The first man on Miss Hamilton’s list, Alan Goff, only took Capshaw a few days to find. It was a simple matter of learning the fellow’s favorite watering hole and keeping watch. Capshaw supposed that a businessman such as Goff would want it to be easy for customers to seek him out. If he had supplied Hitchcock with bomb-making materials, then a little bribery might loosen his tongue.
Capshaw’s hopes were dashed, however, when he walked into the saloon on the fourth day and Goff was pointed out to him.
Alan Goff’s blank stare and shuffling gait belied the reputation of a man who was supposedly an explosives dealer in the criminal underworld.
“That’s Goff?” Capshaw asked in disbelief.
The bartender nodded. “Sad now, in’t it? Right as rain a month ago, then has a few too many, falls down drunk, hits his head. Hasn’t been the same since. He just come back after weeks a’bed.” He glanced at the clock on the shelf. “It’s gettin’ late. I expect his missus will come for ’im soon.”
Capshaw walked back to Mrs. Murtry’s boardinghouse. He was accustomed to dead ends in an investigation, but the stakes here were as high as they had ever been. If Goff had been the supplier, the link to Hitchcock was lost.
There was yet a chance: Artie Lindquist, the other supplier on Miss Hamilton’s list. She had thought him less likely, however.
“He has a smaller operation going,” she had said. “He was trained in munitions during the war, so his knowledge is extensive, but everyone knows Goff has the better prices. Goff has more contacts than Lindquist.”
“How do you know so much about him?” Capshaw had asked.
Miss Hamilton smiled to herself. “When my husband was alive, he and Artie were friends. Of sorts.”
Capshaw prayed the second man hadn’t had an accident, too.
It took Capshaw the rest of the week to find Lindquist, a cautious fellow of reclusive habits. That certainly seemed the case when Capshaw set up a meeting with him.
The location was an abandoned storage shed along the docks. Capshaw, arriving alone for his midnight appointment as instructed, prayed he wasn’t walking into a trap. At least Lindquist had no way of knowing Capshaw was a policeman. Otherwise, his life wouldn’t be worth a nickel. As far as Lindquist knew, Capshaw was the agent of a prospective customer.
Nevertheless, Capshaw looked over his shoulder as he approached the shed, nervously fingering the weighted pocketknife in his jacket. Mercifully, no one waited in the shadows.
Capshaw knocked quietly on the rough door and opened it at the sound of a voice.
Artie Lindquist was seated deep in the shadows, behind a long counter once used to clean fish. Even after years of disuse, the smell lingered. As far as Capshaw could see, the man was alone. Another stool had been provided. An oil lamp was positioned behind Lindquist, glaring in Capshaw’s eyes and obscuring the man’s face. All that Capshaw could make out was a grimy peacoat and a dark scarf muffling him up to his chin, even though the night was temperate.
“You have something for me,” Lindquist said, once Capshaw was seated. His voice held the wheezy strain of damaged lungs.
Capshaw passed over a slim, paper-wrapped packet. Lindquist opened it and counted the money. Capshaw suppressed a gasp of surprise at the sight of the man’s right hand. Gloved though it was, he could see thick burn scars, puckered and twisted, extending past the wrist. So Lindquist’s choice to remain in shadow was not just a desire for anonymity.
The man noticed Capshaw’s glance. He gave a hoarse laugh as he pulled down his sleeve and pocketed the bills. “Let us just say that I no longer deal in nitroglycerin. You’ll have to look elsewhere if that’s what you want. But a little friendly advice: don’t make your own at home.” He tucked his hand back under the table.
“I don’t intend to.”
Lindquist sat back. “So now that I have your down payment, let us talk about what you want me to get. Timers, blasting caps? Iron casings? Phosphorous?”
Capshaw shook his head. “Information. I need to locate a certain person who may have been a customer of yours.”
Lindquist was silent for a long moment, looking at Capshaw carefully. “You are police, then.” He stood and pointed to the door. “If you leave now, I will let you live.”
“No, wait!” Capshaw exclaimed, standing up and leaning over the counter. “I’m not trying to interfere with your...operations. I’m only here because Penelope Hamilton told me you could help. We must stop a ruthless group of men, before they cause more harm.”
Lindquist hesitated. “Did you say ‘Penelope Hamilton’?”
Capshaw nodded.
Lindquist sighed and sat back down. “I haven’t heard that name in years.” He regarded Capshaw with penetrating eyes. “Did she tell you anything about us?”
“Merely that you and her husband had been friends.”
“That is true. It was more of a friendly rivalry, he and I. The private detective and the criminal. A strange alliance, is it not?” Lindquist shook his head over the memory. “And Pen. So smart. And brave. She worked a few cases with her husband back then. She even saved my life. I wouldn’t have survived this—” he touched his face in shadow “—if she hadn’t pulled me from the fire in my workshop, years ago. I owe her a great deal.”
“You can repay that debt,” Capshaw said. “Miss Hamilton was grievously harmed by the same people I’m looking for.”
Lindquist started. “How bad are her injuries? Will she survive?”
Capshaw could hear the anxiety in the man’s voice. “She will, if she isn’t harmed further. But a man tried to attack her in her hospital bed the other night, and he’s the one I’m after. Have you ever had dealings with someone named Hitchcock? Johnny Hitchcock.”
Lindquist hesitated, then pulled out a small leather notebook.
Capshaw waited. The only sound in the room was the turning of pages.
Lindquist marked an entry with his finger, then looked up at Capshaw. “Before I tell you, I want your assurance that no one will know I gave you this information. I will lose my other customers. And if you capture this man, you must promise that the police will not then come after me.”
As dearly as Capshaw wanted to put a stop to Lindquist and the dangerous materials he peddled, he knew it was a battle that would have to wait for another day.
“I can promise you this,” Capshaw said. “I will never speak your name in connection with this case to any police or court official. If I do capture Hitchcock, no one else but Miss Hamilton will know that it happened through your help. But—I cannot promise anything about your involvement in future cases.”
Lindquist hesitated, then shrugged. “It seems I have made yet another uneasy alliance with law enforcement. Just like the old days. Very well.” He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and closed the book. “I met with Hitchcock on two occasions. He needed better fuses than the cheap stuff Goff foists on his customers. Half of them don’t hold a burn and fizzle out partway through.” His lips twisted in a distorted smile. “You get what you pay for.”
“When was this?”
“Our last meeting was a week ago,” Lindquist said. He passed the paper over. “This is where I had them delivered. He said he couldn’t show his face in public to pick them up.”
Capshaw imagined not, since that was just after the aborted attack at the hospital, and the entire Hartford police force was searching for the man. “When were the fuses delivered?”
“Yesterday.” Lindquist stood. “If that is all, I must be going.”
Capshaw held up a hand. “There’s one more thing.” He took another envelope of money out of his pocket and handed it to Lindquist, who raised a puzzled eyebrow.
“What’s this for?” Lindquist asked. He thumbed through it and started counting. “It’s quite a sum.”
“I need to learn how to defuse a bomb, should I encounter one.”
“You want me to teach you?” Lindquist asked incredulously.
“Who better?” Capshaw asked.
Lindquist was quiet for a moment. He counted the bills again. “You are an intriguing man. And a brave one. All right, I’ll teach you. Just the basics, mind. I assume it’s Hitchcock’s bombs you want to know about? Well, it just might work.”
After arranging to meet the next night for his first “lesson,” Capshaw left. He took a cab directly to Maloney’s lodgings.
A grumpy, disheveled Maloney answered the door. His brow cleared at the sight of Capshaw. “Lieutenant!” he cried. “What on earth are you doin’ here at this time o’ night?” He opened the door wider and let him in.
“I’m sorry for the late hour, but I know where you can find Hitchcock,” Capshaw said. He handed him the paper Lindquist had given him. “Since I’m off the force, you’ll have to make the arrest.”
Maloney grinned. “It’ll be a pleasure. I’ll have to come up with a story about how I found him, though.” He peered closely at Capshaw. “I assume I shouldn’t ask how you got this.”
Capshaw shook his head. “I promised my source he would remain anonymous. Good luck, sergeant.” He pulled open the door to let himself out. “I’m staying at Widow Murtry’s. Send me word when you have him, will you?”
Maloney was already dashing up the stairs as Capshaw closed the door behind him.