Contact: Phineas_Redux@yahoo.com
—OOO—
Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. The ladies are asked to investigate when a series of curiously similar and expensive claims are made, under suspicious circumstances, to an Insurance Company.
Disclaimer:— All characters are copyright © 2014 to the author. All Company names and characters in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Caution:— There is a certain amount of light swearing in this story.
—O—
Part 5 of
the 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident
—O—
The Carmarthen Building sat halfway along Pataloc Avenue, the centre of the high-class business district in Delacote City, NH. It stood a domineering 34 storeys high, making its presence felt across most of the city. A new building, only four years old, it had primarily been constructed to show people further south that skyscrapers were not the single prerogative of larger, more famous, capital cities. Two entire floors, comprising some one hundred and twenty individual offices, were given over to the mysterious doings of the ‘ Charioteer Insurance Co., Inc. '. This Company had many feelers and tentacles, stretching out to encompass Boston, Chicago, and even New York itself. Its customers were reported to number in the hundreds of thousands, while its reserves were rumoured to exceed $5,000,000. Like every other of its brothers and sisters in the same game, however, it had to fight an ever-present war against fraudsters; and it was this subject which had led to the employment of the two ladies now waiting uncomfortably in an ante-chamber on the 23 rd floor. Neither Fiona Cartwright nor Alice Drever were particularly happy; having had their presence commanded in rather authoritative, not to say downright Royal, tones in a letter received only two days previously.
“We could'a said no!” Alice was replying to a mirthless grunt, uttered despairingly by her companion. “What did that note say, again—about wanting our professional expertise?”
Fiona, without a word, hauled the now badly crumpled object of derision from her red leather reticule and proceeded to quote—with an accent bordering on the rebellious.
“ Dear Sirs ,—idiots, they obviously live in a patriarchal society where nothing ever rocks their cigar-smoking, port-drinking lives. Huumph! —”
“Easy, sister, easy.”
“ Blah, Blah, Blah,— ‘ The Company therefore requires your firm to send two of its most experienced operatives—gentlemen of great capability will be needed for this case—whom we will instruct in their duties at interview on Thursday, 19 th July, 1933. We have consulted a former customer of yours, a man of the finest standing, who has assured us your men will be of the highest aptitude. Yours, Henry Wriothesley, Chairman '. Fiona folded the offending missive contemptuously and growled, deep in her throat. “Huh! I can't even pronounce his name—dam' bastard!”
“Hell, Fay, a bit early yet t'start castin' aspersions on his parenthood, ain't it?” Alice always liked the quiet, conciliatory outlook—whenever possible. “So, he's a little stuck-up, an' not very complimentary on the feminine front—but, y'never know, he might turn out t'be a regular pussy-cat.”
“Huh! Is there a shootin' season for pussy-cats?”
“Come on, Fay, relax. Its just another case, an' just another client.” Alice placed a comforting hand on Fiona's left arm. “We go in; get the job done; collect our assuredly large check; an' head for the hills like we always do, before their Accounting Dept. have second thoughts,—simple.”
Before the black-haired half of ‘ Drever and Cartwright ', Private Investigators, could form a suitable reply a door to the right of their leather-upholstered bench opened to present a mature woman of a secretarial nature. She looked at her prey; considered; and obviously made her judgement unerringly, through years of experience. However, she allowed a somewhat warm smile to crease her apparently normally unresponsive features.
“Mr Wriothesley is free, now.” Her accent was upper-ten per cent New Hampshire; the ten per cent that mattered. “His name is pronounced ‘Rizzley', by the way. We find many persons have difficulty with it, and the Chairman has become rather—jaded—with the problem as a result. Please follow me, his office is not far.”
Walking along the corridor behind the secretary—it quickly becoming clear she felt her place to be in the lead, with mere customers a submissive three paces behind—it also appeared that her ‘not far' was to be taken in the Irish nature of the term. The corridor apparently stretched the full width of the building, and they seemed to be heading for some indeterminate point almost out of sight. Finally they stopped short at a lift-door, as their chatelaine stepped across to press the up-button.
“His office is on the 24 th floor; the executive floor. The Directors have their offices there.” She said this in a low, almost reverential, manner; as if the people in charge belonged to some esoteric religious sect, and had to be appeased at all costs. “A word of advice,—Mr Wriothesley does not like people who talk loudly; nor does he suffer argumentative or outspoken persons. He gives his orders, and expects competent employees to carry them out without dispute.”
Exiting the lift, at arrival on the next floor, they still had a hundred yards or more to walk before their guide eventually halted beside a plain pale wooden door. It had a small brass plaque engraved with the simple title ‘ Chairman ', and on seeing this both Alice and Fiona immediately felt a childish need to hunch their shoulders and shuffle nervously inside their clothes, as if meeting a teacher from their ill-spent youths again. The lady, still determinedly anonymous, tapped quietly thrice on the panel; opened the door without waiting for any response; and ushered the women into the chamber. Before they could fully realise the fact, she had retreated back into the corridor once more; and they found themselves alone in a wide office.
The room was essentially a long rectangle in form, they having entered its confines towards the left-hand side; so a long vista stretched away to the right as they stood within its echoing void. Opposite, across bare plain floorboards, ran a series of windows starting at waist height and nearly reaching the ceiling; thus allowing the office to be flooded with light. What it did not include were any other occupants apart from the two detectives. The style was a stark Moderne ; everything being of a determinedly glowing white, with various highlights in pale green. The three ceiling electric lights, especially, seemed to have been designed by a particularly forward child who had not yet quite grasped the connection between glass and metal as style motifs.
“ Jeez! Looks like something out'ta a monthly ‘ House Beautiful ' magazine.” Alice gazed up and down the vast interior. “There's room for an army of executives here. Who needs all this space? An' look—just one desk, way over there in the corner. God, my shoe-leather'll be worn out by the time we reach it.”
“ Hurph! ” Fiona, who could see the funny side of the situation, nodded in amusement. “I think there's some egoistic influences going on here. Anybody needin' this much of a pad t'bolster their ego, has really deep questions they ought'ta be sharin' with a shrink. Uh-oh.”
The last remark was occasioned by the sudden opening of a door in the far wall near the desk. As Fiona and Alice came up to stand on one side of the massive bureau one of the two doors in the wall behind it opened fully, to reveal a large man dressed in an expensive medium-blue suit. He stood around 5' 11”; had a rotund body; but was also so massively built he looked as if he would easily come off best in a fight with any four hefty dockers you'd care to name. His expression, however, let him down badly in the caring ‘ I love my fellow worker ' category. It being plain to see, even by the most myopic of observers, that love for his fellow worker was the very last thing on his mind.
“Hah! Oh! Hah!”
Having delivered himself of this less than warm greeting the man stood still, silently contemplating his visitors. After a few seconds it became obvious he was in no hurry to open negotiations, or perform any other kind of polite salutation. He appeared, indeed, to be suffering from some surprise at finding a pair of women in his office; and was now apparently considering, internally, his best mode of escape. Fiona efficiently forestalled him.
“Hi'ya, we're ‘ Drever & Cartwright ', PI's.” She raised a perfectly formed eyebrow at her new acquaintance, and fixed him with a steely hazel eye. “We're all of ‘ Drever & Cartwright ',—there are no others, only us. So? What can we do for you, Mister. By the way, we ain't been introduced yet!”
“Ah—Uum!” He stood transfixed for a few more seconds, then seemed to regain control of his tongue. “I'm, er, Mr Wriothesley, Chairman of the Board.”
“Good. Nice t'meet ya.” Alice chimed in with a bright smile; though she had also taken note, like Fiona, of her host's apparent antipathy towards the feminine gender: meanwhile, she could prevaricate with the best, as Fiona had often told her. “I'm Alice Drever, an' this is my cohort, Fiona Cartwright. Your letter called us—so, accordingly with the highest standards of professional etiquette, here we are. What can we do for you, Mr Rizzlie? I got'ta tell ya, though, we don't come cheap. When you engage the best, you got'ta be prepared to pay for the best. So, are you in, or are you out? We got things t'do; places t'be; important people—very important people—t'meet. If you wan'na make a decision, now would be good.”
He remained silent; but his face turned a rather fetching deeper pink and his eyes opened wider, revealing them to be of an innocuous grey. Overall his general attitude seemed offended.
“I don't think I quite like your tone of voice, Miss. I may say I expected that men of a capable nature would have been attached to this affair, not, umm,—women!” He straightened to his full height and began to go into what was obviously a well rehearsed disciplinary monologue, deploying a louder belligerent tone for the occasion. “In my Company people are expected to know their places in the hierarchy, and give unfailing attention and respect to their superiors; and women's pla—”
“Mr Whizley, I ain't got time to listen to hot air, even the best hot air.” Fiona leaned forward slightly—snapping his rhetoric off short, whilst harpooning her target with a cold glare. “Don't come the hoity-toity school-teacher with us. We don't work for you; we ain't scared of whatever power ya think ya hold; we got better things t'do than waste our professional time listenin' t'a cowardly bully blowin' off. If ya want us t'take note o'your concerns, whatever they are, say so. If not, cut the crap an' Al an' I'll leave ya to suppurate in your own self-esteem. Which'll it be? Come on, ya got'ta make a decision faster than that—like Al here just said, we got places t'be, an' you're holding us back. Well?”
Looking now for all the world like a fish, a very large fish, out of water, Mr Wriothesley opened and shut his mouth wordlessly. It was not often that anybody had the pluck, or foolhardiness, to stand up to his bluster to his face—and for a mere woman to do so was, well, unheard of. He was clearly flummoxed, and took the opportunity to sink into his wide deep well-upholstered leather chair; placing both hands, meanwhile, on the flat desk-top for support—moral as well as physical.
“I—er, I—er.”
He gazed at the pen-stand on his desk; transferred his attention to the small row of books standing on one corner of the wide leather-covered top; brought his hands together, giving the several expensive rings on his fingers close attention; then finally struck up courage to look his opponent in her eye—a reckless act he immediately thought better off. Being shot down in flames, in his own office, was not something he had ever experienced before—and he didn't like it now; but what could he do? Noisy bluster is simply that; and when your best in that line has been comprehensively torn to shreds in front of your face you are, by definition, laid bare—left morally naked to all observers. In short, failing any further available recourse or the ability to effect a fast but dignified withdrawal, he was beat.
“Perhaps,—perhaps we better start again.” He glanced forlornly from one to the other of his quite clearly unwanted guests, then waved feebly at the two chairs on their side of his magnificent desk. “Er, take a seat. I was, er, kind'a expecting men to be assigned to this, umm, case.”
“Well, ya got women instead.” Fiona never took prisoners when she thought she was being sexually repressed. “So, what're ya goin' t'do about it? We are, I might tell ya, the best Private Investigators in New Hampshire. I don't say that out'ta bravado; it's just the plain truth. Whatever your case is, you can place it in our hands with confidence. We work hard, an' we get results. So, wha'd'ya say? An' cut the sexist crap, fer Christ's sake—Alice an' I can hold our own in any circumstances whatsoever; you better believe it. So?”
Looking remarkably like a character from a Shakespeare play undergoing the ‘ slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune ', Mr Wriothesley glanced from one woman to the other, then returned his gaze to the desk-top again. It was a new experience for him, being snarled at and clapper-clawed by ladies of the opposite sex in his own office. But something in the tone of Fiona's diatribe had rung a bell in his mind. So long inured to giving of his best in the way of personal criticism and contemptuous repartee, he could by now swiftly recognise a fellow strong-willed connoisseur of the trade. Fiona was sharp; she was brave; she was not backward in coming forward, where the status of herself or her companion was concerned; and she obviously did not suffer fools, or bullies, gladly. The Chairman suddenly, much to his own surprise, found himself almost admiring the ladies; and determining that perhaps they could offer, in themselves, what he had hitherto thought the sole prerogative of the male of the species—ie, sound common sense, daring, and the capacity to get the job done. He visibly perked up; though going so far as to smile at his visitors was, clearly, still a step best reserved for the distant future.
“OK, er, OK.” He shuffled his bulk in his chair, trying for the most comfortable position; then started tapping the fingers of his left hand on the desk, in a somewhat irritating manner: a habit he had, when focussed on a particular problem. “Right, uum, right. What it is-is, er,-umm.—”
“Try startin' at the beginning,—then goin' on till you reach the end; then stop.” Alice offered her special method for coming to the point. She had a cutting wit, on occasion. “I find it works for me, an' other clients.”
“ Hurrumph .” Wriothesley knew perfectly well when he was being set up as the target for sarcasm—and he didn't much like it. But he at least had enough sense not to react to the perceived thrust. “The Company has,— I have,—the Company—is in a rather delicate position at the moment. We have many important clients; as well as a majority of what might be termed mainstream policy-holders. The latter being made up of ordinary common house insurance, or life insurance policies, and suchlike. We have a hand in business insurance, as well; and also contract policies—which can be, er, somewhat esoteric in detail, to the uninitiated. But where our problem at the present moment lies is in a, er, sub-section of the, um, ordinary property market. Have you ever heard of, ah, Corners—and, er, Futures?”
There was a pause, as both women racked their memories. Somewhere in the vast room a more than ordinarily pertinacious fly could be heard buzzing angrily on one of the many window-panes. The only other sound was the creaking of the Chairman's chair, as he continued searching for that elusive perfect posture. Finally Alice valiantly stood to the parapet with her response.
“Futures, yeah.” She rubbed her chin, baring her teeth in thought. “Something t'do with buying stuff at a wholesale price, an' hopin' the market value'll go up at some future point?”
“You got it, that's right.” Wriothesley seemed impressed. “And ‘ cornering ' is simply to buy up all the available stock and outlets for a particular product, so no other merchant or firm can undersell you; giving you the capability of setting whatever market value you wish on your product. It can be a dangerous undertaking; failing catastrophically, more often than not.”
“What does this hav'ta t'do with the insurance game?” Fiona pin-pointed the crux of the matter. “Where does any scam come in? An' what d'you want us t'do about it?”
“Well,” Wriothesley, although still somewhat cautious, found himself warming to the subject. “To ‘ corner ' a market you need to gain control of the whole, or at least a fairly large overall percentage, of the commodity concerned. Generally this is accomplished by simply buying up the available material, and closing down those outlets you do not wish to compete any further with your own business. However, there is a rather more under-handed method of accomplishing this, at less cost—”
“Destroying someone's stock.” Fiona nodded knowingly. “Breaking it up, or burning warehouses down. That sort'a thing.”
“Exactly.” The Chairman agreed, then stopped tapping on his desk to focus on the details of his problem. “So, in the last few months we—the Company, that is—have experienced an upsurge in a particular area of our policies. That is, buildings, mostly warehouses, burned down by arson. Arson which cannot be proved against the policy-holder. Generally somebody decides to go for the insurance money, if they think their business is failing and they can get away with it. Of course, they never do get away with it—our agents are experts, and can sniff out arson faster than Lou Gehrig can hit a home run, lem'me tell you! But sometimes somebody, out'ta spite or whatever, decides to raze some other guy's warehouse and ain't ever found out. These things happen now and again; once in a blue moon, in fact. This type of scenario we just got'ta take on the chin; pay up; and walk away.”
“Can't happen very often.” Alice shrugged her shoulders. “That sort'a exploit don't seem to feature in the newspapers much.”
The Chairman nodded in agreement, leaning forward to rest both elbows on the desk. Absorbed in the details of his problem he had laid aside his animosity, and was now focussed entirely on explaining his case.
“Yep, when it occurs say once or twice a year somewhere in the State nobody takes a blind bit of notice.” He paused to open a drawer of his desk, extracting a pile of cardboard folders which he dumped on the desk-top in front of him—opening, and beginning to skim through the contents of the top file. “I got the whole thing written up here. As I said, once or twice a year—OK, some fool tries for the big-time, an' fails miserably when my boys set their sights on him. But recently things have changed; over the past four months we've had no less than nine claims for burned-out buildings and warehouses. And the thing is, none of my experts have been able to pin arson—and it definitely is arson—on the policy-holder. This is simply way beyond any kind'a percentage probability, y'understand. It can't be accidental, anyway; that many fires, in the particular circumstances concerned, just couldn't be accidental—not forgetting that the Fire Authorities, and my men, found evidence of gas and kerosene at some of the scenes. Somebody's out to cause trouble for a whole set of policy-holders—an' here's the interesting thing; all the fired buildings had their policies underwritten by our Company. What do you make of that?”
“Have there been any fires in this period, accidental or otherwise, that were the business of other Insurance Companies?” Fiona found herself becoming absorbed in the subject. “Anywhere in the State? What were the business's anyway? What did they have in stock?”
“Hah!” Wriothesley seemed more animated than ever by these questions. “Just so, what was the stock—the holdings of each business—precisely. What object, in effect, was being advanced by each act of arson? Well, this is where it becomes interesting. Firstly, no; there haven't been any other, er, actions or claims of a similar nature made on other Companies in the relevant period. That alone would make it clear to any inspector or expert that the grouping of these events was, how can I put it, un-natural. Secondly, the stock. Well, this is also interesting; at first glance you'd say, no there isn't any connection; but, of course, there must be—deep down. There's just got'ta be—the fires are happenin' as a group; my experts are unanimous about that. But what flummoxes us is, there doesn't seem to be any logical connection between the outbreaks.”
“So, what are the details?” Fiona raised an eyebrow enquiringly. “If ya give us the facts maybe Al an' I'll be able t'make something o'the mess.”
“Let's see.” Wriothesley shuffled through the papers on the top file; took a page in his hand, and began to summarise its contents. “Firstly there was ‘ Cranston's Machinery Co. '. It manufactures small electrical/mechanical equipment for various uses, nothing big. Four months ago its main warehouse, over in Manchester, was burned down. My agents investigated, ultimately finding no criminal intent by the owners; but it was arson nonetheless, Fire Dept. found traces of petrol all over the place. And it goes the same way with the other eight victims. Everything from machinery, through newsprint/magazine stock, to vegetable-crop warehouses. I can't make anything of it; so I got onto a, er, friend, and he recommended your, ah, firm as being, um, the best. I didn't realise you were, ah, women. I have what I suppose you'd call a rather, er, conventional attitude towards women's place in society—and especially Business. Y'see, it's this way, I just don't see ho—”
“Well, you'll just hav'ta get used to the modern age, Mr Rithlow.” Alice was having none of it. She was as solidly feminist as her partner, and never held back when the situation demanded it. “These days women can hold their own in pretty nearly any position y'care t'name. The times when Victorian Ladies swooned elegantly on chaise-longues are well an' truly over. A lady nowadays is just as likely to spit in your eye; then haul off an' hit you on the jaw with a piledriver that'd make Primo Carnera jealous. Fiona an' I have had a pretty wide experience of all kinds of criminal activities, an' criminals, in person. We've seen it all; an' met some of the meanest sons of bitches that had a hand in actually doin' it all. We know what's what; an' how t'handle trouble, you bet. So, what's your decision? If you give us the chance we can help you—but it's up to you.”
For another few seconds Wriothesley shuffled the pages of the file in front of him, with a deeply furrowed brow. Then, heaving a sigh, he came to a decision.
“Here, these are the files of all the relevant cases.” He cast a jaundiced eye on both women then clearly threw the towel in, submitting to hard necessity. “Take ‘em away, an' see if you can make anything of it all. Standard rates, I hope; an' I'll keep you informed if anything further occurs. Try an' make some kind'a sense of the damned thing;—I need answers, an' I need ‘em soon—or my Directors are gon'na start cryin' in my coffee. Goodbye.”
—O—
“So, what d'you think of our latest esteemed client?” Alice sat at ease in the front passenger seat of the beautiful honey-coloured Buick, smiling at her better half.
“If he goes t'hell in a hand-basket tomorrow, it won't be too soon for me.” Fiona stated this opinion coldly, with bared teeth; looking for all the world like a starving wolf that had just come across a particularly well-rounded deer. “Dam' bastard. One thing we know for sure—he ain't married. No woman—whatever her nature—would put up with that cha uvinistic attitude for more than a week, before she hauled out the house revolver and commenced target practice on him.”
“An' the jury 'ud come in unanimously with a verdict of self-defence?” Alice laughed gently. “He does tend t'get right up one's nostrils, doesn't he. Sort'a a moral leftover from—what? The Victorians? The Edwardians? Anyway's, he's out'ta place in this modern world. Hell, we've got women like Amelia Earhart, Eleanor Roosevelt, an' Edith Wharton—while all old Spizlee, or whatever his name is, can do is grumble about still keeping women firmly under the male thumb in society. D'you really think we need this job, Fay?”
Fiona was driving her Buick at a safe pace along Ocean Boulevard; where they had gone to clear their heads with the fresh sea air, before returning to their office. She shrugged her shoulders eloquently at this question, with pursed lips.
“Oh, I suppose we got'ta.” She growled low, like an angry bear. “A damned idiot, but a client nonetheless. If we're goin' t'be professional about this, I expect we'll just hav'ta take it on the chin an' do the best we can. Standard rates, was it, he asked for?”
“Yeah, but I was thinkin', all things considered, this looks more like a rate an' a half job t'me. Wha'd'ya say?”
“I'm with ya there.” Fiona smiled happily for the first time that day. “Let's soak the bastard, why not. A gal's got'ta have some fun.”
—O—
The first file they studied as they sat together in their office, back at the Packer Building,—from the pile supplied by the less than enthusiastic Insurance Director—was that of ‘ Cranston's Machinery Co. '. A preliminary glance did not appear to offer anything very much in the way of clarification. It was a well-established firm supplying a variety of light machinery for a wide range of customers. Nothing too heavy or complicated. The sort of thing small engineering firms or farmers might find useful. It tended to have a reasonable amount of equipment in stock, for quick sale to needful customers. The warehouse in question was a large shed-like building, as would be expected, on the outskirts of Manchester, NH. It had been about two hundred feet long and thirty feet wide; two-storey's high, though inside it was simply a large echoing open chamber from concrete floor to angled tin roof high above. There was an overhead crane which ran the length of the warehouse on a steel rail suspended from ceiling girders. The wide double-doors forming the front entrance slid sideways, offering the maximum amount of room for the passage of machinery. On the night of the 23 rd March the whole place had gone up in a blue light from stem to stern; so fast, in fact, that while it took only seven minutes for the first two fire trucks to arrive, the whole building was already beyond saving. No-one had been injured; the only night-time staff being a single old nightwatchman. He, it transpired, had left the building to cross the wide forecourt to the low wall separating the premises from the road outside after seeing what he took to be an accident involving a car and a female pedestrian. On later questioning he had to admit that when he reached the wall to see what was going on both the woman and the car had disappeared. At that moment the building behind him exploded in what was in fact a bright orange light; there being nothing he could do but run to the office of the adjacent firm along the quiet street, where its watchman telephoned the Fire Dept. Of suspects, or prowlers, the nightwatchman denied all knowledge.
“Looks like a cul-de-sac there.” Alice grunted softly, wriggling more comfortably on her hard wooden chair while flicking through the pages of notes. “Nightwatchman was duped into leaving the warehouse by two people puttin' on a show in the road. While he was out'ta the way someone else nipped in the open door an' set off some fire-bombs; then disappeared while the watchman was going for help. At least we know it must be a gang-job. Know any hoods who're up for this sort'a thing?”
“ Uurm , there's ‘ Spikey ' Joe Haines.” Fiona pursed her lips in deep thought as she ran over all the most likely dead-beats she had come across in her long career. “Wasn't he had up for arson a few years ago? He'd fit the bill.”
“Nope.” Alice shook her head reprovingly. “Seems as if I'm more au fait on the latest news than you, doll. ‘ Spikey ' had another go at the ol' ‘ oops, I've dropped a lighted match ' scam just three months ago. He's doin' five in the State Prison as we speak.”
“Damn.” Fiona made an unbecoming noise through her lips, then went back to checking her mental list. “How's about—er,—hey, I got it. Charlie Gerdenhalt. He's famous for all sorts'a rip-offs. Remember that time he an' another accomplice set up a con on a whole series of jerks—I mean innocent victims—by ramming into the backs of their cars ‘ accidently on purpose because of the mark's, cough, fault ', then threatening court proceedings for damages, before finally settling out'ta court for a substantial sum? Very pretty little lark, I must say.”
“Yeah, he was good. An' judging from the way you're kind'a dreamily gazin' off into the distance, I'm thinkin' maybe you're a little jealous of his-what?—acumen?” Alice looked over at her confederate with a smile. “But you're conveniently forgetting he's been domiciled in the sweet country town of Last Hope, Missouri, for the past two years; ever since Jimmy the Shark ran him out'ta Delacote, for bein' too big for his boots.”
“Can it, gal. We got serious work t'do here.” The black-haired detective sniffed dis-approvingly. “So, what d' you think, then; if you're so good?”
The two women were sitting on chairs beside each other on one side of a large wide table placed against the far wall of their office. At present it was littered with the assembled files so kindly donated by Mr Wriothesley; along with various files of their own, and several unfolded maps of the city, and the State in general. Alice leaned her elbows on the top; put her chin in her hands; and emitted a sound meant to be expressive of contempt of this last question.
“ Phweuhy . I got my eye on some pretty spots o' grease, don't worry.” She shuffled a couple of sheets of typewritten notes, in a manner indicative of assured knowledge. “Yep.”
There was a pause. A short quiet pause at first; but, finally, a pause which threatened to reach epic proportions if not stomped on cruelly and resolutely. Fiona was the gal for that.
“Dear Lord. Stop makin' like a clam—shoot, gal.”
“Oh, right.” Alice sat up straighter; ran a hand through her silken brunette locks, much to her companion's inner delight; then looked Fiona in the eye with absolute conviction. “George Champlain. There, wha'd'ya think of that, Sherlock?”
The pause this time came from the opposite member of the duo. It was not often that Fiona found herself lost for words, but this was one of those rare moments.
“Ge—Geor—Good God, George Champlain? Are ya out'ta your mind?” Fiona leaned over to officiously put a palm on her lover's forehead, as if checking her temperature. “Ya got a fever, or somethin'? George's been out'ta the game ever since the ‘ Jermyn St. Massacre ', back in '29. He being the sole survivor, just, remember? He's gone straight since—if ya can call running a horse-racing track goin' straight. And he limps badly, anyway—with both legs. Nah, he's out.”
“Don't be so quick out'ta the startin' gate, darling.” When on the trail of a sure thing Alice wasn't one to be easily put off. She brushed a piece of fluff from the arm of her companion's wool jacket—small check, green and white—with a supercilious affectation. “After all, horse-racing? Well, I ask you?”
The question was an interesting one; but one which, to Fiona, appeared to have no relevancy whatsoever—and she felt it necessary to bring this point to the attention of her cross-examiner.
“What? What? What?”
“Well, it's a mug's game, isn't it?” Alice obviously saw that a simple explanation for simple minds was necessary. “An' mugs get taken for all they have, don't they. Especially at horse-racing tracks. Come on, Fay; have you actually ever been to a horse-racing track that was really on the up-an'-up? No. Well there, I rest my case.”
“Case? What case? You ain't got a case. An' if ya have, it's full'a more holes than a Swiss cheese.” Fiona let a little humour enter the conversation. “Seems t'me George's still innocent, baby. Where's your evidence?”
“Good grief, honey, everyone knows Meidener Field track's just a front for a gangster combo.” The brown-haired Peri nodded shrewdly. “You couldn't place a straight bet there, if you got a Bishop to do the needful at the betting-counter. —”
“ Hah! ”
“— an', anyway, it ain't the place; it's the brains behind it all.” Alice raised a hand in the air to emphasise her argument. “George was one of the slimiest, double-crossingest snakes that ever polluted society; an' he's still the same t'day, lem'me tell you, Fay. Only now he slimes in a fancy silk suit an' buttercup coloured spats. He's got brains, dearest, an' brains is what we're lookin' for in this here crazy mixed-up mess. He fits the bill in all directions, as far as I'm concerned.”
This last point was one not to be ignored; so Fiona paused, to consider the matter coldly and logically. Champlain was indeed known for having a mentality which would have made Machiavelli foam at the mouth in envy. It was this aspect of his bright and cheerful personality which had brought him into opposition with a certain group of cold-blooded Prohibition hooch-runners; the end result of which had culminated in the famous massacre in Delacote's low-down Jermyn St., where our hero was the only survivor. Since then, as Fiona well knew, he had been set up as the head of the city's horse-racing track—which, again as she was well aware, was actually run behind the scenes by a combination of various gangsters. Yes, when you put your mind to it Alice had a fair point. At least, one that would stand a deal of checking.
“Al, I think ya might have somethin' there.” She looked over at her paramour with all due contrition. “So, how much are ya thinkin' o'losin' at the track tomorrow?”
“Hah! If you're putting up the greenbacks, the sky's the limit, gorgeous.”
“Oh, God!”
—O—
“Red Angel on the rail, heading for home. Saturnine half a length behind, on the outside. Cold Harvest a close third, at two lengths. We're coming up to the last turn and the finishing straight. Its Red Angel, still clear and running strongly. It's Red Angel—it's—wait, Saturnine is closing, nearly head to head—Saturnine's putting on a last-furlong spurt—Red Angel's running powerfully, still,—Red Angel opens out, a clear head. Red Angel, a half-length in the lead. Saturnine's falling away. Aaand,—it's Red Angel, by three-quarters of a length, for the Coronet Cup!”
“Goddam!”
Alice followed this expletive by tearing up the small white paper slip in her grasp, letting the resulting pieces fall to the ground with insouciant disregard—where they joined the remains of thousands of their brothers and sisters now covering the grass by the course-rail in front of Meidener Field's Main Stand. After all, Saturnine had been the favourite.
“How much?”
“Fifteen dollars.”
“Christ! That's the third race you've lost on. Any chance o'gettin' through this fiasco an' still havin' enough left t'pay for a cup of coffee—never mind our rent?”
“Can it, sister. We're here t'mingle in the crowd. The crowd's betting on the horses, so we got'ta do the same,—horses, hah! I know where most o'these nags need t'go—an' it ain't back t'their happy homes!”
“Now don't get mean, Al,—y'know it only brings you out in spots.”
Alice growled savagely, like a tiger in the night; grasped her companion's right wrist in a death-grip; and dragged her off back towards the Stand. The Stand where the coffee-stall's were located—she needed coffee right now.
Sitting on a high stool beside the long open counter, and imbibing from a deep white cup the life-giving brew, Alice sighed more comfortably and deigned to take note of her buddy.
“So, how are you thinkin' of making contact with the delightful George?” The brunette sniffed disparagingly. “He'll probably be in his well-guarded office, counting his ill-gotten gains; or, at least, his cut.”
“That's him, over there.” Fiona, on the other hand, had been scanning her immediate environs with sharp eyes ever since reaching the packed open Stand with its thousands of happy punters. “See? Beside ‘Long Tom' Barclay, and Susie Morganstein, the Queen o'the Molls. Ya don't wan'na mess with her, dearie. She'll have your eyes out in a flash, with those nails of hers. Remember the time ya sent her down for two years t'the local Women's Home-from-Home?”
“Oh, Christ!”
“Yep.” But Fiona was up for the situation. “I think we'll just kind'a turn round here, on our stools, an' hunch over our coffee's; an' just pray neither of them see us. Watch out! They're comin' this way, dam'mit.”
“God-all-f--king-Mighty! If it ain't half the detective force o'the whole city, come t'spend the afternoon mingling with the common herd.” ‘Long Tom' Barclay was renowned for not having any trace of a sense of humour, and liked to show it. “Look dear, if it ain't Molly an' Dolly, the Policemen's friends. Come t'think of it, ain't you kind'a acquainted with them both already, sugar-lumps?”
“F--k you, ya short-arsed bitch!” The red-headed lanky woman, hanging onto Tom's arm like a leech, clearly had an itinerary associated with the two detectives. “An' f--k you , too, ya black-haired witch!”
Having delivered herself of these heart-felt sentiments the blonde, peroxide, clutched her knight-errant's arm all the more firmly, cocked her head in the air, and pretended to snarl at the steel girders high above holding the roof up. She had a memory, too.
“Come, come, Susie, that ain't nice.” Tom gave his renowned interpretation of a vaudeville compere faced with an unhappy act. “They're just here t'do their jobs, I expect; whatever they may be. Let bygones be bygones, eh.”
“F--k that.” Susie, on the other hand, never forgot a good deed. “This bitch sent me down t'the Big House, on a jumped up charge a child o'ten could'a seen was phony—if it wasn't for a half-witted bent judge. An' this here tall black-topped piece o'sh-t's her husband, like everyone knows. Maybe we ought'ta broadcast that nice home-like fact more publicly, eh, Tom?”
Fiona rose in one fluid movement from her stool; twisted round like a snake preparing to strike; and confronted the source of all this bile face to face. Susie turned pale.
“Listen sister,” Fiona leaned forward to get right close to her accuser. “Compliments I can take. Insults I can take. So can my partner, here. But when ya start thinkin' o'screechin' like an owl certain facts t'all an' sundry that don't concern either you or anybody else, well then, ya don't give me any choice but t'put ya on my ‘ nasty bitches who need their butts kicked ' list. An' listen carefully, sister; if I need'ta kick your butt, you'll remember it for the rest o'your sorry pathetic life, savvy? An' don't for a moment think your paramour here, with all his underworld connections an' push, will have any chance o'savin' your goddammed rancid skin. I'll squelch ya into the tarmac, like a beetle; then walk away an' forget ya. Think about it, bitch. Come on, Al, we got better places t'be. I suddenly don't like the kind'a wildlife that's slinkin' out from under stones around here.”
—O—
It was that easy peaceful interim between the 2.30 Coronet Cup, and the 2.55 Three Year Old's 500 Guineas. That delightful time when, at one with the world in general and themselves in particular, a small lucky handful could drool over their winnings, whilst the vast majority sulked over their ongoing losses. To report that tranquility and rapport reigned supreme overall would, perhaps, be something of an exaggeration; but in general actual blood-letting had not, so far, broken out amongst the bulk of hapless punters. Fiona and Alice were leaning morosely with elbows laid along the top of the high wooden fence holding the spectators back from encroaching on the domain of the racing horses. They were both pondering life in all its colourful glory.
“God'dam bitch. I ought'ta have sent her down for ten t'fifteen.” Alice could hold a grudge with the best. “That'd have sorted her cockiness.”
“Sticks an' stones, darling.” Fiona shrugged. “She won't do anything—too scared of her perfect hairdo getting' ruffled, for that. An' she knows full well ‘Long Tom' won't put out a hand t'help her,—why should he, it ain't nothin' t'him?”
“S'pose you're right.” Alice, however, sniffed disconsolately. “Why'd there hav'ta be people like that in the world? Why can't we just be left alone t'go our own way? What the hell is it with so many people that they hav'ta come over all parsony an' uptight an' religiousy about our ki—about women like us? I'm happy. I ain't worried by our lifestyle. This is the life I want, above anything else in the whole universe. I can't see life without you, Fay,—that's all.”
There was a short silence; this public concourse was, obviously, not a place conducive to deeply-felt acts of personal affection; but Fiona gently took her companion's hand in hers and, by pressure alone, made it known to the brunette that it was someone who loved her dearly unflinchingly and forever who was doing so,—as Alice instantly acknowledged, reciprocating the grip with all her heart.
“I wouldn't bet on any of the nags in the ‘500 Guineas'.” This came, in sweet dulcet tones, from the relatively short man in a silk suit and buttercup coloured spats who had materialised by their side—from who knows where. “Let ya in'ta a little secret—the outcome o'this little spree's already been spoken for—give it a miss, only sayin'.”
“Hi'ya, George.” Fiona stood fully upright, the better to look down on their new acquaintance. “Fancy seein' you here—oh, I remember, ya own the place, silly me. Don't like the kind'a company you're keepin', though, these days. I mean, any lower, an' you'll actually be paddlin' in the sewers for real.”
“Ha!” Champlain didn't seem much put out by this criticism; simply adjusting the two canes he used to help him walk as he stood beside the women. “Tom ain't one for holdin' a grudge; he's easy. Which can't, I'm sorry t'say, be said for his happy-go-lucky doxie. Susie holds grudges like a grizzly hangs onto its dinner. But don't worry about her little sarcasm. She likes t'pretend she's a diva these days; ever since Tom took her t'see Rosa Ponselle at the Opera. So, what's cookin', ladies? I take it you ain't here for the afternoon simply to take in the atmosphere, an' make a killin' on the horses.”
“Your horses are killin' us , George; we'll be paupers by the end of the day.” Alice screwed her lips into a disapproving line. “They're fairly destroyin' Fay's bank-balance.”
“Ah well, never bet on the nags.” Champlain shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly. “That's what my sainted grandmother always said, and she was right, of course. But where ya have a city ya always have, by simple logical deduction, a pack of fools who have no idea of how t'hang onto their dollars. Show any group of a thousand people a bunch of horses and an open field, an' you'll have eight hundred an' fifty of them bettin' on the outcome before you can say ‘ Jack Dempsey ',—it's the nature of the world. I just rake in the profits; pay my taxes, on occasion; an' go home humming a merry tune, as you'd expect. It's easy.”
There was, of course, nothing much that could be said in response to this realistic view of society; so neither woman tried. As they stood by the rail a group of happy spectators came across the grass to take up their positions beside them for the next race; and, George motioning them with a polite raising of his left-hand cane, Fiona and Alice accompanied him a little further off to where they found a clear space to themselves.
“George, we got ourselves a problem.” Fiona opened up the main topic with no further beating about the bush. “There's been a number of unexplained arson attacks on various warehouses, all over the state. People are getting' hot under the collar, if you'll forgive the expression, about it. Insurance people, an' all. What we got'ta have is answers, an' quickly. So, wha'd'ya know about it?”
“If I was t'be in a position where I knew anything; an' I'm not sayin' I am, what's it t'you?”
“Now, George, you got'ta do better'n that.” Alice shook her head disapprovingly; adjusting the while, for comfort, the narrow leather waist-belt of her long cream-coloured skirt. “This is a big thing. Very big. An', as you can easily imagine, big thing's mean big investigations. The Insurance Company's already come to us, in the first instance; but, failing any return on our part, their next instance is gon'na be the 5 th Precinct police office; an' you know how intemperate an' determined the cops can be.”
“Why'd you think the cops'll be interested in my sca—business?” George snorted contemptuously, and spat into the grass at his feet. “I ain't got anything t'do with any arson; an' the cops couldn't find anything on me about such, if they tried for a thousand years.”
“Come, come, George.” Fiona dived back into the fray with a wide grin. “Maybe not; but this place is the centre of all life as we know it for the local underworld in general, as you very well understand. The cops'll be all over you, like ants on a bag of sugar, an' they won't go away till they do find out somethin' on ya.”
“Yeah.” Alice confirmed her partner's judgement of the possibilities to come. “They may not discover anything about the arson attacks; but, by God, they'll get you for something, sure as eggs is eggs. So, if you have anything—anything at all—you want t'share with us, now's the time.”
“Oh, Christ!”
Having spent a few seconds mulling over what the ladies had told him, and being naturally of a relatively intelligent character, Champlain did a quick mental survey of all the facts concerned in the affair; speedily reaching the only possible conclusion, at least as far as his own personal health and safety was involved. The mere detail that he was about to squeal on several associates who had put a modicum of trust in him caused no real anxiety—after all, at heart he was simply low-down scum from his ingrowing toenails to his tonsils, and would be for all the rest of his sorry existence.
“ Jeez , OK.” The King of the Racetrack cast a suspicious glance all round, looking for eavesdroppers among the thronging crowds; but seeing no-one to fit the bill, returned morosely to the topic in question. “If you're lookin' for someone for this rap it better be Mike de la Reve, as well as anyone, I expect. There.”
“Mike de la Reve?” Alice was confused. “The potted meat entrepreneur? What the Hell?”
“Come on, George, spill it. What's up?” Fiona raised a quizzical brow high over the small man's head. “Give us some facts.”
“This guy Reve, well he didn't get where he is today by kissin' babies, an' handin' out largesse t'the masses, did he?” Champlain snorted in contempt of the subject of his remarks. “He's a millionaire; but lem'me tell ya both, ya don't get t'be a millionaire these days without ya cut corners—if you take my meanin'?”
“ Humph! We ain't interested in small-time shady business deals, George.” Fiona shook her long hair in disgust. “We got bigger fish t'fry.”
“This here is big business.” Champlain favoured the women with the disdainful glance of a man of business who knew what-was-what. “Reve's been hanging round ‘ Dandy ' Gordon Carmichael for the last many an' several months. Y'know him ; been associated with the unions down by Wharf St and the Causeway for years. They're plannin' some sort'a deal between them, I can see that clear enough.”
The women took time out to contemplate these interesting details. Carmichael had held a public career as a middle-range gangster, mostly into union organising, for the last ten years. Reve had come on the scene some seven years previously, and swiftly made his pile in general goods and ironware. The fact that he might be thinking of branching out into other areas held both womens' attention. Like Champlain had said—you didn't become a millionaire these days, in anything, without bending the rules somewhere. The idea carried a sort of aroma that, while not being exactly pleasant, at least held some slight points of interest.
“Soo, what makes you think they're behind this spate of arson attacks?” Alice took up the baton of interrogating the unsavoury character who was George Champlain. “Where's the motive? What's the connection between all the attacks, eh? Tell us that.”
“ Jeez , if I knew all there was t'know I'd be on Easy St, wouldn't I?” George grasped the value of knowledge, well enough, in his particular section of the underbelly of society—and he was dirty enough to take advantage of it at the slightest opportunity. “If I had the goods on Reve, or Carmichael come to that, I could soak ‘em both for years t'come, couldn't I. But I ain't, am I?”
“George, you've been vacationing out here in the sticks for far too long.” Fiona gave him a sad look. “If you started putting the bite on ‘ Dandy ' Carmichael I give it six weeks tops, before your waterlogged corpse is dragged out'ta the Piscataqua, lookin' very much the worse for wear.”
“How d'ya know all this, anyway?” Alice suddenly nailed the heart of the matter with unerring accuracy. “Been eavesdropping at long range, eh? Or at shorter range altogether; like, for instance, here in the Meidener Field Stand offices? Are you up t'your neck in the whole dam' can o'worms yourself, George dear?”
Faced with accusations of this nature; accusations which he knew the police would be more than happy to take on their own shoulders, if informed of the matter, George broke down, shrugged his shoulders resignedly, and sang like a canary.
“No, I ain't, dam' it.” He struggled for a moment, transferring one cane to his other hand, while he dragged a large yellow silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his perspiring brow. “What it is-is, I might'a let them both, on occasion, hire one of my offices over there—purely for business reasons, y'understand. I was never actually in with them. They just made use of the room every now and then, locked the door, an' stayed inside for an hour or so; over a period of maybe six weeks, up to about four months ago. I got a good payment for the office, and for keepin' my mouth shut. But things look like they're getting' out'ta hand, now—an' I don't want anything further t'do with the whole god'dam mess. I ain't done nothing wrong—well, not much. See?”
“Well. Well. Well.” Fiona was intrigued by this state of affairs. “That is nice t'know. Thanks, George.”
“What's our next step then, Fay?” Alice asked the question, while knowing perfectly well what the answer would be. She just wanted to keep Champlain on tenterhooks for a few seconds more—this being, as it was, so much fun. “Are we gon'na continue our drive t'interrogate every single shady character in Delacote City?”
“Oh, we're doin' pretty well on that score.” Fiona, seeing through her paramour with a gimlet eye, carried on the joke with interest; after all, George deserved everything he got. “Think we'll pin ol' ‘ Dandy ' Carmichael in his den next, an' start asking impolite questions. He ain't gon'na like it, but if we threaten him with Inspector Fletcher he'll probably come round. Let's go, darling.”
This turn of events clearly didn't appeal to Champlain as the best course of action available; but what could he do now except turn pale, start shaking, and commence to sweat like a baseball player after a home run.
“ Dear Christ Almighty! ” He really did quiver where he stood; needing both canes, held firmly, to retain his stance. “Listen ladies, for God's sake keep my name out'ta it. My life won't be worth a brass dime if Carmichael finds out I squealed.”
“Oh, we'll do our best.” Alice shrugged nonchalantly, as the women moved off across the short grass towards the Stand and the exit from the race-track. “But you got'ta realise when we show up at his hacienda Carmichael, bein' as he is, is just natur'ly likely t'put two an' two together, ain't he?”
“Four, George.” Fiona liked to be precise about these matters.
“F--k!”
The ladies gaily departed for pastures new; leaving the manager of the race-track a broken man behind them.
—O—
There was no one of any importance visible in the small entrance hall or adjacent bar of the Hotel Escadaria, on Portsmouth Road, when both women showed up there a day later, at seven o'clock in the evening. It was a small hotel; of no great reputation in the higher social circles of the city; it also being the habitat of ‘ Dandy ' Gordon Carmichael, one of the orneriest son-of-a-bitc—umm, characters, to foul the sweet scented air of the city, perhaps having something to do with this singular lack of clientele; clientele, at least, of a type whom you could safely take home to meet mother. But Fiona and Alice were hardened to this less than elite faction of society, and walked in as if they owned the joint. The first victim of their assault was the cicerone standing behind the hall-counter, reading a late edition of the ‘ Delacote City News '.
“Anything interesting happen today, in the ol' metropolis?” Alice enjoyed kidding with new friends. “Anyone been murdered? I love a good juicy murder.”
“Was'sat?”
The clerk was in his early fifties, and exhibited a certain lack of initiative; probably gained over the course of his many years slogging to make a multitude of customers happy—or, perhaps, not.
“Is ‘ Dandy ' raising the dust about the place anywhere this evening?” Fiona slid smoothly in with her own contribution to spoiling the evening for the frowning man. “It's just we'd like t'chew the fat with him a while. So?”
“Was'sat?”
It having become obvious that the more polite conversational opening gambits were simply beyond the concierge's capacity, it was Fiona who struck out in a different direction.
“Listen, ya ape, we wan'na beard the bastard in his den—wherever in this decrepit ruin that may be—so pull your sorry self t'gether, an' point us in the right direction.” She leaned forward so the man could have a close-up view of her snarl. “ Now , buster, is what I'm aiming at. Or d'ya really want your arm broken?”
This resolute request, delivered with so much verve and clear determination to follow up on her threat, placed the old fool in a quandary. Never having consciously been in one of these before, he was somewhat at a loss as to what his next move might helpfully be. Helpful to his own continued healthy existence, that is—he being in actuality no fool, about this subject at least. What he did know was that if he told them in which room the legendary gangster was presently polluting the atmosphere, it would be a custom-built pair of concrete boots, and a loud splash later, for him. As so many had done in similar circumstances before him, he prevaricated.
“Er, well, Mr Carmichael gets about the Hotel, y'know.” Having once started on his fairy-tale the clerk found himself warming to the work of fiction he was now engaged in. “Can't really be sure fer certain where he'd be at any particular time. What say I make a few phone-calls about the place? Sure t'find him someplace. If y'both wan'na take a seat, or head fer the bar, I'll see what I can do. Who should I say, by the way?”
It wasn't a definite answer; but it was clearly the best the probably certifiable clerk was capable off, so the ladies gave him the information required, and then took up his last option.
“Drever and Cartwright, Private Investigators.” Alice growled this information, like a hungry bear only just holding itself in check. “We'd like t'hear the story of his life, from his own gentle lips. Tell him the floorboards of whatever room he's in are collapsing beneath him at this very moment; like a burnin' building. That'll get him, I bet. Go on, shoo.”
They entered the bar through a Spanish-style arch. A small room, square in shape; one side taken up with the bar itself. As Prohibition was more or less still in effect, by law there should have been only an interesting selection of non-alcoholic beers and such-like available. But Prohibition was nearly on its last legs, and nobody gave a damn anymore; so, actually, there were all sorts of hooch, and even some real whisky, on offer—at the usual inflated prices.
“What's yours, darling?” Alice settled herself on one of the bar-stools, and gave the joint the once over. “God, a right dump, an' no mistake.”
“Whisky, that Scotch stuff over there, bartender.” Fiona knew how to grab the comforts of life, when available. “You havin' the same?”
“Yeah. Better than that God-awful hooch in the red bottles.” Alice nodded agreeably. “Not many customers around. Wonder if it picks up later?”
“Shouldn't imagine so.” Fiona sipped her drink experimentally—after all, you never knew what ghastly mixture you might be being presented with; then nodded happily, the amber liquid obviously truly hailing from the glens and rivers of Scotland itself. “This ain't the Waldorf-Astoria, nor anything like. How long d'ya expect it'll take Carmichael t'come t'grips with whatever he supposes our scam might be?”
“All these gangsters are slow thinkers, you know that.” Alice sneered genteely. “He'll think it over, like a steer masticating a whole field of grass; after which he'll light a cigar an' do the same thing all over again. Finally, he'll decide we need careful investigation; so he'll come downstairs, all gruff fellow-well-met bonhomie, an' try t'pretend we're his long lost friends. Then, of course, he'll pump us within an inch of our lives to find out what we're at.”
“Just like I thought, too; you'll make a detective yet, gal.” Fiona laughed quietly. “When he finally sashays along the last thing he's gon'na be able t'do is get a word in edgeways, I'll see t'that.”
“Oh-ho. Fifteen degrees, on the starboard bow—comin' our way. Give it your best shot, baby; all yours.”
“Got him.” Fiona never even turned her head as the man approached. “Okey-doke, leave this t'me.”
But both Fiona and Alice were wrong about how the gangster would respond to their presence. Carmichael, in person, stood a tall six feet two inches in the rather appalling tartan socks he favoured. And he had twisted moral beliefs of his own; which this coming meeting appeared to offer as a heaven-sent opportunity for making public for the world to enjoy.
“Well, hello ladies. What brings a coupl'a pitiable inverts like you t'my place; an' what exactly makes ya think people like you are welcome here, anyways?” He bared white teeth in an expression of distaste as he stood beside them; deliberately talking loudly, so everyone nearby could hear. “Instead of your pathetic lovey-dovey cooings together, what y'could really be doin' with is a good man each; t'put ya both back on the straight track. Take a hike, sisters; I got'ta protect my clients from bad influences o'your sort; it's in the building regulations, y'know.”
Fiona's reaction was swift and precise. Coming off her stool like a rocket she whirled round with arm extended, and knocked Carmichael down with a perfect right to the jaw. He fell on his butt like a sack of potatoes; then spent the next minute gingerly feeling the bump, wondering if he could stand up again without collapsing. When he finally managed it Fiona was waiting for him. A dark-suited gorilla in the middle-distance, meanwhile, had made some slight motion towards entering the fray on his boss's behalf; but faced with the Colt .38 Special Alice had produced from her handbag, and was now waving menacingly around, he hastily thought better of it and quietly retired back into oblivion.
“It's more what we can do for you, ‘ Dandy ', ya pathetic bastard.” Fiona knew he didn't like the nickname foisted on him years ago by the local Press. “You've gotten yourself well an' truly in the soup this time. Burnin' down warehouses; left, right, and centre. ‘ Dandy ', ya got'ta give it up; people are beginnin' t'talk. The Insurance guys, for one: the Police, for another. Inspector Fletcher's got his eye on you already, y'know. It's all only a matter of time. Oh, by the way, talk like that ever again about either Alice or me, an' I'll see you sleep with the fishes before the week's out. Don't worry, big boy, I got friends who'd be more'n willing t'do me that kind'a favour.”
“Wha—what's only a matter of time?” Carmichael's self-assurance visibly melted away as he spoke. Whatever else he had, he certainly had a guilty conscience about something. “What've I done? I ain't done nothing.”
“You've been a very bad boy, Gordon.” Fiona, grateful that Alice was indeed letting her hold the stage, took full advantage of the opportunity. “Warehouses being burned t'the ground in Portsmouth; warehouses being burned t'the ground in Concord; warehouses bein' burned t'the ground in Manchester; need I go on, ‘ Dandy '? All is discovered; fly for your life. Only ya can't, ‘cause Inspector Fletcher'd have you by the heels long before you came anywhere near the State border. We've been talking to the revered Inspector, y'see; tellin' him all we know about your nefarious scheme in partnership with that piece o'crap, de la Reve.”
“Oh, God!”
“Too late for prayers, ya slimy creep.” Fiona took a deep breath, and faced the pitiful excuse for a human being. “We've been t'see several of your so-called friends over the last few days. All of them've welched on ya, without a second thought. We've got all the evidence we need; an' Inspector Fletcher's got all the evidence he needs, too. You're a spent force, Carmichael; nobody gives a damn about you, or your views on any topic whatsoever, anymore. At best you'll be spending the rest of your sorry life in jail; and, frankly, that's too good for scum like you. I wouldn't even think about getting' even with anyone, by the way; Inspector Fletcher's waiting outside, with six car-load's of police-officers—every one just waiting for the opportunity t'open fire on your sorry carcass. You ready t'head home, Al?”
“Any time you say, dear.”
“OK, let's go. Christ! This place stinks; closing down's too good for it, too. Come on, gal, I need some fresh air.”
—O—
A full week had passed since what the local papers had commenced calling ‘ The Great Escadaria Raid ' had taken place. No less than fifty officers had surrounded the Hotel; placing its former legendary owner under lock and key. Mike de la Reve hadn't fared any easier; he being picked up by a flying squad of officers at his headquarters in Portsmouth. Not even his immense wealth, or supposed power through friends in high places, was able to keep him out of jail, either. Everything, as Inspector Fletcher happily informed the women detectives afterwards, was hunky-dory and no mistake. Which left Fiona and Alice to their own devices: neither of whom, however, was feeling particularly elated by these noteworthy events, as they reclined together on the verandah of their condo one warm afternoon.
“Well, everyone seems t'be happy.” Alice spoke without much conviction, as she sat on a cane chair contemplating an untouched long cool drink. “That bastard Whizzrey's sent us our salary, an' a nice big bonus. Fletcher's dancing on air with jollity. All's well that ends well, in fact. Though I got'ta say, I ain't any the wiser about just what was goin' on with de la Reve an' Carmichael. What was their goal, after all?”
“Beats me; some fancy convoluted business transaction that'd make them pots of money, I suppose.” Fiona, lazing beside her lover, shook her head. “Still don't know, quite, what the arson-fires were about, myself. But let's not worry; we got paid.”
“Fay?”
“Yeah, darling.”
“This business of all those people we met, who didn't like our way of life.” Alice turned to her companion with a frown. “Wizley as much as said he had no time for women making their way in business. Susie Morganstein nearly bit both our heads off, an' threatened us with publicity. An' finally, that goddam bastard Carmichael treated us like dirt. Why? I mean, why? We're just ordinary people, like the rest of the citizens of Delacote. We ain't monsters, or anything.”
“That's just it, Al, my love.” Fiona stretched out to grasp her lover's hand tightly. “We ain't monsters, in any way. We just have a different outlook, is all. We don't do any harm; no matter what various people, an' groups of people, may think. If we, an' others like us, could just be left in peace t'live our own lives the world'd be a happier place, an' no mistake.”
“I don't think that's goin' t'happen, baby-cakes.” Alice smiled gently across at the black-haired beauty who was everything there was in life for her. “Maybe in twenty or thirty years; but not right now.”
“Well, we'll just have t'go on battling our way through life, like we've always done.” Fiona leaned over to give her brunette heartmate a delicate kiss. “You up for the fight, darling?”
“With you beside me, Fay? Always.”
The End.
—O—
To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.
—OOO—