researcher. So…when do you find time to interview with the likes of Jane Addams?”
“The woman is a saint, and perhaps I am not,” replied Gabby.
“Oh, but you are, dear, in your own way. You do so much good every day. Christian tells me he is so pleased to have you working with him.”
This was met by silence from Gabrielle Tewes.
A single word of mirth from my daughter, a half-smile please, Jane thought.
Gabby dropped her gaze; still said nothing. Finally, sobbing, she erupted, “It’s so…so sad…so strange but also so sad and…and awful.”
“It is sad and awful.”
They sat in silence, pouring more tea, sipping.
“How do you think things are going between you and Inspector Ransom?” Gabby asked, surprising Jane with such a departure.
“How indeed is that your business?” Jane smilingly replied.
“Well, it is conceivable, is it not, that one day I may be calling him Dah…or Daddy…or Father.”
“Wait up now! I might have something to say in all this, and I for one am not contemplating a holy union with the notorious Inspector Ransom.”
Gabby laughed. “Then some juicy unholy union is in mind?”
“Stop that this minute, young woman!”
The laughter spilling from the Tewes dining room wafted gently out over the evening breeze. In the gaslight glow below a streetlamp, young Audra stared at the Tewes home for only a moment longer before she turned and started away. Opposite side of the street, coming in her direction was none other than Bloody Mary. Audra darted ratlike from sight down a narrow passageway and through an alley. She located the deepest black recess and hid in shadow. Slinking to the ground, Audra grabbed some rosary beads given her by Danielle and she chanted, as in a mantra, one name. “Blue Lady, Blue Lady, Blue Lady keep me safe.”
Once finished relating to Philo Keane what Danielle, Robin, Audra, and the other children had imparted, Ransom downed the brandy that Philo had poured for him. Philo explained that the brandy manufacturer had hired him to do some photography for their advertisements of the product, and as partial payment, he had been given a case of the stuff-a suspect brew from another overnight company, this one calling itself Gray Jack Distillery, makers of fine sour mash whiskey right here in Chicago. Philo had been attracted by the terrible labeling job and advertising.
“What is it, like two days old?” asked Ransom after choking. “I predict it’ll win zero ribbons at the fair.”
“I’m unsure how long they’ve aged it, but it’s a modern miracle-mass produced to keep the price down for quick sale.”
“I’m sure, and violating between six and ten laws.”
Philo added, “I don’t expect them to remain in business long.”
“There oughta be a law against vile-tasting liquor,” Ransom said, wincing as he drank up. “So what do you think of my story of the children?”
“Dreadful…disgraceful…. As I recall, it tore William Stead up to see the little beggars about the streets when he was here writing his book.”
“‘Buggars,’ he called ’em. Any news on when that exposé of his will be published, if at all?”
“Who has the guts to publish a work so explosive? The very title itself-If Christ Came to Chicago is-”
“Intended to raise awareness,” finished Ransom. “And he was toying with a subtitle…”
“Really?”
“A Cold Day in Hell.” Alastair laughed. “Said Chicago was colder’n Russian Siberia so far as social consciousness was concerned.”
“I just know he spent a lot of time on the homeless and indigent problems we ‘natives’ ignored here for too long.”
“Still, you’ve skirted my question.”
“Which was?” asked Philo.
Alastair shifted in his seat. “In all of the discussion with the homeless children, what’ve I to show for my case?”
The two men were surrounded by leather, wood, and books, Philo’s phonograph softly playing a Viennese waltz. “I’ve a good mind to make you take me among these street urchins.”
“You?”
“Yes, to photograph them in their natural habitat.”
“Photograph them? What possible good could come of it? Certainly no one I know would pay you for-”
“You miss the point. It’d be for art not money, and maybe…perhaps, if I could get a showing at a gallery downtown, who knows…perhaps we can get Thom Carmichael to cover the gallery showing. Shed light on the problem.”
“I doubt it could happen. Not here.”
“You doubt everything, Rance. Even your own feelings about Jane Francis.”
“Look, now that you’ve heard it, tell me what you think. Do you think there could possibly be a connection between the street myths and the killer?”
Philo shook his head. “That’s right-change the subject.”
“You, sir, changed the subject! Now, back on track, please.”
“I couldn’t say for a certainty either way.”
“I need input on this damned Vanishings thing.” Again, if Dr. Fenger were not one of the conspirators, he’d have told Philo in a heartbeat about Kohler and Senator Chapman’s deal.
Philo finally settled into a chair opposite Ransom. His eyes narrowed, his face pinched, he took a long moment to respond, his hands opening and closing.
Alastair laughed. “Damn it, man, if I were interrogating you, I’d have to assume you are hiding something or guilty over some matter. Why so uncomfortable?”
“I find this so…so strangely coincidental.”
“How so, my friend?”
“A group of us artists in the city have recently discussed this very phenomena. Allandale Wolfson, in fact, has gathered some numbers.”
“The painter?”
“Yes, and as a result, I have formed some opinions, and these street religions you speak of are no surprise to me. Wolfson calls it polygenesis.”
“Poly-genesis as in many a Genesis?” Alastair asked.
“Precisely. Those few people in little cubby-holes inside colleges and universities who study folklore use the term for the simultaneous appearance of vivid, similar tales in far-flung locales.”
Alastair chewed on his lower lip and asked, “Are you referring, Professor Philo, to the similar themes running through all these homeless shelter stories?”
“Professor! That’s funny, Rance. However, it’s not similar but rather identical themes; and, yes, you’re correct.”
“Hmmm…” Ransom scratched at his chin. “The same overarching themes.”
“Each linking the myths of thirty-five homeless children in Cook County facilities alone; facilities operated by the Salvation Army. And we suspect other U.S. and Canadian city shelters also spawn like religions.”
“I’m impressed, professor.”
“These children…they range in age from six to twelve, and when asked what stories, if any, they believe about heaven and God, it’s nothing they’ve learned in formal religion or in any church.”
“So you are chronicling the folklore?”
“Most of these kids don’t write or don’t know how to write, so they are asked to draw pictures for their stories with chalk and slate.”
“I noticed they used the term spirit a lot.”
“It’s a biblical term for revenants, and they seldom to rarely use ‘ghost.’”
“Why is that?”
“Ghosts are for little kids, babies, not tough guys. Ghosts are not real to them. Not like spirits. Spirits are real and dangerous.”
“I see,” replied Alastair, digesting all of this.
“In their lexicon, they always use demon to denote wicked spirits.”