Page 28 of By Any Means

He pushed in, moved to the side so Chary could dash in beside—the room was wide enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder but only just—then eased the door shut behind them, threw the chain lock.

Chary ran trembling hands through his dishwater hair.

Laurie eyed him, marking ticks off in his mind. Slightly wobbly, malnourished, vulnerable. Sharp and a little mean when agitated. Silent when necessary.

A murderer?

Chary sat on the singlewide bed’s surprisingly neat matelassé. He rubbed his palms over his blue jean’d knees, down, and down, and down, the coarse denim and calluses making a quiet husky noise. Calluses, from twelve-hour midnight shifts—in a glassworks he owned soup to nuts.

Maybe not vulnerable, Laurie thought.

The steps in the stairwell moved up and along. Nobody knocked. Chary relaxed, though his expression was still hard.

“Explain, newsman,” he whispered. “What story you want from me. N-no lies. Or if you want money, we can go to Bowery Savings. Otherwise, please leave.”

Laurie didn’t even bother feeling offended. He pulled up the vanity chair—the only seating in the place besides the bed and hardly room to move it out from its place—and folded his hands together, leaned in.

“I won’t be put off with bribery; let’s start with that. I want the truth. Did you know, Chary Wright, that four blowers from your factory have gone missing since your brother inherited two years ago?”

“What? No. Lord.” He looked sincere. Sincerely horrified. “Of course I didn’t know. Since when? Missing? Who? How long ago? Do you have names? Wait⁠—”

He does know. Laurie saw it fall onto his face: stunned revelation. “Were any of them perhaps arrested beforehand?”

Got you. Laurie nodded.

“James Delargy,” Chary said. “Last June. The police took him straight from his shift. Is he dead?”

“Suicide. Hanging. In Sing Sing.”

Chary gasped. “Samuel Border? Nine months ago? Tell me he’s alive. He swore he hadn’t stolen anything. I wrote a letter defending his character. As myself. As…” He waved. “On company letterhead.”

Laurie shook his head.

“Good Lord.” Chary covered his eyes briefly. “Umm. Other journeymen have left—not many… Brooklyn poached a few when they opened… but missing? My father—well, I had resignations from a handful… surely, that isn’t significant.”

“Any who didn’t ask for a reference?”

“I have no idea. If you can blow glass, it’s immediately obvious. We’re not unionized, so there’s no system… You do think those poor men were murdered?”

“Maybe. Did either of them know your brother personally?”

Chary frowned. “This isn’t connected to August. No, they certainly didn’t. He was very… hands-off… for what little time he had at company head.”

Hands-off. Like Tjofabier Raberding, his contemporary, supposedly had been. His lover. Had Chary known his brother was involved with him? Known he was heading for a buyout? He must have known.

“Were any of them queer?”

Chary drew back. “How would I know that? Again, I have no idea. I’m not out and open at the shop.”

That made sense. There, nobody had outed him from the age of twelve; no tongue-in-cheek articles, no whispers at parties, no infamy.

“Do you think it a possible… common denominator?” Chary asked.

“The only thing linking them so far is that they’re all blowers. And easily dispatched. Two worked for you directly.”

“With me,” Chary corrected quietly. “Worked with me. Four days a week, seven to seven, night to morning, Monday through Thursday.”

“Yeah, well, today’s Friday. What do you do Fridays?”