♥
Pinkerton agent Garrett Lyons arrives in Chicago in 1882, close on
the trail of the person who murdered his partner. He encounters a
vibrant city that is striving ever upwards, full of plans to construct
new buildings that will “scrape the sky.” In his quest for the truth
Garrett stumbles across a complex plot involving counterfeit
government bonds, fierce architectural competition, and painful
reminders of his military past. Along the way he seeks the support
and companionship of his friends—elegant Charlotte, who runs
an upscale poker game for the city’s elite, and up-and-coming
architect Louis Sullivan.
Rich with historical details that bring early 1880s Chicago to life,
this novel will appeal equally to mystery fans, history buffs, and
architecture enthusiasts.
She invites you to visit her at
www. jbardcollins.com.
© Dan Merlo
FICTION/ Mystery & Detective/Historical
♣
♦
honor above all
Joan Bard-Collins was born in
Chicago and grew up in northwest
Indiana. She is a partner in her
husband’s architecture/engineering
company. They share a passion for
Chicago’s architectural history.
BARD-COLLINS
♠
“Bard-Collins’ detailed knowledge of building,
architecture and Chicago history forms a solid
base for a debut showcasing a hero reminiscent
of Sam Spade.” —Kirkus Reviews
HONOR
ABOVE ALL
J. BARD-COLLINS
HONOR
ABOVE ALL
J. BARD-COLLINS
ALLIUM PRESS OF cHICAGO
Allium Press of Chicago
Forest Park, IL
www.alliumpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events,
organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for
the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn
from the author’s imagination and are not intended to be real.
© 2014 by Joan Bard Collins
All rights reserved
Book/cover design and map by E. C. Victorson
Front cover image: “State Street Looking South from Monroe”
from Picturesque Chicago (Chicago Engraving Company, 1882)
Title page image: detail from façade of Louis Sullivan’s Jeweler’s Builiding, Chicago, 1882
ISBN: 978-0-9890535-7-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bard-Collins, J.
Honor above all / J. Bard-Collins.
pages cm
Summary: “Pinkerton agent Garrett Lyons arrives in Chicago in 1882 to solve the murder
of his partner. He enlists the help of his friend, architect Louis Sullivan, and becomes
involved in the race to build one of the first skyscrapers”-- Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-9890535-7-0 (pbk.)
1. Sullivan, Louis H., 1856-1924--Fiction. 2. Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency-Fiction. 3. Architecture--Illinois--Chicago--History--19th century--Fiction. 4. Murder-Investigation--Fiction. 5. Chicago (Ill.)--Fiction. 6. Mystery fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.A7524H66 2014
813’.6--dc23
2014027246
ONE
A decade after the Great Fire, Chicago’s central business district,
a mile square in size, was choked by converging networks of steel.
Each day nearly one hundred trains entered the city, depositing
freight and passengers at six depots. Wind-driven clouds of gray
smoke covered citizenry, animals, and buildings. The Union
Passenger Station served as the western vestibule to Chicago.
Within a year of its construction, the brick and limestone walls
of this imposing ‘temple to steam’ had already acquired a layer
of grime. Behind the depot, a barrel-vaulted train shed, with a
high-arched steel and glass roof, covered eight rail lines. No other
city in America was growing faster or with such enthusiasm.
T
he porter tore open the door of the Pullman car and shouted,
“Chi-caw-go! Union Staaa-shun!” He stepped back as a stream of
passengers spilled down the narrow steps onto the platform and
hurried toward the station.
Garrett Lyons, valise in hand, walked in the opposite direction. He
moved with a steady, purposeful stride, letting the crowd surge and
eddy around him. As he neared the rear baggage car his steps became
a brisk trot.
“Watch it! Careful boys!” His words were sharp, and spoken with
authority.
The two men unloading freight stopped. Their heads snapped
toward him. “Yes, sir. No offense meant.”
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J. Bard-Collins
“Well then, put him down easy.”
The men carefully lowered the long oblong pine box onto a nearby
trolley. They moved forward but Garrett held up a hand.
“No thanks, fellas. I’ll take him now.”
Lyons placed his valise on the coffin and began pushing the trolley
toward the station, ignoring stragglers who gave him a quick glance
before hurrying on. Midway he stopped, took a cigar from his vest
pocket, lit it, and watched the flame from the match burn down to
within a quarter inch of his thumb. He was shaking it out when he
heard a sharp voice.
“I’m looking for Sam Wilkerson.”
Lyons saw a tidy little man with gold-framed eyeglasses walking
toward him. He pointed his cigar in the general direction of the trolley.
“There he is.”
“You must be his partner, Lyons. The Pinkerton Agency sent me
to handle the funeral arrangements.”
“Figured as much.”
“Bill Pinkerton is not taking this too kindly. He expects your full
report soon. But he did authorize payment of Wilkerson’s funeral
expenses.”
Lyons looked down at him as though expecting to be further
enlightened.
“Bill Pinkerton? I report to Allan.”
“Allan Pinkerton had another heart seizure a month ago and hasn’t
fully recovered. His eldest son Bill’s been in charge of the Chicago office
the past three months. So that’s who we’re all answering to.”
Lyons continued pushing the trolley along the platform.
The man tried to keep pace and speak at the same time. “What
happened in St. Louis? I worked with Sam Wilkerson nigh on six years.
Never saw anyone get the drop on him. Then I hear he was shot in the
chest. Don’t seem right.”
The two men reached the end of the platform. Lyons took his
valise off the trolley. His words were brusque. “Look, Sam’s dead. He
was a damned good agent, experienced, trustworthy…and my partner.
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HONOR ABOVE ALL
I figure he made a dumb decision, one of his few, and then it was all
over for him. Sooner or later it happens in this business. You tell Bill
Pinkerton that, as far as St. Louis is concerned, what’s done is done.
None of us can change anything.”
“I’ll be sure to pass your thoughts on.” The man’s eyes met Lyons’s
for a moment before shying toward the ground. “Wilkerson’s mother
is here for his body. Have anything else to say?”
Garrett laid his palm carefully on top of the box and paused before
answering. When he spoke his voice was sharp. “Tell Mrs. Wilkerson
I know who killed her son. I’ll bring him in. When I do, I’ll put the
noose around his neck myself.”
The man was about to reply when he saw something in Garrett
Lyons’s eyes that silenced any further remarks.
♠
Outside Union Station Garrett walked past uniformed drivers from
the Parmelee Transfer Company, who were busy loading luggage onto
waiting hansoms and two-horse hacks. Instead, he flagged a passing
omnibus and found a seat amidst the zoo of mid-morning passengers
crammed inside. He made himself comfortable as the vehicle plodded
eastward along Adams Street. A weak sun shone fitfully through drifting
clouds, cloaking nearby buildings in a soft haze. Only three months
had passed since his last visit to Chicago, yet nothing looked familiar.
Early in his army career, a half-breed army scout told him, “You
have the gift, mon ami.” True. Lyons had an innate sense of place—not
something he remembered ever learning. The ability to look at a map,
a town, a street only once, close his eyes, and let the landscape etch
itself onto his memory. Chicago was one city that tested this ability.
Out of habit he glanced upward. A futile look. He saw canyons of gray
buildings that seemed to change form with his every visit.
As always, Chicago’s streets were a tangled mass of pedestrians,
animals, and vehicles—wagons, carriages, hansoms, all with metal wheels
and pulled by iron-shod horses. The resulting rumbling and clattering
3
J. Bard-Collins
was unrelenting and, at times, overwhelming. With the amount of traffic
and the number of horses in use, manure got beaten into powder and
washed away when it rained. However, for the past two weeks Chicago
had suffered a dry spell. Now, this powder hung suspended in the air,
clinging to anything that passed through it. By the time Lyons got off
the omnibus and walked a half block to the post office, a thin film
covered his coat and he pulled in dust with every breath.
The clerk at the postal window handed Garrett a meager pile of
envelopes. “Wait, there’s something else.” He turned and disappeared
into a warren of shelves and cubicles.
Garrett sifted through his mail. One item caught his immediate
interest, an invitation. Open House–Poker Evening, Hosted by the Lotus Club,
Tremont House. Scrawled across the bottom in familiar script were the
words, “dinner first…six o’clock, Billy’s Chop House—Louis S.” Garrett
glanced at the date. That evening. He was half smiling when the clerk
returned with a small package.
“Seems kind of strange that Mr. Wilkerson mails this to himself
and you. There are two names on it.” A long moment passed while the
clerk looked at the writing on the packet, then at Garrett. Fortunately,
another customer appeared behind him and further explanation was
avoided. Garrett nodded his thanks, took the packet, and left the post
office by the Jackson Street door.
Outside he stopped and shifted the parcel from one coat pocket to
another, while casually glancing over his shoulder, then to the side. It
was one of the many precautions Sam taught him that had saved Lyons
more than once during the past three years. Feeling more at ease, he
walked south along Third Avenue. This time of day the narrow street
was crowded with pushcarts from which Chicagoans could purchase an
assortment of merchandise, as well as food. Today he saw fewer carts but
the usual number of customers. Enticing aromas reminded Garrett that
he hadn’t eaten. He bought a bag of roasted chestnuts, then shouldered
his way through the crowd until he reached a cart midway along the street.
“Not many familiar faces, Jacob. Where is your second in command?”
Garrett asked.
4
HONOR ABOVE ALL
“Well, now, Lieutenant Lyons, the man went and got hisself smashed
by one o’ them beer wagons. Happened last month. Damn thing came
barrelin’ down Jackson, hell for leather, and him standin’ in the wrong
place.” Like most veterans of the war, Jacob always addressed Lyons by
his former rank. “Least it was quick. Not like this.” He nodded toward
his own limp arm.
The men who pushed the carts along Third Avenue were a strange
lot. Many were veterans who’d managed to live though the Civil War
but couldn’t seem to get away from it. Jacob Masterson caught some
shrapnel in his shoulder at the Battle of Stones River in Tennessee. The
wound had continued seeping since then, hence his useless arm. He’d
traveled to Chicago every year to reapply for his disability pension and
eventually stayed on.
“How are you boys making out?” Garrett asked.
“It’s a gamble. Always more traffic crowding us into smaller spaces.
Ain’t nothin’ we can do, though. Been reading about that mess o’ yours
in St. Louis.” Jacob reached under his cart and took out a small flyer.
“The Pinkertons been passing these around. Offerin’ a nice reward.”
Jacob’s face was weathered, grim, beyond any hope of surprise. “You
know what I think o’ the Pinkertons. Besides, figured you’d be comin’
to town and stop by.”
Garrett looked at the sketch. “That’s Theo Brock all right. Hear
anything?”
Jacob shrugged his good shoulder. “One fella in particular told me
he had information. He’ll talk only to you, though. Interested?”
“Tell him…meet me outside the Tremont this evening at ten. No later.”
♠
Lyons had discovered the Revere House on a previous visit to Chicago.
Situated north of the river, the small hotel offered reasonable rates and
a measure of anonymity. In addition, the Revere provided its guests
with a private bathing room on each floor. Even in Laredo or Wichita,
a man would find that amenity out back of the building.
5
J. Bard-Collins
After an uncomfortable train ride, followed by the dirt and noise
of the city, Garrett felt the need for a good long soak. As the hot water
sloshed over him, his body began to relax. He lathered more soap on his
arms. Before sliding deeper into the soothing water he ran a fingertip
along a scar on his forehead, a narrow miss. The “kiss of the bullet”
the scout, Otwah, once told him. He looked at the round indentation
that marked the center of his palm. Throughout his army career the
thought of his death had been an alien one—until eight years ago at
Powder River. Two of his fingers were still numb at the tips. Whenever
the weather turned cold or wet his shoulder ached and the muscles in
his hand tightened.
It had been a routine patrol, one of many he’d ridden during his
career. But at Powder River everything went wrong. He changed orders
in the field, leading his men into a Cheyenne ambush that ended his
military career. The past eight years, no matter how far he ran, how
much he drank, Garrett could bury the dead but never the guilt. He
closed his eyes, slid farther into the warm water and tallied this trip’s
mental balance sheet.
Deliver Wilkerson’s body to his family—done.
Report to Bill Pinkerton? Well, in due time he would, after he
found Brock.
His room at the Revere contained all the essentials—bed, wardrobe,
bureau, mirror, and a window facing Clark Street. Garrett dressed,
then took another look at his mail. A booklet from the Remington
Company advertising a new line of firearms held little interest. An
invitation from a Kansas City casino to an annual high-stakes poker
game was put aside. Another letter bore the return address of the U.S.
War Department. Garrett turned it over in his hand but couldn’t bring
himself to open it, afraid of what he’d find. Once it made a decision,
the U.S. Army seldom reversed itself. He put the envelope down and
picked up Sam’s parcel. Probably crammed full of French postcards, or
the like, he thought. Sam Wilkerson, a confirmed bachelor, had lived
with his widowed mother, a stern Lutheran. So his partner was in the
habit of sending items of a more personal nature to their post office
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HONOR ABOVE ALL
box. Only now Sam was dead. Nothing would change that fact. Garrett
decided the package and army letter could wait.
He opened his valise and tossed the two items inside, then removed a
pearl-handled derringer. It was custom made to hold two bullets instead
of one and fit comfortably in his palm. A gambler’s gun, but one he
used with deadly accuracy. He slipped it into his pocket and reread the
invitation. Though he recognized the Lotus Club and Tremont House,
and was familiar with the club’s regular Monday poker games, Garrett
had no idea what an “Open House—Poker Evening” was. He checked
his watch. Louis Sullivan was not a man to be kept waiting.
Garrett studied his reflection in the mirror and straightened his tie.
As he was about to leave the room he stopped a moment, went back to
the valise, and took out his Navy Colt revolver. He held the weapon in
his hand, weighing it by feel. It was an older model he’d won in a poker
game early in his army career. A few years back he’d had it modified to
take modern cartridges. He tucked the Colt into his belt and buttoned
his coat. After all, this was Chicago.
7