A Cadgers Curse

by Diane Gilbert Madsen

  I breathed deeply a few times to get my equilibrium, but I was weak and dizzy. I sank down onto the carpet. My eyes were watering, and the top of my head hurt something fierce. I gingerly touched my scalp and came away with blood and a handful of my hair that his damn gun had torn out at the roots.

  "Look at this." I threw the clump of hair in McSweeney's direction. "See what you've done?"

  "There's some blonde hairs on the barrel, too," Tom Joyce pointed out, holding up the gun.

  "Shit. I'm gonna be bald!" I wanted to kick McSweeney in the groin, but things were still a bit swirly, and I couldn't seem to stand up to accomplish my desire.

  "He's got to pay for this," I said. "Let Wolfie eat him." I pointed at McSweeney and yelled, "You played the evil Santa; you tossed my office; and you almost killed me by tampering with my brakes!"

  "I never touched your car. I swear it," McSweeney moaned.

  "Ha. As if I'd believe anything you have to say."

  Tom Joyce looked at my bleeding scalp. "This looks pretty awful. Are you going to be okay?"

  "What's okay?"

  "Don't get existential on me, DD."

  Tom didn't call off Wolfie. Instead, we watched George Murray, who'd seated himself at the Philadelphia Secretaire. He took out some paper and a pen and began furiously writing. Naturally I was curious, but I was in too much pain to get up and look over his shoulder.

  The room was silent, except for McSweeney who continued to moan while George continued to write. It was a strange tableau with Wolfie playing the starring role. The only things moving were George's pen hand, the blood slowly dripping from Jack McSweeney's arm onto the rug, and Wolfie's tail.

  Tom Joyce was studying various pieces of antique furniture and art throughout the apartment. I knew part of his business was valuing wealthy Chicago North Shore estates. In his work, Tom had seen a variation of just about everything beautiful and expensive there is to see in this world.

  George finally stopped writing, put down his pen, and approached Jack McSweeney who was now groaning and cursing but lying very still with Wolfie's jaws tightly clasped on his arm.

  "Now, tell us all where the Burns artifacts are. As soon as you do, I'll have Tom here call off the wolf."

  McSweeney stopped moaning and fell silent.

  "If you'll no tell, Mr. Tom will let Master Wolfie have as many bites of your hide as he wants, and I'll phone up the constables. But if you give me the treasures straightaway, then you may sign this paper. If you do, I'll not bring in the law, and there's an end to it."

  "You'll call off this beast?" McSweeney managed to ask.

  "Aye" George nodded at Tom.

  "And you'll not turn me in?"

  "Aye," George agreed.

  "What paper?"

  "This" He held up the paper he'd written at the desk. "It says in essence that you are herewith today selling me all your shares and interest in the firm of Murray and McSweeney in consideration of one dollar and for other good and valuable considerations."

  "What?" McSweeney sputtered. He tried to stand, but Wolfie shook his arm, growled, and reasserted his bite. I could see Wolfie's front canine disappear up to the gum into McSweeney's sleeve and the arm it contained. It must have hurt like hell. McSweeney fell back onto the rug and whimpered, "You canna strip me of my partnership in the firm."

  "You were my partner, but you're a liar and a cheat. And now comes your due."

  "Those artifacts are worth much more than you charged your precious Elizabeth. Anything to do with Rabbie Burns is worth a fortune. Why will you not listen to me?"

  "'Twas my decision to make, and so I told you. It's done. Now tell me where the objects are and sign this paper or go to jail and go to hell. 'Tis your own choice."

  "You canna do this. It isn't legal."

  "'Twill be perfectly legal. And the lass and laddie here will witness it's not being done under duress." George smiled broadly and winked.

  "I can do more than be a witness," Tom Joyce interjected. "I'm a notary." Tom reached into a pocket of his sports coat and took out his notary stamp, waving it for all to see.

  "He never leaves home without it," I muttered, cracking a thin smile.

  "Let's proceed," George urged. "You've already lost considerable blood, so now's the time to tell me where to find the precious objects"

  "All right. You've won. They're in the safe. Let me up. I'll get them."

  "No. Stay as you are. I dinna trust you a whit."

  George nodded at Tom. "Stay with him," he said and walked to a library to the left of the living room where, I assumed, the safe was located.

  I was curious and wondered if the firm of Murray and McSweeney had installed the newest, most up-to-date wall safe technology. Being Scots, I had no idea what model they might have chosen. Most people were funny, I'd found in my line of work. They always insisted they wanted the best, but they weren't willing to pay for it. So in most multi-million dollar homes and businesses, the security wall safe was not the Cadillac model and it was not going to do the job. With the right tools and a little time, a safecracker can usually get inside it.

  George returned, interrupting my ruminations.

  "It doesn't open," he announced, shaking his head.

  He helped me struggle to my feet. I was still woozy and my head still throbbed where the gun had practically scalped me, but otherwise I was clearheaded. We went into the spacious library that was filled with books and interesting maps and a spectacular collection of glass paperweights.

  The safe, an A-I Quality BF Series, was in the left-hand wall. I recognized it from one of my insurance seminars. George's firm had not gone with a two-bit model that any Tom, Dick or Harry could have his way with. It was a very respectable safe, close to the top of the line, and professionally, I was glad to see they'd opted for the more expensive combination of both burglary and fire. The outside wall was undamaged, the keypad looked normal, and I saw nothing that looked suspicious. I related my conclusions to George.

  "I'll try it yet again," he said and began to type in the combination.

  "Stop!" I yelled and pulled his arm from the keypad. "Don't enter those numbers again. I just remembered that this model has a built-in alarm that goes off if you try the wrong combination four times or more. How many times have you already tried it?"

  "Lass, I'd forgotten that feature. This last try would have set it off. Thankfully you are indeed as canny as your Aunt Elizabeth declared."

  I would guess your ex-partner changed the combination, and that's why you can't open it. That's not hard to do on this model with its electronic keypad lock."

  "You're probably right. Come on, lass. We'll have Master Wolfie persuade him to give us the new numbers."

  I agreed Wolfie was the key. We weren't going to be able to bypass the electronic lock unless we got the new combination through coercion. Computer hacking would take more time and more skill than I had. We'd need a lot of luck to break down Jack McSweeney. We Scots credit the ancient superstitions, so I crossed my fingers as we walked back to the living room.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  WOLFIE WAS STILL IN the classic attack stance-back arched and legs apart, and he'd maintained a solid bite-hold on jock's arm. More blood had pooled on the beige carpet under McSweeney's arm. I wondered how he could stand the pain.

  "You've not been forthcoming. I'm heartily disappointed. Did ye think I'm not clever enough to think of the alarm?" George gave me a quick wink.

  "No police'll be rushing in to save the day for you. Give me the new combination, or Wolfie here will be havin' another taste of your crooked hide. I don't know if he'll start with your face or your groin, but whichever, I'm sure he'll get to both. An' it looks like he's right ready"

  "Oh. I forgot about changing the combination," McSweeney muttered. "T'was an oversight on my part."

  Yeah, I thought-a really big fat clever oversight that almost paid off big time for you.

  Wolfie uttered a feral wolf noise and shook Jack's arm
back and forth. It was primeval and gave me the goose bumps. McSweeney's eyes closed, and he whimpered.

  "And the new combination 'tis ... ?" George prompted.

  "6-3-9-4-2-... 7. Now call off the beast."

  "All in good time. First I'm going to try these numbers. If it does not work and the alarm goes off, we'll all swear we found you pilfering the safe. You and you alone will be the culprit. You pulled the gun. Wolfie here saved our lives. Can you understand the consequences to your own self if these are no the right numbers?"

  McSweeney was silent. His eyes were closed. I wondered if he'd passed out. George motioned for me to accompany him back to the safe.

  "Wait," McSweeney called us back. He opened his eyes but didn't otherwise move. "I-I may have given it wrong. It's 6-3-9-42-8."

  "Och, for all our sakes it had better be," George said as we returned to the safe and entered the new digits on the keypad. We both held our breath as he turned the knob. The safe door opened and inside lay the precious red leather case.

  George took it to a nearby library table and opened it. I clapped when I saw the ornate Ormolu casket inset with the initials "KB" We now knew without doubt that the evil Santa had been Jack McSweeney.

  George gently removed the casket, set it down and opened it, revealing the double sheet of letter paper and under it the leather pouch. He unfolded the paper with his fingertips and then took out all the glass to see that everything was undamaged. He carefully avoided touching the glass itself. We saw again the words of Robert Burns, and I knew Auntie would be happy.

  ere~Jtrulrfj aitrc' rt ti~rur ~re«~t ~/

  ~~z~ /l /J/tr~ 1
  at ~Zmw u~tr~ f~~eCr Qitce ft111~Il/

  fccfrej(lilfrr alrr)li

  al i1 u1r)('(' , f(/r`) f f7(' eQrf~

  '(J c'i q, ~rc°ltr~i rc/ i of fQ tJ/efr ~r l7

  rtiur ~~ Jfagi bite qre tmze,

  ce nui611/1Jt/~~(l t~e%r 41__Iltc

  Olt z~(V rf 1,4 ,1 ((r //_1W/_ /f/

  '/tar "M /(Jf r)(rfe f eI"r n1,/f.

  "Did Auntie tell you about the secret compartment we found?"

  "Aye, that she did." George said as he felt around, opened it and extracted the paper I'd found a few days ago. "An' to think I myself never tumbled to it."

  "I'll send Tom in here to look everything over," I said, and did so.

  I took the unnecessary precaution of holding the gun on McSweeney until both George and Tom returned. They were nodding and smiling, and I knew I could again face Auntie now that the treasures were safe. True, as Robert Burns wrote, things "gang aft agley," but this time I'd live to see another day. I sat down and held my head. Things were a bit blurred.

  George took the gun, dumped it in his pocket and Tom called off Wolfie. Despite my fog, I did see blood drops falling from McSweeney's hand as he struggled up.

  George gave him a towel to stop the bleeding, then we all gathered around the big desk. George shoved a pen at McSweeney and asked me if I had a dollar bill. I unearthed my purse from under a chair, found one and gave it to him.

  "Thank yee, lass, as I have no U.S. currency yet." He handed the dollar to McSweeney. "Now sign this and here's a dollar to complete the transaction."

  I witnessed the contract, and Tom notarized it and affixed his stamp.

  George ordered McSweeney to hand over his keys and wallet. McSweeney wasn't going to comply, but when Wolfie snarled, he tossed his Prada keyring on the desk. George removed the company car key, gave it back to McSweeney, then dumped the rest of the keys into a desk drawer.

  "You can drive to the airport and purchase yourself a plane ticket to anywhere. Leave the car there afore midnight, and I'll have it picked up. If you don't, at midnight I'll call the police and report it stolen.

  "Now your wallet, if you please." George held out his hand until McSweeney gave up his black crocodile leather wallet embossed with the Prada logo. McSweeney had a taste for expensive accessories, albeit Italian rather than Scots made. The fact Scots don't manufacture designer wallets is its own brand of irony.

  George went through the wallet and removed the cards and identification associated with the firm. He returned the wallet and told McSweeney, "Afore you're out of this building, I intend to notify Edinburgh you're gone from the firm. You're under a cloud, an' if I e'er see you again, you'll be arrested. I'll be changin' the name of the firm, and under no circumstances will you ever again enter the premises."

  "George, I..."

  "Say no more. 'Tis final. An' every lock'll be changed in this apartment, too. Now leave and ne'er again show your face. You're through-here and in Scotland."

  As McSweeney struggled into his cashmere coat, we all could see the missing chunk of fabric that Wolfie had removed the other night. He paused in the doorway and glared at George.

  "This isn't over yet," he threatened. "You an' yours will regret doing this to me and mine."

  Tom pushed him into the corridor. "If it's a blood feud you want, it'll be between you and Wolfie here. Right, Wolfie?"

  Wolfie made that primeval noise deep in his throat. I think he wanted another piece of cashmere as a trophy. Again I was glad I wasn't Jack McSweeney.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  ToM AND WOLFIE LEFT shortly thereafter with a promise to meet tomorrow night at my mother's house to celebrate New Year's Eve. Auntie still didn't know George was in Chicago, and George wanted to surprise her for the New Year. Tom and I agreed it would be fun to return her Burns artifacts at the party where he could meet Auntie and personally confirm their authenticity.

  As he left, Tom whispered to me, "Perhaps this isn't the best time to say this, DD, but some pieces of George's American furniture collection in here are definitely not the genuine articles. That lowboy in the foyer, for instance, is nice, but it isn't a genuine William & Mary. I'm no expert of course, but..."

  "Thanks, Tom. I think he already knows," I whispered back.

  I was still woozy, but my spirits had lifted so much after getting the Burns artifacts back, that I wasn't feeling much pain. Probably later I would regret it, but I agreed to stay and help George accomplish all the steps to remove Jack McSweeney from the firm. While George managed the communications with Scotland and the New York office, I worked with the building manager and building security to eliminate any trace of Mr. Jack McSweeney in the building's lease and from any position of official communication from the firm. We drafted a new lease minus Mr. McSweeney, we got the locks changed, inserted a new security code, provided a revised list of persons allowed in the apartment, got new key cards, etc., etc. Due to 9/11 rules and regulations, there was more paperwork to fill out than Dr. Johnson required to create his first dictionary.

  When I had done all I could do on security, George had still more work to do, despite the difference in the time zones. So I made my farewell and grabbed my purse, which fell to the floor. Frank's file spilled out. I was jolted seeing it again, but I scooped everything up, carefully put the Burns objects in it, and left for home.

  FORTY-NINE

  CAVALIER WAS MEOWING AS I unlocked the door. He sniffed me from head to toe, no doubt smelling Wolfie. I tried to explain about the wolf and teased him a bit with his favorite flying bird toy, but I knew he'd be jealous for days.

  I couldn't get Frank's file out of my mind. Auntie would have said it was an omen, falling out of my purse like that. So I sat down and opened it again. Maybe this time I could bring myself to look at the autopsy report.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to open it. The autopsy protocol cataloged Frank's clothing and described the body. The details were all straightforward. His ring wasn't listed here, either. I shuddered, picturing Frank's body lying there just as it had that night he died.

  The internal examination and toxicology reports indicated the uncontrolled fall had caused massive damage to Frank's heart, liver, and lungs. No drugs had been detected, and no cancer, either.

  He'd suffered eggshell depressed-type fractures of the head and oth
er numerous contusions, all described and diagrammed. It was difficult to imagine all these wounds on the body of the man I had so loved and admired.

  Then I read something that made me catch my breath. It was a reference to a small surface contusion 31/2 cm. wide by 2 cm. long on the back of Frank's head on the left side, and it did not make sense. The report noted that this contusion had occurred prior to death.

  As far as I knew, Frank had no bruise on the back of his head when I left him to go shopping. And he couldn't have gotten such a bruise from the fall because he'd landed on his face. I re-checked the report to verify the other bruises were on the front of his body, all clearly consistent with his fall.

  I closed my eyes, and the world stopped turning for an instant. Something wasn't right. Why hadn't the coroner or the damn cops followed up on this? My hatred for them was so real I could taste it. But I hated myself even more for having lacked the courage to look at this report earlier.

  The only conclusion possible was that Frank had somehow hit the back of his head before he went over the balcony. Had it been an accident, or had someone hit him? I thought of Ken's corpse wearing Frank's family ring, and I knew my suspicions that Ken was involved were right. I told myself that if I could prove Frank had not committed suicide, maybe I'd start sleeping again at night. But why would Ken have wanted to kill Frank? And how was I ever going to prove murder when Ken, my prime suspect, was already dead?

  I put away the file. I had a sick feeling about what had really happened to Frank and about what was going on at HI-Data. I wanted desperately to talk things over with Scotty, but the time difference tonight made that impossible.

  My head was really throbbing where McSweeney had torn out the hair, so I grabbed a couple aspirins, washed them down with some Wild Turkey and soda and jumped into bed, too tired to undress. Cavvy had forgiven me enough to climb in, too. He pressed tight against me, exuding his special brand of kitty comfort. I immediately fell into a deep sleep.