Chapter 15

“Let us consider the problem in the light of pure reason.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Valley of Fear

Over the next few hours, things were boring and dull at the subject property. For the first time, I wondered whether Goodson’s “nose” was on target with this case. United Insurance was spending a bundle to prove that Romani was a fraud. If she turned out to be a real victim, Goodson was going to take a big hit.

I tuned in my Phillips Nike armband radio. Its display was hidden under my arm so no light was visible. Today the news was all Chicago Blackhawks. Our hockey team had just made this year’s Stanley Cup finals, and the entire city was roiling with Stanley Cup fever. The famous big lions flanking Michigan Avenue’s Art Institute, they reported, were now wearing Blackhawk helmets, and the great Bobby Hull would be there for a photo op.

Despite that good news, my mood was as dreary as the rain. Inside the car it was damp and clammy. Every little while I used the chalkboard eraser I keep on the dashboard to get rid of the window fog.

Since nothing was happening with Romani, I reviewed my notes from last night. Once again the statements of the police who worked the Ripper case hit me in the face. If as they say, they all knew who the killer was, then why protect him? In my opinion, those cops were not going to conspire to protect any of Macnaghten’s or Abberline’s pathetic little suspects like Montague John Druitt, Aaron Kosminski, Michael Ostrog or George Chapman. It had to be someone big, which is maybe what started the Prince Eddy theory.

With all quiet on the Romani front, I settled down to read a biography I had downloaded to learn more about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. Everybody knows he wrote the famous Sherlock Holmes stories, but I had no idea he also introduced downhill skiing to Europe; metal helmets for combat soldiers; the inflatable life preserver for sailors; energetically championed divorce reform; and was an early proponent of constructing a tunnel connecting England and France. And he’d worked with Scotland Yard to solve a few famous cases, too, but the Ripper murders was not one of them.

About two o’clock, the rain stopped. Shortly after, Claudine Romani drove off. I shut down everything and followed. She visited the grocery store and was home again in less than an hour.

After we returned, I sat in the car and watched a dense fog crawl in from Lake Michigan. It was getting difficult to see the Romani house through the mist. The windows needed continual de-fogging.

I organized the references I’d jotted down about Doyle, hoping that Tom would regain consciousness soon and be able to tell us what he knew and that Debra would come up with some more specific information on connections between Doyle and the Ripper case. I now was getting as excited as Tom about the prospect of finding these Doyle notes.

At four thirty, my phone vibrated. It was Marcus Goodson, demanding to know what the heck was going on between Woodley and me. Before I could answer, he started blowing off steam about the Romani job being too important to screw up over somebody being late. He ended his little monologue with: “Whatever’s going on McGil, cut the crap and stop irritating Woodley.”

I wondered what Woodley had told him. I didn’t like being cast as the bad guy.

“Marcus, don’t you want to hear my side?”

“There are no ‘sides’ here, McGil,” he shouted.

“Hey, the real problem is Woodley, not me. Yes, I was 25 minutes late. It won’t happen again. But Woodley’s been over an hour late every single day on this job.”

“The real problem is this McGil - get the job done. Stop playing prima donna. You know my feelings. Drop the attitude. I’m not going to argue about it.” He hung up.

I could picture him - his feet up on the desk, satisfied that he’d solved the problem by raking me over the coals. The pressure of this case was getting to him. Probably his next move would be to call Woodley and share how he took me to the woodshed. Worse yet, I could see Woodley grinning. My Scots temper flared. I took a tiny sip of The Macallan - just enough to tease my tongue and force down the bile.

I put the Woodley problem aside to plan my actions later tonight at the Grange mansion - specifically getting back into the library and locating that safe. Someone had stolen that diary and knew about the Doyle notes. We had to find those notes before anyone else did. And I had no idea who I could trust.

I did a quick sketch of the mansion to test my memory and marked off the areas I wanted to search. I’d be taking along my new digital handheld magnetometer to detect metal in walls. It had cost over nine hundred bucks but was worth it. Its digital display panel illuminated field magnitude calculations every 5 milliseconds, and it even had a six-foot retractable extension probe that would come in handy with the library shelves. I hadn’t had a chance yet to use it, but I was sure it was going to prove its worth on tonight’s job. Briefly I wondered if burglars could deduct the cost of their burglary tools as legitimate tax deductions.

I looked at my watch. It was after five-thirty. The rest of the surveillance was uneventful. I had calmed down, and the radio kept me awake. Nothing came out of or went into the Romani house. When Woodley’s Cadillac pulled up behind me promptly at 6 PM, I snapped to attention and took off. I wasn’t about to confront him in front of the subject property.