by Tee Morris
“Took action?” Jer asked. “Are you saying…?”
“He was thrown up there.” I walked out of the clearing underneath the body with a shrug and a sigh. “I said you weren’t going to like it.”
“Billi, come on, look at him!” Jer never did like a crime scene where something didn’t make sense, but usually those problems involved something like a crook leaving behind fingerprints in an obvious location, a murderer stopping to change a flat tire, or some other form of sheer stupidity on the part of the criminal. This was the first time he’d had to deal with something completely out of his wide scope of comprehension, and he wasn’t taking it well. “I have a corpse on the ceiling! A fully-grown male can't be picked up and tossed straight up into the air—this guy's got to be 250 pounds! But you’re telling me that somehow—somehow—that is exactly what happened to this unsuspecting jeweler opening his establishment?!”
“No, Detective,” a voice spoke from the doorway, “the jeweler was opening my establishment.”
Whoever this guy was, his timing could not have been better. Uniforms were casting curious glances our way, Jer’s volume gradually rising the longer he ranted. I just didn’t have it in me to tell him that all the reasoning in the world, no matter how loud it was, wouldn't change my conclusion. Nothing would be gained by throwing Troll fat on this campfire.
The newcomer on the scene silently took stock of his inventory as he walked the gauntlet between the cases of precious stones, gold and silver creations, and precision timepieces. With a calm demeanor, he straightened his necktie, considered the two of us, and then looked upward.
“Davenport,” he said, showing no indication of shock or surprise that his employee was on the ceiling. “The gentleman’s name is Samuel Davenport, Detective, and it was his job to open and close my boutique.”
“Samuel Davenport,” Jerry acknowledged, jotting the name down on his notepad. “And how long had he worked for you?”
“Oh, I should say, eight years come this August.” He looked up at the dead man again, and lightly clicked his tongue, as concerned as if he had just lost a button from his expensive suit. “What a shame. He was a fine manager. A fine manager.”
“Your sense of loss is inspiring,” I said.
The newcomer now gave me his full attention. I guess he was expecting there to be more to this public servant. Far be it from me to disappoint.
“I am a businessman at a time when staying in business is very precarious. I cannot afford myself to feel for every loss. I have to look at how my business is affected, and then show proper respects once I have the time. To be quite frank, I’ve not had the time lately.”
Strike this guy off the list. He wouldn’t have murdered his manager, on account of the damage it would do to his business.
“Well, I guess you’ve got to keep your priorities straight,” I stated. “After all, times as they are, your business could disappear tomorrow.”
“Not mine, Officer. Not mine,” he replied.
Well now, slap me in the ass with a dragon’s tail. If it wasn’t ol’ Miles from the other night.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jer chimed in. “Mr. Baddings here is not with the Chicago Police.”
He had to say that. It was part of the job.
Miles granted me a slow nod, still contemplating who the hell I was and why I was in his shop. “Baddings?” he asked.
“Billibub Baddings. I’m a private eye,” I said, offering him a card. “I’m here on my own dime though, so you have nothing to worry about.”
“No, I don’t.” He then turned his back on me, leaving me there with the card still in my outstretched hand. A few of O’Malley’s boys got a chuckle out of that.
All right, Miles. That’s another black mark against you.
“I’m the head detective on this case. Detective Jerry Flannigan, sir.”
“Ah yes, Detective Flannigan,” Miles purred, his back now completely to me. “I’ve heard your name several times in the news. Superlative service you have given us all here in Chicago.”
“Your name, sir?”
Miles straightened up to his full height, but then gave a dry laugh. “But of course, Detective, you probably don't know me on sight, as I'm certain we don't travel in similar social circles. Miles Waterson, as in B.D. Waterson and Sons. I’m the ‘and Sons’.”
Miles Waterson. Heir to the Waterson Jewelry Empire. Member of the Chicago Elite. Prick.
“Well, Mr. Waterson, as you see, we’re trying to find out what happened here and discover if anything was taken. There are also some rather unusual circumstances surrounding your manager's death.”
“And is that why you are here, Mister…Baggins, was it?”
“Baddings,” I replied tersely. “And yeah, I tend to help out Chicago’s Finest with the odder cases. But a man as educated and cultured as yourself should hardly be surprised by something like that.”
“No, not at all.” He looked up at Davenport, and then back to me. “So, what exactly have you discovered, Mr. Baddings, about the death of my best manager?”
“Quite a bit about his employer, but nothing that really pertains to this case.” I heard a throat clear. I fired off a wink to Jer, letting him know I wasn’t going to mortify him or his Chicago brothers. I also wasn’t going to let this dink bait me into any kind of altercation that could prove embarrassing. “The investigation is still ongoing, and right now we’ve got more questions than answers.”
Miles nodded. “You will keep me apprised of what you find, gentlemen?”
Jer handed Miles a card. Miles then turned to me, his hand open.
“My number’s in the book,” I said.
“Detective Flannigan?” a voice came from the back of the store.
All three of us turned to watch the uniform approach. He had a clipboard in his grasp, and a look of bad news plastered across his face like a Tribune headline.
“Yes, Officer,” Jer said, accepting the clipboard from the uniform. “What have you got for me?”
“We found where the perpetrators broke in. It looks like they just came through one of the walls.”
“How’d they do that? Through a window? Jimmie the backdoor?”
“No, sir, they came through the wall,” he answered. “There’s this large gaping hole in the bricks, opposite of the rear entrance. Since they didn’t trip the wires around the door, the alarm never went off. The manager must’ve also noticed this and went in thinking they lef—”
“What about inventory?” Waterson snapped. “Was anything taken?”
I have to look at how my business is affected, and then show proper respects once I have the time. To be quite frank, I’ve not had the time lately.
When it’s your turn, maybe someone will make time for you.
“As far as we can tell, nothing was taken,” the officer said. “It looks like the perpetrators were caught in the act, and then this—” He motioned to the body above them. “—happened.”
Jer looked up from his clipboard. “That’s it?”
The officer shrugged. “That’s it, sir.”
I was about to ask Waterson a question, then paused. I wasn’t sure if it was the lighting of the crime scene or my senses playing tricks on me (blocking out those strong odors was not easy), but Miles looked as if he was going to pass out. Now he seemed—for the first time—genuinely upset. Over a botched robbery? I looked around and could see there were plenty of pieces which could have proven easy pickings to the common thief. Miles took a deep breath, and that seemed to steady him.
“You will keep me informed on the progress of this investigation, won’t you?” he managed to say, although his voice came out rougher than a sabertooth’s tongue.
“Absolutely, Mr. Waterson. I would suggest, as you’re more familiar with your shop’s inventory, that you and your staff run down the items. If anything is missing, you can let us know and then make a claim with your insurance company.”
“Of course,” he muttered. “Of
course.”
He tipped his hat to the two of us and walked out the door. By now the press was here and they were assaulting him with questions, questions that I don’t doubt were the same as the ones bouncing around in my noggin.
“So what do you think, Billi?” Jer asked me, motioning to the damage around him, his eyes ending at the body still embedded in the ceiling.
“I’m thinking you and I ought to stay in touch, and when you can—” I cast a glance at Waterson, and then looked back to Jer, “—find someone who can do repair work on ceilings. Fast. I don’t think Fat Boy’s gonna stay up there for long. Try Michelangelo. Italy. Guy’s a whiz with a brush and a bucket of paint, I hear.”
Chapter Seven
Just the Stats, Ma’am
I always waxed nostalgic whenever I entered the Chicago Public Library at 78 East Washington Street. This was where it all began for me. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that when you’re walking the mean streets in your deerskin loafers, trying to stay clear of the Trolls, the Orcs, and the Ogres all wanting to take a piece of you home to mount over their hearth like some kind of trophy, your time is best spent on the gun or archery range. However, the library is also a good place to be. Don't knock what you can learn from the right book.
Say you come upon someone who’s not looking so hot. In fact, say the individual in question is stone cold dead. Take a whiff of their breath. If you’re smelling almonds and you don’t see any nuts around, then there’s a good chance that person’s a victim of arsenic poisoning. How about a priceless diamond that’s under lock and key one moment and gone the next, as if conjured away by a wizard’s spell. The only magic there is science and mathematics: mirrors can be angled just right to make something seem to be there when it really isn’t. And if you ever feel like someone’s ripping you off for your time, think about the why behind it; you just might find your business within tunneling distance of a bank. What appears as charitable work on the outside is indirectly making you a front man for a robbery.
No doubt, book smarts are just as valuable as street smarts. Capone’s average foot soldier sure could learn a lot from one on how not to off someone, on how it’s all in the details.
Then again, when your idea of subtle is a bullet to the back of the skull, you’re not really going to care about the details.
Today I wasn’t looking for distraction, nor was I diving into a reference. I was looking for the papers. I needed sports stats too current to be in any bound journals. By the time these scores appeared in books, the season would be done and the Baltimore Mariners would be bringing the pennant home to Maryland. So this meant heading over to my old stompin’ grounds and tracking down a lovely lady who never failed to put a smile on my face, no matter how deep the dragon shit was for me.
“Gertie!” I said in an exaggerated whisper.
She looked over the horn-rims and her aura of concentration melted away with a smile that could stop a streetcar on its tracks. Gertrude deHavilland was not one for the makeup, the glam, or the glitz; and that’s what made Gertie an enigma. If this librarian had wanted to, she could have headed out west and easily made a splash in the pictures. Even sans the glitter that starlets relied on to look good for the cameras, Gertie was a complete and utter knockout. She also had, aside from the sapphires behind the specs, a grace that others lacked, a poise that remained hidden behind the posture of someone quite comfortable in the quiet life found in libraries. There was also her outward sense of style: long hair that sported streaks of blonde amidst deep red, high heels that added a touch of flamboyance (and height) to her carriage, and a no-nonsense attitude from her native homelands that was neither flinching nor apologetic. She was not what I would have pegged for a bookworm, but I was not going to question her choice, especially since she was the sharpest tack on the corkboard when it came to finding anything filed and stored in this place.
“Billi.” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, substituted by pursed lips and a scornful look that wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. “Now go on. You know you don’t have to—” And with the same exaggeration I showed in my greeting, she said, “—whisper here. Just keep your voice low and you won’t get shushed.”
A sharp and impatient “Shhhh…” came from a nearby desk. The old fossil stationed there was loosing on her younger counterpart the kind of cold death-glare that I’d seen in my share of stand-offs.
“Loosen up, Hazel,” Gertie huffed, her volume remaining consistent.
“Hmph!” With a sniff, Hazel grabbed a stack of recent returns and headed off to the stacks.
“I swear,” Gertie began, “that woman’s a rock. Set in her ways, know what I mean?”
“I thought you meant she was just ancient,” I quipped.
“Good to see you, mate,” she proclaimed with that far and away accent of hers. Nothing less than music to my ears.
“A day when you’re seen above the ground is always a good one in my book.”
She gave a nod, setting aside the modest stack of papers in front of her. “And what can I do for you that will take up my afternoon?”
I smiled warmly. “How about reading out loud from a dictionary?” That earned me her endearing giggle, but it gave me a moment to think about her question. “And what makes you think I want to monopolize your important time?”
Gertie peered at me over the horn-rims, her eyebrow arching as she said, “Oh, Billi, don’t start. It has been months since you came to a Snoopers meeting.”
My hands were up now, held at verbal gunpoint. “I’m a busy guy. I’ve fallen behind in my reading!”
She clicked her tongue. “Your loss. Hammett’s new book came up in the conversation.”
Dammit, she knew this was my Athessia’s Heel. “That’s the one about the bird, right?”
“I’ve read it already,” she gloated. “You could have heard my thoughts on it…last week…when we had our monthly meeting.”
Much as I would have loved to keep the groan to myself, it got away from me. Gertie’s to blame for this, too. When the Crash happened, I was getting really, really tired of the news, of learning who lost the fair fight with gravity in the financial district, and how many honest working types had kissed their savings goodbye. I was not in the best of spirits, and Gertie offered up something she thought I would enjoy. The book was Red Harvest, and it was a debut novel. Yeah, sure, I know people got issues with trying out new authors, but being a guy who believed in the power of giving someone the benefit of the doubt, I decided to give this writer a shot.
From that day on, I was Dashiell Hammett’s cabin boy.
Don’t get me wrong, now. Agatha and Sir Arthur were still my comrades in arms. I mean, they were the ones who got me into my chosen profession. But Hammett was the first writer to really speak to me. Red Harvest centered around a private dick who called himself “The Continental Op”. (Catchy.) The guy who hires him dies before meeting with Op face-to-face, but that doesn’t stop him from working the murder on his own dime. Turns out the stiff’s dad is the town’s lord and master, a guy who looks at something and before the day’s end he owns it. (Hmm, did Gertie know how close this was hitting to my hovel?) Op’s murder case becomes a job for the lord and master. On the surface, everything looks jake. On the surface. The more I read, the more I learned what a sneaky son of a bitch Hammett was as a writer. I loved him for that.
Gertie then shanghaied me into her book group, Snoopers. Bunch of blue hairs and bookworms that all had a passion for the mystery genre.
Being fans of the mystery, of course, made them a curious lot. “So, Billi,” one of the old Bettys asked as I was taking my seat that first night, “what do you do?”
“Research,” I had replied.
“What kind of research?” Eugene, the writer-hopeful asked.
Great. A bunch of mystery readers, and I was the big case to be cracked.
“I solve problems for others,” I answered carefully. “I’m charitable that way.”
; Gertie came to the rescue, diverting attention to that month’s read, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Why that one? Well, it was Charlie Dickens and as it was December, people were all over A Christmas Carol. Edwin Drood was Gertie’s Christmas present to all of us: an unfinished work by Dickens that was, in no uncertain terms, an unsolved mystery.
It was going to take me some time to relax around these amateur sleuths, especially with how we reminded each other when the next meeting was taking place. Didn’t matter where we were in Chicago. If we happened to see one another, we were supposed to brush the tip of our nose with a single index finger. That was the silent signal.
Yeah, it was going to take me quite some time. Completely loosening up around my fellow Snoopers was out of the question, as I might slip and mention I was “on a case”. That’s a wizard’s cauldron I did not want to stir.
The group did introduce me to some terrific mystery authors, I admit. It was also some quality time in the library, and a few extra stolen moments with Gertie. Financial demands were making my fun time scarce, though; and while I was continuously side-stepping what I did to pay the bills, I didn’t care to share with the group my other little secret. I could have made one or two more of the meetings provided I showed up in makeup and costume.
No thanks.
This friction from Gertie, now that I was thinking more about it, was well-earned. Didn’t mean I had to like it.
“Look, you know what I do,” I pleaded. “Both jobs, I might add.”
“That I do,” Gertie said. Then a smirk crossed her face. “And how the group would love to know what you do. At least, the chosen profession.”
Blackmail? “Gertie, you wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I, Billi?
This was payback. Cold, ruthless payback for being so anti-social over the past few months.
I unleashed the puppy-dog eyes on her. “Gertie, what can I do to get back into your good graces?”
“A sit-down dinner at Mick’s?” she asked. “Just an evening with a good friend…” She paused and finally leaned in, giving me a librarian’s stare. “…who is quickly becoming a total stranger.”