The Paul Mcdonald Mystery Series Vol. 1-2: With Bonus Short Story!

by J. Paul Drew

  “This is Clarence Jones,” said the caller, “from Fulton, Miss’ippi. I’m wonderin’ if you’re the gentleman placed the ads in the Tupelo Journal.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Mr. Jones? This is Paul Mcdonald. I placed the ads you saw. Which one are you calling about?”

  “Both of ’em, maybe. But I never caught onto that before.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Mr. Mcdonald, one of them ads said you might have somethin’ that belongs to me that was written by Mr. Mark Twain. Now I’m wonderin’— is it some papers that start out sayin’ they was written by Mr. Mark Twain?”

  “Well, not exactly, but—”

  “It ain’t them papers?”

  “No, it is. I mean, I think so. They don’t start exactly that way, that’s all. But close enough.”

  “I thought I remembered ’em startin’ that way.”

  Need I mention how fast my heart was beating? “Now, hang on, Mr. Jones, I might have your papers. That is, I think I might know where they are, if you’ll just bear with me here. What can you tell me about them?”

  “Well, I’d be mighty surprised if you did have ’em ’cuz I threw ’em away ten years ago. But, see, the thing was, there was two ads, and the other one mentioned Mr. Lemon. That was the funny part. See, really, it was Mr. Lemon threw ’em away.”

  “Edwin Lemon. Yes. I advertised about his whereabouts.”

  “He ain’t been around here in the same ten years. Left town right after I brought him the papers. But I never connected it up, see. Your ads got me to thinkin’.”

  “Mr. Jones, I’m getting mixed up. Maybe we could start at the beginning.”

  “Well, see, I’m out of work again. I was looking through the classifieds like usual, and I don’t have too much to do, so gen’ally I get to readin’ all the ads, like the personals and everything— keep thinkin’ maybe somebody left me an inheritance or somethin’. You know, maybe I’ll see one says, ‘Clarence Jones, it will be to your advantage to call such-and-such.’ I read ’em just kind of idle-like, daydreamin’, you know. Then all of a sudden there it was— ‘I may have something that belongs to you.’ ‘Cept without my name on it. But it did have Mr. Mark Twain’s name. Mr. Mark Twain’s the pride of our family, you know. Great-granddaddy used to work for him, back in Connecticut. Wadn’t that the place the Yankee was from that he wrote about?”

  My stomach was doing more “sommersets” than Peter the cat after Tom gave him the Pain-Killer. “Your great-grandfather worked for Mark Twain?”

  “Yessir, he shore did. Used to tell stories about him when I was a boy. Bad-tempered gentleman, Great-granddaddy said. But he could always make you laugh. First he’d jump all over you, then he’d make jokes-like, to kind of apologize.”

  “Your great-grandfather actually knew Mark Twain?”

  “Worked for him nearly two and a half years— then he closed up the house and went off to Europe to live. Him and his whole fam’ly. Suffered what my great-granddaddy always called ‘financial perverses.’ That used to make Daddy and them laugh so— but Great-granddaddy always said that was what Mr. Sam said— he called him ‘Mr. Sam’— and he wasn’t gonna say it no different.”

  “Mr. Jones, about the papers— did he give them to your great-grandfather?”

  “No, sir, I don’t b’leeve so. Didn’t give him nothin’, so far’s I know, ’cept headaches and maybe one other thing. See, what happened was, when Great-granddaddy lost his job, he decided to come back to Miss’ippi, where he had fam’ly. My granddaddy was just a boy then. But our fam’ly didn’t do so good here. Granddaddy growed up, had one job, then another, then my daddy growed up and got a job over at the college.”

  “Itawamba Junior College?”

  “Yessir. He was a janitor over there, till he lost his job. That was about ten years ago, back when I was still in high school. Well, sir, it was mighty cold that winter and we didn’t even have no money for firewood. Mama says, ‘Clarence, you go chop up some of that old junk out in the back. It ain’t no good nohow. May as well burn it.’ Well, see, the reason the stuff was out in the back was the place we were livin’ wadn’t no better than a shed. We’d lost our house— wadn’t ours, really, we were renters— but we couldn’t afford to pay the rent, so the church found us this little place. Couldn’t even fit all the furniture in. And what we had wadn’t worth nothin’, anyhow. So what we couldn’t get in the house we just put in the backyard. And Mama couldn’t see no reason to keep it.

  “So I was just choppin’ away on this beat-up old desk that we used to use for a chest of drawers and I come upon these papers. I looked down, couldn’t b’leeve my eyes ’cuz I knew every inch of that piece of furniture— used to keep my underwear and shirts in it— but there was this kind of secret drawer in it. I pulled the papers out real carefully and see what the first one says, about Mr. Mark Twain, you know, and I start thinkin’, maybe when they took that house apart back in Connecticut, they got rid of some old junk— maybe give it to the servants. So I go to try to fin’ Daddy and I found him all right— dead drunk on the bed.

  “Now, I shoulda’ left well enough alone, but I wadn’t but seventeen. I wake him up and I say, ‘Daddy, Daddy, did Mr. Mark Twain ever give Great-granddaddy anything? Like any old furniture, maybe?’ And Daddy says, ‘What you wake me up ’bout a thing like that for?’ and smacks me ’cross the face. By now I’m too mad and my pride’s too hurt to go on with it, so I figure I’ll do somethin’ else. I knew Mr. Lemon at the college library ’cuz his mama, Miz Veerelle, used to come around, bring us things, try to help out, you know. Everybody knowed Daddy got too drunk to work and there was all us kids and everything.

  “See, I figure if these papers was really Mr. Mark Twain’s, then maybe they’re worth somethin’— least maybe his fam’ly’d like to have ’em back and maybe they’d give us a little reward or somethin’ for ’em.”

  “Wait a minute, Mr. Jones— didn’t you read the papers?”

  “Just the first page— the first couple of lines, really.”

  “Tell me something— you were in high school, right? Didn’t you ever read Huckleberry Finn?”

  “No, sir. I mean I heard of it and everything, but I never have been too much of a reader. When I say I was in high school, I mean I was just barely in high school. Worked when I could, but, the truth was, I cut class just as much as I didn’t. To tell you the truth, I never did graduate. Wished I had, though. Now I got kids of my own and cain’t get a job any more than my daddy could, even though I’m a God-fearin’ Christian saved by Jesus Christ our Lord and never touch a drop myself. I seen how much damage liquor can do. But why do you ask about Huckleberry Finn?”

  “Because that’s what those papers were.”

  “Well, Mr. Lemon didn’t tell me that— he shoulda known, shouldn’t he?”

  “You took the papers to Edwin Lemon?”

  “Yessir, I did. Told him all about how my great-granddaddy used to work for Mr. Sam and how I found the papers and I showed ’em to him and asked if he thought they might be worth anything.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Why, he laughed. He took ’em and he looked at ’em, real careful-like, and he said, ‘Look at ’em. They aren’t even typed. Who’d pay anything for a pile of old papers like these?’ And he tossed ’em in the nearest garbage can. You know what else? He made it seem like my great-granddaddy never did really work for Mr. Sam— like they were lying about it— I mean, my great-granddaddy and granddaddy and grandmama. Like they made the whole thing up. I tell you, I kinda’ left there with my tail between my legs. Then he left and seemed like he plain disappeared off the face of the earth. And I felt glad, you know that? ’Course that was before I accepted Jesus as my savior. Now I’d pray for him, that he was safe. But when I saw those ads, I thought, ‘You s’pose maybe they was worth somethin’? S’pose he fished ’em out of that trashcan and took ’em off and sold ’em? Is that what happened, Mr. Mcdonald?”

&nb
sp; “I think it might be, Mr. Jones, but listen, could we say Paul and Clarence?”

  “Sho’. Call me Clarence, Paul. I’m not but twenty-seven anyhow. Hardly anybody calls me ‘mister’ ’cept the kids in my Sunday School class.”

  “Listen, here’s all I know. Lemon called a university here and said he thought he had the manuscript. He said he was on his way to have it authenticated, but he never showed up. However, the manuscript turned up a few days ago.”

  “No kiddin’! You got it?”

  “Well, not exactly. I’ve seen it, though.”

  “Oh, I see.” He sounded like a broken man. “You want me to pay to get it back.”

  “Oh, no— nothing like that. Actually, I was hired to return it to its rightful owner—”

  “You a private eye?”

  “Something like that. Only I don’t really have a license. Anyway, the person who hired me thought I’d be a good enough detective to find the rightful owner— and it looks as if I have.”

  “I don’t have to pay nothin’ to get it back?”

  “Of course not. The only problem is, I’m afraid it’s been lost again.”

  “Tell me somethin’— is that thing worth anything?”

  “Quite a bit, I think. Lots of people seem willing to pay for it, anyway.”

  “Well, how you go ’bout losin’ a thing like that?”

  “Well, actually, it was stolen.”

  “Stolen!”

  “Clarence, I think I should tell you something— there’s a possibility a woman has been killed for that thing.”

  “You shittin’ me?”

  “No. I just want you to know that there’s big trouble about it.”

  “Thing must be worth a lot then— how much?”

  “Maybe over a hundred thousand dollars.” (I didn’t want him to get his hopes up too high.) “But there’s also the possibility we won’t be able to find it again.”

  “Say, Paul, who’s we? Who hired you to find the rightful owner?”

  “I can’t tell you that. All I can promise is that I’ll let you know what happens when it happens.”

  “I don’t mean to sound un-Christian, but how do I know that? Why should I trust you?”

  “Good question. You don’t know me from anybody. But, listen, I placed the ad, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but now you say you don’t have the thing.”

  “Well, I did then. And if I get it back, and I can verify your story, I’ll return it to you. I promise.”

  “Who’s the woman who got killed?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that— we don’t really know if that’s why she was killed.”

  “Your story sounds fishy, you know that?”

  “But it wouldn’t if I had the manuscript and I said, ‘Okay, you’re the man I’m looking for, it’s yours.’ Would it?”

  “That ain’t what you’re sayin’.”

  “Yes, but you have to believe me— when I placed the ad, I thought it was that simple. The manuscript disappeared after that.”

  “I don’t know. Sounds funny.”

  “I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “I guess that’s the best we can do.”

  I was in a literal sweat. I’d probably told him too much, but he’d caught me off guard and I felt sorry for him. On the other hand, I should have been more suspicious— he’d laid it on a little thick about the Sunday School class and all. Still, that was the way the born-again really talked. His story sounded plausible and could easily be verified— certainly the parts about his father working at the junior college and Veerelle Lemon befriending the family— maybe even his great-grandfather’s tenure at the Hartford house. But even if he were perfectly innocent and genuinely the rightful owner, he could cause me trouble.

  Spurred by Spot’s fit of temper, I called Booker to give him a report. He pronounced himself pleased with the way things were going and gave me marching orders— check out Mr. Clarence Jones thoroughly, continue looking for the manuscript, and whatever happened, keep his name out of it no matter what. Normally, I don’t take well to orders, but since Booker and I were in complete agreement as to what I needed to do, I decided not to throw a tantrum.

  I took a shower and went up to Sardis’s. She was drying her hair and getting ready for dinner: “How about a little pasta puttanesca?”

  “Great.”

  “Okay. You get started on it and I’ll be there in a minute.” That Sardis. Definitely not the sort of woman to wait on you hand and foot.

  “I’d be charmed,” I said, “if you’ll do something for me.”

  “You mean call Russell Kittrell? I’ve already got his phone number.”

  So I chopped peppers, olives, tomatoes and anchovies while she made herself beautiful, then she came in without a word, picked up the phone, dialed it, and asked for Russell Kittrell. She said, “Oh, hello, Mr. Kittrell, this is Sarah Williams calling.” Then, looking puzzled, handed me the phone.

  Dial tone.

  “He hung up on me.”

  “He hung up on you? Wait a minute. That’s got to mean something.”

  “Yeah. Like maybe he knows Sarah Williams is dead.”

  “Which could mean only one thing. I’d better give Booker a supplemental report.”

  “I’ll make the salad.”

  I finished my sauce, putting off hearing what I knew Booker would say, and gathering my thoughts about it, but not coming to any decision. Finally, when the sauce was simmering, I made the call and filled Booker in.

  “This calls for a look-see,” he said. “You in?”

  I said, “All right then. I’ll go to hell.”

  “Burgling,” said Sardis over dinner, “isn’t exactly in the same class with vanquishing your deformed conscience. If you want to know the truth, I think your attitude about this whole thing’s a lot more like Tom’s than Huck’s.”

  It was true. The idea of Booker and me breaking into Kittrell’s house after tome nebulous hidden treasure reminded me of Tom and Huck storming the haunted house. Of course they had very nearly come a cropper there, and that ought to have sobered me, but I was caught up with the whole boyish adventure. In a way, I was just like the latter-day Tom in Virginia City— in the grip of juvenile fantasies. The truth was, as in the case of Isami’s apartment (where, come to think of it, we had very nearly come a cropper), I knew Booker was going to do it and I just couldn’t stand missing out on it. I probably would go to hell— or maybe jail— and it would serve me right.

  There was another side to all this, though. I brought it up with Sardis: “If you’re so disapproving, why take it so easy? I mean, a teeny little reprimand is all I get, not ‘I’m sorry, I cannot love a man who’s a criminal. Good-bye now and thanks for the memories’.”

  “You trying to get rid of me?”

  “Just curious.”

  Sardis took a gulp of wine and blushed, something she didn’t do too often. “I guess,” she said, “I kind of like the vicarious thrills.”

  I thought so. That’s what I liked about Sardis. Like Huck, she tried to do the right thing, and succeeded more often than I did, but she had a bit of me in her, and a bit of Tom, too. Not to mention a bit of the Old Nick himself. My kind of woman.

  Booker had taken Kittrell’s address and promised to phone back when he’d cased the place. Which he did, about eight o’clock. “He’s gone out, but there might be an alarm system. No problem, though. Half an hour?”

  “I’ll be the one with the stocking mask.”

  “Wear a suit.”

  Kittrell lived on Telegraph Hill, in a “charming” place, not the sort that went in for security guards, thank God. I stood in front of it, waiting for Booker, but saw only a thin young woman crossing the street, dressed in a power suit and carrying an attaché case. She kept her eyes straight ahead, in the don’t-even-think-about-it way of the modern woman, and never even looked my way as she whispered, “Hi, big boy— want a date?”

  “Booker!”

&nbs
p; “You’re so cute when you’re dressed up.”

  He gave me the attaché case, which was suspiciously light, and pulled his familiar bunch of keys from his purse. The gate on the building was an iron one with bars— but no problem if you were Booker. After a couple of misjudgments, he found the right key and we were in like Finn. As we climbed the stairs to the third floor, he pulled something else out of the purse— a small metal device that fit in the palm of his hand. Two wires coming out of it had prongs on the ends, shaped like ’loids. “Modified continuity tester,” he said. “You be lookout. If anyone comes, we start walking.” As he unlocked the door, an ominous barking began on the other side of the door. Booker grinned. “Watchdog. Good. He won’t have the infamous infrared heat detectors. The alarm goes off if they sense body heat, so you can’t have them if you have pets.”

  “The only thing is, I forgot to get my rabies shot.”

  “Relax, okay? When we get in, throw this, and take a giant step over the threshold. And I mean giant, okay?” He handed me a hot dog and went back to work, slipping the modified ends of the continuity tester between door and jamb, then running it up and down until I heard something like a beep. “Ah. I thought so. Kittrell would have an alarm with a continuous circuit.”

  He marked the place of contact with a pen, put away the continuity tester, and pulled out a most peculiar device— a very thin ’loid with a wire soldered to each end of it. He slipped it through the jamb at the marked spot. “Okay, take these.” He gave me two clip-like devices. “Put them on when I tell you to.”

  “I hear someone.”

  “We’ll have to be fast.”

  The footsteps were getting closer. He opened the door, separating what turned out to be the two pieces of the ’loid, keeping one in contact with the door, the other with the jamb. “Clip them. Fast. Then throw the hot dog and go in.” I leaped about three feet into a carpeted hall. Quickly, Booker swiveled his infernal device, followed and closed the door. The footsteps were just outside it. A friendly terrier, having polished off his sausage, was happily wagging its tail.

  I could see now that there was about a ten-foot wire connecting the two paper-thin pieces of ’loid, the wire having been coiled in his purse when we were in the hall. “What,” I said, “would you have done without me?”