Chapter Seven: Blanchet House

As Michael P. Jones led the group from the underground tunnels back into the light of day, Ellen told him about their communication with Denny Moyer

“I hope you’re planning to give Harry his son’s message,” Michael said.

“Absolutely,” Sue said. “I think we should visit Phil’s nursing home tomorrow, don’t you think, ladies?”

Tanya nodded.

“Yes,” Ellen said. “Let’s plan on that.”

“Would you like to see some of the artifacts we’ve collected over the years?” Michael asked them. “My museum is just around the block.”

“Why not?” Brian said.

They followed Michael around the block and spent another half hour looking over his interesting collection of artifacts, photographs, documents, and art.

Ellen wasn’t sure that any of it provided incontrovertible evidence that shanghaiing took place in the underground tunnels, but it was interesting. However, she found herself more and more anxious to get to the Blanchet House, so, after they’d seen everything, she turned to Brian and asked if he’d mind having Kirk drive them there.

“We should walk,” Tanya said. “It’s only a few blocks.”

“Let’s see,” Sue said. “On one hand, we could ride in a luxury limo while sipping another margarita, or, on the other hand, we could trudge on foot and get all sweaty and tired. Hmm, I’m having trouble deciding.”

Brian laughed.

“A walk would be good for us after all the rich food we’ve been eating,” Tanya argued.

“My feet hurt,” Sue said. “But, if you want to walk, go for it.”

In the end, after thanking Michael and his assistant, Todd, they took the limo to investigate the claims made by the crazy man at Voodoo Doughnut.

A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of a four-story tan brick building that looked like any other nice office building in downtown Portland. Unlike other shelters Ellen had seen, it wasn’t a run-down place in need of a paint job, but new-looking, with large picture windows along the front corner of the building running up all four stories. Above the main entrance, a sign read, “Blanchet House of Hospitality.”

Brian remained in the limo with Kirk while Ellen, Sue, and Tanya went inside to look around. They entered a large cafeteria fill with empty square tables and chairs. The floors were swept clean, and the tables and chairs looked new. The sound of a piano carried through the room, and over in one corner was a man playing at a baby gran. He looked to be about thirty-five, of mixed race, and in good shape, with short dark hair and broad shoulders. He wore gray trousers and a navy turtleneck that were in nice condition. He did not look like a homeless man.

His back was to them, and he didn’t notice them as they crossed through, past a reception table and a corded aisle, like those you see in banks and theme parks. There were other noises and the sounds of voices coming from across the room, from an open, industrial looking kitchen.

Once Ellen and her friends passed a wooden partition, they saw six men—three Caucasians, two Blacks, and one Hispanic—sitting on stools around a table chopping fruit and vegetables. They ranged in age from mid-sixties down to early twenties.

The oldest among them, a Caucasian with a curly salt and pepper beard and steel-blue eyes, lifted his head. “Can I help you?”

“We don’t mean to intrude,” Ellen said. “But we were hoping to talk to an administrator.”

“And perhaps get a tour,” Sue added.

The man that had been playing at the piano called out. “I can help you.”

“Thank you,” Tanya said, turning. “You play really well.”

The man blushed as he approached them. “I’m still working on it, but thanks. Listen, the administrators aren’t here on Sundays. In fact, the doors aren’t even supposed to be open today. It’s just residents and volunteers. My name’s Alani. I’m a resident employee. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Can you tell us how this shelter operates?” Sue asked.

“We serve over a thousand meals a day, six days a week. That includes breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Anyone is welcome to come and have a meal until we run out of food. Currently, we have fifty-five men living upstairs. Most of them work here—cooking, cleaning, serving—until they find other work. We’re a transitional housing shelter. We get most of our food from donors whose surplus would otherwise go to waste and take up space in the landfills. We also get generous monetary donations. We have case workers who help these homeless men struggling with mental illness, or drug addiction, or unemployment to turn their lives around. We also have a farm about thirty minutes away with forty more men. They grow fruits and vegetables, tend to livestock, and learn woodworking. Here, we also have volunteers, and a volunteer coordinator, to help during meals, when it gets really busy. In the morning, this room will fill up with about three hundred people for breakfast, usually.”

“That’s so impressive,” Ellen said. “What a wonderful service this place does for the community. We have something similar in San Antonio. It’s called Haven for Hope.”

“Can we have a tour?” Sue asked again.

“I’m afraid we don’t really give tours of the top three floors. We don’t like to disturb the residents. Plus, it’s Sunday, and I could get in trouble.”

“That’s disappointing,” Sue said.

“What brought you here today?” Alani asked. “Are you planning to become benefactors?”

“An old man named Sam claims that men have been disappearing from here,” Ellen explained.

Alani smiled. “I know Sam. We’ve offered him a bed, but he refuses. He prefers to be out on the streets. I don’t think he’s right in the head. I wouldn’t pay any mind to what he says.”

“Are you saying men haven’t gone missing?” Sue asked.

Alani shifted his weight and clasped his hands. “Men do leave without giving notice. Sometimes they cave to their addictions. But the Russians or Chinese aren’t kidnapping them, like Sam would have us believe.”

“He claims to have seen a man fall through the ground behind the building,” Ellen said. “Can we at least take a look outside?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll take you there. It’s basically a parking lot where some of the residents and volunteers like to go and smoke.”

“Is there no other outdoor common area?” Tanya asked.

“We have an eco-rooftop,” Alani said proudly. “That’s where most of the residents hang out when they aren’t working. The only people that go out back behind the building are the smokers, usually, because it’s not allowed inside or on the eco-rooftop.”

“So, Sam is a smoker?” Sue asked.

“I don’t think so,” Alani said. “He just sleeps out there. Follow me.”

He led them back out through the front entrance and along the sidewalk, past a chain link fence, beside an old, vacant red brick building.

“They usually stand or sit on the sidewalk with their backs against the brick and smoke here. Sam usually sleeps right over there.” Alani pointed to the side of the red brick building that faced the back of Blanchet House. “If we have any extra blankets, we hand them out, and people sleep all along this vacant building and parking lot. Some even break into the building and sleep inside. It was the original Blanchet House, but the city owns it now. The cops come every so often and make everyone leave. The homeless just come right back. They like to be close to where they get fed.”

“Thanks for your time and for the information,” Ellen said to Alani.

“Yes,” Sue said. “We really appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” Alani said. “If you want to speak with an administrator, feel free to come back tomorrow between eight and five.”

“Will do,” Sue said as Alani walked away.

Ellen looked all around the parking lot for something that resembled a deadfall. It wasn’t until she went around the corner of the vacant red brick building, to the sidewalk along Northwest Glisan Street, that she found what she was looking for.

“Guys, check this out,” she said, pointing to a set of metal doors lying flush on the sidewalk. “Doesn’t that look exactly like the doors we went through to get to the underground tunnels in front of Hobo’s?”

“You’re right!” Tanya said, tapping it with her foot. “I wonder if we can open it?”

First, they tried feeling around for a handle or knob. Then they tried inserting a nail file in the seam between the doors, but that didn’t work. Then they pressed around on the sidewalk, hoping to find a hidden trigger, like the one in the loft of the Ladd Carriage House, to no avail.

Brian’s limo pulled up next to the curb beside them. The back window rolled down, revealing Brian.

“What are you ladies doing?” he asked before taking a sip of what looked like a glass half filled with whisky.

“Don’t you think these doors could lead to a basement and even the Shanghai tunnels?” Sue asked him.

“Did the Blanchet House confirm that men are going missing?” Brian asked.

“Not exactly,” Tanya admitted.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

Sue sighed. “Well, the man we spoke to says the old man isn’t right in the head.”

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t right about the men disappearing,” Ellen added. “He sleeps over there.” She pointed to the side of the vacant red brick building. “If anyone was going to notice men falling through this door, it would be him, wouldn’t it?”

Brian furrowed his brows. “That’s a hatch to a basement. Maybe Sam saw people disappear into the basement—people just doing their job, or something.”

“Why would people enter the basement of an abandoned building?” Tanya asked.

“City workers, maybe,” Brian said.

“And how do you open it?” Ellen asked.

“It’s bolted from the inside,” Brian explained. “You have to push it open from the other side, I think.”

“But it could be a deadfall,” Sue said. “It’s not impossible.”

“Not impossible,” Brian said. “But unlikely.”

Ellen looked up and noticed a sign near the building across the street. It read, “Portland Boxing Company.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked her.

“This can’t be a coincidence, can it?” Ellen wondered out loud. “Look over there. Portland Boxing Company.”

“That’s so bizarre,” Tanya agreed.

“Oh, my word,” Sue said. “Maybe we’re on to something.”

“What am I missing?” Brian asked.

“Let us in,” Sue said, “And we’ll explain on the way back to the Ladd Carriage House.”

Brian poured Sue another margarita and Tanya a glass of water in the back of the limo while Ellen reminded him that the Portland Boxing Company was the one consistent renter over the decades at the Ladd Carriage House.

As Kirk pulled away from the curb, Brian said, “So?”

“So?” Ellen repeated, annoyed. “Your brother disappears from the Ladd Carriage House, and homeless men are disappearing from the Blanchet House, and the one common denominator is the proximity of the Portland Boxing Company to both locations.”

“Cool your jets,” Brian said. “Geez. You are such a high-strung woman.”

“I beg your pardon?” Ellen asked as her face flushed with anger.

She glanced at Sue, who had lifted her brows in surprise.

Brian held up his pointer finger. “First of all, the PBC hasn’t used the Ladd Carriage House since 2007.” He raised a second finger. “And, second of all, we have no proof that homeless men are disappearing.”

Ellen glared at Brian and mocked him by using her fingers in the same way he had. “First of all, it can’t be a coincidence that the one ghost we’ve managed to contact to help in this case was a famous boxer from Portland. And . . .”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Brian interrupted.

“But you’re forgetting what the ghost of Denny Moyer said,” Sue pointed out.

Brian smirked. “I promise you I haven’t forgotten that.”

“I think what Ellen and Sue are trying to say,” Tanya began, “is that the Portland Boxing Company may have dug out and used Shanghai tunnels while they were at the Ladd Carriage House, and then, when they moved here, they dug out and used tunnels here for the same purpose.”

“Exactly,” Ellen said. “And the purpose was to smuggle out able-bodied men for who knows what.”

Brian took another swig of his whisky. “Even if they did, which I highly doubt, what does this have to do with Mike’s disappearance? Are you saying the PBC smuggled my brother from the Ladd Carriage House?”

Ellen bit her lip. “We don’t know…yet. We need to make contact with Denny again tonight.”