by Erik Carter
The thought occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t have taken the case, given the nature of it. And given my past. But I needed the money, and I needed to be a detective. I’d have to put the past aside.
I squashed the cigarette in my ashtray and took out the cigarette case. Two smokes and three pieces of licorice remained. Licorice this time. I snapped into the licorice and plopped my feet back up on the desk.
Four days. That’s all I’d have to track down this kettle. It wasn’t a whole lot of time.
Somewhere out in Dry Rock Basin, Lionel Cosgrove was being held for ransom. Maybe he was tied up. Maybe they’d been beating him. Who knew? It was a nasty labyrinth out there—a dry lakebed and a spattering of caves. A million little nooks and crannies where they could be hiding him. If something happened, no one would ever find him.
For me, though, life was good again. I’d salvaged my detective career. And I had money coming. Big money. Cosgrove money. But now I’d have to reemerge, assimilate again. I looked to the window.
I leaned over, stuck a finger through the blinds, and peeked outside. The sunlight pierced my eyes.
Chapter Two
Bob was a plain horse. But, then, I was a plain man. It worked out well.
Bob had been with me since I first moved out west to Arizona. On my first night in Desecho, I already had the need to skip town. I’d found myself in the company of a card shark named Leggy Bruce, who was a decent enough guy to play poker with, until I later found myself in the company of his gal, at which point his temperament worsened significantly. I needed a horse, and I needed one fast.
I tiptoed from alley to alley, dodging Leggy Bruce and his associates. I came upon an old drunk who told me about a man named Colin Banner, owner of one of the many general stores in Desecho and the only guy he knew of who was in the market to sell a horse. With an angry mob chasing me, I didn’t have time to be picky.
I found the Banner General Store, and five minutes later I walked out with a new horse—and also an apartment. But that’s another story.
Bob’s first owners had been farmers who unsuccessfully attempted to get the stubborn animal to pull a plow. They then sold him to Colin who in turn tried to sell him at his store. To no avail. Every gossiper in Desecho had heard about Colin’s lazy horse, and no one wanted to buy. No one, that is, but the new guy in town.
As time passed, I came to realize that Colin and the other Desecho folks had misjudged Bob. Obstinate, they’d called him. Untamed. Unbroken.
They were wrong.
With a little effort and patience, I ended up with a P.I.’s perfect companion—even started teaching him some tricks.
And he would follow me anywhere … well, most anywhere. Bob had never been keen on going to Desecho’s northeast side, where those of higher means liked to pretend they weren’t living in a pit of depravity.
A couple hours had passed since Lilly had been at my office, and Bob and I were headed to the Cosgrove mansion, deep in the heart of Desecho’s northeast region. To access this area, you had to take the long way around the lake, which served almost as a buffer zone. This was the green part of town, the area that made Desecho look like it almost had some class. Almost.
I stretched my muscles, popped my joints. I’d been holed up for a long time. After extended periods of scarce work, I found it hard to pull myself out of my cozy little office in the Noirleans Street Business Building. I’d cleaned myself up, shaved, even changed shirts. I liked to start cases with a clean slate.
As I rounded the edge of the lake, the Cosgrove estate was the first property that came into view. The grounds ate up an entire side of the hill, clear to the lake. The house sat in the dead center of the property atop a gentle rise. It was three stories in height with Lord knows how many bedrooms. Everything was clean, orderly. Fresh paint. Thick grass on the ground. Made me uncomfortable.
I hopped off Bob. We looked at the house. The house laughed at us.
“Well, Bob, what do you think?”
I looked for a hitching post. Hmm … hitching post, hitching post? That’ll work. I tied him up to a small, frilly bench. Bob started eating the grass nearby.
“Good boy.”
I walked over to the main entrance, my boots crunching the gravel in the well-maintained drive. There was a hefty brass knocker on the door, which gave a nice thud when I whacked it. I could hear the noise echo throughout the cavernous house beyond.
A few moments later a little wisp of a tuxedoed man opened the door. He was bald and pale with a miniscule mustache. He regarded me with thinly veiled distaste.
“Mr. Wilcox, I presume.” Even his speech was poised.
“You’d be right,” I said.
He was tall, but he still had to tilt up to look me in the eye. Few folks in Desecho could match my six foot two inches.
“I am Pattison.”
“Nice to meet ya, Pattison.”
I started into the mansion, but Pattison put out a hand and stopped me. He delicately pushed me back and pointed at my boots. “It would be best if you took those off.”
Oh jeez. They weren’t that dirty. But past experience had taught me that it’s best to be obliging in situations like this.
“Sure,” I said.
“Miss Cosgrove had more business to attend to in town, but I’ve been instructed to help you in any way possible.”
I popped the second boot off and put the pair neatly by the door. “Doesn’t Cosgrove have a son too?”
“Mr. Cosgrove is not on speaking terms with Samuel, who left several years ago for the east coast.”
Bad blood between father and son—could lead one to believe Samuel would do something underhanded to his old man. But why in the world would he be after the kettle of all things? Wouldn’t he be more interested in Daddy’s fortune? His business, perhaps?
Pattison pointed toward my waist. “You’ll need to take that off as well. We don’t allow weapons here.”
My Colt. Now he was starting to piss me off. I handed it to him with a look. “So you got a first name, Pattison, or do they make you leave that at the door too?”
He didn’t flinch. “If you’ll come with me, sir.”
We walked the halls of the mansion. I felt ridiculous padding the tile floors in my socks, one of my big toes poking out of a hole, Pattison in front of me tapping away in his shiny black shoes. The creep was probably getting a power trip out of this. I had the last laugh, though—the boys stunk somethin’ fierce.
Though it impressed me little, I knew I was receiving a rare treat. Very few Desecho residents—or Desechoeons as we prefered to be called—had ever stepped foot inside the Cosgrove mansion. As such, the mysteries of its interiors had grown to mythological proportions. Some thought he kept live animals, captured at safari, in the house. Others said he held strange occult gatherings and that looking upon any mirror in the house would vex a guy for life. I’d never believed any of that hogwash. I envisioned it being something like a museum, complete with all the artifacts you could dream of. I was correct. It was a museum with bedrooms. Paintings lined the walls. There was a bowl, a sculpture, or a vase tucked in every nook and cranny.
Pattison was sure proud of the place. He pointed at each item, told me who the lords in the paintings were, who had knighted whom. He walked as though he had a rod going straight up his back.
“… which was, of course, not the first time Mr. Cosgrove had been to the Orient,” he was saying. He chuckled a little at this last comment. I didn’t know what was funny. We passed a large sword hanging over a table.
“I thought weapons aren’t allowed here,” I said.
“It’s Scottish, sixteenth century. No longer a weapon, it’s now a valuable piece of history, like most everything else you’ll see here. And here is the library where the artifact in question was held.”
We walked into a grand library. Walls of books fifteen feet high towered above. There were overstuffed leather chairs by a fireplace in the back. A painting of Cosgrov
e hung above this. He stared at us through his monocle.
There were more artifacts among the books on the shelves. An Incan warrior here, a Pagan god there. Pattison led me to one of the shelves where there was an empty spot among the books. “This is where Mr. Cosgrove had kept the piece since it was acquired two months ago.”
“All this stuff in here, and that little kettle is what the kidnappers want. What’s the most valuable piece Cosgrove owns?”
Pattison beamed. This question seemed to thrill him. “Oh my. Now that is a challenge, Mr. Wilcox. That is a challenge indeed.” He looked to the side for a moment. “Well, so much of this is truly priceless. But if I had to take a guess, I would say it is a piece of his Chinese pottery. Ming Dynasty. Worth thirty thousand dollars, at least.”
“And how much was the kettle worth?”
“It’s hard to say yet. Its historical value has yet to be fully determined. Nowhere near thirty thousand, certainly.”
“Then tell me, Pattison, why would anyone want it so badly?”
“It does hold one title of significance among Mr. Cosgrove’s collection,” Pattison said. “It is, by far, the youngest artifact. The slave murders happened not thirty years ago.”
“Hardly an ‘artifact’ then.”
“Also, it’s …” He looked away.
“It’s what?”
“Cursed.”
Oh boy. First Lilly, now this twit. Was this whole house loony?
“So I hear,” I said. “Cosgrove have any enemies?”
“Many. As you know, Mr. Cosgrove is not well liked in town. This is despite his many charitable donations, his lenient policies on—”
“Where’s the office?” I said, cutting him off. This list could go on for hours. The guy sure did love his Cosgrove.
Pattison pointed to a door off the side of the library. “It’s right over here. Mr. Cosgrove liked to keep his books near him at all times, even when working.”
“Liked?” I said. “You sound as though he’s dead already.”
Pattison didn’t respond. He walked over to the office door and opened it for me.
The office was much like the library—and the rest of the house, for that matter. Dark wood. Artifacts.
I walked over to the massive mahogany desk in the back of the room and plopped down in the leather chair behind it.
Pattison gasped.
I looked through the drawers. Cosgrove maintained a tidy workspace, but he kept few records. Only one of the drawers had any files, and these were all very thin. I pulled them out and began looking through them.
Pattison hovered behind me. He kept reaching out feebly toward the desk. He chewed a fingernail. This was fun.
I found the folder that contained the invoices from Cosgrove’s artifact purchases and flipped through the contents. A weirder assortment of receipts one could not imagine.
“‘African drum’?” I said as I looked over a five-hundred-dollar invoice from two years prior. “I don’t remember seeing any drums during our grand tour.”
“Several of Mr. Cosgrove’s pieces are on loan to the Macintosh Museum.”
“In Tucson?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
The Macintosh Museum. Yes, I’d heard of it. It was a historical museum out in Tucson. A private museum owned by some penny-pincher just like Cosgrove. Went by the name of Clinton? … Cary? …
“What’s the name of the fella who owns the Macintosh Museum?”
“His name is Macintosh,” Pattison said with a sneer. Well, well. The butler had something of a spine after all.
“His first name would be helpful too,” I said.
“Connor. Connor Macintosh. A fellow antiquarian. He and Mr. Cosgrove are very good friends.”
I stopped flipping through the invoices. Here it was. Slave Kettle, Clements. Seemed he bought it for a thousand dollars from one Eli Tremain. “So he paid a thousand bucks for a thirty-year-old piece of cast iron?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
It just didn’t make sense. Any of this. Why would someone pay a thousand big ones for a piece of kitchenware with a story? Why would the kidnappers choose said kitchenware over Cosgrove’s more expensive items like the Ming vase Pattison mentioned? It didn’t add up.
“Who’s this Eli Tremain that he bought the kettle from?” I said. “I don’t see his name on any of the other invoices.”
“I’m not entirely sure. I believe he was some sort of collector out of the South.”
“You’re not sure? You’re saying you haven’t tried contacting him since the kidnapping?”
“Mr. Cosgrove himself tried contacting Eli Tremain a week after obtaining the kettle. Mr. Tremain could not be located. He’d disappeared. Somewhere in the swamps of the South. At the time Mr. Cosgrove inquired, he had already been declared dead.”
Hmm … I had an associate in the deep South. He might come in handy before all this was done. But if Eli Tremain had truly disappeared, he could be anywhere.
Even Arizona.
Maybe he found out something new about the kettle. Maybe it really was worth a fortune—and Eli wanted it back.
I stood up from behind the desk. A look of relief washed over Pattison.
“So Cosgrove tried to contact the seller, huh?” I said. “Musta been having buyer’s remorse.”
“I wouldn’t call Mr. Cosgrove’s trepidations ‘buyer’s remorse,’ Mr. Wilcox. He was concerned about the item. He wanted to know more about its history. I tell you, Mr. Wilcox, he was scared. The kettle is cursed. And it’s better that it’s out of this home.”
“At whatever cost,” I said and gave him a rigid gaze. Let’s test this little puke.
He looked back at me for a moment, then said, “It was an evil.”
“Sure.”
He scowled briefly before his sycophantic nature forced him to quickly look away. I’d pushed this guy just far enough. He’d gone from annoyance to anger. Better not push much further. It’s always best to leave yourself some wiggle room for future encounters.
I gave him a grin. “Thank you for your time, Pattison.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Pattison saw me to the door, and after I’d reclaimed my quarantined gun and boots, I stepped out into the bright sunshine again.
It was a hot Arizona day. My hat kept the sun out of my face, but I still squinted. A lady friend of mine once told me that since my eyes were blue they were more sensitive to sunlight. Yeah, right. I didn’t buy in to foo-foo crud like that.
Bob seemed to be enjoying the sunshine. He shook his big head as I approached him. He’d chewed a bare spot out of the grass. I ran my hand over his neck. His dark brown fur was hot.
“Let’s get movin’,” I said.
I untied Bob from the bench and looked back at the house. Pattison was peering out from behind one of the thick curtains. He quickly hid when I saw him.
Creep.
Logically, one might think Pattison could be involved in Cosgrove’s disappearance. Never rule out the butler, that’s one thing every private eye knows. But, like Cosgrove’s son, Pattison had a good idea of Cosgrove’s true worth. And he could have lifted the kettle at any time … along with any of Cosgrove’s other artifacts. There would be no need for all this kidnapping business.
I turned my face up to the bright blue sky. The sun warmed my cheeks. A gentle breeze tickled my mustache. I trotted Bob slowly down Cosgrove’s gravel drive and took a piece of licorice out of my cigarette case.
All this detective work had made me thirsty. A drink seemed to be in my near future. A beer at the Funhouse—what better way to cap the afternoon. I grinned.
It was then that I saw the man with a gun watching me from the bushes.
Chapter Three
Play it safe, Barnaby. Don’t do anything rash.
The man was in the bushes to the right. A momentary flash had given him away, a little blink of light off the barrel of a long gun. I’d assessed the situation in a heartbeat�
��peripheral vision was something I had in spades after being in this line of work for so long. He was hidden deep in the shadows, wearing a hat and a bandanna over his face. He’d tried to conceal himself, but I could easily make him out. This guy was no pro.
There was a long row of trees and shrubbery that followed the gravel drive. The gunman was hidden in some thick bush to the right side of the drive, about fifty feet ahead of me. Desecho is high enough in elevation that you still have quite a bit of plant life.
I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. I could have grabbed my revolver and started firing the moment I saw him. But what good would that have done? Chances are I would have missed, and he would have the perfect little hideaway from which to shoot back. Also, there was nothing saying he wanted to kill me—but if I started firing at him, he sure as hell would. The best thing to do was play it safe.
I drew nearer and nearer. By now my perspective had changed, and I could no longer see him. Luckily I’d marked his spot by making note of the leaves in the area where he was hiding. He wasn’t gonna get the jump on me.
I was very close to where the man was hiding now. Soon I would ride right past him. There was a clearing in the brush to my right. I rode on a few more feet then quickly yanked Bob to the side and bolted into the clearing with a flurry of gravel and a cloud of dust.
I was engulfed in large but scraggly trees and a netting of undergrowth. Behind me was the road and the small embankment I’d just scurried down. In front was an open field of sagebrush and grass with a spackling of pines beyond that. And on either side of me was the scruffy undergrowth.
Who was this guy? A debt collector?
The plants were so thick that I couldn’t see more than ten feet in front of my face, but I knew that he was out there, maybe fifty feet or so to my right. I took out my gun and pointed it in his direction.
I called out to the man, “I know you’re in there, so come on out. We’ll have a little talk.”
There was no reply. I listened for any movement coming from the bushes. There was none.
“Come on, now,” I said. “What are you doing out here? Someone send you?”