Boyle's Dilemma: An 1892 Chicago and Points West Mystery

By T. C. McKeon

When upper-class Englishman Robbie Templeton is murdered in Chicago, his sister Alice, finding the Chicago P.D.'s lack of interest in the case appalling, enlists the help of private detective Tim Boyle. Embarking upon a search for the killer, the trail leads Alice and Tim to South Dakota, where Templeton worked as a missionary to the Sioux, then back to Chicago—where the web of danger grows tighter and tighter around them…

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543976571

Book preview

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ISBN: 9781543976571

Table of Contents

O’TOOLE’S

RESCUE

JOURNALISM IN CHICAGO

NOSTALGIA

ROPING FOOL

THE EXCHANGE

ANNA

ALICE TEMPLETON

JOURNALISM AGAIN

MACGONAGLE

NEWSIE

UNEXPECTED WATCHER

ROBBIE TEMPLETON’S LETTER

THE DILEMMA OF ANNA

JIMMY BAGGINS

THE PALMER MANSION

AN UNCERTAIN RIDE

J. D. POWELL

JANE ADDAMS

SURVEILLANCE AND COUNTERSURVEILLANCE

HAGGERTY

JERICHO IN JAIL

BOYLE FINDS J. D. POWELL

BOYLE’S PLACE

THE NEWSIE AGAIN

DESTINATION SOUTH DAKOTA

FRENCH CAFE

TRAIN RIDE

BARBED WIRE DRUMMER

SOUTH DAKOTA

THE MARSHAL

DENNIS TAYLOR

THE MISSION

CAPTIVES

ESCAPE

ALICE TEMPLETON AGAIN

THE CABIN

RECUPERATION

LOVERS

RETURN TO THE MISSION

GUNFIGHT

RETURN TO BLACK HILLS CITY

REVELATIONS AT BREAKFAST

CONFRONTATION

AFTERMATH

JOHN AND ANNA RETURN

THE DINNER

JOURNEY HOME

CHICAGO

FORMING THE PLAN

I COME TO BOYLE WITH INFORMATION

THE STATION

SMYTHE LISTENS

JEOPARDY FOR JERICHO

BOYLE’S DILEMMA

JERICHO ESCAPES

FERRIS WHEEL

GOING TO THE JUDGE

AN OFFER

JUSTICE ?

O’TOOLE’S

Tim Boyle walked south on Wabash Avenue. He had purchased a rare, fine Havana and savored the late May evening in that year of 1892. The breeze from the lake rolled back the effluvia of stockyards, steel mills, coal fires, outdoor privies, and unwashed bodies; smells that characterized Chicago in those days, as they do to an extent to this day. He had found an early dinner, kept light in contemplation of the evening’s work, and was in no hurry to get to his final destination. He moved indolently.

Jericho Smith saddled the horses on the North Side. He and Boyle kept four good saddle horses in the carriage barn behind their place – and no carriage. They rode in those pre-auto days for pleasure and convenience, and for speed, and always in the saddle. Smith was an ex-cavalryman, and Boyle, well, he had one foot in the Old West and the other in Chicago. At the moment, Jericho was not concerned about Boyle’s immediate location. He knew where they intended to meet, and he would be there. Time and experience gave to each an instinctive confidence. Their movements coordinated one with the other by a golden chain of habit and deep understanding.

Boyle approached O’Toole’s Saloon on the northeast border of the old Levee District. The saloon looked like many others crowding Chicago – north, south, east, west – some better and some worse than others. O’Toole’s retained a certain aura of respectability despite its location near the notorious levee. Its clientele drew equally from the more respectable population of Chicago and from the gamblers, toughs, gunmen, and habitués of the wide-open Levee District. There are places where respectable citizens may meet with those in disrepute in a kind of neutral territory. O’Toole’s had that quality about it. When business must be transacted between the two sides of the community, O’Toole’s provided the location.

Tim Boyle – no, more Tim Boyle’s father – knew O’Toole. Tim Boyle had not seen O’Toole for years, and might have waited more years. But Boyle made an appointment at O’Toole’s; one of those requiring neutral territory. He went early in order to get past the attention he knew O’Toole would give him and the questions the tavern keeper would ask. He entered the swinging doors past the iron saloon front.

By chance, I happened to be in O’Toole’s that night; myself, a newspaperman half-looking for a story, half-interested in a beer, all interested in seeing what new and strange thing might be happening on that fine spring evening. Things were and are always happening in Chicago, a town of immigrants, business, strange and sometimes terrible people; constant change, scandal, and a non-definable electricity, in a time when electricity was rare, before the Great World’s Fair confronted us with the possibility of electricity for all. In that year, we were all waiting for that World’s Fair, an event of the century in America; certainly the event of that century in Chicago. I moved, as a young newspaperman, in a constant aura of expectancy.

What I report from O’Toole’s comes from personal memory as well as from the memory of Tim Boyle and from the records of his office, both sources to me after we became good friends quite a few years later. But I warn the reader that the things I recall from my own memory are mine alone, and I take credit or blame accordingly.

O’Toole hovered in the back of the bar, supervising his bartenders. A separate table in the back carried O’Toole’s version of the free lunch. Boyle felt sorry, I suspect, that he had eaten. He could see fresh hard-boiled eggs, pickled pigs feet, herring, and good rye bread. O’Toole was not stingy.

A lumpy, oversized figure in a suit too tight for him slouched at one of the front tables. It was early, although there were enough customers at the bar to keep the bartenders busy. But the bouncer, an ex-prize fighter Tim Boyle recognized, hadn’t much to do. If he recognized Tim Boyle, nothing showed. Tim’s older brother, Liam, had fought this man and beaten him. The bouncer had seen Tim Boyle in Liam’s company. O’Toole looked at Tim Boyle carefully. Boyle waited to see how good O’Toole’s memory and intuition were.

Glory boy . . . is that little Timmy Boyle that I see be way of gracin’ me dure? Could it be, ye boy? Ye’ve grown a bit since I last saw ye.

Sure, Mr. O’Toole. You’ve got a good eye. It’s been a few years.

And you waren’t no full-grown m-a-an thin’, either. But look at ye nauw. Ye’er the size of ye’er brother, and bitter-lookin’ ter boot. O’Toole tipped his big head back and laughed. And O’Toole could laugh. He attracted the attention of everybody in the saloon. He stepped out from behind the bar and clapped Boyle on the shoulder. Look, boys! he said. It’s Liam Boyle’s young brother, and he looks big enough ter go a few rounds hisself!

Boyle accepted these comparisons with his older brother. He sometimes was embarrassed by the association, the diminution it implied; but his brother had been a popular fighter, and that good will usually carried over to the younger Boyle.

And how’s the colonel? I hivn’t seen th’ auld soldier in . . . since . . . my God, it must be near fifteen years, too. He still got the place down be the yards? Meaning Bridgeport, and the Irish community, where Boyle’s father and brother, Liam, indeed, ran another popular saloon.

He’s still at it, and Liam’s with him.

Ah! And it’s good to hear it. What’ll ye have?

A pint of your finest, and one of whatever he would like. Boyle gestured to the bouncer.

Ye remember him, hey, boyo? He and ye’er brother traded a few in theer time. How about a pint, Herman, on young Timmy Boyle here? The bouncer’s eyes brightened.

Ya, gut. Und danke. He was a burly German with a heavy accent. The ex-fighter nodded gratefully to Boyle.

O’Toole whispered, It’ll be on the house. No son of Johnny Boyle buys here; but let Herman think Timmy Boyle did it. Boyle grinned. He knew the saloon keeper’s enthusiasm was genuine.

In lower tones again, O’Toole asked, Wha’re ye doin’ in this p-a-art of the ghreat city, eh?

I came to meet somebody.

Last I heerd, ye wure a railroad detective out west somewhere.

I’m back here now, and on my own. Boyle had been a railroad detective, a Pinkerton, but also a U.S. Marshal before that, and a deputy sheriff before that.

Not wurkin for the Pinkertons now, I suppose?

I couldn’t work for them. I’m no strike-breaker.

That’s a good lad. Enythin’ I kin do to help?

Not tonight, Mr. O’Toole. But I’ll keep you in mind. When my man comes in, I’d like to have a place out of sight.

There’s a little room on the left off the back hall. Take him in there.

Jericho Smith moved three saddled horses along the dark streets. He attracted little attention, a Negro servant moving horses for a rich owner. At least that’s the conclusion most bystanders would have drawn. But he wore a long, light duster. If anyone had seen the shotgun hanging under the coat, or the long-barreled Colt on his belt, the benign illusion would have been seriously disturbed. But no one did see those implements of Jericho’s trade. He slouched comfortably in the saddle.

Grandfather, it may be a hot night’s work, Boyle murmured. In his mind, he could see the old man sitting on a horse, always in a light snow. Boyle told me it was the way he remembered the old man. His grandfather was a talisman. Boyle sipped the cold beer and watched the mirror.

And me? I watched too, unaware of the drama moving around me. I noticed Boyle because he was a big, good-looking man wearing a well-cut gray suit and a bowler; very stylish, hair slightly long and a thick moustache. I watched the fuss O’Toole made over him, and I went back to my drink, looking for that big story, somewhere, somehow. My ignorance may be attributed to my youth. I should have paid attention to the slight bulge on the left side of the well-tailored coat. It could have alerted me to something, even though carrying a pistol was not all that unusual in that part of Chicago.

Elsewhere, dark curls pressed wetly on a boy’s forehead. A girl, with only a light shift on her soft, blonde body, lay almost comatose. The boy inhaled the sweetish smoke from the long, carved pipe once more. The girl’s eyes closed and she slept. The boy responded with a beatific, vacant smile.

In O’Toole’s, one of the customers read from Eugene Field’s latest column, to the amusement of those around him. After all, Field was competition, and he had what every young journalist strives for: a regular column and the fame that goes with it. Finlay Peter Dunne was known to frequent O’Toole’s now and again, and O’Toole may have provided him with one model for his famous barkeep on the Archey Road. A young newspaperman might dream in such company.

In the distance, one of the new trains rattled toward the downtown. Yerkes had begun his massing of the transportation facilities at that time, and soon would build the train around the loop; indeed, create the loop. But then, the commuter trains were a new thing, replacing horse and cable cars. Off in distant Germany, Mr. Daimler was creating an engine that would dwarf all the transportation revolutions to that time, bringing a revolution beyond mere transportation, but of or against all life. But in 1892, we were ignorant.

At about that time, Jack Finnerty walked through the doors. I recognized him as a small-time hoodlum who worked for a bawdy house operator and gambler by the name of Anton Schmidt. Finnerty was a compact, sturdy man in a shiny dark suit and he wore a brand-new bowler hat. He had reddish hair and a broad, freckled Irish face. What disturbed you were his expressionless, fixed blue eyes. I regarded Finnerty as a levee scavenger, a minor hoodlum, not good enough at anything to have much of a reputation, not mean enough to be feared by much of anybody, and not big enough to stand out. Boyle bought him a drink and they walked to the rear of the saloon and out a door. I suppose I should be excused for not sensing something, but I didn’t really know Boyle at the time.

When they reached the back room, Boyle took out a $10.00 gold piece. You going to be able to earn this, Jack?

Well, Mr. Boyle, Oi found out what it is that ye wish ter know. But it’s to cost ye a bit more. I dinna know how rich the boyo is.

How much more?

Say fifty dollars, Mr. Boyle.

You get twenty.

It ain’t enough, Mr. Boyle. Finnerty shook his head.

Boyle held out the second gold piece. You worried about Schmidt?

I just got the idea, Mr. Boyle, that this little piece of information is worth a bit more than ye’ve offered.

Finnerty, I wouldn’t worry so much about Schmidt. I’d worry about me, if I was you. Boyle looked intently at Finnerty. I’ll go to twenty-five.

Well . . . Mr. Boyle . . . I guess I can take twenty-five. No need ter get excited. Finnerty’s voice raised slightly. He took the two coins, and waited as Boyle fished out a fiver.

Now, Jack, you have the price.

Sure now, Mr. Boyle. Ye’ll find the kid at 1450. Second floor, right rear bedroom. They just give him the pipe and any girl he wants. There’s a new Norwegian girl up there . . . been there with him for two days.

Who’s watching the shop?

The Haggerty brothers attend to problems. This surprised Boyle, for he knew the Haggertys to have their own place, a kind of lower order brothel, way down back of the yards. He couldn’t decide if they had improved their lot by working for Schmidt or simply had fallen on hard times. They wouldn’t have liked working for a German.

What about the back door?

It’s easy ter find.

And the keys?

Finnerty held out a ring of keys. You ought ter pay a little more for the use of these.

You are already up fifteen. Don’t push your luck.

Sure, Mr. Boyle, just be careful with them now. It’s me head if Schmidt finds out.

It seemed to Boyle that Finnerty remained a little too calm, a little too easy. Could he smell a little betrayal? He let it go, though. He had what he wanted, and he didn’t have much time. After waving Finnerty out of the room, he sat and waited.

Number 1450 belonged to Anton Schmidt. He was a German immigrant who came to the United States with some apparent experience in the dives and brothels in Hamburg, perhaps Amsterdam, and after a brief sojourn in New York – Chicago. After the Chicago fire of 1871, after the end of the Civil War in 1865, Chicago grew faster than any city in the world to that time. It was cows from the West and iron from the North and freight going and coming from east to west and west to east along the relatively new railroads.

Each homesteader along the lines required railroad transport. The railroads required new towns to supply them and provide them with customers. And the customers needed the railroads to supply them and carry the vast array of agricultural products that burgeoned as the Great Plains were populated, and to move the raw materials that came west to east, fueling the industrial revolution.

First there was the canal that linked the Great Lakes to the Mississippi drainage; but water transport didn’t wait long for the big improvement, the railroads. Each transcontinental line, beginning with the Union Pacific and Central Pacific in 1869, funneled through Chicago. Growing spiderwebs of track marked successive maps of the United States throughout the nineteenth century. And most of it sent commerce through Chicago at the time, and continued to do so into the twentieth century. For Chicago it meant, people, huge capital investment, unheard-of growth, prosperity, waves of immigration; but also dirt, pollution, dire poverty and slums, labor unrest, crime, and vice. Chicago was a dynamic place, a wonderful place, and a dire place. It all depended.

As a young man, Schmidt had been strong and powerful. He retained a thick, blocky presence, gone to fat as he aged and prospered. He was also shrewd, parlaying skills with a sap and knife and a set of Monte cards into a thriving saloon and gambling house, supplemented later by two brothels. Number 1450 was the best of the two.

He also became a formidable man in First Ward politics. He had supported the new alderman, Johnny Coughlin, and he kept the police as happy as possible. He was seen at the racetracks in the company of men like Mike MacDonald and Billy Skakel, a German who had made his peace with the dominant Irish pols and vice lords of the First Ward. His expensive brocade vests had become a kind of trademark. He must have had a hundred of them. Anton Schmidt had done well for himself in the short period he had made Chicago his home.

***

The dark-haired boy moved closer to his blonde companion, the pipe abandoned, both in a peaceful, humid sleep.

***

Jericho Smith approached Van Buren Street. The horses heard the trains, and didn’t like them. Perhaps they recognized by instinct what these trains would mean for horses, in general. Smith occupied himself with calming them and rode on.

Tim Boyle stayed in O’Toole’s backroom. He sat undisturbed. If he went out to the saloon, he’d have to drink more – which he didn’t want to do. He thought again of his grandfather, on his horse, in the snow, the heavy Sharps cradled in his arm. He’d like to be here for this one, Boyle said to no one in particular. But the sound of his own voice, and the thought, did not cheer him. He left O’Toole’s in time to exactly make his rendezvous with Jericho Smith.

RESCUE

Smith sat on his horse until he saw Boyle. He dismounted easily, then waited.

Did you locate the kid?

"Yeah. I had to pay twenty-five dollars, but I found him. Number