Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Read Online Free PDF
Author: Bernadette Pajer
crime scene. How severe the crime, he didn’t yet know. The heat of an incandescent lamp would set a linen cloth ablaze within minutes. If the handkerchief had indeed been on the footlight when Mr. Andrews turned on the power, then someone must have entered the window display shortly after seven and moved it, deliberately leaving it behind. That someone could not have missed seeing Doyle lying dead.
“Who removed the cloth from the light?”
“Who? Oh, that I don’t know. It was there nearby, as I said, when I placed the screens. It was Billy Creasle, the assistant window dresser, who found Mr. Doyle and reported to me, but he said nothing of preventing a fire. Of course he was so upset, it might have gone clean out of his mind, too.”
“I’d like to speak to him.”
“He was unnerved by his discovery, as you can imagine. He is young, just turned eighteen. One of my most promising workers, but still a boy. I sent him home.”
O’Brien reached for the scorched cloth, but Bradshaw carefully tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’d like to keep it until I can perform some tests.”
“Don’t forget, it’s evidence.” O’Brien made note of it in his book. The Detective Department of the Seattle Police, and thus Detective O’Brien, had recently come under the command of Captain Tennant, who had established more rigorous procedures for recording and preserving evidence. O’Brien was ambivalent about some of the new requirements, such as regimented note-taking. While he’d always been careful with evidence, and he’d been championing for the routine use of modern methods such as fingerprinting and the Bertillon Anthropometric System, O’Brien had been investigating crime on the streets of Seattle long enough to have established his own system, which was based more on common sense than on strict adherence to procedural rules.
O’Brien snapped his notebook closed. “So what was Doyle doing?”
“Joining festoons.” Bradshaw got down on all fours to peer closely at Doyle’s hands. He then saw that the cord had been supplied with a junction plug to make joining easier. This plug was in Doyle’s grip. The few inches of bare copper he’d exposed, and that he’d intended to join within the junction plug, was pinched between his fingers. The charge had left telltale evidence of its deadly passage. A slight swelling and blistering of the fingertips and palms that must have at first been red were now turning gray against bloodless white. The skin was not burned, indicating exposure had been of short duration.
Whoever had thrown that “special” knife switch must have almost immediately turned it off. But it had been too late.
Bradshaw got back on his feet to make an inspection of the automatic time switch.
O’Brien watched over his shoulder. He asked, “Is the clock to blame?”
“No,” said Bradshaw. “Doyle hadn’t yet wound the clock mechanism or set the time. The festoon is properly attached, however, completing a circuit to the special switch in the cabinet.” He drew another deep breath. “I’ve seen all I need here. Let’s speak to Mr. Andrews.”
***
Bradshaw and O’Brien and Mr. Olafson met up with the chief electrician on the second floor, where he was inspecting an electrical panel situated in a hat stock room, lit by lamplight. Martin Andrews was a man of fifty-odd years, with sandy hair going to gray. He shook Bradshaw’s hand firmly, and readily offered all he anticipated Bradshaw might ask.
“I arrived just before seven as usual, lit up the show windows from the main box, and at half past was summoned by Mr. Olafson to the Men’s window. It looked just as you found it. I touched nothing, other than to cut off power to all the lighting from the mains. Vernon Doyle was our window man. His duty was to install and maintain all show window lighting, and the lighting in the department display cases. I have two other electrical men working for me. An apprentice,
“Who removed the cloth from the light?”
“Who? Oh, that I don’t know. It was there nearby, as I said, when I placed the screens. It was Billy Creasle, the assistant window dresser, who found Mr. Doyle and reported to me, but he said nothing of preventing a fire. Of course he was so upset, it might have gone clean out of his mind, too.”
“I’d like to speak to him.”
“He was unnerved by his discovery, as you can imagine. He is young, just turned eighteen. One of my most promising workers, but still a boy. I sent him home.”
O’Brien reached for the scorched cloth, but Bradshaw carefully tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jacket. “I’d like to keep it until I can perform some tests.”
“Don’t forget, it’s evidence.” O’Brien made note of it in his book. The Detective Department of the Seattle Police, and thus Detective O’Brien, had recently come under the command of Captain Tennant, who had established more rigorous procedures for recording and preserving evidence. O’Brien was ambivalent about some of the new requirements, such as regimented note-taking. While he’d always been careful with evidence, and he’d been championing for the routine use of modern methods such as fingerprinting and the Bertillon Anthropometric System, O’Brien had been investigating crime on the streets of Seattle long enough to have established his own system, which was based more on common sense than on strict adherence to procedural rules.
O’Brien snapped his notebook closed. “So what was Doyle doing?”
“Joining festoons.” Bradshaw got down on all fours to peer closely at Doyle’s hands. He then saw that the cord had been supplied with a junction plug to make joining easier. This plug was in Doyle’s grip. The few inches of bare copper he’d exposed, and that he’d intended to join within the junction plug, was pinched between his fingers. The charge had left telltale evidence of its deadly passage. A slight swelling and blistering of the fingertips and palms that must have at first been red were now turning gray against bloodless white. The skin was not burned, indicating exposure had been of short duration.
Whoever had thrown that “special” knife switch must have almost immediately turned it off. But it had been too late.
Bradshaw got back on his feet to make an inspection of the automatic time switch.
O’Brien watched over his shoulder. He asked, “Is the clock to blame?”
“No,” said Bradshaw. “Doyle hadn’t yet wound the clock mechanism or set the time. The festoon is properly attached, however, completing a circuit to the special switch in the cabinet.” He drew another deep breath. “I’ve seen all I need here. Let’s speak to Mr. Andrews.”
***
Bradshaw and O’Brien and Mr. Olafson met up with the chief electrician on the second floor, where he was inspecting an electrical panel situated in a hat stock room, lit by lamplight. Martin Andrews was a man of fifty-odd years, with sandy hair going to gray. He shook Bradshaw’s hand firmly, and readily offered all he anticipated Bradshaw might ask.
“I arrived just before seven as usual, lit up the show windows from the main box, and at half past was summoned by Mr. Olafson to the Men’s window. It looked just as you found it. I touched nothing, other than to cut off power to all the lighting from the mains. Vernon Doyle was our window man. His duty was to install and maintain all show window lighting, and the lighting in the department display cases. I have two other electrical men working for me. An apprentice,