Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last

by David Steven Rappoport

  “What?”

  “Because our plans for today did not come off, I had free time this morning. As I told you I would keep an eye on Tom Daniels, I did some surveillance.”

  “Did something occur?”

  “You could say that. I sat in my car in front of his house for more than an hour. I was parked in such a way that I had a clear line of sight to the door, though I couldn’t hear much. A strange little man, rather troll-like, made an appearance.”

  “Mandrake. That must be Mandrake. He works for Otto.”

  “The troll-like creature banged on the door, and Daniels answered. Daniels wouldn’t let the fellow into his home, so they talked on the porch. The body language suggested there was no love lost between these gentlemen. After a terse discussion Daniels angrily thrust a book at ... what did you say his name was? Mandrake?”

  “That’s right. Could you identify the book?”

  “I’m getting to that. What I observed seems to confirm your description of the book, The Chainmail Thong or whatever it was, though I can’t be absolutely certain. At a distance the tawdry colors seemed reminiscent of those silly gay romance novels that Luther is so fond of. Also, as you will see, it was definitely hollow.

  “Instead of taking possession of the book when it was thrust at him, Mandrake clumsily dropped it. As it fell to the porch, it opened, and what appeared to be American currency flew out. I couldn’t see the denominations. It appeared that the book had been carved out in its interior and the pages glued together, a sort of informal safe. There were a lot of bills. Mandrake hurriedly retrieved the cash and scurried off, and Daniels went back inside.

  “Thus, in short, I saw a dubious transaction involving empty prose,” Rockland concluded. “The question is, was this merely an aggressive variation on The New York Times Book Review or something more sinister?”

  “Thank you, Rockland. You have no idea how helpful this information is!”

  “Glad to be of service.”

  The first thing after the holiday weekend, Cummings made two calls. First he left a message for Rutley Paik, asking him to call, and then he phoned Otto and insisted they meet. Cummings requested that the meeting take place somewhere other than Otto’s home and that Mandrake not be present. Otto seemed hesitant but ultimately agreed.

  “Let’s meet at the stairs in front of the Art Institute,” Cummings suggested. Otto acceded. They set the meeting for noon. Cummings arrived a few minutes early, and Otto arrived a few minutes late. Barbara Cartland trotted beside him, tethered by a rhinestone-covered leash.

  “We cannot talk here. It’s far too noisy,” Otto opined. “It’s such a lovely day! Shall we find a bench in Millennium Park?”

  They wandered into the park on the block behind the Art Institute and quickly located a bench under the shade of several ash trees.

  “What are you so eager to speak with me about?” Otto asked as he sat. The day was warm and getting warmer. Otto removed a Japanese fan from his pocket, unfurled it languidly, and fanned himself. Barbara Cartland, panting, lay on the ground where it was cooler.

  “I believe that Mandrake is blackmailing Tom Daniels and possibly you.” Cummings watched Otto carefully as he said this. There was no apparent reaction.

  “Why do you say that?” Otto asked flatly.

  “Because Mandrake was observed taking a substantial cash payment from Tom Daniels.”

  “Why would you think Mandrake is blackmailing me?”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it? You claim you’re being blackmailed. He works for you. He appears to be blackmailing a close friend of yours. They’re even passing money in a hollow copy of one of your books.”

  “Which one?”

  “Love’s Tender Chainmail.”

  “Not my best. I fear it’s all a bit twee, particularly the donkey.”

  “You’re like a squirrel that hides information rather than nuts,” Cummings said, experiencing a rising sense of exasperation. “There are a number of matters you have promised to explain but haven’t—for example, whatever you know about Mandrake’s activities, which I suspect is a lot, though I can’t prove it yet.”

  “I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “You’re lying, but we’ll move on. Why won’t you go to the police with the letters? What else do you know about the Mathers members? Why were you visiting a falsely convicted man in prison, and what, if anything, does that have to do with Therese’s death?”

  “I told you everything there is to tell about Edgar when we met in the prison. Honestly, I did,” Otto insisted, with an anxious whine.

  “It is time to tell me everything you’re not telling me. Otherwise, I’m done with you. Further, I will go to the police and tell me them what little I’ve learned.”

  “Please, you can’t do that!”

  “Is Mandrake blackmailing Tom?”

  “It’s very complicated. Things are not as they appear to be. Don’t go to the police.”

  “Is Mandrake blackmailing you?”

  “Of course not. Please give me a few more days. I’ll explain everything. Really, I will!”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “Please be patient with me! A few more days. That’s all I ask!”

  Otto stood suddenly, grasped Barbara Cartland’s leash and walked forcefully in the direction of Michigan Avenue.

  “Otto!” Cummings called after him, but it was no use. He didn’t turn back.

  Cummings sat for a few minutes, contemplating the paradoxes of Otto Verissimo. He was inscrutable and a liar. Did he know something about Therese’s death? Was he protecting himself? From what or whom? Or possibly, was Otto like the heroes of his romance novels, sacrificing himself to protect someone else?

  What of the blackmail? Was Mandrake extorting Tom? Was Otto trying to protect one or both of them? Could Mandrake be blackmailing Tom on Otto’s behalf? Might Mandrake be working for someone other than Otto? And above all, why was Otto so hesitant to confide in Cummings, someone he’d hired to protect him?

  On the way home Cummings made a visit to Tom Daniels. Tom, half-asleep, opened the door. His skin was still pallid, and he looked feverish.

  “I’m sorry to turn up without calling first. I see that your cold appears to be lingering,” Cummings said. “Are you well enough for a brief chat?”

  “I have bronchitis. I was taking a nap.”

  “So sorry. I’ll come another time.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just a few questions. You told me you were at the auction because Winky invited you to join him.”

  “Right.”

  “Winky says that’s not true.”

  “There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “At the auction, I saw Mandrake give you a copy of Love’s Tender Chainmail.”

  “Yes. He’d borrowed it. He was returning it.”

  “Why would he borrow your copy? Doesn’t he have one of his own? If not, couldn’t he borrow a copy from the author who is, after all, his employer?”

  “Right. I know that seems odd, but nonetheless ...”

  “A few days ago,” Cummings continued “you gave Mandrake a great deal of money in a hollow copy of Love’s Tender Chainmail. Is Mandrake, or someone Mandrake answers to, blackmailing you?”

  Tom looked startled by the question. Cummings could see he was intellectually scrambling, likely trying to think of a convincing story that would allay Cummings’s suspicions. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling at all well. Perhaps it would be best ...”

  “Speak to me, or speak to the police,” Cummings interrupted.

  “I don’t have to speak to anyone,” Tom insisted.

  “I assume the reason you’re being blackmailed is that you killed Therese Hickok. Or is there another reason?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” Tom declaimed.

  “That may be true. I’ll admit things don’t quite add up. You don’t have an obvious motive for murder. Otto doesn’t have a motive for blackmail. You�
��re old friends, and he has plenty of money without taking yours. Otto implied that Mandrake is not blackmailing you. Then again, it’s difficult to know who is telling the truth and who isn’t.”

  “Then let me help you — nothing you’ve said is remotely true!” Tom stated as forcefully as he could. “I have nothing else to say. Please leave now.” Tom slammed the door shut.

  Rutley didn’t respond to Cummings’s message. Cummings made several more attempts to reach him over the next few days. Rutley never answered his phone and didn’t return the calls either. Cummings wasn’t sure what to make of this. He finally drove to Rutley’s home to leave a note.

  As he approached the front door, he saw it was open. He went inside to discover a distraught Mary Collins, face covered with streaky makeup, the apparent result of a lengthy period of sobbing.

  The living room in which they stood was a mess. The chaos was not so anarchic as to suggest that the home had been burglarized. Instead, the relative orderliness of piles of clean and dirty laundry, empty food containers, scattered papers, and accumulating dust suggested that the room hadn’t been cleaned in a long time.

  “Hello, Mary. I’m looking for Rutley. Is he here?”

  “No,” she said, bursting into tears.

  “Has something happened?”

  “He’s dead,” she explained in between sobs. “He was killed in a fire.”

  “What fire?”

  “It happened last night. Somewhere on the South Side. Kids were shooting off Roman candles. He was trapped in the building or something.”

  “How do you know this?”

  She retrieved a folded copy of the Chicago Tribune from her shoulder bag and handed it to him. “The story’s on page four,” she said.

  Cummings perused the article, which was brief and added few additional facts. He considered what he knew. None of the Mathers members lived on the South Side of Chicago. Nothing in the Tribune article suggested a criminal aspect to the fire. Rutley’s death was likely just common tragedy, the sort of thing that happens every day to first responders.

  “I came over as soon as I read the paper,” Mary explained tearfully as Cummings handed the newspaper back to her. “I thought perhaps I could be of some assistance. Notify family members. Do something.”

  “I suppose we could straighten up,” Cummings said.

  “Yes,” Mary replied, slightly more cheerful. “At least whoever walks in next won’t be walking into a mess.”

  “Right,” Cummings agreed.

  In truth, his motivation was not altruistic. During the almost two hours they spent neatly stacking papers, taking out trash, washing dishes, putting them away and returning recently laundered clothes to drawers, Cummings was on a hunt. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a copy of the Red and White arson investigation report. It was wedged between empty pizza cartons. The first page was stained—red wine and chocolate, Cummings guessed. Cummings surreptitiously folded the stapled sheets and put them in his back pocket.

  Cummings offered Mary a lift. She declined. He returned to his car and read the report. Of course, it contributed nothing to his knowledge of Rutley’s death; but as he’d hoped, it did add to what he knew about Therese’s — added in a rather startling way. He considered the new information for a few moments, then settled on a course of action.

  Using the GPS function on his smart phone, he searched for the nearest hardware store. On the drive over his phone rang.

  “Cummings here,” he answered.

  “Things are at a very sensitive point,” an irate Otto screeched. “Very sensitive! I told you that I’ll tell you everything in a few days! How could you do this?”

  “How could I do what?” Cummings replied calmly.

  “Intimidate Tom Daniels! He’s furious!”

  “I didn’t intimidate anyone. I asked him a few questions!”

  “Don’t you have any emotional intelligence?” Otto shrieked.

  “I’m not sure what emotional intelligence is, so possibly not. Are you firing me?”

  “No!”

  “Good. In spite of what I may have implied in the park, I haven’t quit either. You can expect my next bill shortly. Very well then. I’m in traffic. I’ll phone you in a day or two.” Cummings hung up.

  At the hardware store Cummings searched the aisles, looking for a particular item. He picked it up and took it to the cash register.

  Next he went home, and got onto his computer. After a brief search he found some evidence confirming his new suspicions: a twenty-year-old article from the Chicago Sun-Times.

  Finally he phoned Clarkson’s auction house.

  “I wonder if you can help me,” Cummings said. “I’m a bookkeeper. One of my clients has misplaced some paperwork she needs for her tax return. Could you look up something if I give you the client number? It’s CB175. I’ll be happy to confirm the name and address.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  Cummings stated the information.

  Apparently, that convinced. The voice on the phone asked politely, “What would you like me to look up, sir?

  Cummings responded, “I want to verify some of Mrs. Hollingbery’s recent transactions.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A few days later, in the same morning edition, the Chicago Tribune published two articles of particular interest to Cummings. He found these tidbits comforting. He was feeling particularly frustrated by his relative lack of progress, and they reminded him that everything remaining unclear in his investigations would likely become clear in time.

  One item was a brief article confirming the cause of the house fire in which two Chicago firemen, one of whom was Rutley Paik, had been killed: children shooting off fireworks. This was a confirmation of what Cummings had already assumed, that there was nothing sinister about Rutley’s death.

  The second bit of news was of even greater interest because it established the veracity of something Cummings had assumed was a lie. The District Attorney of Cook County announced that, based on new evidence, Edgar Diderot was going to be released from prison. Otto had been telling the truth, at least about Edgar. This did not, of course, necessarily mean Otto was telling the truth about anything else, but at least it took one paradox off Cummings’s list.

  Cummings dressed and drove to his first appointment, which was with Anunciación Hollingberry. She answered the door promptly after Cummings rang and ushered him into her living room.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Cummings said.

  “I always like to be helpful, don’t you know.” She led him to a chair and indicated he should sit. “Do you still think Surendra was murdered?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Not everything in the world is explainable by science! There are some matters that are beyond our comprehension!”

  “Indeed, but I don’t think this is one of them.”

  “We will have to agree to disagree.” Anunciación sat. “You said you wanted to speak to me again?”

  “Yes. I’d like to ask you about your interest in the Craddock Brooch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You purchased it at auction.”

  “I did! My old friend Despina was very ill with heart trouble, and it was said the brooch had the power to heal. I bought it, took it to her home in Wales and placed it on her heart chakra. Sadly, it was no use. She passed anyway.

  “Dear Despina! I knew her from the convent school in South Dakota, don’t you know. She was called Muffin then, but she later married an Italian viscount with whom she lived in a ninth century tower on the Tiber. One can’t live in a ninth century tower on the Tiber with a viscount and be called Muffin.

  “Fellini used their home as a set in Satyricon. He gave them small roles in an orgy scene. There was a close-up of her nipples. Her husband’s family was scandalized and cut off their money. They took what they had left, moved to Wales and began to raise sheep and carrots for better quality restaurants.

  “Perhaps the
plan was not completely thought through. Did you know the Welsh word for carrots is moron? That was Despina’s pet name for the Viscount.

  “I’m afraid they faced many difficulties: a flood, then a fire, unstable prices, and an outbreak of feedlot rectal prolapse — that’s a sheep disease. But eventually ...”

  “You purchased the Craddock Brooch at auction,” Cummings interrupted, attempting to return Anunciación to the linear.

  “Yes. That’s right! It seems the brooch is only a worthless piece of costume jewelry carved from sheep bone. Who can say if it even belonged to Ida Craddock? I resold it at auction. I didn’t know who bought it, though I suppose it now seems likely it was purchased by Therese.”

  “It was a gift from her husband, actually. You didn’t tell Therese it was a fake?”

  “I didn’t know she was going to buy it, don’t you know. But even if I had, I wouldn’t have said anything. No matter how unfounded it is, one must never destroy hope. It is too scarce and too fragile.”

  “Speaking of auctions, you’ve sold a number of items, furniture mostly, during the last year. In fact, you sold something recently at Clarkson’s.”

  “What if I have? I’m about to redo several rooms in my apartment.”

  “I wonder if there’s another reason, that the financial downturn has been hard on you, as it has been on everyone who lives on investment income.”

  “I don’t need money. I’ve been very fortunate, don’t you know.”

  Cummings paused to survey the room. “Your furniture really is lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I must confess that I was confused by why a woman in your financial position had reproduction antiques,” Cummings continued. “A few days ago I discovered the reason. This furniture was made by your late husband.”

  “That’s true! How did you learn that?”

  “I found an old article about him in the Sun-Times,” he said, unfolding a printout from his coat pocket and handing it to her. “Apparently your late husband relaxed from the stress of the Chicago Board of Trade by making furniture. It seems that he was quite the craftsman, even winning blue ribbons for his work. He also developed a polish for fine furniture, Heirloom Formula, that’s still sold locally. In fact, I bought some yesterday at the hardware store. Its primary ingredients are beeswax and linseed oil, and it’s scented with lavender.”