Yet when they stepped out of the cab, even Henry had second thoughts.
It was always difficult to tell whether having a uniformed officer at one’s side was a help or a hindrance. Based on the wary looks they were receiving it was a hindrance in this neighborhood, drawing more attention than Henry would have liked. Men wearing worn clothing and scuffed work boots brushed past, heads down. Debris littered the streets from the nearby ironworks and brickfields. Cleanliness was evidently not a priority here.
They found the address they were looking for with relative ease and entered a soot-covered brick building with a faded sign above the door. A clerk looked up when they entered from behind a scarred desk, ledger open before him. Several doors were closed directly behind him, though shouts and pounding could be heard from the back.
“Yes?” the thin man with a narrow nose and pockmarked skin asked, his gaze holding warily on Fletcher’s uniform.
“We’d like to speak with the owner,” Henry said, deciding not to show his warrant card unless necessary.
“He’s not in.”
“A manager will do,” Henry amended.
“Very well.” The man set down his pencil and stood. “What is this about?”
“A misplaced shipment.” Not exactly true, but he had to hope it would do. Something that might garner a manager’s interest yet not sound overly dire. It wasn’t as if he could ask if they’d received any bomb-making supplies of late, accidental or otherwise.
The clerk considered the answer for a moment before disappearing through one of the doors.
Fletcher leaned over his desk to study the ledger and glanced at the papers, but didn’t touch anything. Once again Henry appreciated the sergeant’s boldness and kept watch for the clerk, making a slight motion with his hand to warn Fletcher when the door started to open.
An older man in a loose-fitting brown jacket followed the clerk and glanced between them. “What’s this about a misplaced shipment?”
“We understand a few crates from theBlackwaterwere delivered to the wrong business.” Henry paused. “The kind of crates you might not want to be found on your premises.”
The manager frowned. “How do you mean?”
“Crates that contain something other than what they’re labeled.” Henry let him think about that for a moment, trying to decide how cryptic to be. He preferred to keep the information vague as he wasn’t certain what the crates contained. Dynamite, as the man at the pub near the docks had suggested, seemed unlikely. So what?
“We just received a shipment of machinery this morning, yes?” the man said, looking at the clerk for confirmation. “I don’t think it’s been sorted yet.”
Henry glanced through the door they’d left open which led to a warehouse, from what he could see. Surely that was where the crates might be stored until they were opened. “If you could open the crates while we’re here, it might save us both time and trouble.” He lowered his voice, sending a questioning look toward the clerk as if he might be involved. “Could be that oneof your employees is friendly with the wrong people. That they had someone in America ship the items here, and intend to pass them on.”
“Huh.” The man rubbed the back of his neck while the clerk shifted nervously. “Right. I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to look for.”
“Anything you didn’t order,” Fletcher suggested with a shrug.
“Well that should be easy enough, we don’t have anything to hide.” The manager glanced at the clerk. “Give me the shipment list and I’ll see what I can find.”
With the list in hand, he gestured for Henry and Fletcher to follow him to the back to where several stacks of crates stood. A half dozen workers moved about the large space, some building a frame, others loading lumber onto carts through a large bay in the back. It took nearly half an hour for the manager to open the crates with a crowbar and verify them against the shipping list. He opened the second-to-last one and paused, scratching his head. “Now wait a moment, this one ain’t ours. At least, we didn’t order what’s in it.”
Henry’s excitement rose as he shared a look with Fletcher before looking over the manager’s shoulder to peer into the crate.
Sawdust had been pushed aside to reveal…dynamite.
Dynamite. His stomach churned at the sight. Somehow the sight of the explosives made the bombing more real. Tangible evidence of what had happened; of the moment he’d become the victim of a crime and the vulnerability it brought.
“I’ll be damned,” Fletcher murmured.
The manager carefully set aside the crowbar, as if the danger he’d been in while opening the crate had finally taken hold. “Double damn.”
“Do you know who ordered this?” Henry asked. “Did any employees act anxious about the delivery of these crates?”
“Not that I noticed. Most are on job sites at this time of day.” The manager glanced sternly around at the workers in the warehouse, none of whom appeared interested in their activities.
“We’ll take the crate as evidence,” Henry advised, and the manager quickly nodded as if eager to be rid of it. “Do you know if any of your employees sympathize with the Fenians?”
The man considered the question carefully. “Fenians? They’ve never been mentioned. Several of my lads are Irish, but I can’t say they’ve caused any problems. I’ll ask the other supervisors and see what I can find out.”
