Chapter V - The Heavens Open

Before I could call it a night, I had to swing by the office. I had a couple housekeeping duties to attend to, for one thing. For another thing, I needed to make sure that Nora really wasn’t there, waiting for me to put in an appearance. It would be typically Nora of her to sit up all night, just so she could give me the grand “gotcha” in the morning.

I was relieved to find that she was not sitting alone in a darkened office. But she had left my desk lamp on, sitting on the floor so as not to beam out through the window. That meant there was something for me to see.

Lifting the lamp, I saw what I was meant to find. There, on my desk, was a grease-stained cardboard box, some paper napkins, a bottle of schnapps, and two shot glasses, one used. I lifted up the lid of the box and – wouldn’t you know it? Two pieces of fried chicken. Beneath the bottle was a note, written in big block letters, and sporting a pair of small spots which I took to be chicken grease.

“I STARTED THE CELEBRATION WITHOUT YOU,” it read.

That was fair. We usually commemorated the closing of a case right away, and without the traditional festivities, the matter of Mr. And Mrs. Luther Malone and Luther’s Good Friend Candy remained officially unresolved. On the other hand, we didn’t usually open a brand new case on the same day. Up until the moment Frances Carroll found her way into my office, the usual plan was in effect. I couldn’t feel too badly, though. With the Carroll case humming along, we’d be breaking out the schnapps again real soon. In fact, with a few more of those Presidential portraits from Mrs. Carroll’s bag, maybe we could clink glasses in style, with some decent swill for a change. Besides, Nora couldn’t be too mad at me, since she saved me some of lunch. And bless her heart, because I was famished.

Setting myself down at the desk, I took a long look at the chicken. But first things first. I slid over the clean glass and ceremoniously poured myself a shot.

“Another one in the books, Eddie.” And with that benediction, I tossed it back. It was a dry schnapps, leeched of any flavor, and when the bitter, alkaline taste hit the back of my throat, my face contorted into bizarre, twisted expressions. That always happened. Which is odd, because I can down whiskey with the best of them. I slammed the glass on the desk and gasped. Awful stuff, schnapps. Lord knows why he drank it.

Eddie Staub. A stand-up guy, even if he had rotten taste in booze. A pretty decent detective, too. I served him faithfully for three years, the perfect secretary. Over time, I learned what he did and how he did it. And the him-doing-it part was just fine by me. He had the lousy hours, the moral quandaries, the occasional lump on the skull. Me, I got a regular paycheck and the occasional two a.m. wake-up call to help him out when he was in a bigger bind than usual. What more could a girl want?

Then Emperor Hirohito came along and changed everything. It hadn’t occurred to me that Hawaii was actually part of America, but from the way everyone got up in arms, there might as well have been a squadron of Zeros over Trenton. And ol’ Eddie Staub, well, he did what any decent American man would. On December 8, he read the paper with the appropriate shock and disgust, and on December 9, he marched down to the recruiting office, saying he’d served his time in this man’s Navy, and if it meant the chance to kill him some Nips, he was ready for more. As it happened, “private detective” was preceded on his résumé by “Naval officer”, so they took his kind offer most gratefully. Even gave him a commission. Which is how, barely a year later, a private eye from Camden, New Jersey found himself at some godforsaken place in the South Pacific called Tassafaronga Point. And it was there that Lieutenant Commander Edgar Allan Staub met his untimely demise at the hands of a torpedo, delivered courtesy of the Japanese Imperial Navy. His ship, a heavy cruiser called the U. S. S. Northampton, would find a home on the ocean floor a few hours later, but it was Staub who left me holding the bag. I’m not bitter about it. It just threw a giant wrench into my long-term plans.

They buried him in San Diego, in what I’m told is a beautiful cemetery, which was both a nice gesture for him and a real time-saver for me. After all, I was busy serving as caretaker for the business, the way I had been for the past year. I kept the regular clients happy, and when the finances got a little tight, I’d even take a case, under the pretense that “Mr. Staub is far too busy to meet you personally, but I’d be happy to fill him in on the details.” Yeah, getting ready to meet your maker in the Solomon Islands will keep you occupied. But people were fooled, or they were willing to play dumb in order to get our services. And the offices of Eddie Staub, Private Investigator soldiered on, despite the absence of the titular hero.

But when the nice man in the black uniform came to tell me that having Eddie’s name in the office window was now a posthumous honor, it all went to hell. With no detective, it wasn’t much of a detective agency, and I was out of a job. So I started trying to tie up loose ends, and prepare for the unenviable task of competing for a job at the Philadelphia Naval Yard. Turns out there’s a lot of women wanting to be riveters. Stopping to make funeral arrangements was the furthest thing from my mind.

The funny thing about the detective business, though, is how hard it is to get out of it. Here I was, trying to get rid of clients, and new ones kept showing up. And, sucker that I am, I took them on. Nora was no help. Within six months of her taking over my old desk, we were back to being a full-blown agency. It was only last month that she pulled the trick with the names on the window. Evidently, she was counting on me to stay a detective, just like I had for Eddie. Let’s hope I do better than he did.

I took a bite off a drumstick. It tasted good. Really good. Probably better than it actually was, I’m sure. I suppose I need to start eating food on a semi-regular basis. Unfortunately, at the time I’m supposed to be having breakfast or lunch, food seems like the most appalling thing in the world. It’s only at the end of the day that it occurs to me that food fuels the body, and then I’ll end up eating anything. Like the drumstick.

Which was stripped clean by the time I finished that thought. Boy, I was really hungry.

I finished up my evening feast in a hurry. Wiping off as much grease as I could, I spun in my chair to take in the nighttime view of the city. It was a lousy view. The war had brought about the advent of blackouts, presumably to prevent enemy planes from finding their intended targets. From the Navy Yard to the New York Ship foundry to the RCA plant, there were a lot of good bulls-eyes. But to be honest, I didn’t see how turning out all the lights was going to help much. I don’t think London got hammered because the Luftwaffe followed the streetlights. Besides, they attacked Pearl Harbor in broad daylight. Not that you need to be able to see to find Camden anyway. The pilot could probably just stick his head out of the cockpit and follow the smell of soup.

From the desk drawer, I pulled a clean envelope. I retrieved my notes on the case from my coat pocket and slid them into the envelope. With a pencil, I wrote a tiny “63” in the corner. It was a simple code: Frances Carroll’s initials, translated into numbers from their positions in the alphabet. I always used it while a case was open; Lauren Malone had been 1213 until Nora took her to the bank. The number told me about the contents, and meant nothing to a snoop. Tidy. And fortunately, I’ve never had two clients with the same initials at the same time. If that happens, I’m in real trouble.

I dropped the envelope back into the drawer, tossing a couple extra napkins on top in an effort to make things look supremely casual. Then I cleaned up. The final touch was to put the schnapps on Nora’s desk. I added a new note for her to find.

“WE’LL DO THIS AGAIN SOON.”

Zelda and I rolled past the Rialto, which was still showcasing a new movie called Redhead from Manhattan. I was tempted for about five seconds to pull over and catch a show, before I decided that I wasn’t up to seeing Lupe Velez play twins, and continued on home.

I pulled into the drive of a modest looking two-story house on the edge of Pennsauken. I lived upstairs from the garage. Nobody lived in the house. It used to host the Scarlattis, a raucous Italian clan with voices to rival trumpeting elephants. It was an ongoing cataclysm at the Scarlattis. Sometimes they were yelling at each other so loud as to bring down chandeliers across the state. But more often, they were celebrating something. Didn’t matter what. As far as they were concerned, anything was a good excuse for a celebration. The first time I went to knock on their door to complain about the racket, I got dragged into a huge dinner being held in honor of little Dom Scarlatti finally getting a B in spelling. When I finally staggered back up the stairs five hours later, I was soaked in chianti, suffering from a horrible case of heartburn thanks to the delicious-but-deadly stuffed peppers, and convinced that this was the best party I had ever attended.

I was wrong, of course. There would be other parties in the Scarlatti house that far outdid the Great Spelling Extravaganza. And there was never an invitation or a knock on the door beckoning me to come on over. It just got really loud, and I could either go about my business, or take a stroll and get caught in the unruly undertow.

That had all ended back in March, when I stopped by to drop off the rent and found an empty house. I realized that I hadn’t heard a peep out of my neighbors in a few days. It turned out they all packed up one morning and left. I asked around, but the neighbors either didn’t know where the Scarlattis had gone, or they weren’t inclined to tell me. It was strange, and it’s precisely the kind of thing that a detective ought to be investigating. But I decided I didn’t want to know. Maybe my motives were selfish; it still says “Scarlatti” on the mailbox, so no one has come by to move in and possibly kick me to the curb. And my rent has never been lower. Don’t make waves, and you won’t get wet. So I resigned myself to their sudden departure, and braced myself for the potential arrival of someone who couldn’t possibly be as much fun. It hasn’t happened yet.

I had to get out to lift up the garage door. A gust of wind caught me, and my hat tugged at the bobby pins holding it in place. I rushed to get Zelda tucked in, and then scampered up the stairs.

I slammed the door shut on an increasingly angry wind. Evidently, the wrath of Thor was coming to wash away the scent of condensed soup from the city. I slid the chain into the lock. With weather like this, I was in for the evening.

I filled a teapot with water and put it on the stove. While the heat rose, I turned on the radio. The tail end of Time Marches On filled me in on the latest war news. While accounts of front lines and rear guards filled the air, I began tossing my clothes to the floor. Very sloppy of me. I’d pick up in the morning.

The apartment was, shall we say, spartan in decor. The bed, a small table and a couple chairs, a sideboard, all second-hand. I never seemed to have the time to stop by Wanamaker’s and pick up some new furnishings. What can I say? It was never my top priority. It’s not as though I spent a lot of time at home.

I filled a strainer with tea leaves and dropped it in the pot. The Lux Radio Hour had come on. Awful show. They were always taking great movies, removing the pictures, along with everything else that was good about the story in the first place, and condensing it into an hour. Their powers of destruction were uncanny. This particular installment was The Phantom of the Opera, starring Nelson Eddy and Basil Rathbone. I immediately decided to pass. This wasn’t even scary as a movie. Sure, you’ve got Basil Rathbone as your Phantom, so he has this deep, velvety British voice, which is nice and creepy. But then along comes your hero, and it’s Nelson Eddy. I can’t listen to his voice. I keep picturing him dressed as a Mountie. Never put Nelson Eddy in your horror movie. Just sucks the terror right out of the room.

As I started some water in the tub, a lightning flash brightened up the sky enough to delight the most myopic German pilot, followed closely by a thunderclap that rocked the walls. The downpour would follow shortly. That settled it. I flicked off the radio and pulled on a nightgown. Filling a cup with tea, I went into the bathroom, dragging a chair behind me.

The water was just shy of scalding. Perfect. I sat back in the chair and draped my legs over the side of the tub, letting my feat soak up the wonderful warm moisture. Right as I shut off the tap, I heard pellets of rain start to rattle the roof. More than perfect. I took at deep breath filled with the scent of tea – an Earl Grey – and closed my eyes. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine I was in Bermuda, and that a brisk summer rain was coming down, while I was securely in my hut, enjoying the tropical waters and a fine exotic brew. For about five seconds, I had myself convinced.

Giving up on my little vacation, I instead thought about what I was going to tell my new client. I’d probably set up an appointment in the next day or two. Then I’d lay out the known whereabouts of her brother-in-law. That’s the carrot. If they take the bait, you can milk them for as long as a couple weeks. If not, you seal that envelope, take the cash, and count yourself lucky that you got a quick windfall.

I did wonder just what Danny Carroll was up to. His strange path had taken him from North Carolina to here. And not directly, either. He showed up for a week, then was gone for a fortnight before settling in for a two month run irritating Leon Ruskow. Why did he come here? And where did he go?

The most likely explanation was that he was hunting for work. Perhaps he figured anywhere within a hundred miles of New York City was a good place to look. In that case, he may have come to Camden, then left to find greener pastures, and finally came back because nothing better came along. I tried that theory out, and it sounded good. Plus, it gave me something to do besides reading every hotel register in town. I could start on with some of the big businesses, see if Danny had left a trail in the hiring offices.

I drained the teacup. My toes were starting to wrinkle, so I moved my feet to a nice fresh towel. The rain had become more intense. This was going to be a wet one. Tomorrow would smell better, yes, but it would be humid. I’d be doing a lot of slogging.

I pinned my hair down close against my head, to give myself a lot less maintenance time in the morning. I could just smooth over the curls. The picture this created in the mirror, however, was far from alluring. “Bonnie, you sexpot,” I snarked. Thus humbled, I retreated to the bed. All in all, I thought, not a bad day’s work. One case closed, a new one opened. Nothing like a sense of contentment, plus the steady pelt of raindrops, to help you drift off.

Hell, I might even sleep late.