Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1) by Nick Wisseman (popular books to read .TXT) 📗

as we investigate this matter. With Chicago Day so near, we can’t have unfounded rumors causing a panic.”

Rice nodded. “Extremely important for the financial wellbeing of the Fair.”

“Right. Now: can we rely on your cooperation?” Bonfield gave Neva the look white men of his age always seemed to give her, the gaze that presupposed a certain response: a simple “Yes, sir, as you wish.”

Unless she was dancing—they looked at her differently then. And she was tempted to break into a shimmy now. If nothing else, drawing the inspector’s attention to her hips might wrongfoot his superior attitude. But she settled for a question: “The White Chapel Club?”

Bonfield stiffened.

Copeland just rolled his eyes. “You’ve already stepped in it—might as well explain the mess ... The White Chapel Club is fascinated with all manner of ghoulishness: they’ve filled their meeting space with coffins, skulls, and murder weapons from actual killings.”

“In short,” Rice said, “they’re fools. Can you guess why they’re named as they are?”

Neva shrugged.

“Because of Leather Apron,” Wiley put in.

Copeland tapped the table. “That’s right: he did his work in London’s White Chapel district. And we have reason to believe our Chicago boys have stopped playing costume and started reenacting the real thing.” He glanced at Neva, perhaps to gauge her reaction.

“Unless,” Bonfield said, almost gleefully, “it’s the Apron himself, crossed the pond to visit the Fair. They never caught him, you know.”

Rice glared at Bonfield before turning to Neva. “Either way, those marks make you a target.”

Copeland tapped the table again. “She’ll need to be watched.”

“Sir,” Wiley said, stepping forward. “I’d be happy to volunteer.”

Bonfield looked set to protest, but Rice murmured something about “The publicity if things go further awry.” Eventually, the older man agreed to the “expense of a protective detail for a colored girl.”

“Excuse me,” Neva cut in, now that everyone had finished deciding her fate as if she were no older than little Dob. “What about my brother?”

Bonfield blinked at her. “Ah, right. We’ll put his name about. Augie Freeman, was it?”

“Yes. Thank you.” It was probably the best she could hope for from a white policeman. “Who’s Leather Apron?”

Now Bonfield scowled. “How could you not ... But then, I suppose you don’t read the papers.”

Neva swallowed her retort—she read them enough to know Governor Altgeld had recently blamed Bonfield for the chaos at Haymarket, the ensuing farce of a trial, and the resulting hanging of several anarchists. But he plainly wouldn’t believe a Negro capable of such literacy.

“Leather Apron,” Wiley began before clearing his throat.

She raised an eyebrow.

He paused another moment before the words came out: “Well, he’s better known as Jack the Ripper.”

Chapter Four

“YOU REALIZE I’LL HAVE to dock your pay?” asked Sol Bloom, the proprietor of the Algerian and Tunisian Village and chief developer of the Midway as a whole. Wiley had escorted her to Sol’s office after the inspectors dismissed them from the Administration Building.

Neva shrugged. “I expected as much.” She’d already explained that Commandant Rice thought she should keep a low profile. Sol had agreed, adding that he couldn’t put on her onstage with a belly rash anyway.

She turned to leave, then glanced back at Sol. He looked especially young next to Wahib, no more than a year or two older than her. “Can you get word to Mr. DeBell?” she asked.

“Certainly. What would you like that word to be?”

“Just ... tell him I could use his help.”

“I’ll make sure Edward knows. Be safe.”

“Thank you, Sol.”

Neva and Wiley left the office while Sol asked Wahib about the search for anything else “untoward” in the theatre.

“Who’s Edward?” asked Wiley with perfect politeness as she led him out of the theatre.

“A friend—a benefactor, really. Mr. DeBell’s a cattleman. He has lots of connections. Can you wait here a moment?”

Wiley cocked his head.

“Meriem—one of the other dancers—has some balm I’d like to apply to the marks. In private. It won’t take long.”

He glanced at her stomach, still concealed beneath the jacket she’d donned before going to Administration. I’ve seen your belly before, his eyes seemed to say.

“There are other marks.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts—gingerly, as if they hurt to the touch.

Wiley flushed. “Right. I’ll wait here for you.”

“Thank you.” Neva smiled at him, reentered the theatre, reclaimed Augie’s prop bag from Wahib, and hurried out the rear.

She almost turned around twice. Ever since Wiley had jumped onstage to come to her aid, he’d been a perfect gentleman, considerate and helpful—and dashing, if you came right down to it. Should she really be evading him? Before that, though, he’d gazed at her for weeks. And she’d learned the hard way that men who stared at her weren’t to be trusted. Best to play it safe.

After slipping behind the Street in Cairo complex, Neva left the Midway at its Woodlawn Avenue entrance and headed north and then east until she reached the 57th Street gate into the main Fair. There she flashed her exhibitor’s pass to get through the turnstiles and boarded the Elevated Railroad. But she didn’t breathe easy until the train rumbled into motion.

Finally, she was alone.

For several minutes, Neva just looked out the window, observing as the train circled the north end of the Fair and provided overhead views of various foreign and state structures. As usual, the Illinois Building, with its massive dome, and the California Building, styled to look like a Spanish mission with Moorish detail, appealed to her above the rest. But when the train completed its circuit at the North Inlet and reversed direction, Neva shook her head and started going through Augie’s bag.

Most of its contents were ordinary—ordinary for Augie, at least. Wigs, hats, jewelry, fake beards: anything that would help his act by lending his impressions additional credibility. Near the bottom was a layer of ticket stubs, assorted pamphlets (including the copy she’d lent him last week of Ida B. Wells and Frederick Douglass’s masterful The Reason Why the Colored American Is Not in the World's Columbian Exposition), and—

A live cockroach.

Neva whipped