The pen is mightier than the sword. It was something Ray said quite often when flurrying about in his journal or reading over a draft of a column for the Hog.
The girls studied the pamphlets given them at the rally, not wanting to miss any details that could connect the dots between the People’s Labor Movement, the trolley explosions, and Jonathan Arnasson.
“M.C. Wheaton says that as important as chasing after a mystery are the hours spent planning and mapping out your steps.” Merinda clapped her hands. “We’re in the planning stages!” Jem found it difficult to focus as she droned on about this and that and whether they should telephone their friend Nicholas Haliburton in the States for information on Goldman’s rallies there. Kat and Mouse had supplied recent Globe articles on the Detroit and Calgary bombings.*
“It’s just as Benny said.” Merinda said happily, slapping an open newspaper. “Precise. No one might even expect they were anything but accidents.” She bounced a little in her chair. “It stands to reason that this Jonathan—no matter his criminal tendencies—would prove quite efficient at whatever task came to hand.”
“And what makes you think that?” Jem asked.
Merinda cleared her throat. “On account of his being related to Benny who, as we have learned, excels quite readily at nearly everything. Why, look at how he patched up your head the other night.”
“Just because someone in a family is proficient at something… ”
“I deduced, Jem.” Merinda said shortly. “Just… just from the way he talked about him. Another proficiency! He expresses himself quite well. Relays all facts in the most interesting way and with quite confident voice and manner.”
Jem rolled her eyes, slowly rose, and crossed the Persian carpet to the bureau. She dramatically opened their well-worn copy of M.C. Wheaton’s Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace and read aloud: “The first rule of deduction is to never, under any circumstances, develop romantic feelings toward your client. They are not only extremely unprofessional, but they make it impossible to clearly deduce all of the facts at hand, nor assess with a clear head and a cool eye the data needed in pursuit of a resolution to your mystery.”
Jem finished, cleared her throat, and stabbed Merinda with a knowing eye.
“Oh, hush up!” Merinda said.
The short stroll from Jem’s own house to the meeting place was punctuated by Merinda’s unending praise of Benny. Jem stifled a smile. They had little knowledge of Citrone, but the few dropped bread crumbs seemed to be all Merinda needed to expound on his indomitable skills.
“If Sherlock Holmes met Jack London,” Merinda said to Jem “That would be Benny Citrone.” Merinda had recovered some of her indefatigable spirit, and Jem smiled with the jaunty breeze and mellow sky. Jem started to ask her how she had made all of these assumptions so quickly, but stopped herself, knowing that Merinda would respond with something about her keen powers of observation.
Jem breathed in the mingling scents and sounds around her, brightening with her unadulterated love of the city. She drank in the townhouses standing sentry and the overgrown gardens. A familiar tapestry: children skipping over unpaved roads in a squealing game of stick hockey, women looking lovingly under the canopies of their prams, men pushing wheelbarrows or hoeing at uneven earth. Jem would raise a family here. She had become more aware now of women whose arms held tiny bundles with eyes peering out and around, whose children shyly tugged at their skirts. This would be her soon, trying to make a life and a home amid uncertain conditions, sputtering streetlights, and the chugging progress of their upturned city, construction dusting and gutting every corner.
The trolley incidents had resulted in a strange kind of leftover friction. It thrummed through the streets, tripped over the messy thresholds and beyond the gaslights, and settled over the work-worn faces of the immigrants.
The People’s Labor Movement had more supporters than ever, extending the excitement of Emma Goldman’s words. They held office at a dingy and inconspicuous teahouse, only called so because its front sported mismatched pots and chipped cups. But the beaded strings partitioning off the back room led to a dank, mildewed meeting place.
An Asian woman with overrouged cheeks smiled with gapped teeth. Jem and Merinda gave their sweetest smiles as they were ushered into a room rank with the smell of incense and cheap cigars.
It was a fine thing that Jem’s surname remained Watts in her association with Merinda Herringford. The anarchist group they infiltrated would not have taken kindly to a woman associated with Ray DeLuca, a man they had several times attempted to press into their group and services to no avail. She heard Ray’s name several times as pamphlets and leaflets were distributed, most of them in languages she couldn’t read.