Free City for Ransom by Robert W. Walker Page B

police patrolling the area; the Polish girl, barely twenty-three, left on the steps of the world’s fair Natural History Pavilion—her unborn child found during autopsy by Dr. Christian Fenger. The killer may have honed his garroting skills on the other two, so that stabbing to subdue his latest victim was unnecessary—three times the charm.
    From the evidence in the bathroom here, the struggle was quick and the attack overwhelming; over within seconds—certainly no more than fifteen to twenty seconds before Purvis succumbed to blood loss and a deathly euphoria. Ransom had seen the results of the garrote from time to time—a weapon of choice by the weak and cowardly and usually those without recourse to a direct attack. A cheap weapon, cheaply made, it proved deadly in its simplicity, and frankly speaking, Alastair wondered why it was not used more often. After all, it was an easily concealed weapon, not so noisy as a derringer nor so messy as a blade. Tidy it was. Despite the blood, little could spill onto the killer, as the victim’s own body shielded him from the pumping major artery—the one Dr. Fenger called the carotid.
    In Cliffton Purvis’s case, his death was delayed only long enough for him to see his killer in that mirror at the public basin—such a modern convenience!—when the attack took place. Dying away in a matter of seconds…dying away like a pulse.
    The sweltering summer heat and humidity had earlier plagued Alastair beside the stuffy odorous horse-drawn coroner’s wagon sitting idle on 12th Street where he’d held the impromptu interrogation, but this same heat could not penetrate the cool stones of the train station. With the perspiration on his brow chilling, Ransom guessed that room temperature here would keep a bottle of ale a perfect seventy-two degrees. He renegotiated the marble stairwell, his cane tapping out a rhythm. He hoped against hope that the body and head had by now been reunited, that Philo had finished, and that the resurrection man, Gwinn, was wrapping the body, preparing it for Christian Fenger’s morgue—characterized once by Carmichael as an “eerie cadaver dump for every unclaimed body in the city.”
    O’Malley, a master at delegating responsibilities, shadowed Ransom. Realizing that Mike was over his shoulder, Alastair asked, “Wonder why the boy was here in the wee hours…on the little-used second floor?”
    â€œMen’s room?”
    â€œBut there are rooms below. Look, if he were broke from his day at the fair and was sleeping here on and off, he may well’ve found this area safer for his purposes.”
    â€œApparently, so did his killer.”
    â€œIt’s what I like about you, Mike. You cut to the chase.”
    O’Malley had informed Alastair earlier that the aged night watchman who’d lied about his having doused the body with a hose while it was still on fire—a retired train conductor—had gone into a babbling state of shock. He’d been taken to nearby Cook County early on and was of no use.
    Ransom realized that the bloody handprint could belong to the watchman or even to the drifter, another reason to keep him near.
    Chief Kohler and Ransom now passed at the top of the stairwell. All eyes were on the two. Kohler said, “Work with Tewes! He’s a remarkable man!”
    â€œLook, Chief, due in part to a drifter, in part to the actions of the watchman, the damage to the facial features was minimized.”
    â€œWell, yes.”
    Alastair showed him the find of the wallet and its contents, giving Kohler a moment to digest this development, allowing Kohler to say it: “So you think Tewes had some prior knowledge of the boy?”
    â€œAnd is withholding information and—”
    â€œNot so loud. Keep this between us, see…”
    â€œâ€”and ought himself to be detained and interrogated.” Ransom brought it down a few octaves.