Moonlight On Cobblestone
By J. L. Young
(Prompts thumb and butter)

Bathed in the dancing light of the torches I stood. My eyes set on a body nude and left dead on the street. I recognized her from when I patrolled these streets. Clara Tracy. I remember her as I had desired her hand but I had not initiated a courtship. She was intelligent and headstrong. What monster could have done this to someone of such winsomeness?

A cursory examination of her body revealed to me the absence of her right-hand thumb. The wound was clean. No other mutilation or molestation was apparent without further examination. I nodded to the coroner to cover Miss Tracy. He did so swiftly and adroitly. With a solemn heart, I lifted her into the back of his wagon and he was off.

A check of my watch, nearly twenty minutes after midnight. I glanced at the house of the man who notified the Police of this deed. The lamplight showed through his first story window. I rapped on his door.

The door opened and a man of considerable height answered my call. He cleared his throat and spoke softly, “Good morning, Sir.”

“Are you Winston H. Malinger?”

“The third, Winston H. Malinger the third. Yes, Sir.”

“I’m Detective Horace Ridge of the Chicago Police Department. May I come in?”

“Of course, Detective. Would you care for a refreshment?”

I removed my cover as I stepped inside, “I smell coffee, it seems to be the beginning of a long night, may I have a cup?”

“Most certainly, Sir,” he said as he moved an untidy pile of paper from a chair.

As I sat down I asked, “What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

“Sleep rarely comes to me this early.”

“Early?!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Sir,” he said as he handed me a steaming cup. “I’m a man of letters, at this time a night all of the New World has taken to their bed leaving me to my prose. You didn’t come here to discuss my scribbling, Sir. No, you came to discuss the lady eternally sleeping on the cobblestone. I doubt it was her choice to rest there.”

“Yes, Mr. Malinger. What was it you have seen this night before you flagged down a constable?”

“A fine pair of breasts. It was unfortunate there wasn’t a heart beating behind them.”

I was unsettled by his uncouth language, “Did you hear anything?”

“The keystrokes on my Sholes & Glidden,” he struck some keys so that I may relate the sound. “I only noticed her when I stepped out to smoke. My publisher doesn’t care for the smell of the leaf on the paper.”

“I can relate with your publisher’s distaste for the stench.” I slipped into another question, “Did you notice anything else about the body?”

“I’ve seen her face in town, lovely as it was,” he shook his head and his upper lip disappeared in his thick black mustache, “I’m afraid I don’t know her.”

I stood, “Thank you for your time Mr. Malinger. If I have any more questions….”

“I’ll be here, Sir. Please don’t call too…,” he paused with a slight grin, “early.”

I returned my cover to its place and stepped out onto the street. It had begun to rain leaving the sheen of moonlight on the cobblestone. I instinctively turned my collar to the cold breeze playing on my neck. Only my footfalls found my ears.

Before the Sun climbed the horizon, the yell of a knocker-up pierced my window. The call wasn’t for me, but it performed the same purpose. I didn’t eat that morn. I just clothed my person and waved down a taxi.

The taxi dropped me off at the creamery where Miss Tracy was employed. The Sun was beginning its climb zenithward and cast a reddish glow about the area. A gentleman dressed in fashion stood to abide his employees to muster. Soon, the dairymen of the area will be lining up to sell their fresh milk. Above the gateway read Chicago Creamery. The gentleman checked his watch as the first of many women arrived. He unlocked the gate and let them in. More women were sure to come as time wore on.

I stepped to the man, “Hello, Sir….”

“Good, a strong man, we could use your help,” the gentleman responded.

“That’s not the sort of work I’m here for.”

“Then you’re wasting my time and my money. Good day to you.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir. I’m Detective Ridge of the Chicago Police Department. I’m here on the account of Clara Tracy.”

“August O’Malley. She should be here shortly.”

“I’m fear she shall not be coming today or any day henceforth, Sir.”

“Its a shame, she was one of my best butter pats. Did you come here to tell me you married her and she won’t be needing her check.”

“Though I desire that to be the case, sadly it is not.” I paused to collect myself, “She was murdered this past night.”

The gentleman stood silent for a moment, looked down, readjusted his cap, and said, “Thank you, Sir. I have to tend to the deliveries.”

“Have you not heard what I’ve said, Sir?”

“Yes! That doesn’t change the fact that I have a business to run. The people need their butter. I will grieve in my own time. Good day to you, Sir!” he said and took his leave.

I thought him peculiar as he moved around the side of the building. After he left my sight, I moved to the corner and looked around it. His pace quickened. Have I got him? Surely not. O’Malley took another right and ducked in behind the creamery.

At the corner, I paused and retrieved my revolver from my waist holster. When I reached the last corner, I see O’Malley stumble on an assortment of empty milk tins in his haste. “Halt!” I called out, “I have a pistol trained on you. A bullet can fly faster than you can run and I’m a crack shot.”

O’Malley slowly rose from the tin cans with his hands high, “Don’t shoot, Sir! Don’t shoot!”

“Come down from the dock,” I ordered. He jumped down as commanded to do so. “Keep your hands held high, O’Malley. No sudden movements.”

“I have no wish to die, Detective,” he cried.

“Then don’t make me kill you. Are we in agreement?”

O’Malley nodded his head hard enough for his cap to fall to the ground.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

“Am I under arrest?” he said as he followed my command.

“Let us have a little chat before we decide that, shall we?” I said. “Did Clara Tracy work yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Were you there yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“After she was released from her daily duty, what did you do?”

“I did what I always do. I went to the tavern.”

“Which one?”

“Klinkel’s Hall.”

“How long were you there?”

“Until they kicked us out.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know, close to midnight.”

I grabbed his hat and pushed it on his head. “You’re coming with me.”

I flagged down another taxi and loaded O’Malley before climbing into it. The driver huffed, “I don’t give rides to the Irish.”

“I am a Detective with the Chicago Police Department, you will take us to Klinkel’s Hall, or I’ll run you in for obstructing justice.”

“You can do that?”

I held my badge for him to see, “This badge says I can. So on with it taxi-man.”

Klinkel’s Hall wasn’t too far away from the creamery. I walked in while I pushed O’Malley. He fell onto the bar. I pulled his head up for the barkeepers to see. “Do you recognize this man?”
“August, what is this?” the barkeeper asked.

“Well Sid, this kind detective has some questions.”

I sat O’Malley on a stool. “Sid, was this gentleman here at this establishment this night past?”

“He’s here ev’ry night. Kick’d him and his friends out for being too drunk. They’s disturbing the peace. And treatin’ the girls all wrong.”

“What time did you kick them out, Sid?” I asked.

“It was goin’ on ‘bout elvin or elvin thirdy.”

“How drunk do you say he was?”

“Hee’s shanks was limp, his friends dragged eem ‘ome.”

“The City of Chicago thanks you, Sid,” I said as I pulled O’Malley to his feet and dragged him to the street. “Well, what have you to say for yourself, Mr. O’Malley.”

“I couldn’t have murdered Clara. You heard him, I was too drunk.”

“And yet you’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine morning. I want you to take me to your place for a look-see.”

“Sid doesn’t lie, Detective.”

“I might be inclined to believe him after I search your home.”

“What do you expect to find?”

“Nothing in particular. I just want to have a look-see.”

Alas, the search of O’Malley’s shack didn’t turn up any worthwhile evidence. He spent all of his money on his clothes. He must’ve been the perpetrator of another crime to cause him to run. What that crime was? Time will tell. I released him.

The creaking stairs to my apartment acted like a signal that drew my nosey neighbor from her apartment. “Did you see this mornin’s edition? A woman was murdered on the street.”

I didn’t say anything as I passed her. I got to my door, “I’m working on it, Permilia.” I unlocked my door, slipped in, and closed it behind me. A moment was spent rubbing my face. My eyes locked to a cabinet by the stove. I gulped the last drops of Mrs. Winslow’s Soothing Syrup. Behind the bottle was another. I squint as I reached for it.

The image of the contents became clear in the glass. A thumb in formaldehyde.