The Clements Kettle

by Erik Carter

  I carefully slid out of bed. She didn’t rouse. My pants were, conveniently, right next to the bed. My shirt was a different story. That was going to require my detective skills.

  Needless to say, I’d taken Lilly up on her offer. Now, I know … don’t mix business and pleasure. That’s what they say, right? Well, I’ve never been one to follow formalities.

  I love my job.

  I eventually found my shirt. It was crumpled in a ball and squished beneath her mattress. I tugged it out, worsening a hole that had already been forming in one of the armpits. I gathered my clothes, hat, and boots under an arm and tiptoed out toward the doorway—didn’t want to wake her with the rattling of my spurs and belt buckle.

  Wearing only my undergarments, I stepped into the hallway and gently closed the door. Pattison walked by at the opposite end of the hall. His eyes turned my way for a moment before he darted away, acting like he hadn’t seen anything. I chuckled as I pulled my pants on. For someone so prickly, he sure went out of his way to avoid confrontation.

  Passive aggressive folks make me want to punch a nun.

  I exited the mansion and found Bob where Lilly had tied him to the bench in the front lawn. I knew that Pattison was trying to act like he didn’t know I was there, but I also knew that he had to have seen Bob sitting there all evening. He could have put the poor guy in the stable. Pattison was rapidly ascending the Barnaby Wilcox annoyance rankings.

  Bob gave me the cold shoulder. When I tried to scratch his chin he pulled away from me.

  “Don’t be a jackass, horse,” I said.

  Half an hour later I was on a train. I typically prefer getting to places in the saddle, but since time was slipping away on this case, I made the decision to ride the rails. It cut a four- to five-hour trip down to forty-five minutes.

  Bob was toward the back in one of the stock cars. I don’t like going places without him, and since last year—when a bigwig from Chicago started making humane cars for transporting big critters—I’ve been able to bring him with me when I take the train.

  Not that he’d appreciated it today, though. He looked positively miserable when he walked up the ramp, in line between a cow and an oversized goat. As much as I shy away from other people, Bob shies from other animals.

  The passenger car was cozy. Bright sunlight poured through the windows and warmed my left side. The gentle shaking was making my eyelids heavy.

  I looked out the window. The landscape was getting more desert-y as we headed down out of the high ground and made our way toward Tucson. There was a large expanse of flat ground with scraggly scrub growth, an occasional saguaro, and beyond, the Santa Catalina Mountains, looming, deep blue against a bright blue sky.

  Looking at all this now made me wish even more that I was out there instead of inside the train. That’s where I was most content, out there alone with my thoughts. Out in nature. I didn’t have any trouble adapting to the vast emptiness when I first moved out here, which I’m sure came as a surprise to those who knew me back east.

  The seats around me were mostly full. Tucson was the biggest city in the territory, and it seemed people were always flocking there. Beats me.

  A couple pretty little things sat a few seats ahead of me, chatting away. On another day, I might have been tempted to change seats, join in on the conversation. But since I’d had Lilly’s company last night, I didn’t have the proverbial energy. The older you get, the rustier the plumbing.

  I turned and smelled Lilly’s perfume on the shoulder where she’d rested her head for a spell. Wonderful. Warms a man’s cockles. Didn’t know if I’d ever wash the shirt again.

  On the other side of the car, across the aisle from the girls, there was a man in dark clothing. Black hat, black shirt. Looked to be glancing in my direction.

  The mystery man?

  I flicked my duster back, uncovering my revolver.

  The man turned, and I got a better look at him. He was talking to a friend. He laughed boisterously and smacked the fella on the shoulder. There was a large silver medallion on his hatband, something I hadn’t noticed either of the times I encountered the mystery man.

  He wasn’t the man I was looking for.

  I covered my gun then sank down into my seat and pulled my hat over my eyes for a nap.

  I was disappointed. I’d wanted him to be the mystery man. I wanted to catch the bastard.

  It was hot when I reached Tucson. Hot and crowded. Now, it wasn’t the biggest city I’d ever been to. Some cities back east had populations in the hundreds of thousand, a couple around a million. By comparison, Tucson’s seven thousand was nothing. But it sure felt packed to me.

  Bob, too, was fretful of the crowd. He neighed and stomped as other horses crossed his path and bumped into him. I patted his side.

  “I know, Bob. I know.”

  The Macintosh Museum was on the far side of the city, right on the edge of the desert. A large mansion, presumably Macintosh’s, sat a quarter mile behind at the foot of some craggy hills.

  The museum was an opulent behemoth of a building with large columns on the front and a prominent sign surrounded by flowering yucca plants. I took a deep breath and entered. This was a new frontier for Barnaby Wilcox.

  The interior was all shiny marble floors and red velvet ropes. As I scanned over the plethora of corridors and displays, I felt a little daunted about scouring the place for the kettle. Luckily, the museum was running tour groups. I joined one.

  But by the time the hour-long tour had wrapped, I’d seen nothing resembling a kettle. As the other members of our group left, I approached the tour guide, a small man with feathery blond hair.

  “Aren’t there any kettles on display?” I said.

  “As in metal bowls? No. However we do have some pottery in the—”

  I then called upon my acting skills, another piece of the private detective tool kit. “This is outrageous!” I said. “I came to see kettles!”

  “I’m very sorry about your disappointment, sir.”

  “I came for kettles, and I want my money back.”

  What was the point of this charade? All part of the plan.

  The tour guide smiled at me condescendingly. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t offer refunds of any sort. We cannot be expected to have exhibits to the liking of every single—”

  “Where’s the manager? Where’s Macintosh himself? As one of the museum’s most giving patrons, I think he owes me a personal explanation for this travesty,” I said, much louder. This was getting fun. People were beginning to stare.

  The tour guide looked me up and down, no doubt taking note of my scratched boots, dusty jacket, well-worn hat. “You donate to the museum? And what might your name be?”

  “Lionel Cosgrove,” I said. “You just go ahead and ask him.”

  The tour guide smirked. “Very well. If you’ll come with me.”

  He led me to a desk at the front of the museum. I waited while he went through the glass door behind the desk.

  Posing as another individual during an investigation can have disastrous results. The last time I’d tried this I ended up getting inducted into a cult in southern Wyoming. I slipped out of the compound in the middle of the night, my white robes billowing behind me, as the others were prepping for the latest séance. I was one step away from be transmogrified into my next life. Apparently I was to be a toad. One wonders what might have been.

  The tour guide returned a few moments later. He looked a little green around the gills. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he whispered. “Very sorry.”

  “As well you should be.”

  A walrus of a man barreled out of the door behind the desk. He wore a suit that that was likely custom-tailored but was still stretched so tight it was about to blow. A watch chain hung from his pocket, and a big mustache rolled down his fat face to his chin.

  He abruptly faced me, then just as quickly turned to the manager. “This isn’t Lionel Cosgrove, Robert. Quit wasting my time!” He whipped around to go bac
k to his office.

  I called after him. “But Cosgrove is your good friend.”

  He turned back around and faced me. “That he is.”

  “Which makes me wonder,” I said, “why you have his kettle while he remains kidnapped.”

  Macintosh looked at me for a moment. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”

  “Barnaby Wilcox, private investigator.”

  Macintosh approached the counter, bumping the tour guide out of his way with his big gut. A long moment passed before he said, “Perhaps, Mr. Wilcox, you would join me for refreshments at my estate.”

  Here’s where things get interesting. The bad guy—or the apparent bad guy in this case—invites you to his home. Do you go? Do you risk opening yourself to that vulnerability? Well, as I always say, the show must go on.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  I held his gaze. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he was the type of man who got the feel for another fella through eye contact. He was trying to test me, trying to see if I’d look away. But I didn’t.

  Macintosh snorted, his oily sneer getting wider. “I will see you at my home momentarily.”

  “Very well.”

  Macintosh turned for his office. I winked at the tour guide, who had gone slightly pale during the Wilcox-Macintosh showdown, and left the museum.

  Outside, Bob looked like he was about to yank his hitching post out of the ground. There was a steady flow of traffic on the road behind him, and a young girl was lovingly yet firmly playing with his tail.

  I walked over, and the girl trotted off. I scratched Bob under his chin. “Atta boy.”

  I gazed back at the museum. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since I’d figured out that this slime Connor Macintosh was behind everything. Now I was on my way to his house for “refreshments.” It’s a funny world, isn’t it?

  I stroked Bob’s chin again. “Let’s go play with our new friend, Bob.” I climbed into the saddle.

  We went around the museum and down to the mansion beyond. I noticed how similar the mansion was to Cosgrove’s, which I’d seen just two days prior. It was two stories tall, broad, snooty. The wood was dark, and there was elaborate stonework around the windows and the base. It stood on a large plot of land, though I wasn’t sure what good it did him—it was all desert.

  As I tied Bob to a hitching post out front, Macintosh stepped out of one of his stables.

  “Ah, Mr. Wilcox,” he said. “Come.” He motioned for me to follow.

  We entered the house. Like the Cosgrove mansion, Macintosh’s had artifacts and paintings posted along every wall, every corner, every bathroom.

  “I believe, Mr. Wilcox, since it’s such a beautiful day we’ll retire to the patio. Does this suit you?”

  Beautiful day? It had to be ninety-five degrees. These desert types think the so-called “dry heat” of theirs makes any day a good day. Still, as I said before, it was best to be obliging in situations like this. “That would be fine.”

  “You’ll have to forgive the condition of my home,” he said, gesturing to the surroundings. Looked perfectly clean to me. “I don’t have a butler or any other help.”

  “Wife? Kids?”

  “No,” Macintosh said. “I’ve never married. I haven’t found the time.”

  Ah, yes. The “I’m too busy” excuse. So the old bastard lived completely alone. I’d only known him for a few minutes, but I wasn’t surprised at all. Who’d want to hang around this creep? As far as I could tell he didn’t even have a dog.

  We made it to the back of the house to a large set of doors leading to the patio beyond. Macintosh opened a door for me. He said, “If you’ll excuse me for just one moment I will prepare some libations.”

  This charade of cutesy pleasantries was beginning to get on my nerves.

  “Yup,” I said.

  The patio was a large flooring of stonework with a handful of wooden chairs scattered about. I sat in one of the chairs and looked out into the desert beyond. It was sparse and brown, dotted with saguaros.

  Macintosh returned. He was carrying two drinks, ice tinkling in the glasses. He pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. He handed me a glass. It was a mint julep.

  I dipped the tip of one of my fingers in and touched the cold surface of one of the pieces of ice. I smiled. “Ice,” I said. “Now this is a rare treat.”

  Macintosh swelled. “I spare no expense.”

  We both looked out upon the land.

  Macintosh dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Beautiful, isn’t it? There are thirty-nine saguaros on my property. The man who sold me the land said some of them are over a hundred years old.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Macintosh smiled and snorted. I think even he was beginning to grow weary of the ridiculous banter. “So, you’re a private detective. You came to my museum, no doubt, to seek me out. You have things to ask about my dear friend Lionel Cosgrove.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You know, you sure didn’t seem surprised to hear he was kidnapped.”

  “I wasn’t surprised. I already knew.”

  As I suspected. “And you didn’t go to the authorities?”

  “As I understand, the kidnappers said they would kill Lionel if the law got involved.”

  “I see you’re familiar with the situation. May I ask how?”

  “A man in my position,” he said, gesturing to the land around him, “finds himself more attuned to the less than savory sides of life than you might imagine. I’m privy to lots of very unique information.”

  “Through your gang.”

  “My gang?”

  “The Blue Eagles.”

  Macintosh narrowed his eyes and smiled. “I do know the leader of that organization, a Mr. James Cobalt or Jimmy Blue Eyes,” he said. “I hire them from time to time. Like I always say, you don’t reach a position of power with clean shoulders. You have to rub shoulders with all walks of life.”

  Cute.

  “So I’d be correct in assuming you hired them to intercept the kettle?” I said. It was time to start really putting the heat to Macintosh.

  He flared up. His cheeks flushed. “I hire them occasionally, but that does not mean I do any illegal business with them, let alone have them steal from one of my dearest friends.”

  I’d finally gotten a rise out of him.

  “Then answer me this,” I said. “What would a bunch of hillbillies like the Blue Eagles want with the kettle?”

  “It’s a museum piece, an artifact.”

  “To you and Cosgrove, maybe,” I said. “To everyone else, it’s just a metal pot.”

  A dark look fell over Macintosh then. “I see there’s no duping you, Mr. Wilcox. Very well. I have the kettle,” he said with flippant concession. “Now I dare you to find it. Go ahead. Find it. It’s only this big.” He spread his hands about six inches apart. “I know you already checked the museum. Did you really think I’d keep something like that on display? And you won’t be able to find it here either. My home is my castle. And my castle is well defended.”

  “They’re going to kill him,” I said.

  “We’ve established this already, Mr. Wilcox,” he said. “If the authorities are alerted, the kidnappers plan on killing Lionel.”

  “Yes, but they’re also going to kill Cosgrove if they don’t receive the kettle.” It was time to utilize the trusty guilt tactic again.

  “I see,” Macintosh said in a low voice. He looked away.

  Now that Macintosh knew the kidnappers were going to off his friend Cosgrove, he would be putty in my hands. I’d be taking the kettle back to Lilly in no time flat. Sometimes it’s best to shoot right for the heart.

  “We have until tomorrow at midnight,” I said. “If the kidnappers don’t receive the kettle by then, it’s all over for Lionel Cosgrove. Try living with that.”

  I was laying it on thick. Yes, sir. Macintosh shuddered as he continued to look away into the distance. This was working lik
e a charm.

  He turned back to face me. His bulbous eyes and sagging jowls were forlorn. Presently his lips began to move, his eyes began to brighten. A devilish grin came to his face. “Let them kill him,” he said.

  And suddenly the game changed.

  “Lionel loves me,” he said. “Loves me so much that he bequeathed me his entire collection in his will.”

  And the game changed even more. Advantage: Macintosh.

  He didn’t care about the kettle one iota. He wanted all of Cosgrove’s other damn artifacts. That’s why he had the Blue Eagles intercept the ransom. He must have known the whole time that the kidnappers were going to kill Cosgrove if they didn’t get it. And if they did kill him, Cosgrove’s entire collection would be turned over to Macintosh.

  Yes, the game had completely and utterly changed.

  I looked straight into Macintosh’s fat eyes. “So that’s it, huh?” I said.

  “Yes, that’s it. Are you disturbed, Mr. Wilcox?” He looked at me with joyful scrutiny, as though I’d shown some expression of distaste and he was reveling in it.

  I stood up to leave. “I don’t know if disturbed is the right word. I’ve seen a lot more disturbing things than this in my line of work. Disgusted might be more fitting. Thanks for the drink.” I sat my glass on the arm of my chair.

  “And thank you for the company, Mr. Wilcox,” Macintosh said and took a sip of his julep. “Feel free to search for the kettle on your way out.” He crunched on a piece of ice.

  I walked away. Macintosh laughed behind me.

  The world seemed a little emptier now. I felt cold. A man can do many things when he loses his way. He can lose his faith, lose his heart. But he never double-crosses a friend.

  Chapter Nine

  The desert can get really cold on you at night, but at the moment it was still nice and hot. Not as hot as the daytime but hot all the same.

  It was around midnight, and I was back at the Macintosh mansion. The sky was bright with a full moon and a scattering of stars. I hid from view, creeping among some of the puny bushes in the front. The mansion itself was darkened. There were no lights, save a couple of lanterns by the front door.