Murder on the Waterfront

Chapter 1 1910 It was a night of moonlit shadows along the Hoboken waterfront. Maggie Pennyworth, one of the unfortunates living in the number two cabin was walking along the dock. As the water swelled and retreated she noticed by a glint of moonlight, what seemed to be a dark bundle near the wood columns under the pier, she hesitated then carefully stepped down to the water. Feeling the returning tide brush against her feet, she lifted her skirt and continued. The closer Maggie came to the pile the more uneasy she felt. Approaching the bundle she noticed it was a large sack, Maggie kicked it gently with her foot; it seemed harmless. Kneeling down and carefully untying the knot a flash of hope entered her mind that it could be money or something else of value. When the thought of a body came to mind she pulled her hand back for an instant, greed however, persuaded her to go on. She opened the sack further then pulled away quickly. She stood looking around for someone to call to but the waterfront was deserted. It was the body of Fred Throckmorton, the president of a major corporation. His murder was front page news. Looking toward the river Maggie could see in the shadows of the European steamships, the Hamburg-American and the Holland American looming in the mist behind the fishing trawlers and the freighters that were beginning to sway in the upcoming squall along the Hudson. Keeping an eye on her surroundings she hurried back up the steps to the row of cabins where she lived. Coming to number four she tapped lightly. Starting to move on she heard the door open, “What is it Maggie?” asked a tall man with dark hair lightly sprinkled with gray and disarrayed by sleep. “Mike, Throckmorton’s body’s under the pier.” “Wait here, I’ll get dressed.” Maggie was slim, with salt and pepper hair covered by a red bandana. Sitting on a bench by a railing her mind wandered back to a time when she was curled up in a doorway on Washington Street; if it hadn’t been for Mike Chambers she would still be there. He told her about the cabins along the waterfront and one that was vacant. She’d been there ever since; Mike lives two doors down. Learning a great deal about Mike over the years, it was obvious he was much more than most people knew. Because of him Maggie had someone to look after her and food in her stomach regularly. It wasn’t always a safe job, but it was a life that kept her quick of mind and needed. When Mike came out of the door Maggie was still sitting by the railing, her eyes a distant look in them, her feet tucked under the bench. “Maggie,” Mike called tilting his head toward the docks. Taking her arm, he lifted the lantern to lead their way down to the pier. She watched Mike examine the body he knew exactly what he was looking for. “Well,” Mike said standing, “Throckmorton didn’t drown, he was murdered and his body dumped here.” Maggie moved closer, a large gash surrounded by a great deal of swelling and traces of crusted specks of blood confirmed his suspicions. Throckmorton had indeed, been hit on the back of his head with a heavy object. “This is definitely a warning, they’re getting close Maggie.” Mike said running his knuckle across his lips. “Whatcha gonna’ do now?’ she asked licking her lips nervously. Mike observing her asked, “Maggie, what’s wrong? It’s not like you to be so edgy.” “I’m scared, ‘spose some o’ them thugs ‘round here saw me?” Looking around Mike said, “I doubt if there’s anyone here now. Come on, help me put him under the pier, there’s going to be a storm, the wind is shifting.” After moving the murdered man’s body, Mike put his arm around his companion. “Don’t worry, we’ll have coffee and I’ll take you back to your house.” “Who’s gonna watch me when ya leave?” “I’ll be near.” He had developed a fondness for her over the years. With a coy expression on her face Maggie said, “Ya gonna’ call that guy from New York ain’t ya.” Mike looked down at her and winked. After Maggie was safely in her home Mike returned to his cabin. Putting on his cap and pulling the collar of his pea coat up around his neck he approached Washington Street and saw a group of street urchins, who were regulars, huddled in the doorway of an abandoned warehouse. Singling out a boy named Tommy Callahan he caught the boy’s eye and nodded to him. The red headed boy with freckles, about ten years old followed Mike to a storefront two blocks up. Mike handed Tommy a note. “Will she be up?” Tommy asked. Mike nodded. “Tell her it has to be done immediately.” Tommy put the note in his pocket and raced toward Hudson Street. He came to an impressive brownstone in an affluent area, where a woman of medium height and full figured, with blond hair in the Gibson style of the day, met Tommy in the foyer. After reading the note she said, “Tell the gentleman I’ll make the call straight away.” Tommy left running at top speed back to Washington Street. The woman went to the study and made the call to Marshall Washbourne in New York. As Tommy ran around the corner he saw Mike standing near a call box. “She’s gonna call that guy now.” As he started to run back across the street Mike grabbed the collar of his coat. Tommy looked up thinking he was in trouble. Mike smiled. “Here.” He put two bits in the boy’s pocket. Tommy’s eyes widened. “You deserve it son. Don’t let on that you have it.” Shaking his finger he said, “If you buy booze with this I’ll tan your hide. Now get going.”