That Smile On Your Face
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A week later, I was sitting in my room at the boardinghouse with a cup of tea and reading about the history of this town. The city had been founded in 1842 by Colonel William H. Bradley as a supply base for the Union army during the Civil War.
It had grown to become the largest railroad junction east of the Mississippi River before the Civil War. Then it declined after the war because there were no longer any military installations here and the railroad lines bypassed it.
Now only two passenger trains stopped in this city, one on the Illinois Central and another on the Chicago, Fort Wayne & Western, but neither made many stops. The station agent said they ran three times weekly from each line—on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday—and that both passengers and freight were down sharply due to competition from trucking companies.
That meant more work for him when he got back. He’d gotten his job back thanks to me, so maybe he could get another job if he wanted. Or he could stay where he was now. I hoped he did. If I hadn’t shown up at the train station when I did, he might not have been hired back.
His family depended on the income from his job. My brother-in-law, John, would be pleased to hear that. He’s always been very protective over my sister, Mary, who married him five years ago. They’re still happy together.
I read that the population of the city was 4,813 people and that most of them worked for either the railroads or the government. There was a large depot building near the center of town which served the Illinois Central, the Chicago, Fort Wayne & Western, the Great Northern Railway, and the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad.
Both the Chicago and Fort Wayne lines passed through here, while the Great Northern was just starting its run through Indiana and Illinois. As a result, there were eight trains daily going to or coming from other states and six going to or coming from Missouri, Michigan, Kentucky, or Illinois.
In addition, there were four passenger trains stopping in the city and a few freight trains, too. So much for the historical background; now what? I knew how to find out information about people. But I also knew that it wasn’t enough unless you already knew something about the person.
For example, I didn’t know anything about the woman who owned the boarding house or her husband. And since I had no idea where she lived or what kind of business she kept, I couldn’t use that approach to find out about her.
So what else did I have to go on? What was unique about the woman who’d rented the room next door? She was young, and pretty and wore expensive dresses and high-heeled shoes every day. She walked around town in those shoes even though they looked uncomfortable, but then she never complained about being tired.
Her hair was long, curly, and shiny, like silk, and she used cosmetics sparingly. A lot of women put makeup on their faces nowadays, but none of them spent time doing it as carefully as she did. Maybe that was why she’d bought the fancy dress that matched mine: it helped make her stand out.
She talked to everyone in the boarding house, but especially to the men. Why should that matter? Because I wondered if she was trying to lure some of the boarders into her bed. I wondered if she was married and whether her husband knew. I thought she was single, but then she could’ve taken off her wedding ring.
When I first saw her talking to the man across the hall, I assumed he was gay. Gay men often live alone because they don’t want children. Their sexual orientation isn’t usually discovered until puberty, which is why I decided to wait a bit before getting involved.
I needed to learn all I could about her first. When I found out she was single, I planned to tell her about myself. But I waited almost three weeks before I spoke to her. After a month, I realized I wouldn’t have told her about myself anyway because she probably didn’t need to know.
The second night I stayed at the boarding house, I watched her walk out onto the porch and look toward the railroad tracks. This was after dinner, right before sunset, and she seemed nervous. I figured she was waiting for someone, but she was watching the track as if she expected an approaching train.
The way she stood, I could see how tall she was. Five feet ten inches! At least I was taller than her, although I’m only five foot nine. We both reached our full height within months of birth, but hers went past mine. I wondered if she ever felt self-conscious about being so tall.
No doubt she did, but then I remembered that she was a lady, a member of society. Society doesn’t care what anyone looks like or feels or thinks. People with money do whatever pleases them without regard for others. I hated that attitude.
That’s exactly why I got so angry when I heard about the fire. I hate injustice, and this was one. Someone deliberately set fire to a place that housed families, and the people inside weren’t given a chance to escape. It was cruel and inhuman. I can understand the anger that led to arson, but I don’t approve of such behavior.
It was two days later that I finally approached her. I tried to catch her attention by speaking softly, “Excuse me.” She turned around and I saw that she was looking at me. Our eyes met and she smiled. “Yes?”
“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked.
She nodded. Then she said, “He’ll be along soon,” and she left.
As I listened to the sound of her footsteps receding down the stairs, my mind began working overtime again. Who was she waiting for? Did she really expect him to come or was she just saying that to get rid of me? If I was wrong, would she say something to show that I’d made a mistake?
Or would she just leave quietly without saying a word? Was she wearing any jewelry? What color were her gloves? How many buttons were on the front of her coat? Did she wear perfume or cologne?
I took notes as fast as I could write. That way I wouldn’t forget anything important. I learned that she wore white gloves and carried a small handbag. They matched her hat. She wore a dark brown skirt that stopped above her knees, but she never covered her ankles with stockings.
She wore a long, light gray woolen coat with a hood over her head. She also had a scarf wrapped around her neck, but she wasn’t using it to cover her mouth. I wanted to ask her if she liked cold weather, but I didn’t think she would answer. She always wore warm clothes during winter. She must’ve been freezing that night.
By now I knew more about the woman across the hall than most people in town. Even the men in the boarding house had nothing to add except that she was beautiful. I guess they were too busy thinking about other things to pay attention to her.
Some of them may have noticed her, but they certainly never gave her a second glance. Perhaps she was considered pretty enough, but not striking enough to warrant a closer look.
On my next visit to the boarding house, I brought a gift from New York City—a new doll. I hadn’t intended to give it to her, but the moment I laid the toy in the middle of the table where we ate, I knew she couldn’t refuse it. Her smile told me everything. She loved dolls, especially baby dolls, and she loved giving them names.
Our friendship grew stronger every day. Sometimes I would take her into the kitchen to watch me cook while she told me stories about herself. One time I even let her help me make pie dough. She loved cooking and baking; she once mentioned that her mother used to bake cakes and pies.
So much for the theory that she had no family. My guess was that she spent most of her childhood alone.
In spite of all the questions I had, she remained a mystery. She talked about her life, but she refused to tell me her name, age, or background. As far as I could determine, she was born in New Jersey. I thought perhaps she was related to someone who lived in the city, but I didn’t know whom to ask. When I asked, she answered simply, “No.” And that was it.
One afternoon I found myself sitting beside her in the dining room. After lunch, I helped her clear away the dishes. We started talking about what we’d seen on our walks through the town, and I suddenly remembered how often I’d heard about a mysterious man in town named John Brown.
No one seemed to know his first name, only that he came here several times a year to buy supplies. The women gossiped that he was a friend of the sheriff. He was an outlaw. A murderer. A killer.
When I mentioned the name, I saw her expression change immediately. I looked at her carefully. I expected to see fear, but instead, I saw concern.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Did anyone ever mention my father?”
My heart skipped a beat. I sat up straighter, wondering what I should tell her. There was so much I wanted to know. Why did she care so much about this person? What happened to her father? Had he committed crimes against her or others? But I couldn’t bring myself to talk about the subject. Instead, I said, “You don’t have to worry. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” She repeated the words slowly. Then she said, “Thank God! Thank God!”
The relief in her voice surprised me. It almost sounded like joy.
***
A month passed before I got another chance to speak with her. In the meantime I continued writing notes, trying to understand why she cared about John Brown. On the last day of November I went back to the boarding house early. By then everyone else in the house was already asleep.
As soon as I entered, I headed straight for the stairs. I climbed two steps at a time, wanting to be out of there before she woke up. Just as I reached the landing, I caught sight of something hanging on the wall behind the door. I walked toward it. It was a framed photograph.
It showed a handsome young man standing outside a large house surrounded by trees. His face reminded me of the portrait in the library, but there were differences between the two portraits: the hairline was different, the nose was thinner, and the eyes were slightly larger. This picture belonged to someone else.
I studied him closely, searching for some clue as to his identity. Suddenly I realized what made me think so. Something about the way he stood… He wasn’t looking directly at the camera. If I’d taken that pose, I wouldn’t want anyone to capture the image forever.
I would be careful to stand straight, hold my head high, and show confidence. That’s exactly what this man was doing. Only I had seen him when he wasn’t posing.
There was also something about the angle of the light. Was it possible that I was right after all? Did this man live somewhere close to us?
That evening, I waited until the men were gone before I took down the photograph. I studied it again. Even though he wore a hat and jacket, I could still see the shadow of a beard on his chin. Could that be a hint that he was married? Or maybe the beard was just long enough to give the impression that he kept it trimmed. Maybe the other photo showed him without the beard.
But if he really did live nearby, where could he be hiding? Was he a farmer? Perhaps he owned land. Or he might work in a lumber mill. But the area around the river wasn’t known for its rich soil. Most of the farms around here consisted mostly of small plots. I knew nothing about farming. Still, I wondered whether this man could be one of the men from the stagecoach robbery.
For three days I tried to find answers. Finally, I decided I needed help. I sent it to Tom, asking him to come to the house.
He arrived within half an hour. When I told him I was thinking about hiring a detective, he smiled broadly. “Good,” he said. “Now you can put your mind at ease.”
After dinner that night, I gave him a full account of everything I’d learned since arriving in the town. I told him about the woman who’d hired me, but not her name, and how she seemed determined to learn more about John Brown.
“Why does she care so much?” I asked.
Tom shrugged. “Who knows? Men like John Brown are always causing trouble wherever they go.”
“Do you know anything about him?”
“Just rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“Well, you’ve heard of the famous raid he led at Harper’s Ferry, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” I replied. “It’s well known that he organized it.”
“Then you must know he killed five men during the attack.”
“Five?” My eyebrows shot up. Five! Who did these men belong to? Were they abolitionists?
“Yes, five men died during the raid.”
“Were they members of the anti-slavery party?” I asked.
“No, most of them weren’t even part of the same church.”
“How many men actually attacked the federal arsenal?” I asked.
“Only twenty or thirty, including John Brown himself. The rest stayed back guarding their horses. They didn’t want to risk being captured by the U.S. Army.”
“What happened next?”
“Most of the men fled once they saw that no shots were fired. A few returned later and burned the place down.”
“So why is the government angry at John Brown?”
“Because he started a war against the Union. And because he forced President Lincoln to sign into law the first-ever legislation outlawing slavery throughout the whole country. That meant slaves had to leave the South. Many refused, and others chose to fight instead. After all, it was their freedom they were fighting for.”
“Wasn’t that a good thing?”
“In a way, yes. It brought peace to the nation, but it caused great suffering among the people who lost loved ones or suffered financial loss due to the war. It was horrible, especially for those living in the South. You should hear what the former slaves say about the war.”
My curiosity was piqued. “Tell me.”
“They claim it was a terrible time for them. Some of the freedmen were forced to move north. Others worked hard in the fields, only to lose their crops when bad weather hit. And then there were those who joined the army, only to be sent off to die far away from home.”
I shuddered. So much pain… How could any man do such a thing? What kind of a monster was John Brown?
The more I thought about him, the angrier I became. This man had done unspeakable things, yet he seemed untouchable. If he were found guilty, he would spend the rest of his life behind bars, but he never would be punished for what he’d done. No matter how heinous his crimes are, no judge or jury would convict him. He would escape punishment as easily as a thief escaping justice.
When I finished telling Tom my suspicions concerning this man, he nodded slowly. “You’re probably right about John Brown,” he finally said. “That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you today. Now that we’ve both been hired to solve your case, maybe we can use our combined efforts to catch this villain.”
“Catch him!” I exclaimed. “There’s no doubt about it now. We have to find him.”
“If you insist on finding this man, we’ll need help,” Tom said. “We don’t know the area, nor do we know which direction he’s headed. Our best bet may be to hire another investigator. Someone with more experience than us.”
“But I already have someone helping me,” I protested.
“Someone like me?” he suggested. “A real detective.”
***
Two days after meeting Tom, I was sitting across a table from a gray-haired gentleman named Walter Johnson. I had chosen him over other candidates because of his reputation as one of the most experienced detectives in the West. In fact, I hadn’t planned to look anywhere else. But I was glad I changed my mind.
Walter Johnson was an older man with thinning hair and thick spectacles perched on his nose. His eyes looked tired, and I wondered if he was having health problems. When I met him for the first time, I assumed he was close to retirement age, but he proved otherwise. He was just as sharp and alert as I expected.
“And how long have you been investigating cases for the railroad?” I asked.
“Twenty-six years,” he replied.
“Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Have you solved many cases?” I inquired.
“Oh yes. One hundred and forty-seven, to be exact.”
“One hundred and forty-seven?”
“Some were small cases. Like tracking down stolen livestock. Or finding out who stole money from a saloon owner. But some were big ones. Just last year, I helped apprehend a murderer who escaped from a local jail.”
“Did you catch him?”
“Unfortunately not. We chased him for miles before losing sight of him.”
“Were you able to arrest anyone else?”
“No. All we knew was that he wore black gloves. That’s all we needed to tell the sheriff so he could send word to every town nearby. That night, three men went to the nearest saloons wearing black gloves. Two of them ended up dead, shot point blank while trying to rob a third man. The killer was caught within hours.”
“Wow! I’m impressed,” I said.
“Don’t let appearances fool you. Most of these cases are quite complicated.”
“Why didn’t you become a deputy instead? They seem easier than solving murder mysteries.”
He chuckled. “Deputies aren’t nearly as interesting as solving murders. Believe me. There is nothing dull about being a detective. Every day is different. You learn something new, meet new people, and solve puzzles. You get to play detective even when you’re not working.”
“Sounds wonderful…” I mused. “Except for the danger involved.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “It isn’t always easy to go into a dangerous situation. Sometimes we take risks that we shouldn’t. It’s part of the job, though. It makes the reward all sweeter. Especially when you solve a mystery. It’s like winning a prize, only better. You win not just recognition but also satisfaction. Knowing that you did good work.”
His words stirred up memories of my mother, whom I hadn’t seen since leaving home. She was a great woman, strong and independent, but she died before her time. I couldn’t imagine any greater reward than knowing I had avenged her death.
“I think I understand now,” I told Johnson. “I want to be a detective. A real detective.”
“Good,” he said. “Because that’s precisely what we need to find this man. Someone smart enough to figure out where he might hide, who he might trust, and who might be hiding him. And if there’s anything I can do to help you achieve your goal, believe me, I will.”
After the interview concluded, Tom and I walked outside together. I thought about what Johnson had told me. “What kind of things would you like to ask him?” I asked. “Anything specific?”
Tom shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
“Maybe we should start by learning everything we can about John Brown. What do we really know about him?”
“Very little. Only that he’s a notorious abolitionist, which means he hates slavery. That’s it.”
“That’s hardly enough to warrant such hatred,” I argued.
“Well, maybe not hate exactly,” Tom said. “More like contempt or disdain for slaves. Something like that. It seems like he has a low opinion of blacks, judging from what I read. So much so that he wanted to free them all.”
“That sounds horrible,” I muttered.
“Tell me about it,” he sighed. “The worst thing about it is that he actually succeeded.”
“How did he manage that?” I asked.
“When he led hundreds of slaves in a bloody raid on a federal arsenal, he managed to seize several thousand rifles and pistols along with plenty of ammunition. Then he sent thousands more slaves south to join other abolitionists.”
“But why would someone who wants to abolish slavery allow others to carry out such acts?” I asked. “If they killed innocent people, wouldn’t that make their cause less popular?”
“Brown wasn’t against violence, especially when he felt it was justified. He believed that peaceful efforts weren’t working, so he decided to try something else. In fact, one of his reasons for going to Kansas was to stop an armed uprising by a group of slaves who were threatening to kill a white farmer.”
“So how does this have anything to do with me?” I wondered.
“Everything, actually. If we can prove that the attack on the Harper boys was planned beforehand, then it means Brown was behind the crime. This is important because it helps us prove that the killings weren’t random. Now that we have proof of premeditation, we can use it to track down the culprit.”
“You mean that’s all you’ll need to convict him? Just this?”
“Yes. Unless you happen to see the man in question.”
We stood side by side at the front gate watching as a few wagons rumbled past. Men sat atop their horses, staring ahead, ignoring the world around them. They looked like regular citizens, except for their lack of smiles. No one seemed particularly happy, but no one seemed unhappy either. It was hard to tell whether anyone here knew happiness.
A horse-drawn carriage passed through the gates followed by two men dressed in suits and top hats. The driver of the first wagon held a black hat over his eyes while the second man wore dark glasses. Both wore long coats and carried umbrellas. As they drove by, I noticed they both looked right at me.
I turned away quickly. “They must recognize me as well. Why don’t we walk toward town?”
As soon as we left the ranch, I asked, “Do you think we should visit the Harper family today? I’d like to see for myself where those poor kids died. Would it be safe?”
“No, probably not,” Tom replied. “First, it could be dangerous, even fatal, depending on where we went. Second, I doubt we’ll get very far. We’ve already been given some information. Let’s stick close to the facts until we learn more. Besides, the Harpers won’t open their doors to strangers. Not after what happened to them.”
Johnson’s warning echoed in my mind. “It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re just wasting our time. There’s nothing we can do unless we catch up with this John Brown and force him to talk.”
The End