“A handsome officer who makes you blush? And you didn’t tell us?” Nora thankfully speared Lydia with an arched brow rather than a knitting needle. “I expect the details once we’re finished with the problem at hand. The police will never catch the real murderer if we don’t turn their suspicion from Dupin.”
“The whole city needs to turn their suspicion from Dupin,” Lydia muttered.
“And I know just how to do it!” Theresa rubbed her hands together. “Since Billy Poe brought suspicion to Dupin through a letter, Dupin should respond with one of his own. Then we can deliver it to the police, and voilà! They will know Dupin is innocent.”
Flossie shook her head. “They’re not going to believe a letter claiming to be from Dupin. It could be from anyone.”
“But no one’s handwriting would match mine.” For the first time since they had come together, Lydia had hope they could actually accomplish clearing Dupin’s name. “I can insist they compare the letter’s handwriting to that of one of the manuscripts turned in to Mr. O’Dell. They can’t deny it is me if my handwriting matches a manuscript turned in months ago.”
“A letter to the police won’t reach the public, but if we give something to the newspapers …” Flossie pressed a finger to her lips, and the excitement of a conspiracy lit her face.
“They’ll likely print it and share it with the detective in charge.” Theresa plopped on the floor and scratched behind Harold’s ear. “With all the people who come and go in those places, they won’t notice someone dropping a note on a desk.”
“Especially if I’m the one to do it.” A rare but mischievous smile graced Nora’s lips. “No one ever sees me.”
Nora wasn’t wrong. Even with her red hair, she was as unnoticeable as air wherever she went. People forgot about her with her silent ways. It was the perfect solution.
“And I know whose desk to drop it on.” Lydia held up the original article and pointed. “If Eugene Clemens is as ambitious as I think he is, it’ll be printed in tomorrow’s edition, and this madness can end.”
“You write the letter with as vague yet solid of an alibi for each murder as you can while Theresa and I clean up. Nora will deliver it when you’re finished. No matter what happens, we’ll stand by you. If worse comes to worst, we’ll find a patch of poison ivy to line the Billy Poe imposter’s clothes with.” Flossie winked at the allusion to how they’d ended the unwanted attention of a lecher together during their school days.
Together. That’s how they always made it through the challenges, and that was how they would face this one.
Lydia just hoped that they wouldn’t need to actually protect her, because poison ivy would do nothing against a raging city or some deranged person who brought fiction to life.
CHAPTER7
ABRAHAM SQUINTED AS HE ENTEREDthe basement foyer of Central Station. Moving from the glare of the still-bright evening sun into the dim and dank interior left him blind—and his prisoner too. The man hit his hip on a nearby bench and stumbled, freeing a curse and his arguments. Again.
“You’ve got the wrong man. I swear it. It was Dupin! And now you’re letting that murderer get away.”
Abraham ignored the accusation. It didn’t matter what he said. The man was convinced, just like the one Abraham arrested yesterday. And the one on the day before that. Three arrests in as many days for brawling over the identity of E. A. Dupin. It was absurd how quickly people lost their heads when a reward hung in the balance. If they used any logic, they’d realize that anyone with access to a Dupin novel could quote the book. Just because Dupin wrote the original words did not make him guilty. It didn’t make him innocent either, but Abraham would not draw conclusions until the case came to trial.
He handed the brawler off to be processed and claimed an empty desk to write his report on the incident. Then he’d escape this stuffy building and return to patrolling downtown. He’d take the heat of summer and flaring tempers over the monotony of a clerical job any day. Even on the days when it felt like Cincinnati had gone mad with Dupin fever.
Halfway through his report, someone clapped him on the shoulder.
“Brilliant work on the Beadle case.” Talbot Lawson, the most respected detective on the force, stood over him with the gruff appearance of a man who’d missed an appointment or three with his razor. “Both men nabbed and several boys returned to their families. Not every patrolman can claim such success.”
Abraham rose and shook the man’s hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“Nothanksto it. Good work deserves recognition. When you finish up that report, Superintendent Carson wants you in his office.”
“Yes, sir.”
Abraham finished his detailed report and turned it in before knocking on Carson’s door. When he entered, Eugene Clemens leaned against a wall, and Detective Lawson sat in a chair. The open window behind where Superintendent Carson sat allowed in a wet and sticky breeze from the humid day; however, it did little to cool the sweatbox or dissipate the lingering scent of an extinguished cigar.
“Took you long enough.” Carson gestured to the only empty seat in the room—the punishment chair.
“If it’s all the same, sir, I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself. I assume you know Lawson and Clemens?”
Abraham acknowledged each man, and Clemens returned his nod with firmed lips and a cold stare. Their relationship had always been strained at best. While Abraham understood the necessary role the reporter played for the community, Clemens pushed ethical boundaries in order to get his stories. The man was more ambitious than the snake in the garden of Eden, and Abraham was certain he’d learned his trade from that fateful chapter in the Bible. Clemens asked questions that purposely twisted the truth to create stories that couldn’t outright be declared false but were far more sensational than they were factual. He was exceptionally skilled at unnerving officers and shaking loose information to include in his articles. Abraham looked forward to the day when he could strike his heel to Clemens’s head.
“Let’s get right to the point.” Carson dropped the pen in his hand and leaned back. “I’ve removed you from your beat, effective immediately.”
Abraham regretted not taking that seat. The blow was almost palpable, but he forced himself to remain standing at attention, awaiting whatever might come next.
