—OOO—
Contact: Phineas_Redux@yahoo.com
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Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. They investigate several crimes associated with the Will of a late businessman.
Disclaimer:— All characters are copyright ©2016 to the author. All 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—
Story 13 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
8. The R-103 Incident.
9. The Stolen Sappho Incident
10. The Compton Trial Incident
11. The Fashion House Incident
12. The Lost Christmas Present Incident
13. The Meiklewood Legatees Incident
14. The Film Set Incident
—O—
“So, let's get this whole thing straight, Fay.” Alice Drever leaned over the desk, in the long office on the 5th floor of the Packer Building on the corner of 12th St and Rosemartin, Delacote City, NH., coming to grips with the details ensconced in the various documents spread out before the two women. “How many legatees were there, originally?”
“Fourteen.” Fiona Cartwright tossed her long black locks away from her face, and grinned at her loved partner. “Four down so far; so ten t'go. As of yesterday, anyway, when the lawyers asked us t'investigate.”
“An' what exactly were the terms o'the late lamented's will?”
“Oh, this, that, an' a lot o'the other.” Fiona scanned her notes with a curled lip. “He bein' one o'those business-men who seemed t'have a finger in every dam' pie goin'.”
“Multi-millionaire, eh?”
“Looks thataway.” Fiona agreed, shuffling loose documents into order. “Anyway, the main points are that he left the bulk of his fortune to a small army of legatees; some fourteen people, in all.”
“Why was that?” Alice was always one for piercing to the heart of the problem. “Would'a thought he'd leave some t'his housekeeper; a trifle t'his butler; an' the residue t'some Dogs'-Home or other. That's what most o'these eccentric millionaires do, ain't it?”
“No, it ain't.” Fiona sniffed austerely at this common misconception uttered by her revered better half. “Do get a grip. They all,—these legatees, that is,—receive a fair-sized chunk o'the remains o'the remains; — er , I mean the lamented, er , I mean the late Buckley Hargreaves the Third. But only on conditions.”
“ Ha . We reach the source o'the Nile, at last.” Alice nodded her head knowingly. “Say, Fay, where is the source o'the Nile, anyway? Just askin'.”
“I don't know, an' I dam' well don't care. Somewheres in Africa, at a guess.” The tall black-haired detective growled low with deeply felt antipathy. “What're we doin' here this mornin'? Exploring the Dark Continent, or tryin' t'find out who killed four people over the last three weeks; an' might go on, given the chance, t'make the St Valentine's Day massacre look like a minor tiff at a Church bunfight, or what?”
“OK, OK, don't get all het up; y'know what it does t'your complexion.” The brunette inclined her chin nonchalantly, running a hand over the pages of notes within her grasp. “So, we got ten people to protect from unwanted accidents; while at the same time we have'ta figure out just exactly who's unhappy with the will, an' why?”
“Yep. So, any ideas?”
“- umm , no. You?”
“ Good God .” Fiona leaned back to give the ceiling a long stare, exhaling through set teeth the while. “Some help you are, ducks.”
“Say,” Alice tried diplomatically to change the subject. “if the deceased was called Hargreaves, why does the will talk endlessly about the Meiklewood legacy, an' these here Meiklewood legatees?”
“Because that's the name of his estate—his vast country estate up-country, round Lake Winnipesaukee.” Fiona was on top of these relevant details, as usual. “And also the name of his overall manufacturing Company—the Meiklewood Engineering Company, Inc. That's why.”
“ Oh .”
“But there's more; an' this, I think, cuts t'the heart o'the matter.”
Alice perked up considerably, sitting straighter in her wooden-backed chair and giving her very own sweetheart a searching inspection.
“Oh yeah, well don't hold back; lem'me know too.”
“The legatees don't get a lump sum; part of the whole capital of Hargreaves' estate. Nor do they get shares or investments or bits an' pieces of the Engineering works shared out between them.” Fiona lowered her dark brows and gave her partner an evil frown; which, of course, only made her lover want to giggle. “It's been made in'ta, obviously on the late Hargreaves' unhinged orders, what's called a Tontine; which muddies the waters far more'n you'd ever think. I'm amazed such is still legal, in this day an' age, but it seems so.”
“Tontine?” Alice shrugged lightly. “I've heard the word, but what does it mean, really?”
“ Thomson, Milligan, Spottiswoode and Halloran were good enough t'explain it, in their covering letter yesterday.” Fiona affected an air of superiority, always calculated to niggle her partner. “Don't ya ever read t'the end of lawyers' letters; it's a habit y'should get into, believe me?”
“Yadda, yadda, lover; so—tontine—give.”
“Essentially, a big capital sum is made available to a select group—in this case the legatees—but they only get shares o'the yearly interest on it. And, as each member of the group departs to the White Island—”
“Where?”
“Paradise—”
“ Oh . Fay, you still reading George Herbert?” The brunette gazed at her paramour with her head at a slight angle, musingly. “Is reading old Metaphyiscal poets really a good thing, just before y'come t'bed?”
“Leave it, sis.” Fiona sneered at this criticism of her literary tastes. “Where was I?”
“ Oh , wittering on about some white island—”
“That's Herbert's simile fer Paradise, doll. Ain't'cher got any eddication at all?”
“More'n y'd think, baby-cakes. Come on, get on with it. What's a tontine, for the umpteenth time.”
“ Rrgh . OK, so, a tontine presupposes that a large group of members share the dividends accruing from a capital amount.” Fiona looked down her nose, trying to impress with her lawyer impression. “As each member kicks the bucket—d'ya understand that, lady?—the others' dividends increase.”
“ Oh-Ho , I can see where this's goin'.”
“Thank God fer that.” Fiona rolled her head sarcastically. “Yeah, what y'r thinkin' is it. The survivors become richer as each dies off. Until finally there's only one left—”
“Lem'me guess; an' she, or the other, gets the whole nine yards?” Alice smiled smugly, on top of the situation finally. “The whole capital devolves on their sad, but capable shoulders—an' they walk off into the sunset as rich as Croesus?”
“That's the spirit, gal; knew y'd get there in the end.”
Alice sat back, making peculiar movements with her lips, a sure sign of mental activity, as she considered the whole proposition. Then, satisfied, she let her decisions become public knowledge.
“Seems t'me this whole set-up points t'one of the legatees bein' as guilty as sin.” Alice shook her brunette locks, thereby causing Fiona to have a slight heart palpitation. “But wait a mo', doesn't that mean that if these murders continue t'there's only one left, that one must be the guilty party?”
“Not necessarily.” Fiona nixed this naïve reading in the bud with cold logic. “Maybe someone associated with one, or perhaps even more of the legatees, sees some personal gain in the situation; an' is casually goin' about wipin' out the unnecessary members, till he or she has a nice tight group—or perhaps even just one—whom they can manipulate from a distance, so ter speak, an' milk t'any extent. I sort'a fancy that theory.”
“ Urrmm , I suppose it has possibilities.” Alice, however, reserved judgement till a later date. “Lem'me think about it. That means, if what y'say is truly what's happenin', then we'll need'ta investigate all those people—lawyers, an' relatives, an' friends, an' suchlike, associated with all the remainin' legatees? That'll take an army o'investigators, an' a helluva long time. The rest o'the members'll probably all already be dead in their turn by the time we reach any kind'a conclusion. Lot'ta good that'll do. Must be a better way.”
“Oh yeah, well tell me what, an' I'll jump at it, Al.”
“I ain't got that far yet, madam.” Alice sneered in a ladylike tone. “Gim'me a chance. This's gon'na take some contemplatin', an' no mistake. Have we got the first o'the legatees lined up fer interrogation yet?”
“Yup, Miss Brenda Vachelles; twenty-four, tall, dark, good-lookin', if that matters, an' rich in her own right. Lives in—”
“Don't tell me—Todmorton.”
“Got it in one.” Fiona nodded gloomily. “Which means, o'course, we got'ta hitch our skirts an' go lookin' fer her; ‘cause she dam' well ain't gon'na dirty her shoes with the local mud o'the Packer Building.”
“ Huh , work, work, an' no play.” Alice heaved a sigh as she rose to her full height of five feet seven inches. “Come on, little lady; your Buick's in hock gettin' it's tonsils renewed, so my Plymouth Roadster's ready an' waitin'. I'm drivin', by the way; me bein' the only one o'this present duo who, I believe, doesn't have three outstanding drivin' tickets against her?”
“ Hell , what am I, a criminal or what? Just parking tickets, that's all.”
“Come on, I'll dry your tears with my hankie while we hit the street level in the elevator.”
“ Hurrph .”
—O—
The pad, villa, residence, or plain palace belonging to their first grillee, er , legatee, stood back some considerable distance—across a wide lawn surrounded by tall thick ash trees—from the road itself. In form it had obviously started out, in the original architect's mind, as some kind of Spanish hacienda—but, through a couple of obviously ill-advised extensions somewhere in its dark past, had ended looking like a set from a particularly bad B horror movie. A knock on the deep-set oak door brought a female servant who introduced the ladies—by way of a long tiled corridor scattered with all sorts of debris, er , artistic pots and hangings—to the drawing-room where their interviewee waited impatiently.
“Miss Vachelles?” Alice always liked to clear up the major points first.
“Well, if I ain't I dam' well wan'na know who this doll in a blue silk dress smoking a Turkish cigarette is, sprawled all over my drawing-room. Maybe y'can help—you bein' detectives an' all, or so I'm told.” Miss Brenda Vachelles sneered in a cool grey tone, obviously pleased with this snappy bit of repartee. “Come on, let's get the dam' thing over with—I got important things t'do t'day. Park y'self's on that settee, an' let's get to it. So, wha'd'ya wan'na know—an' lem'me tell ya both, if y'start getting' frisky, I'll have my lawyers on ya like a pack o'hounds on a coyote.”
Faced with this less than friendly welcome Alice and Fiona quietly sat on the indicated piece of well-upholstered furniture; noted the fact that their hostess made no move to ask the servants to provide tea and cookies; and made their own individual assumptions therefrom, glancing at each other meaningfully.
“”It's about this mess around the Meiklewood legacy thing, Miss Vachelles.” Fiona sat forward, hands on knees on top of her long tweed skirt. “Four of the legatees have already met with, umm , unfortunate accidents—”
“They've been murdered; yeah, I know. So?”
“So, ahh , we're here t'find out the facts; an' in so doin' hopefully prevent the number of murders rising, in direct relation as the number of legatees falls—you bein' a member of the last named group.” Fiona raised an enquiring eyebrow, without displaying much sisterly love towards her interviewee. “Sort'a thought that fact might be of some interest t'ya.”
Miss Vachelles was of, when not lying supine on a long couch, around five feet ten inches of hard-faced black-haired rather good-looking Virginian uppercrust family stock;—the kind whose wealth had sat, quietly increasing over the years, in all the best stocks available. She had certainly, the two detectives separately came to the same conclusion, rolled in gold since early childhood; and had let all its worst aspects marinate her character to its present seasoned hardness.
“Listen ladies,” Brenda swivelled around and sat up, placing rather large feet on the thick carpet and reaching into a capacious leather reticule which lay by her side. “I got me some kind'a protection; the kind I keep with me every-dam'-where I go. This.”
Bringing her hand out of the purse both Fiona and Alice drew in sharp breaths as the lady brought into view a long-barrelled old-fashioned revolver. Expertly spinning the cylinder with the fingers of one hand, she cocked the hammer with her other thumb and pointed the barrel at the ceiling before laying the weapon on her lap.
“This here's a Navy Colt 1861 centre-fire single-action.” Brenda nodded briefly at the monster in her lap. “Fires .38 bullets with enough power t'blow the insides out'ta any bozo foolhardy enough t'bring on said action. I kin hit a playin' card at forty paces; an' any man anywhere in sight, within a range o'two hundred yards, better jest say a short prayer before rilin' me—that's all.”
“ Jeesus. ”
This short expletive slipped softly and gracefully from Alice's lips as she gazed at the ancient item of artillery.
“Where in Hell'd ya get that thing?” Fiona came back to life, after the first shock, eyeing the pistol packin' lady with a new respect. “Shouldn't that piece be in a museum somewhere?”
“ Hah . It belonged t'my revered Gran-daddy.” Miss Vachelles seemed pleased with the response to her defensive capabilities. “He weren't never one fer standin' arguin' in the heat o'the day, when a shoot-out would settle matters quicker. Made a fortune before he was thirty-five, y'know.”
“I can believe it.” Alice nodded in answer. “So umm , what? D'you sleep with that dam' thing by your side, or what?”
“Yep, I surely does that.” Miss Vachelles raised her chin ceiling-wards in a sharp gesture of affirmation. “Under my pillow at all times. I always keeps my windows shut an' locked; an' my door ditto. If'n I ever hear movement in the dark in my boudoir there'll be blood on the walls, y'can bet y'r cotton stockings, ladies. Shoot first, an' dam' askin' any stupid questions, at all—that's what Gran-daddy always said, an' I sticks with said mantra.”
Having paused to digest this method of personal defence both women raised impressed eyebrows at each other; Fiona finally bringing the conversation back on track.
“Well, umm , so what Alice an' I'd like t'know is, d'ya have any idea of who's responsible for said previous scratchings-off the legatees' list?” The black-haired detective pursed her lips as she glanced at the expensively clad lady on the couch. “Some character who might have it in for members of the legatees, or whatever.”
“Nah, I ain't got the faintest.” Brenda shook her head, eyeing both women opposite with little interest. “But don't worry about me, ladies. My chauffeur, Herbert, is an ex-marine—with combat experience, if y'know what I mean. He sticks with me whenever I go out in public; mixing with the hoi-polloi, y'know—shopping an' sashaying down the street, an' that sort'a thing. An' as I always carry my piece here along in my handbag; well, there just ain't any reason t'worry, y'see.”
Alice, having exhausted the contents of the large drawing-room in her survey whilst the lady was sharing her world outlook, now approached a major point in the investigation.
“What d'you think of this Tontine thing, Miss Vachelles?” The brunette detective flipped another page on her notebook, preparing to take down the answer in her own variety of shorthand. “Will you be happy if your share of the profits rises comfortably year by year; or are you content to allow everyone concerned t'go along livin' for decades t'come, without any extra profit t'yourself?”
“Hell, lady, ya make me sound like a dam' piranha; ain't ya got any sense o'the proprieties?” Brenda cast a less than loving look at her interrogator, sniffing austerely the while and glancing at the room door in a marked manner. “I don't care a goddam about the bloody Tontine. The amount it'll bring me in each year's minimal to what I already have. Even if I was the last legatee left the amount I'd receive would still be relative peanuts. D'ya both realise I'm part of the Knowles family? We've swum in the spondoolicks for the best part of the last two hundred years; an', I can tell ya both, there's no prospect of us lacking the means for the next pot o'caviare anytime in the next hundred, see what I mean?”
This spritely explanation of the lady's lifestyle and position in Society having concluded their interest in this first legatee Alice and Fiona rose to leave with a nod and word of thanks for the interview. Miss Vachelles, clearly exhausted after mixing with the lower classes for such an unaccustomed period of time, simply lay back on her couch and, as the female servant escorted the detectives back along the corridor, called loudly for a resuscitating gin and tonic. Alice and Fiona pretended not to hear.
—O—
The Plymouth roadster sped along the tarmac back into the centre of Delacote City with a smooth hiss of tyres. Alice, behind the wheel, cast a glance at her passenger.
“Well, wha'd'you think of that, then?”
“Dam' stuck-up bi—h.” The black-haired detective was taking no prisoners. “I got'ta tell ya, Al, if she'd been one o'the late victims, I wouldn't have shed a remorseful tear over her remains, I got'ta admit.”
“Yeah, she does tend t'take you that-a-way, I agree.” Alice nodded sagely, as one with much worldly experience. “I think we can safely leave darlin' Brenda t'take care of herself; she an' her trusty Navy Colt, that is. So, who's next?”
Fiona rummaged in her remarkably large handbag; pushing various crumpled documents out of her way; slipping the M1911 Colt .45 automatic she always carried to one side; and finally retrieving a torn-off notebook page.
“Right, let's see. That's the Vachelles dealt with, for the moment anyway.” Fiona pursed her lips thoughtfully as she perused the list before her. “OK, next up's Richard Galtry, businessman. He's t'be found, so it says here, at 1217, Colchester Street.—”
“That's down by the Causeway—mean streets.”
“I know where the dam' it is, missy.” Fiona registered disgust at being taken for a schoolgirl. “I been round an' about, just keep y'r eyes on the dam' road, will ya.”
“Sorry, sorry; didn't mean t'scratch.” Alice laughed inwardly, but not openly. “What kind'a business?”
“Import-Export, is what his letterhead admits to; which ain't much, o'course.”
“Yeah, a title like that hides all kinds a'fancy goin's-on.” Alice nodded, as one with a wide experience of such matters. “Could be anythin' from dentist's supplies, t'outright piracy. Guess we'll just have'ta case the joint when we arrive, my precious.”
“Case the joint, hah .” Fiona curled a red but still dismissive lip. “You been reading Dashiell Hammett again? Y'have, ain't yer?”
“If I have, what concern is it of yours, lady of my heart—at least for the present moment?”
“Easy, easy. I ain't criticising anythin'.” Fiona essayed a wide grin, to show willing. “It ain't what I'd read in a quiet moment, not when there's Edith Wharton available; but everyone t'their own, I say.”
“ Oh , thanks very much for that.” The Plymouth's driver sniffed sarcastically and pointed her chin higher in the air. “Anyways, this Galtry dude; how're we gon'na handle him?”
“With kid gloves, if our last expedition has taught us anythin'.” Fiona growled low in her throat. “These legatees seem t'have short fuses, so we'll both go gently, till we see how the land lies. Hell , he might turn out t'be a regular guy.”
“ Huh , one of a rare breed then, y'mean.” Alice was quite as capable of snubbing an entire sex as any other lesbian-oriented female, when necessity required. “ Hmmm , is it the next turning on the left off Fowler Street here? Or is it the second on the left?”
“ Jeez , what're street signs for?” Fiona made another low grating sound in her throat. “What am I, a talking road-map, or what?”
“I could do with a Dictaphone thingy tellin' me the way.” Alice sneered with intent. “At least it'd be politer than some I know.”
“ Hurrfh. ”
—O—
Colchester Street, on arrival, turned out to be one of those ancient last century thoroughfares still cobbled with large smooth stones; lined with three to four storey warehouses; with various cheap shops, tobacconists, and newly opened saloons at ground level; as well as the premises of numerous business's, all in some way associated with the nearby wharves and cargo ships of the city's harbour. 1217 displayed a small brass plate beside the double-door entrance telling the passing throng, and anyone particularly interested, that therein resided the headquarters of the “ Essington Export-Import Agency, Inc .” Alice and Fiona passed through the entrance into a long dark hall with a low well-used counter on the left side, like a rundown hotel. A couple of questions aimed at the dusty individual behind said barrier elicited the whereabouts of the main office, on the third floor, and five minutes later the detectives were comfortably ensconced in the manager's abode.
There was nothing to raise Richard Galtry from the ranks of the general to the pinnacle of an individual recognisable on sight. He was of unexceptionable height; generally brown hair; of thin frame; and with no particular features to mark him out as a person of consequence or interest. He could fade away in a crowd with little, if any, trouble.
“So what can I do for you, ladies?” He sat behind his desk, scrutinising the women seated opposite with a sharp, but wary, eye. “Some kind'a general cargo y'want transporting overseas, or sumthin'.”
“Nah, we're detectives here about the Meiklewood business.” Fiona decided to jump right in where angels, etc. “We've been asked to give the whole affair the once over, see if we can come up with the goods, y'know. Our notes tell us you're one of fourteen, ten as of today, legatees in line for a share of the deceased's worldly goods. So, first off, what's your connectioin with the late Buckley Hargreaves the Third and the Meiklewood Estate; that y'get t'have a spoon dippin' in the Tontine caviare?”
“ Huh , like t'come right down t'brass tacks, don't'cher?” Richard gazed at the women with a long quiet stare, not the least put out by the personal tone of the enquiry. “Well, seein' y'r so involved in the whole matter, I suppose I can come clean. I'm a cousin an', at a period some years ago now, I put in a considerable amount o'money to one of Hargreaves' business-deals. I elected for delayed payment, hopin' for great profits in the future; an' the result is this here Tontine thing, that's all.”
“Does your share of the Tontine give the kind'a profit y'were lookin' for, from your deal?” Alice cast a sharp eye on the man as she spoke, pencil poised over her notebook. “Or less; that's t'say, d'you get more from bein' part of the Tontine than you would'a done if Hargreaves had, er , carried on livin'.”
“ Huh , snappy, ain't'cher?” Galtry curled a lip disapprovingly. “As it happens I'd'a been far more in the money from the ordinary profits to be expected from the deal, if Hargreaves had had the sense t'keep his head down. What I get from the dam' Tontine is only about two-thirds, not really that even, of what I'd'a gotten from the original deal. So, if y'r lookin t'pin Hargreaves' death—or that of any of the other unfortunates—on me, look somewhere else, ladies—I ain't y'r man.”
—O—
Ten minutes later the Plymouth roadster was slicing through the traffic along 22 nd Street, heading for the next legatee. Neither occupant of the vehicle was in a particularly conversational mood; but Fiona broke the moody silence first.
“We ain't exactly makin' inroads in'ta this affair, I got'ta say.” She blew through her lips in a disgusted manner. “Two down, an' no nearer the light. If those four victims of illegal despatch were anythin' like the two we've just interviewd, it's no wonder someone's intent on wipin' ‘em all off the map. Can't say I'm particular worried about same, either.”
“We can't sit back an' let ten murders take place, though.” Alice pinpointed the moral high ground of the argument. “Much as we both may think the end result would be for the betterment o'Mankind. So, who's next?”
“Les'see.” Fiona examined the list on her sheet of paper once more. “There's Hector Mathieson, but he's presently domiciled—so my notes tell me—in the ‘ International Grand ' Hotel in Innsbruck, Switzerland. On holiday, y'know; has been for the last three months, an' likely, it seems, to be there for the next three months, too. He's out.”
“Pretty clearly.” Alice accepted the inevitable with a good grace. “No doubt one self-centred bozo the less. Who's—”
“Mrs Hildegarde Schulz-Bauer, of 3472, Henrietta Avenue, guess where?”
“ Oh , for God's sake, Fay, why didn't y'tell me about her when we were there earlier?” Alice now started frothing at the mouth in her turn. “All the bloody way back t'bloody Todmorton. Ain't you got any shame at all. An' who's payin' for my gas, too? I'm not a rich Princess, y'know.”
—O—
Yet another villa in its own spacious grounds, protected from the eyes of the passing proletariat by a thick hedge in front of a forest of bushes. Its frontage bellied the fact the original owner had proposed a replica of the Parthenon by presenting four smallish thinnish out-of-proportion pillars under a portico arch which had nothing to do with Greek Hellenism and all to do with a debased Neo-Gothic. Two double-storied wings extending on either side of this architectural failure gave no prop to the general air of horror which personalised the house.
“ God , if you paid me a thousand a week, I still wouldn't live here.” Fiona made her stylistic decision public in no uncertain terms as they approached the front door.
The usual chatelaine to be found in such establishments soon led them to the lair of the residing owner, the Lady of the Palace herself.
“Mrs Schulz-Bauer,” Alice sat on the indicated settee with a certain lack of belief in the outcome of the proposed interview—previous experience now laying its heavy hand on her bowed shoulders. “It's about the Meiklewood—”
“God-in-Heaven. What now? Has someone else been foully done-away-with?” The rather dumpy fiftyish woman, dressed in a fine pale green silken Redfern creation, seemed of the full-bloodied operatic diva type. “Tell me it-is-not-so.”
“No, it-is-no—; Hell , I mean no it ain't, lady.” Fiona, sitting beside her better half, snapped under the pressure. “For goodness sake, what are ya, a woman of standing, or a dam' jellyfish. Sure, four people have met tragic ends; but we're here t'make sure you don't add t'the numbers, OK?”
“Well, well, wel—”
“What's your relation to the Tontine set-up, ma'am?” Alice leant forward, pouring oil on the troubled waters; a situation she was well-used to. “That's the centre of the whole puzzling question, y'understand. If we can discover some connecting link between all those in the Tontine, maybe it'll help t'clarify just who wants y'all out'ta the way.”
Slightly mollified by this attitude, and Alice's gentle tone, the lady unbent enough to focus on the matter in hand.
“I have a list of those others in the Tontine. It was given to me by Hargreaves' lawyers, on his death, you understand.” She paused to eye both detectives distrustfully. “As far as I am aware I have no connection with anyone else on the list, including those who, er , are no longer with us.”
“ Ah .” Alice sent her pencil gliding over her notebook page. “And, from the looks of this place, y'don't exactly need to depend on the yearly dividend of the Tontine, do you?”
“I am amply provided for by my own means, thank you.”
“ Urr ,” Fiona tried a more placatory question. “What was—is—your connection with the Meiklewood Estate then, that you're included as a member of the Tontine at all?”
“I am the surviving sister of Buckley Hargreaves' first wife.” Mrs Schulz-Bauer affected to wrap herself in an invisible cloak of seemly moral rectitude. “Deirdrie, that is my late sister, was never happy as the partner of that mean, self-centred, hooligan. I had put money into certain of his business operations; more to help my sister than for any hope of profit on my part. The divorce, when it inevitably came, was more or less amicable—as far as a divorce between wealthy people can ever be. My business affairs stood, of course. Resulting, in the end, in my inclusion in this deplorable Tontine. There you have my complete concern in the sad affair.”
Alice finished recording these immortal words then, putting her pencil down, regarded her partner from under lowered brows.
“Fay, this's getting us nowhere.” She brushed a hand through her short shingled hair, shaking her head afterwards in despair. “We ain't learnin' anythin' o'interest germaine t'the clearing up of this case at all; y'realise that, don't you?”
Fiona shook her own head, black wavy hair flowing like a river in spate, and glumly hunched her tweed-clad shoulders.
“Early days yet, darlin'.” She put out a hand to touch the wrist of her loved companion, and smiled gently. “Only three interviewed so far; another seven t'go. One o'them may have just what we need, eh? ”
Watching this discussion between the two women, and taking specific note of the clearly deep, and easily recognisable, love being shown, Mrs Shulz-Bauer suddenly seemed to relax; produced a wide smile on her own part; and looked across at the two women with a renewed empathy and quiet understanding.
“I was just about to spend a couple of hours of the afternoon, before your arrival, in reading a favourite book I've owned and loved for many years.” Her attitude was now friendly and all-encompassing. “The poems of Sappho, you know. A favourite work. My companion, Miss Claremont, and I simply love her work. Miss Claremont is away shopping in Plymouth at the moment, or I would have had the enormous pleasure of introducing you to her. My, er , most-loved companion, you understand.”
It is surprising just how quickly the atmosphere surrounding any one group of people can change, given the requisite lever. For one moment there was a perceptible cessation of all movement in the wide drawing-room as Fiona and Alice stared transfixed at their hostess, taking in what she had just said; then a veritable burst of orders swept through the room as Mrs Shulz-Bauer loudly called for the servants to bring tea, cakes and exotic fruit compotes. A low table was drawn closer, and a silver tea service, of immense antiquity, made its appearance in record time. The Lady of the house presided over the pouring and, within a couple of minutes, it seemed as if the three women had been lifelong friends.
“I, er , didn't realise you were, ahh . I mean—” Fiona found herself lost for a way of opening the renewed conversation.
“Have you and your partner, Miss Drever, been together for long, may I ask?” Mrs Shulz-Bauer handed over the teacups with an elegant grace and inclined her head, awaiting her answer.
“ Oh , we met ten years ago or so.” Alice grinned as she recalled the facts. “We've only been, er , living together for around six years or so, though. It's, uh , very rare we meet other couples in our position, y'know. We tend t'keep ourselves t'ourselves, y'see; for fear of tittle-tattle an' general gossip. So you're, umm —”
“I met my dear Francis just after the passing of my late husband.” Their hostess leaned back in her chair, a contemplative light in her grey eyes. “Marriage had been happy enough, but somehow unfulfilling, for me. Then Francis appeared—a friend of a friend, y'know—and within one year we had discovered our, er , true natures and love. And so it has been for the last fifteen years.”
The conversation now proceeded along altogether differing lines than either detective had originally envisaged on their arrival. The Lady of the house proved, on further acquaintance, to be highly intelligent, well-read, and of a calm polite nature hardly to be imagined by their first glimpse of her. The best part of an hour passed unheeded under the bridge before Alice, though unwillingly, thought it high time to bring the occasion to a close.
“We really have'ta be goin'; there's so much Fay an' I need'ta get through t'day, I'm afraid.”
“You must visit again.” Mrs Shulz-Bauer was having no nonsense about it. “You have still to meet Francis, after all; I am sure she will be entranced. Shall we say Friday, at four o'clock? Of course, I insist.”
—O—
The Plymouth Roadster, under Alice's expert tutelage, now had its nose headed towards the beating heart of Delacote City. Both women, reclining on the plush leather upholstery, had only one combined wish; which was to reach the confines of their warm secluded office on Rosemartin Road as quickly as possible. As it was still quite a long way back into the centre of Delacote from the western suburb where all the high-rollers were wont to reside Fiona had settled down beside her revered better half to peruse the voluminous notes, carried in no less than three cardboard folders, pertaining to the present case.
“Let's see, what've we got so far—”
“Dam'all.”
“Give it a rest, damsel.” Fiona heaved a sigh, though knowing full well this would never affect the lady on her left. “Mrs Shulz-Bauer has a letter, from her lawyers, givin' the low-down on the other participants in the Tontine, apart from her worthy self. So that means—”
“From Hargreaves' lawyers—not hers.”
“Wassat?”
“From Hargreaves' lawyers.” Alice glanced swiftly at her passenger, with a soft grin of accomplishment. “She got the details of the Tontine members from them, not her own lawyers. Do try'n be specific, dear; it matters, y'know.”
“ Hur .” Caught out in this amateur slip of detail Fiona fell back on that tried and tested escape ploy—ignoring the criticism. “Les'see, les'see; yeah, here it is—‘ Connaught, Davis, Dietrichson, Malverne, and Thomas '; they're her mob. Well, with that many shysters behind her she should be safe, y'd think.”
“Old family retainers, probably.” The Plymouth's driver took time out to sneer at the upper crust in general. “Known her since she was knee-high t'a grasshopper, I bet.”
“ Hmm ,” The black-haired Keeper of the Records bent over the loose sheets of paper on her lap, following a hot scent. “as it happens, she changed lawyers just over five weeks ago. ‘ Morgan and Dempster ' were her players till then. Doesn't say what triggered the change, but there ya are.”
A short, but very pregnant, pause now ensued as both women digested this new piece of information. Facts, the female detectives had long understood, were strange bedfellows; taken by themselves, singly, they generally meant nothing; but strung along in a nice straight line—each logically connected to its neighbours on either hand—and something very like a theory might well take shape. As, indeed, turned out to be the present instance.
“Fay?” The car's driver murmured this query in a low hesitant tone, as if unsure of her facts.
“Yeah, doll?”
“Fay, aah —.”
“What?”
“Fay?”
“Fer God's sake, out with it—what?”
“The Shulz-Bauer changes her lawyers five weeks ago—just on the cusp of Hargreaves the Third meetin' his Maker, and this dam' Tontine set-up—”
“I'm with ya. Go on.”
“An' a week later, just as she's settlin' in with her new lawyers, the murders start—an' have been goin' along regular as clockwork ever since. Four in all so far. Is there a connection there, d'y think?”
Silence reigned undisturbed in the confines of the car's interior for almost the rest of the journey back into the busy main thoroughfares of the city before Fiona came to a decision.
“If there ain't a connection, there's still something mighty fishy that needs investigatin' in a decidely professional manner. Al, are ya a professional?”
“Dam' straight.”
“Me too.” The black-haired Valkyrie leaned forward in her seat, an evil grin on her features. “Al, I got me an idea we may be about t'make some significant headway in this here quagmire. 1731, Pataloc Avenue, the Haylight Building. Art Deco, y'know, can't miss it. White stone—”
“I know the dam' Haylight Building, lady; gim'me some leeway.”
“Sorry.”
—O—
There was a trifling delay after the ladies had made their way, via two elevators, to the 17 th floor of the Haylight Building in search of any available director of ‘ Connaught, Davis, Dietrichson, Malverne, and Thomas ', lawyers to the nobs—no-one of lesser means being able to afford their $20 an hour fees; it appearing that no one of the mighty Five were at present loose about the offices, the women finally settling for the lesser light of a young Departmental Head Manager. They knew his rank was in capital letters, for that was the way the female secretary had announced his arrival in the plush waiting-room to which the detectives had been consigned for quarter of an hour after their first request.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo; Mr Jennings, Kevin Jennings; so what can I do for you ladies? Helen, tea for three; the silver service. No, no, no, sit, please. The chairs here aren't, perhaps, what they might be; but I'm afraid my office is rather messy at the moment. So, so, so, what can—”
“We'd like some information concerning the Meiklewood Tontine.” Fiona, in fear of him repeating himself in triplicate just once more, jumped in at the deep end. “We're detectives working for— er , well, somebody, concerned in the recent deaths connected with the Tontine members. What we'd like is some low-down on Mrs Shulz-Bauer's recent elevation to the ranks of your clients.”
There was a pause, while the Manager contemplated both the women before him, and their request. Finally frost began to visibly form on the walls and tabletops of the small room; while Mr Jennings' features took on the blueish note of someone left out in the cold night air for far too long of a cold Winter's midnight. When he finally replied both Fiona and Alice were forever afterwards convinced they saw cold mist blowing from his lips with each word he spoke.
“The Meiklewood Tontine; detectives; Mrs Shulz-Bauer; murders; information; my firm's part in the subject at question.” He stopped, clearly to consider his options; then came to a decision, leaning over to pick up a telephone receiver sitting on the low table by his side. “Helen? Oh, Penelope. Tell Helen that tea will no longer be required. Thank you.”
He put the receiver back on its cradle in a marked manner; his expression radiating not-happiness in powerful waves. He took, as one who knew him intimately would only expect, three attempts at opening and shutting his mouth before audible reaction to the question of the first part exited his vocal chords.
“We here, at ‘ Connaught, Davis, Dietrichson, Malverne, and Thomas ', are not in the habit of lightly tossing back and forth in Public our clients' private affairs.” He gave Fiona the nastiest look she had experienced from any man over the last ten years; following with a similar glance at Alice, who lowered her brows in a decidedly oppositional manner as a result. “If we have any involvement in the Meiklewood Tontine, that is no affair of yours. If we have the honour to have Mrs Shulz-Bauer as a favoured client, that also is no affair of yours. Any recent, er , deceasements connected, in any formal or informal manner, with the aforesaid Tontine, is no affair of ours—however much it may be of yours. Any information which the firm of ‘ Connaught, Davis, Dietrichson, Malverne, and Thomas ' may harbour concerning any or all of the aforesaid subjects is wholly our private business, and none of yours. I bid you a polite adieu. The elevators are along to your left at the end of the corridor outside, goodbye.”
—O—
An hour later,—surrounded by scattered pamphlets, books, reference journals, loose notes, and assorted extracts from recent newspapers,—Fiona and Alice once more sat side by side at their long table in the office of their premises in the Packer Building. Since their return from the abortive interrogation of the highest official they had been allowed access to at the lawyers' offices in the Haylight Building they had been doing some high-level investigations of their own. All had been centred, by mutual consent, on their late opponent Mr Kevin Jennings, and paydirt had finally been reached.
“He was one of the partners in ‘ Tompkins and Savely ', Accountants, Portsmouth.” Alice rolled the facts round her tongue, savouring each syllable with gusto. “Y'remember, dear heart; they were at the centre of that shadowy con-game around the missing Europa-Armitage Bank bearer bonds, six months ago.”
“Yeah, how he managed t'slip out from under is anybody's guess.” Fiona sniffed, as at a nasty smell. “How he managed to infiltrate the ranks of ‘ Connaught, Davis, Dietrichson, Malverne, and Thomas ' is, again, anybody's guess. I suppose, bein' a lawyer, he had ways an' means o'whitewashin' his affairs so even the police couldn't pin him down t'anythin'.”
“Seems so, lover.”
“Well, next question—how d'we get evidence on the dirty rat? An', contrariwise, how d'we prevent any other deceasements takin' place in the interim?”
“We could engage the offices of Inspector Fletcher; along with all the expertise of his, er , experts, at the 5 th Precinct?”
“Or, lookin' at it another way, Al, we could mosey along on our own, an case every move the jerk makes from the time he knocks off at five o' clock till Hell freezes over. Wha'd'ya think o'that?”
“Works for me, let's go.”
—O—
They sat in Alice's hard-worked Plymouth Roadster next to the sidewalk some fifty yards south of the main entrance to the Haylight Building. As Fiona had foreseen the majority of the workers left the huge edifice at the required time—though abandoned, with indecent haste, would be far nearer the mark. But of their quarry there was no sign; even though they could see clearly, from their vantage point, the exit to the carpark located under the building. In fact they had to sit, quietly freezing in the cold evening air, another three-quarters of an hour before the red Ford, which they had previously marked out as Jennings' vehicle, made its appearance. It slid out onto Pataloc Avenue, turned west and made for the much-visited environs of Todmorton.
“ Jesus , not again.” Alice was at her tether's end. “What say we rent a pad out there ourselves? Save all this dam' comin' an' goin'; not t'mention my ever-increasin' gas bill.”
Another ten minutes found the duo of cars entering the long curve of Ottoline Avenue; before the Ford, some significant way ahead, suddenly pulled into the curb. Alice brought her mechanical steed to a halt behind a parked Isotta-Fraschini galleon, safely out of sight of their prey. Then they watched as Jennings, carrying a small suitcase, entered the drive of yet another of the many isolated villas scattered across the local landscape.
“Wha'd'we do now?”
“Is there a public phone anywhere near, Al? Or a drugstore, or whatever.”
“Not within three miles, dearie.”
“Shit.”
“So, what's the plan, only askin'?”
“Well, we're just about t'engage in a spot o'burglary, an' peepin' in through the landed gentry's livin'-room windows.” Fiona gave her revered partner's left wrist a tight squeeze. “But that'll be no news t'ya, I bet.”
“Too right, doll.”
“Then we try'n search out just what the hell that Jennings character's got up his slimy sleeve. After which, armed with the goods, we phone Fletcher, an' sic the boys in blue on the rat's tail. How's about that?”
“It's a plan; it'll do. OK, let's go.”
“Hey, wait a jiff.” Fiona clutched the wrist of her eager mate once more. “Lets not be hasty. Better case the joint first. What can you see, ducks?”
“Well, it's a small bungalow.” Alice peered through the open side-window of her trusty steed. “Not one of the plusher of the local steadfastnesses. Don't think it has more'n five or so rooms in total. Built sort'a squarish, I think. Not much to it, in fact. Red tile roof; two chimneys; centre main door; room windows on either front side; left window slightly open.”
“Fine, fine; just fine.” Fiona looked at her lover with respect. “That does as a preliminary description. OK, we climb over this low red-brick wall; scamper through the belt of trees; try not t'walk on the gravel path round the hide-out; till we hit the window, crouchin' underneath it. Got that?”
“ Huh , if that's a respectable plan my Aunt Franciscina was a Suffragette.” Alice curled her top lip, but gave way gracefully. “Oh alright, let's go. D'you think we spooked Jennings, an' he's preparin' t'make a run for it?”
“Maybe, maybe; we'll find out, with any luck, in the next few minutes; after you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
—O—
The front wall of the bungalow turned out to have a white cement facing. All round the building was a wide red gravel path, which the ladies took great care in crossing in order not to make any audible noise. Finally they crouched, in a rather unseemly manner, below the open window of the left-hand front room. No sound of conversation was noticeable, though they could hear intermittent movements as someone crossed and re-crossed the room. After a minute Alice quietly rose to peer, carefully, over the window-sill before lowering herself back to make a whispered report.
“Only Jennings.” Alice's voice sounded faintly; like Echo herself, though with a nasty sore throat. “He's got his suitcase open on a low table, an' there's piles o'what look suspiciously like Bearer Bonds on a low settee. He's pilin' ‘em into his suitcase, like he's afraid o'missin' his boat. Think he's about t'make a swift getaway.”
“Shit, no time t'phone the cops.” Fiona ran a finger over her chin; glanced at her partner; then dove into her leather handbag, coming up for air clutching her Colt .45 automatic in an expert grip. “Looks like we need'ta take command o'the situation pronto. OK, this's how it pans out—I open the front door, either by hand, or with the help o'trusty Mr Colt here. We both hit the front room an' pinpoint Jennings with raised weapons; an' if he shows any sign o'opposition we let fly. Got that?”
“Sure thing, lady. OK, after you.”
“ Oh , Ha-Ha.”
Creeping round to the entrance portal, shaded by a small exterior roof, Fiona quietly tried the doorknob, and glanced round at Alice with a pleased grin when it gave way under her grasp; the door opening slowly on well-oiled hinges revealing a short corridor with a door on either hand. Fiona pointed at the open left-hand door and nodded at Alice, herself now openly carrying her own Colt .38 revolver. Then Fiona went for the big-time.
“Hands up, bozo. Don't try any funny stuff, or I'll dam' well plug ya.” Fiona entered the small well-lit room like a powerful hurricane, weapon at the ready. “Drop those papers an' make with the hands in the air, fast.”
Jennings, after one swift glance at his unexpected visitors, dove for the settee lie a drowning man at a lifebuoy. Before either woman could react he turned again, a deadly small revolver in his hand. There was a cracking report as he fired, followd by a curse from Fiona as her gun failed to operate.
“Shit, jammed.”
Jennings fired again; the bullet taking Fiona in the upper right arm, spinning her sideways away from her attacker. This, however, cleared the line of fire for Alice—now mean as a mountain lion protecting its young—to get a clear sight of her quarry. Three shots rang out in the confined space, each hitting her target square in the chest. Jennings staggered back three paces, a look of amazement in his face; collapsed on the floor; twitched his arms a couple of times; then lay still, wholly taken out of the equation of living once and for all.
“Fay. Fay?”
“I'm OK. I'm OK, don't fret.” Fiona gasped as her lover clutched her round her waist. “Just a glancing shot; went through the flesh of my upper arm. Jeez , look at all this blood; I'll never be able t'wear this jacket, or blouse, again—dam'.”
“Oh Fay.”
There was a telephone on a nearby low table, but there was a deal of kissing, and preliminary bandaging to be got through before alerting the forces of Law and Order needed to be done; and Alice took full advantage of this to make sure her loved partner was indeed in no immediate danger. Only then did she condescend to alert Inspector Fletcher in his eyrie at the 5 th Precinct Headquarters. Alice, after comprehensively destroying Fletcher's till then happily organised day, bundled her wounded comrade out into the street just after the arrival of the first carload of cops; taking her in person to the local Hospital, with no care whatever for the state of her Plymouth's leather upholstery; Fiona still managing to bleed somewhat profusely from her wound.
—O—
“Are you sure you're alright, Miss Cartwright?”
Mrs Shulz-Bauer stood in the centre of her wide richly furnished living-room, greeting her guests on the following Friday, as previously arranged. By her side stood her own loved partner of many years, Miss Francis Claremont.
“Yeah thanks, I'm fine. Only a flesh wound; not dangerous, just dam' painful, y'know. Hey , I can sit by myself.”
This latter remark was elicited by Alice's determined hand holding the invalids' right, unbandaged, arm and guiding her to a nearby chair. Alice only smiled, but kept a firm grip until her still grumbling ward was safely placed in the deep leather upholstered armchair.
“You wouldn't believe what a tryin' time I've had these last coupl'a days, Mrs Shulz-Bauer, with Fay's arm in a sling like this.” Alice smiled with the meek acceptance of a hard-tried but loving partner. “It's do this, Al; an' it's do that, Al; an' it's why can't ya run faster, Al; or even—”
“ Hey , give over.” Fiona was mortified by this wholesale slander. “I said nuthin' o'the kind. Take no notice of her, please. Nice t'meet ya, Miss Claremont, by the way.”
“Please, call me Francis.”
“And I should be honoured if you both call me Hildy—short for Hildegarde, you see.” Mrs Shulz-Bauer sat on the long settee beside her partner. “Now ladies, Francis and I want to know just everything there is to know about your recent adventures. You've both single-handedly—if that's possible—solved the Meiklewood Tontine problem; and the case of the missing Bearer Bonds, too. That's what Francis here would call a result. How did you both do it?”
Over the course of the next hour Alice and Fiona settled back in their chairs; sipped their iced lemon tea; sparr ed between themselves as to who particularly had accomplished the most heroic aspects of the case, or been the most logically sharp intellectually speaking; and generally revelled in their new-found friendship with the two delightful ladies who sat opposite, drinking in every word with wide eyes.
And all the time,—as Fiona and Alice shared the responsibility of explaining the whole scenario, without too much exaggeration or downright lying—a portrait in oils of Sappho, by a well-known contemporary female artist, hung on the far wall; while on a table near the front window sat a marble bust of Aphrodite.
The End.
—O—
To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.
—OOO—