"I suspect that my old nemesis, Herr Morden, has launched a three-pronged attack in my direction. Two of the attack plans can be plainly viewed out in the open."
Theodore raised his hand.
"The assassins."
"Yes, Theodore, the two attempts on my life are Herr Morden's plan number one, a problem which Moklal and I will deal with in the near future."
"While I...?"
Cutting off the beginning of Theodore's next question, the proprietor referred to the document in his own hand and continued speaking.
"The second plainly viewed attack plan comes from one of the city commissioners who is seeking any grounds he can find to revoke our business licenses. I have it on good authority that Herr Morden has passed a large sum of money into the commissioner's hands in return for this witch hunt into our prior dealings."
"Can they do that?"
"Money buys many things in our world, Theodore. Reflect on all the politicians and CEOs of major corporations currently playing golf at one of our finer federal institutions. It's quite easy to see how money and power are the great corruptors."
"What can the commissioner find on us?"
Cletis Johnston arched his left eyebrow.
"Remember all our special clients from the past and the unique bail arrangements we made with them?"
Theodore preferred not to think of those who had fallen from high places, jaywalked in front of speeding taxi cabs, gone deep-water swimming without proper breathing apparatuses, or had been shot by their suddenly outraged partners in crime. And all this time, the Twin Brothers Bail Bond firm made an exceedingly high profit on the bonds of these deceased clients. He couldn't resist a small shudder.
"Does this mean we're going to prison?"
"Not if we're careful, Theodore. Not if we're careful."
Theodore thought about that for a moment. “So how do I handle the city commissioner?"
"We need a thorough search of the commissioner's penthouse. Rumors suggest that he keeps a red ledger book on the misdeeds of others, and it is the information in this book that gives him his power to stay in office year after year. In other words, the man knows where all the skeletons are buried in our fair city. Thus we need to find his red book for our own purposes."
"You want me to do a black bag job on him?"
"Not you personally, Theodore. We can't risk you being caught at this early stage and having it lead directly back to us."
"But, sir, after our Compton job, we're fresh out of burglars. Our last three B&E guys took that one-way ocean cruise."
The proprietor almost smiled.
"Tell me, Theodore, what is your distant cousin doing these days? As I recall, he owes us a great favor."
"Lebanese George? He may be a little bent, sir, but he's a wine merchant, not a professional burglar."
"Therefore a perfect cover for entering the commissioner's house on the pretense of legitimate business should George find anyone to inadvertently be at home. Once inside, I suggest that your cousin find a way to concentrate his efforts on the study and the master bedroom. They should be the most productive areas. See to it."
"Yes, sir."
"And do it immediately, while the commissioner is out of town for the holiday. Hopefully, his hired help will also be celebrating elsewhere."
"Right. I'll call my cousin right away.” Then Theodore hesitated. “Excuse me, sir, but earlier you mentioned something about a second job for me to do."
"Yes, Theodore, it seems there is a Karl Woodward down at the San Mateo County Jail who is seeking bail from some of his prior sins. I believe the word embezzlement has been mentioned a couple of times in his case. See if he is anyone we would be interested in, but use the maximum of caution, since we may currently be operating under someone else's microscope. Keep in mind, I have yet to ferret out the third prong of Herr Morden's attack on our firm."
"I'll be careful, sir."
Several seconds of silence passed.
"You're not back yet?"
Theodore opened his mouth, then closed it.
"Oh."
He slid off the chair seat, hopped down to the Persian carpet, and scurried out the door as fast as his stumpy legs would carry him.
* * * *
At three on the following afternoon, Theodore returned to the inner sanctum with a full report of his distant cousin George's intrusion into the commissioner's penthouse.
"George didn't find anything."
The proprietor glanced up from his paperwork.
"Any problems obtaining entrance to the penthouse?"
Theodore shook his head. “Like you said earlier, the commissioner was gone. And since no one answered the doorbell, George let himself in. Turns out my cousin has a set of lock picks left over from his teenage years when he was working toward a higher education."
"I wasn't aware your cousin attended college."
"Actually, this was during his high school days. My aunt didn't have much in the way of money, and George was too proud to fill out paperwork for the free lunch program, so he did a little private work on the side."
"I see. Well at least his talents weren't wasted."
Theodore nodded. “Right, sir, but he still didn't find that red ledger book in the commissioner's study or master bedroom."
"Was he seen going into the penthouse or coming out?"
"No, sir."
"Then we don't have to worry about evidence linking him to the break-in. Tell me everything Lebanese George saw and did in the commissioner's residence."
Theodore opened his notebook and scanned the first page.
"It seems the commissioner's study is being remodeled, so all of those furnishings have been put into a rental storage unit."
"Then his book of scarlet deeds will be concealed in his bedroom, someplace close where he can easily lay his hands on it whenever necessary. Now tell me about the master bedroom."
"Yes, sir.” Theodore skipped through his notes until he located the proper page. “The bedroom door sets in the middle of the south wall of the room. To the left of the door as you enter is a cherrywood entertainment center. George lists its contents as several shelves of books, a few bric-a-bracs, a small mason jar full of pennies, and a large screen plasma TV."
"Your cousin has an eye for details."
"It's kept him out of jail so far, sir.” Theodore consulted his list. “George said he shook out all the books on the shelves, dismantled the TV as far he could, looked inside the bric-a-bracs, and unscrewed the lid from the mason jar. As it is, the jar is not large enough to hold the commissioner's red book."
Cletis leaned back in his executive leather chair and tented his fingers. “Go on."
"Moving clockwise, the west wall contains the entrance to a walk-in closet. George turned out all the clothes hanging inside and went through all the shoes. Nothing."
Theodore paused to turn the page in his notebook before continuing. “Next in line, but still on the west wall, he found a large oil painting on canvas. Behind the painting is a small wall safe."
"Combination?"
"Nope, George says it is the old tumbler type, probably takes one of them brass-colored keys. Unfortunately, he couldn't pick the lock."
"Can we cut the safe out of the wall?"
"No, sir. George thinks it's bolted to one of the building's girders. He says without the key we'd probably need nitroglycerine to get into it, and he never messes with nitro because it's too dangerous."
"It's a wise man that knows his limitations."
"Yes, sir, but what do we do?"
The proprietor's shaved head glistened like wet asphalt in the reflecting overhead light as he stroked his silky black bandido mustache with the fingers of one hand.
"I'll have to think about this safe."
After a moment, he made a slight come-hither motion with his other hand.
Theodore took that as his cue to keep on reading.
"On the north wall is a leather recliner. George took i
t apart and probed the insides. Next to the chair is a king-size bed, which George also thoroughly searched. On the other side of the bed is a nightstand and lamp, but no secrets concealed in any of those objects."
"And the east wall?"
"The only object on the east wall is a cherrywood dresser with a wide mirror above it. George went through all the items of clothing inside, checked the bottoms of the drawers, the mirror, and the entire wooden frame. Again, nothing."
"Anything on top of the dresser?"
"Just a small wooden box containing cuff links, shirt studs, and a couple of men's rings."
"Any keys?"
"None."
Cletis Johnston stared off into the darkness residing up in one of the far corners of the ceiling.
Theodore waited for further instructions. Since he hadn't been told to sit in the inner sanctum this time around, he stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the silence grew. Then, just as the almost-webbed toes on Theodore's left foot began to tingle from poor blood circulation, the proprietor asked another question.
"The ceiling?"
"Just one overhead light fixture, sir. Nothing there."
"The floor?"
"Wall-to-wall carpeting. George checked all the baseboards for looseness or hidden compartments, plus he went over the entire carpet for any a-nom-a-lies.” Unused to using this last word in his usual conversation, Theodore elongated each syllable of the word to help him pronounce it.
"Lebanese George appears to have a knack,” said the proprietor, “for searching places."
"So it seems, sir. My cousin attributes that particular success to his extracurricular activities in high school. He was able to observe professional searches up close as various law enforcement agencies descended upon his mother's residence from time to time, with warrants in hand. The police never found anything incriminating, but it gave George ideas on several new places where homeowners might try to hide their valuables from burglars."
"Interesting."
"That it was, sir. However, he gave up that calling in later life when he discovered he could turn his drinking habits into a legitimate career as a wine merchant. This profitable new occupation also allowed him to meet fewer cops as time went by."
Cletis Johnston tapped his right forefinger on the desktop as he gazed somewhere over Theodore's head.
Theodore felt confident the proprietor was analyzing the information for future use and would soon come up with a solution to the problem. But he was slightly surprised by the change of direction now taken in the conversation.
"Tell me, Theodore, have you met with Karl Woodward yet about bail arrangements?"
"I have a visitation arranged at the jail for four o'clock this afternoon. I'll let you know about the details of his case after I speak with him."
"Then you had best be going. And be quick about it."
"Yes, sir. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
Once again, Theodore hurried out of the inner sanctum.
* * * *
A quarter after six that evening, Theodore let himself back into the front office of the bail bond firm. Finding the executive secretary's office to be unattended, Theodore bypassed the Hindu's desk where he usually found himself to be detained for any number of reasons. Mostly, he figured, the Thuggee's reasons for delaying Theodore's access to the inner sanctum had nothing to do with the current business at hand, but rather were to show the Hindu's superior position in the company's hierarchy. A situation that sometimes kept Theodore awake nights, plotting to find some circumstance or other with which he could level the playing field against such a tricky opponent.
This time, discerning nothing that should impede his progress, Theodore headed straight for the entrance to the inner sanctum. However, he had barely placed his hand on the doorknob when he heard the familiar cadaverous voice behind him.
"You're late."
Theodore spun around.
"There was nobody here a second ago. Where did you come from?"
"That is my business,” replied the Hindu. He made a shooing motion with the long fingers of his muscular hands. “Better hurry; our proprietor impatiently awaits your return."
Theodore opened his mouth to make a witty retort, but nothing came to mind. Mouth stuck in the open position and with brain still running in search mode, he turned the knob and pushed on the door. Two quick steps and he was inside.
On the other side of the executive desk, Cletis Johnston sat holding a shiny brass key in one hand and an old tarnished key in the other. From the faraway look on the proprietor's face, Theodore assumed his boss to be quite preoccupied, and therefore he, Theodore, should maybe stand quietly by and bide his time. However, with the utterance of a single word, the proprietor deigned to acknowledge Theodore's presence.
"Well?"
Theodore advanced rapidly into the room, then came to an abrupt halt at what he considered might be a relatively safe distance from the desk. Now, he wasn't sure what to do with his hands or where to start his story.
"There's been a small problem, sir."
"How large is this small problem, Theodore?"
"About six foot, sir."
"You've been to see Mr. Woodward at the county jail?"
"That's the problem."
"Start at the beginning, Theodore, and work your way up to it."
Having no notes concerning this particular incident in his notebook to read from, Theodore's bulbous eyes gradually rolled up as if he could somehow find the right words on the inside of his left eyelid.
"I went to the jail like you told me, and I met with Karl Woodward. He filled me in on the circumstances of his embezzlement case."
"Has Mr. Woodward qualified to become one of our special clients?"
Theodore's eyes now rolled over to peer up at the underside of his right eyelid.
"He had all the proper appearances, sir."
"Tell me about the charges against him."
"Karl said the embezzlement was an honest mistake on his part, and that he intended to put the money back before the auditors checked the company books. He claimed he only borrowed the money temporarily to cover the expenses of a personal business deal in a foreign country. This same borrowed money was subsequently converted into Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins as part of the business arrangement. However, once the auditors showed up, Karl had no chance to return the funds to the company treasury, so he stored the gold coins in a lockbox in a downtown bank in case he had to make a run for it."
"Gold would make a fine addition to our firm's balance sheet, Theodore. I assume you had Mr. Woodward sign the standard bail papers?"
"I did."
"And then you had him sign our under-the-table special contract we use for our high-risk defendants before you posted bail?"
Theodore's eyeballs ran out of reading space on the underside of his eyelids.
"Well, sir, that's where the small problem started. You see, I accidentally left the special contract out in the car. But I knew we were in a hurry with this commissioner thing and all, so I went ahead and bonded Karl out. He waited at the inmates’ sign-out counter while I ran out the side exit to my car in the parking lot to get the second contract. See, the key for his bank box was in his personal property jail envelope, and he needed to sign for it. But then the side door I went out somehow got locked behind me, so I came back in the front door, which took me a little while."
"Don't tell me Mr. Woodward skipped bond on us while you were rummaging around in the parking lot."
"Oh no, sir, Karl had been very emphatic during our interview about him wanting to deliver the lockbox key to you personally, so I wasn't worried about him skipping."
"Then where's the problem?"
"When I came back in from the direction of the front entrance, Karl stood facing the side door with his back to me. He was speaking on the pay phone in the hallway, and I overheard some of his conversation."
"And?"
"Karl's not really a crooke
d businessman like we were led to believe. He's actually an investigative reporter for some East Coast news media, and his embezzlement charges are a scam to get us involved in bailing him out with one of our special contracts."
The proprietor lightly clapped his hands.
"That's it,” he said, barely above a whisper. This is Herr Morden's third prong of attack. He wishes to expose our inner workings. Now we know."
Theodore froze in place.
"Oh."
Cletis Johnston turned his gaze on Theodore.
"As I recall, Theodore, you said Mr. Woodward wished to bring me his lockbox key personally?"
"That's right, sir. That's what Karl said."
"Our East German friend, Herr Morden, is more clever than I first thought. Through the subterfuge of that journalist, he can quickly bypass my minions and tie me directly into a conspiracy that can be turned over to the county prosecutor under the guise of being the news scoop of the year. Even if we're not convicted, I'd be out of business, and thus out of Herr Morden's way."
Theodore felt another rush of perspiration. Thoughts of any prison stay on his part produced a clammy sensation even worse than the possibility of taking up residence in a sodden cardboard box for the rest of his life in somebody's alleyway. As Theodore had frequently convinced himself in the past, he was not a candidate for prison environment. His imagination was much too vivid. As it was, his bedtime hours were frequently drenched with night sweats from dwelling on the many nefarious odd jobs he had already performed for the proprietor during the hours of darkness.
"Tell me, Theodore,” continued the proprietor, “did you check our Mr. Woodward to see if he was wearing a wire? Or maybe even had a voice-activated digital tape recorder hidden in his belongings?"
Moisture bunched up on Theodore's forehead.
"I didn't think of it."
"I suppose,” said the proprietor, “that Mister Woodward is now in our outer office eagerly awaiting an audience so he can gather more evidence against us?"
"No, sir, and actually, he's alone. No audience."
For one of the few times in his life, Cletis Johnston had a puzzled look on his face.
"Then where is our journalist, the one currently masquerading as a common criminal?"
AHMM, May 2007 Page 5