South of the Deadline

By Barbara Riegel

It is 1910. Seattle’s notorious red light district, often called the “Deadline,” is doing a booming business in gambling, boozing and prostitution despite the efforts of reformers who are trying to shut it down. The police and the mayor are widely thought to be corrupt and guilty of graft.

Clara Johnson, a music hall singer and prostitute, is found murdered in a cheap hotel. She has been handcuffed and strangled. Little attention is given the incident in the press. The police make no progress in finding the murderer.

When Sophie Bramson, fleeing the music halls of Paris and an abusive husband, returns to her childhood home in Seattle, she manages to get a job with Dr. Lars Haglund, an elderly surgeon and pioneer forensic scientist. Sidney Raskin, a hard-edged police detective with a reputation for brute force justice, interrupts their interview. Another prostitute has been found handcuffed and strangled, and Raskin wishes Haglund’s help on the case.

A wary courtship develops between Sophie and Raskin. Although she fears that he may be just another corrupt policeman, she is attracted to him. She thinks the police are not working hard enough to find the murderer of the two women because they were prostitutes and therefore not worthy of attention or sympathy. Over Raskin’s protestations and with help from her suffragist friends, the astute Haglund and a few “ladies of the evening,” Sophie takes on the dangerous task of investigating the deaths of the two women.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Riegel
• Release date: Sep 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311616302

Barbara Riegel

I’m a freelance writer with a day job. My work has appeared in Reader's Digest Books, City Search and others. Some time ago, while doing research for another writer, I came across a small article, describing the “handcuff strangler” in a 1910 Seattle Times Newspaper. I just couldn’t let it go. This was the year that Washington State women won the right to vote (ten years before the U.S. passed the 19th amendment). Reformers were trying to shed Seattle's Wild West image and turn the town into a sophisticated modern city. This is my first novel.

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South of the Deadline

by Barbara Riegel

Copyright 1997 Barbara Riegel

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"Don’t stop in Seattle any longer than you have to. While you are there don’t carry any money about you. Don’t go out nights alone. Conditions are awful in that city. They must be for if only a part of what the papers say is true you must not stay there. The police are evidently hand in glove with a gang of cut-throats and murders are of almost daily occurrence. Hurry away."

from a letter written by an Iowa mother to her son, who was traveling to Seattle. Reprinted from the Seattle Times, November 1, 1910.

CHAPTER 1

COWBOY SAYS STAGE LIFE IS THE LIMIT

"Because I couldn’t hold a job at anything else I went on the stage."

That was the reply of Will Rogers, the cowboy, now at the Orpheum, when asked how he came to leave the mesa, the rolling plains and the cattle trail to travel around the country in a vaudeville attraction.

Seattle Daily Times

July 1, 1910

Seattle, July 3, 1910

It was two o’clock in the morning, foggy and drizzling, but the establishments lining the boardwalk south of King Street near the waterfront were still doing a booming business.

The band inside the Arcade Dance Hall was playing so loudly that men passing by outside could stop and join any of the loitering, smiling women on the sidewalk for an impromptu two step or fox trot. Men who owned motor cars could, for a price, entice their dance partners into a short romantic interlude on the blanketed seats of their parked Regals, Pierce Arrows, or Model T Fords that formed a long double line down the wet street.

Roving bands of restless young toughs, dressed in cheap suits, were constantly on the prowl down alleys and side streets, searching with hardened eyes for unwary drunks to beat up and rob. Some of these ‘macques’ were pimps for a few street whores and had a little more cash, but most roamed from pool hall to bar looking for prey.

Partygoers, unsteady on their feet, skidded on the slippery, wooden walkways between crowded music halls, bars and brothels. Prostitutes and their johnnies stopped along the docks for a breath of fresh sea air and concluded their business leaning against the pilings. In spite of the gentle but incessant rain, Seattle’s red light district could always attract men who were looking for a good time.

The Star Hotel, which rented by the hour, was also enjoying a brisk trade, fed mostly by customers spilling out from the People’s Boxhouse and Bar, next door.

Inside the People’s, Clara Johnson, in short skirts and low décolleté, was on the tiny stage bellowing out one of the year’s hit tunes, ‘I’m Looking for a Nice Young Fellow Who Is Looking for a Nice Young Girl.’ Her full voice was barely audible above the din of a boisterous crowd full of beer and high spirits. They had paid hard money just to get a glimpse of Clara’s ample bosom and beautiful legs. To them, her voice was little more than an added bonus.

Down on the smoked filled floor, waitresses plied their trade, selling drunken men more liquor or luring them into box-like apartments along the wall for quick amorous dalliances on the threadbare chaise lounges.

Patrons who picked pockets, started fights or beat up prostitutes, were swiftly dispatched by brutish bouncers. Depending on the severity of the crime, the unwanted were either tossed out the door into the mud, or pushed through trap doors down into the tide flats below. At the peak of high tide, most miscreants who exited this way were swiftly taken, alive or dead, by the swirling currents and dumped into the chilly waters of Puget Sound.

Tonight, the owner of The People’s, John Sullivan, and its manager, his brother Tom, were in the audience enjoying the show. They had invited a party of business friends and colleagues to their table: Mrs. Grace Egstrom, Seattle’s richest madam and former employer of Clara, Jack Bowen, the lumber baron, and Miss Jasmy Wright, manager of the Orpheum, John’s more uptown and respectable theater. Having enjoyed an evening out together with the mayor and other government officials, the Sullivans now felt the need for more informal entertainment. Like many of the other patrons, Bowen and Tom Sullivan were engaged in a lively dispute about the upcoming championship bout between the Negro fighter, Jack Johnson, and his opponent, Jim Jeffries, whom the press had dubbed, the Great White Hope.

If I were a gambling man, John Sullivan said calmly, interrupting their argument, I’d put my money on the Black. He gestured to one of his bartenders to cut off serving a customer who had fallen off his barstool.

Then you’d lose, retorted his brother. Jeffries is obviously the stronger--

Jack Bowen laughed. He hasn’t fought in five years, and thinks that just because he’s white, he’s going to win. Bad mistake. Have you been reading Jack London’s pieces?

Aw, what does he know? Tom poured himself some more beer and motioned to a bouncer to clear the room of two sweating, disheveled drunks who were clumsily propelling themselves toward his brother’s chair.

Gentlemen, please! Jasmy Wright’s clear voice cut through their conversation. I’m trying to enjoy the show.

The men dutifully returned their attentions toward the stage for the last fifteen minutes of Clara’s act. When she finished her final song, the audience showed their approval with unrestrained cat calls, piercing whistles, and loud applause. Clara smilingly acknowledged their appreciation, bowed, and swept through the crowd to personally thank her fans. Several men with silver dollars or folded bills in hand rushed at her and stuffed their money down the low cut bosom of her gown. She stopped briefly at the Sullivan’s table. Jack Bowen handed her a bouquet of roses he had purchased uptown and asked her to join their party, but she declined. She had an appointment, she explained, and was already late. She promised to stop by later for a glass of champagne.

The Sullivan party saw her leave, then turned their attentions to the next act, a group of female contortionists in abbreviated costumes. The crowd went wild. John Sullivan ordered more of his better quality champagne for his friends. As was his custom, he stuck to his usual drink, ice water.

At three thirty-five a.m., Detective Sidney Raskin of the Seattle Police entered the room and headed directly toward the boss’s table. He greeted everyone with a slight nod, then bent down and whispered into John Sullivan’s ear.

After slowly unwrapping and sticking two pieces of gum into his mouth, Sullivan motioned to his brother. He and Tom stood up and followed Raskin out into the rain.

They didn’t have far to go. Next door, two uniformed policemen stood on either side of the Star Hotel’s front steps. They nodded to Raskin as he led the two men through the doorway and up the narrow stairs to a corner room on the second floor.

Don’t touch anything, ordered Raskin, as they entered. It was a small room, sparsely furnished with a painted wardrobe, wooden chair, and a metal bed. Its one window was halfway open and a fine mist of rain was gently blowing across everything.

Over the bed hung a large round mirror from which the men could see their somber

reflections as they stood in the doorway. On the bed, twisted in a thin blanket, was the inert form of a young woman, handcuffed to one of the metal rails. Her clothes were ripped from her body and her eyes bulged from a once beautiful face, now grotesquely purplish and contorted from its futile struggle. A tightly knotted red silk scarf encircled her throat.Her hand was clutching a single rose.

Well? said Raskin.

Yeah. Tom finally spoke in a quiet voice. He was staring at the wilting bouquet of flowers on the chair. It...it’s Clara, all right.

John Sullivan stuck another piece of gum into his mouth. "I guess she ain’t coming back

for that drink."

CHAPTER 2

DIRIGIBLE TRAVELS FROM PARIS TO LONDON--CROSSES CHANNEL--Makes a Remarkable Voyage From French to English Capital in Six Hours--Faster than Trains--Average Speed of Air craft is Thirty-Three Miles--Another chapter was added to the history of aviation today when the French dirigible balloon, Clement-Bayard, made the voyage from Compiegne to London in the remarkable time of six hours.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer

October 17, 1910

Signora Bruno Muscarelli, alias Sophie Bramson, looked up from her soggy Parisian boots as she walked, and tried to read the downtown street signs through the rain and fog. Third and James. She glanced across the traffic snarled road and could just make out the Orpheum Theater’s marquee. Her umbrella and wide-brimmed hat threatened to take off in the wind, which swept up from the waterfront, three blocks away. She stopped, damp and miserable, and waited for a break in the long line of plodding, horse-drawn wagons and skidding automobiles.

A policeman, struggling with a Model T stuck in the oozing mud of the crosswalk, finally abandoned his hopeless task. He had a soft spot for pretty women and held up traffic long enough to let Sophie pass. He watched with amusement as the fashionable, but very wet Sophie navigated the street. He smiled when she slipped and nearly fell into a large sinkhole overflowing with brown water and garbage. His grin widened when the wind snapped her umbrella inside out. She glared at him, raising her heavy, wet skirts just high enough to avoid the slime and mire of the rain-soaked street. She was not about to give him any more than a flash of ankle.

I hate this town, she thought.

After days of fighting the incessant rain in a city she barely considered civilized, she was now questioning her hasty departure from the European music halls, cafe-concerts, and theatrical way of life to which she had become accustomed.

She was, she told herself as she reached the curb, no eager young thing. How would she support herself in this raw wild place that was barely covered with a veneer of sophistication? Even with the best efforts of her friends, could she really start all over again?

She shoved her hat into a more determined angle on her dark, damp, upswept hair and marched into the large carpeted lobby of the Orpheum Theater. She could hear the muffled sounds of a choir rehearsing.

Hello Sophie! It was the voice of Harold Lindquist, the Orpheum’s stage manager. She turned to see his thin form about to disappear into the darkened auditorium.

I’m only here for a minute, she called after him. Is Jasmy in?

He pointed to the auditorium door. In here with Mrs. Perry.

Thanks, Sophie answered to Harold’s back, as he opened the door. The last few soaring notes of song greeted her as she followed him in.

In the fifth row Jasmy Wright was adamantly shaking her unkempt head of red curls at an attractive, well-dressed Negro woman. No, no, Emmaline, she was saying, not that odious magician.

Emmaline Perry’s deep watchful eyes observed her petite friend with amusement. Illusionist. And the audience loved his act. She turned to Sophie, smiling. Welcome to the first stages of the Orpheum’s Annual Gala Charity Vaudeville Show, She nodded toward the stage. That’s my church’s choir.

Illusionist, my ass. Jasmy gave Sophie an enthusiastic hug, the top of her curls barely reaching her friend’s wet shoulders. Damn, Sophie, you look like a drowned rat. And for God’s sake, cheer up. You look like somebody just died.

Jasmy, watch your language, Emmaline said, then turned to Sophie. You’re are a bit pale and thin, Sophie. Are you well?

Well enough for a fugitive from the law, she answered.

Jasmy slammed her tiny fist down on the back of the nearest seat. The law, my fanny. The man was a selfish brute. Sophie had every right to leave him. This is 1910, for God’s sake, not the Middle Ages.

Sophie is right, Emmaline said. Legally, she is not protected. We all know that the law deals with women differently than men. The law will see her as a wayward wife who has stolen money from her husband."

They could, Sophie said, force me to return to him.

Never! Jasmy’s unkempt curls were now in a state of agitation and were falling over her eyebrows. Nobody will find you here. First things first. You need a new identity and a new job. She fished out a random comb from her purse and shoved the rebelling curls back into place.

Yes, agreed Emmaline. Are you meeting with Dr. Haglund today?"

Yes, Sophie sighed, but I really do not want to be a tutor to a spoiled, rich child.

Fiddlesticks, Jasmy said. Dr. Haglund has many connections in the city. His son is just the first step.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, Emmaline said. "My advice to you Sophie would be to tell everyone you are a widow. A woman alone, especially an attractive one, is always circumspect.

Jasmy was nodding in agreement. A widow holds an air of respectability.

However fake, Sophie retorted with a smile. What, precisely, is the doctor’s field of expertise?

He was a noted surgeon for years, Emmaline answered.Since his wife died several years ago, he’s been in semi-retirement. I recently wrote an article about him because of his interest in the new field of forensic medicine.

Sophie was perplexed. What is that?"

He’s trying to reform the police department, Jasmy answered. He has a laboratory in his house, and he plays around with dead bodies and old bones.

Sophie grimaced. Ah, yes, she thought. My new life begins with a madman who has corpses in this cellar. I look forward to meeting him, she said.

CHAPTER 3

‘CROOKED FINGER’ RYAN, ACCUSED OF GAMBLING, GETS TIME TO PLEAD--Tom Ryan, who during the open gambling in Seattle, enjoyed the confidences of the gambling fraternity and the men higher up, was before the city council’s graft investigation committee yesterday. Ryan gave a technical explanation of flat joints, pay off stations, and dart shooting galleries.

During the last few months Ryan has been a frequent caller at police headquarters, and it was to question him regarding his relations with Chief Wappenstein that Ryan was called by the committee.

Seattle Post Intelligencer

October 17, 1910

Detective Sidney Raskin left police headquarters and walked across the street. He shoved open the etched glass doors of the Third Avenue Bar, waved to the bartender, hung up his wet coat and bowler, and slowly made his way to the back of the room. He eased his thick, compact frame into a chair opposite a ruddy, mustachioed man just finishing off a snifter of brandy.

Hello, Boss, Raskin said, glancing around for the waiter.

Chief of Police C.W. Wappenstein looked up from his glass. Where the hell have you been?

At an autopsy. Some drunk fell off the pier into Lake Washington.

You still working with that quack Haglund? I told you it’s a waste of time. What the hell does a doctor know about good solid police work?

Good solid police work needs scientific help. A waiter placed two brandies on the table. Without it, we’re just guessing.

It’s mostly crap, Wappenstein said, reaching for his glass. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this horseshit.

Raskin took a sip of brandy. You wanted to see me?

Wappenstein reached under the table and withdrew a parcel, wrapped in brown paper. He tossed it at Raskin.

What is it?

Open it, the Chief ordered.

Raskin opened it. It was a book, new and smartly bound. He turned to the title page: History of the Police and Fire Departments of the City of Seattle.

It’s got all our biographies and photographs in it. Some newspaper dame put it together, Wappenstein said, tugging at his mustache.

Raskin flipped past the large photograph of the Chief. He read the next chapter heading. The Fly Cops of Seattle--The Men Who Make Up the City’s Gum Shoe Brigade. He frowned at his own, smaller photograph, which shared a page with the other detectives on the force and read his short biography. It says I’m a jolly bachelor.

There’s nothing jolly about you, Wappenstein said with some authority. It’s obviously written by some newspaper tramp selling trash. This book is out to make trouble for me.

Raskin dutifully turned to the lengthy description of his boss. It says you’re doing a fine job.

The Chief of Police reached out with his large, beefy right hand and placed his index finger at the next to last line. Read that, he ordered gloomily.

Raskin read. Chief Wappenstein has two children and lives at--

Wappenstein grabbed the book from Raskin. Cripes! He cleared his throat and read in a low growl. Chief Wappenstein has the widest acquaintance with crooks of any peace officer in the West.

Ah! Raskin said.

Wappenstein’s small eyes narrowed.

You’re worried over nothing, Raskin told his boss, with as much optimism as he could muster. It’s a complement, Chief. No copper could ever do his job if he didn’t know a handful of crooks and informers.

Wappenstein shook his large, handsome head. They’re out to get us, Raskin. That little shit Ryan has started to testify to the city council.

He’s a known liar. Nobody’s gonna believe him. Raskin finished his drink. The mayor will see to that. He was referring to the strong alliance the Chief of Police and the Mayor enjoyed. He was careful not to mention the rumors of graft and corruption.

The mayor can’t be trusted, either. Wappenstein waved to the waiter for another round. A man in my position has no friends.

Raskin was running out of encouraging words. A taciturn man, he strained his small ability to cheer his uneasy, suspicious boss. It made him tense. He stared at his empty glass, listening to the voices around him, the chinking of glasses, the opening and closing of the doors.

Christ, Wappenstein said. What the hell does he want?

Raskin looked up just as a burly, uniformed policeman walked over to the table, saluted the Chief and leaned over to speak to the detective.

Sir, Sergeant Tennant said to Raskin. We just found a dead woman near the Restricted District. Strangled, I think.

The waiter had just set down the new round of brandies. Raskin ignored his and quickly got to his feet.

The Chief seemed irritated. What’s your rush? You know it’s only some dumb whore.

Sorry, boss, but business is business. Raskin turned and hurriedly followed the sergeant through the crowded room. He felt a sense of relief. Dealing with Wappenstein was more difficult for him than murder.

After her visit at the Orpheum, Sophie Bramson took a streetcar to Dr. Lars Haglund’s large home on Queen Anne Hill. His housekeeper left her waiting impatiently in his crowded parlor.

The morning’s Post Intelligencer, opened to the amusements page, was draped over the piano bench next to a book of etudes. She read the headlines: Madame Anna Pavlova, celebrated Russian ballerina, will visit Seattle. In spite of the newspaper and the open piano, which was covered with popular sheet music and scattered pencils, the room seemed a place little visited. Even by Seattle standards, it was an old-fashioned parlor, very popular ten years ago, but now thought of by the younger set as a relic to 19th century excess.

Her palms were perspiring under her fawn colored kid gloves. She removed them and laid them neatly across the skirt of her matching Pacquin tailor-made. The stays of her new Bon Ton extra long Easy Comfort corset, in spite of the manufacturer’s promise of scientific boning and absence of side steels, were pressed too tightly into the thin covering of soft flesh around her rib cage.

The loud, rhythmic ticking of two French walnut clocks only increased her general discomfort. She began to think of her husband. To new found freedom, Jasmy had toasted with champagne.

Sophie laughed out loud at the memory.

Ah, Signora Muscarelli. I am glad to see that you are so amused by my home.

She gulped and stood up too quickly, her gloves sliding to the floor. She turned to face a tall man, dressed in well made, but worn and rumpled clothes, with a shock of unruly gray hair and ramrod straight carriage. His clear blue eyes were calm as he bent down to retrieve her gloves.

I beg your pardon, Dr. Haglund. I was just remembering...uh...a funny remark.

Don’t distress yourself, my dear. This room could do with a little laughter. Please come into my study.

Dr. Haglund led the way through a dark hallway to a room at the rear of the house. He held the door open for her.

In contrast to the parlor, Dr. Haglund’s study was modern, warmed by a tile fireplace and furnished with hand crafted, golden oak pieces of simple design. Plain, wrought iron lamps cast a soft light through tinted glass shades on the dark walls. A large blackboard, covered with hieroglyphic diagrams took up half of one wall. A few framed maps and a portrait of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle completed the furnishings. Behind the blackboard an open door partially revealed a room with tiled walls and floor. Wrought iron shelves supported numerous bottles of colored liquids.

Books were everywhere, some neatly shelved, others open and strewn about the library table. She glanced at one nearest to her, The Identification of the Dismembered Body by Sir Bernard John Spilsbury. She moved toward the large open windows overlooking an exuberant cottage garden. The rain, she noticed, had slowed to a fine mist. Sophie drew a deep breath of cool, fragrant air.

You must feel very comfortable in this room, she said.

The doctor looked at her with curiosity. Yes, he said, I chose the furnishings myself shortly after my wife passed away. I do most of my research and writing here. In there, he indicated the tiled room, I have set up a first rate crime laboratory.

How progressive of you, Sophie said, politely.

Lars Haglund beamed. Let me show you, my dear.

Sophie followed the doctor across the room.

I have at my disposal a microscope, a spectrometer, and the techniques of chemical analysis. He flipped an electric switch at the entrance of the laboratory, throwing intense, bright light on all its hygienically clean surfaces. In the center of the room stood a long marble table.

Each end, as you can see, the doctor explained, is fastened to water faucets which wash any autopsy debris safely away." He pointed to the sloping tile floors, which forced all fluids to a central drain just below the marble table.

Sophie stared at the gaping hole in the middle of the bright floor, then forced her gaze back to the sealed jars of liquids, beakers, crucibles, and pipettes. What else do you do here?

My latest research involves dust particles, he said, shutting off the light and moving back into the study.

Dust?

Why, yes. Disintegrated plants, barks, roots, textile fibers, rugs, upholstery, linen, cotton, hemp, wood, paper, etc. All of it needs to be classified.

They passed the portrait of Arthur Conan Doyle. Oh, she said with sudden recognition, as in the Sign of the Four.

He smiled at her. Don’t forget The Study in Scarlet.

Oh, yes, Holmes’ mud-spattered trousers, she laughed.

It is the beginning of a true science my dear. Dust contains distinctive characteristics which permit us to determine its origin. At the library table, he showed her soil samples taken throughout the city.

She shook the hem of her skirts and watched as tiny particles of dust fell to the hardwood floors. And could you determine where I’ve been this morning?

He retrieved some clean slips of paper from his breast pocket, scooped up some of the tiny clumps, and placed them, one by one under the microscope. Aha, he said.

Yes?

The doctor was straining to concentrate. You have been on Third Avenue, between Columbia and Cherry Streets, he said, examining what looked like dried mud. He picked up a lone fiber in a pair of forceps. And this is obviously that hideous pink carpet that only exists, in this city at any rate, all over the floors of the Orpheum Theater.

She clapped her hands in delight. Amazing, though I suppose you would call it ‘elementary.’

No, my dear. I would call it devious. Miss Wright telephoned me that you were on your way.

I am disappointed, she laughed.

The first rule of criminologists is to never believe what anyone tells you. He beckoned her to sit opposite him at his massive desk. It was then that she noticed the two bleached skulls and several bones scattered among the papers that littered its surface.

I hope your journey here was not too difficult Signora.

One of the skulls seemed to be smiling at her. I am used to travel, Dr. Haglund. I accompanied my, uh, late husband on all his tours throughout Europe and the United States.

Ah, yes, said the doctor. I heard Signor Muscarelli sing when I was in New York several years ago. A very dramatic voice. Dr. Haglund picked up the skulls and put them in one of the desk drawers. I am very sorry for your loss. You are much too young to be a widow. He flicked a piece of lint from a large bone.

Sophie, in spite of the smiling skulls and grim laboratory, felt at ease with Lars Haglund. If a little fib was necessary for her new life to succeed, so be it. She would tell the doctor the truth later. Much later. She drew out her references and, moving some skeletal remains out of the way, placed them on the desk.

I was born here, she said. My father was the stage manager for the old Opera House. He and my mother were killed in the Fire, when I was fifteen.

Dr. Haglund, as an old-time Seattle resident, knew that the Fire meant