by Alice Duncan
"I didn't know you wore spectacles," I said, sounding a little accusatory, although I'm not sure why.
"Just got 'em," he said absently, intent on the photograph. "I need them for close work."
"Oh," said I, feeling a little left out, although there was no good reason I could think of why Sam should apprise me of every appointment he kept. Or every pair of eyeglasses he bought.
"By God," he said after a considerable silence, "I think you're right." He lowered the photo and looked at me.
I looked up at him. "C.S. Smith," I said.
"Yeah," he said. "C.S. Smith." He folded his specs and put them back into his pocket.
He left the house shortly thereafter, taking his photographs with him, but not before telling me he'd be visiting Charlie Smith again on the morrow.
If this case got any more complicated, I didn't think I could stand it.
Chapter 21
On Tuesday morning, I woke up befuddled. I didn't know what to make of anything at all, much less who'd done damage to the Pinkerton home, Jackson, Mr. Merton, and Officer Petrie. And where did Mr. Enoch Billingsgate fit into the picture? Had Petrie been part of the consortium? What about Charlie Smith? And if that building belonged to a member of his family, was it of significance?
Who the heck knew?
I considered pulling the quilt over my head and hiding out in bed for a day or three, but I couldn't do that to my family, which needed the income I generated by being a fraudulent medium. For another thing, I had a feeling I'd be hearing from Mrs. Pinkerton any minute now. When I looked at the clock on the bedside table, I saw it was seven a.m. She didn't generally call before eight.
Then I bethought me of Flossie and Johnny Buckingham. Johnny was a captain in the Salvation Army, and Flossie was his wife. For quite a while now, Flossie's credited me with not merely introducing her to Johnny, but for saving her life. She'd been a gangster's moll, but she claims I rescued her from her abysmal circumstances. In a way she was correct, but it wasn't on purpose. I'd been trying to get her out of my hair at the time. However, that's not very nice, and I preferred Flossie's opinion on the matter to my own, even though mine was closer to reality.
And why, you might ask, did I think of Johnny and Flossie? I'll tell you: because Stacy Kincaid was making her mother's life even more of a misery than it already was, and she was one of Johnny's flock of Salvation Army maidens. Maybe Johnny could talk her into going easier on her poor mother. Besides, the Salvation Army, sitting as it did on the corner of Walnut and Fair Oaks, was right on the way to the Castleton Hospital, and I wanted to visit Jackson again.
Pa sat at the kitchen table reading the Star News when I walked out to join him. I'd put on my old pink housedress, but still wore my slippers. Spike, naturally, sat at my father's feet, peering up at him with pleading eyes, as though to say he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, if not decades. If anyone bothered to look at the rest of him, they could tell those soulful brown eyes fibbed. Spike was a trifle plump. Mrs. Pansy Hanratty, who'd taught Spike and me at her dog obedience class at Brookside Park, would be horrified.
"Don't give him any treats," I advised my father. "He's getting fat, and that's bad for his back."
Pa eyed me over his newspaper. "I'm not the one who's always giving him treats, Daisy Majesty."
I let out a sigh at least as soulful as Spike's eyes and said, "I know. I'm sorry, Pa."
"That's all right. How's my girl this morning?"
I'd made it all the way to the stove, where I poured myself a cup of coffee. "All right, I guess." I thought of the photos Sam and I had studied the night before. "Say, Pa, do you know if Charlie Smith or one of his relations has a dry-cleaning establishment on Lincoln? Near Washington?"
I peered into the oven to see if Vi had left any enticing goodies for breakfast. No luck. Nuts. That meant I was on my own when it came to breakfast. I could at least fix toast without burning it too badly. Most of the time.
"Let me think," said Pa, and proceeded to do same. Before he was through thinking, he said, "Vi left one of her wonderful casseroles on top of the stove, Daisy. On the warming rack."
"Oh." There had been food, delicious food, right smack in front of me when I'd stooped to open the oven door. Guess I wasn't quite awake yet. I'd tossed and turned for a long time after I'd gone to bed, worrying over the case and all of its many angles and intricacies, and still hadn't been able to put everything together. Actually, I hadn't been able to put much of anything together. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me. It's your aunt who's the miracle worker."
"She certainly is." I scooped out potatoes, eggs, sausage and cheese from a casserole dish and thanked my lucky stars we had Vi in the family. I could burn water, and Ma was almost as much of a disaster in the kitchen as I was. But I think I've mentioned that several times already.
I took my plate and coffee cup to the table and sat down opposite my father, who seemed to be still thinking. I'd forked in a mouthful of delicious breakfast casserole when he finally emerged from his thoughts.
"Yes. I do believe his family has a business on Lincoln near Washington. And now that you mention it, I think it's a dry process cleaning place. Why?"
Pooh. I should have anticipated this question, but hadn't. Another reason to assume I hadn't fully awakened yet. "Um...." Good Lord. Should I tell my father I suspected Charlie Smith of trying to murder Joseph Jackson? Oh, why not? "That's where Jackson was shot. Sam and I looked at photographs of the site yesterday evening, and it appears Jackson was shot right in front of C.S. Smith's Dry Process Cleaning Establishment."
I heard the paper crinkle and looked up to see that my father had crumpled it on the table and was staring at me. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious."
"Good God. Do you actually think..." His voice trailed off.
"I don't know what to think, Pa. I do think it's curious that Mr. Smith is a member of the Klan, and that Joseph Jackson was shot directly in front of his family's cleaning firm. Sam said he thinks that's where the shooter escaped to after he shot Jackson. He was walking up to Jackson, presumably to finish him off, when people began screaming and gathering around Jackson, who had fallen to the sidewalk. A couple of the folks who saw the attempted murder said the man ran off, but nobody saw him afterwards. It would make sense that he entered the dry-cleaning place. Lincoln's a long street, and it doesn't bend up that way, so if anyone ran up or down the street, someone would have seen him." Would Pa know if Charlie Smith aimed to invest money in a Florida land deal? I asked him.
Pa blinked at me several times. "Florida? Land? Is that connected to the Smith cleaning place? I'm still trying to come to terms with Charlie Smith shooting someone. Maybe."
After considering and rejecting the notion of arguing with my father about his use of the word "maybe", I said, "I don't know what's connected to what, Pa. But several people in Pasadena, including some folks who seem to be involved in the Klan, have joined together to form a financial consortium headed by a person nobody trusts, but who says they can all make a fortune if they give him money to buy and develop property in Florida?"
After a moment of silence, Pa said, "Why Florida?"
As my mouth was full, I only shrugged.
"What's this about Florida?" said Vi, coming into the kitchen, buttoning a sweater over her sensible brown day dress. "Isn't that where the crocodiles live?"
I swallowed and said, "Alligators. Crocodiles live in Africa. I think. Mr. Pinkerton, along with Mr. Hastings and several other men, including the head of the deal, a fellow named Enoch Billingsgate, are investing money in a land deal in Florida. But all the wives of the men involved think Billingsgate is a fraud and aims to steal their money and run away with it. The money, I mean. Billingsgate might also belong to the Klan, but I'm not sure."
"Why would anyone want to buy land in Florida?" asked Ma, also stepping into the kitchen. She already had on her hat and gloves and sensible shoes, and was ready to walk up the street to the
Hotel Marengo, where she worked every day except Sunday. Half days on Saturdays. "Isn't Florida full of swamps and crocodiles?"
"Alligators," I told her. "Not crocodiles, which live in Africa. Mrs. Hastings said Mr. Hastings believes Florida is the next California," I told the assembled listeners.
"What does that mean?" asked Ma. No imagination, my mother.
"It means that people are going to build lots of houses and buildings and hotels and so forth and make it into a place where people will want to live. Or at least visit."
"Isn't it hot and muggy there?" asked Ma. Sensible question, I have to admit.
"Probably. It's on the Atlantic seacoast, it's flat as a stretched-out pancake, and I don't think they ever get snow or anything. And they get those terrible storms during the summertime that wash out everything. They're called hurricanes, I think. I've seen pictures in The National Geographic." I ate another bite of casserole. "This is delicious, Vi."
"Glad you like it, sweetie. Well, I'm off to the salt mines." And she headed to the front door.
Ma said, "Salt mines?" shook her head in puzzlement, and she, too, went to the front door. Pa got up and walked her to the door, where he kissed her fondly. My parents' marriage might not be perfect in every way, but it sure looked good to me.
Clearly troubled, Pa returned to the kitchen table and sat across from me again. I continued to eat, tense, waiting for the telephone to ring. I snagged a corner of the back section of the newspaper and skewed it around so that I could read it as I ate, wishing the Star News would include a crossword puzzle every day instead of just on Mondays.
"Do you really think Charlie Smith is involved in these nefarious deeds, Daisy? Really? I've known the man for a few years now, and I never thought he'd ever do something so awful as shoot someone."
I shrugged and continued to eat my breakfast. The second part of the paper didn't really contain any good stuff, but I perused it anyway because I didn't want to get into an argument with my father.
"What's Sam doing about it?"
I lifted my gaze from the boring newspaper. "Doing about what?"
"Charlie Smith."
"He's going to question him again today. Face it, Pa. Mr. Smith belongs to the Klan, the Klan has been harassing the Jacksons since before they moved from Oklahoma to California, and Joseph Jackson was shot directly in front of one of the Smiths' businesses. And then whoever did the shooting disappeared. Sam has to look at Charlie Smith. No matter how long you've known him."
"I guess so."
The phone rang. Even though I was waiting for it, I jumped in my seat. I said, "That's Mrs. Pinkerton. I hope nothing else has happened at her house."
Pa said nothing, so I rose and approached the telephone. Sure enough, it was our ring. Not that it being our ring would thwart our party-liners. When I picked the receiver from the cradle, I heard several other clicks and knew our party-line neighbors were on full alert. Nevertheless, I sucked in a deep breath and said, "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"Daisy!" squealed Mrs. Pinkerton.
"One moment, please, Mrs. Pinkerton. Will our party-line neighbors please hang up? This telephone call is for me."
"Well, really!" said Mrs. Barrow. I knew it was her, because she had a hideous New York accent. Sam's accent wasn't nearly so ugly. "You do hog the line, Mrs. Majesty!"
"I'll be away from home all day, Mrs. Barrow. I'm sure you'll find plenty of free time to use the wire."
I guess Mrs. Barrow slammed her receiver into the cradle, because the noise it made was rather loud. Two other softer clicks followed hers.
Mrs. Pinkerton sniffled. She was loud, too. "Oh, Daisy, can you come to my house today?"
"I'll be happy to, Mrs. Pinkerton." It wasn't much of a lie. I wanted to know what had been going on since I'd seen her last... yesterday? It seemed longer ago than that. Yesterday had been a busy day. "Has anything else of an unsettling nature happened?" I caught my father's eye and he winked at me. I'd have winked back, but I've never acquired the knack of shutting only one eye at a time.
She sniffled again. "Not... not really. But I'm worried about Algie."
"Mr. Pinkerton?" Good grief, now what? "What's the matter with Mr. Pinkerton?"
"He's becoming more and more disgruntled with that horrid man who's running the Florida scheme. He told me last night that he thinks Mr. Stephen Hastings is an idiot. Algie's going to withdraw his funds from the consortium."
"Good for him!" Mr. P had more sense than I'd given him credit for.
"Well, perhaps, but now I'm worried that Algie might be in danger."
That woke me up in a hurry. I straightened and said, "What? What kind of danger?"
"I'm not sure, but he thinks someone followed him home from a meeting of the Florida Club last night, where he voiced his dissatisfaction with the way the consortium is being run. I don't trust that Billingsgate creature."
"My goodness. Perhaps you should telephone Detective Rotondo—" I stopped speaking abruptly, having learned from ample experience that Mrs. Pinkerton did not telephone policemen. "Um... I'll telephone Detective Rotondo and tell him about this. You say Mr. Pinkerton believes someone followed him home from the meeting of the Florida consortium?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where the meeting was held?"
"At Mr. Stephen Hastings' offices. Algie says Mr. Hastings is not happy with the way things are going, either. I'm afraid that Billingsgate fellow will take off with everyone's money in a day or two. That won't matter much to Algie or Mr. Hastings, but there are other people in the consortium who can't afford to lose money."
Like Officer Petrie. Only Petrie was dead, so Billingsgate taking off with money wasn't any concern of his. Unless, of course, he'd already gypped his parents out of some moola and given it to Billingsgate. Instantly I wished I hadn't thought about that. "It's nice of you to think of the smaller investors, Mrs. Pinkerton."
"You've taught me to think of other people, Daisy. You should thank yourself."
I had? You could have fooled me. "Nonsense," I said, although I could feel my cheeks heat from her compliment.
"It's not nonsense. You've taught me not to knuckle under to Stacy, and that people like Jackson are worthwhile citizens, and that there's a lot of suffering in the world from which I'm shielded by my wealth. I think you're a true godsend."
Very well, now I was blushing in earnest. This was ridiculous. I made my voice low, spiritualistic and humble—the humble part wasn't difficult. Well, neither were the other two, since I'd practiced. "Thank you very much for saying so, Mrs. Pinkerton, but you have a good heart. Otherwise you wouldn't be of so much help to others." A little thick, perhaps, but she'd stood up to her idiot daughter and was paying Jackson's hospital bills. That was a whole lot of help to the Jacksons.
"So when can you come over, dear?"
"Let me call Detective Rotondo." And walk my dog. I didn't add that part. "Would..." I glanced at the kitchen clock. Golly! It was only seven-thirty! "I'll be over at ten," I told her firmly. Shoot, the woman might be good for a few things, but I wasn't going to allow her to dictate when I got up in the morning.
"Ten o'clock?" she asked, as if there could be another meaning for ten in this context.
"Yes," I said firmly. "I'll only be able to stay an hour or so, but I'll be sure to bring the cards and the Ouija board. I want to visit Jackson again."
"And you'll call the police department?"
"Yes. I'll telephone the police department."
"Thank you so much, Daisy. I'll see you at ten."
We both hung up our receivers. Well, I presume she hung hers up. For all I knew, she made Featherstone hang up her telephone receiver for her. As I waited a few seconds, I considered one of the words I'd been thinking: gypped. I'm sure it originated with Gypsies and was, therefore, another obnoxious word people had coined to represent a perceived flaw in an entire group of people. Oh, dear. The world could be quite depressing if one really studied these thing
s. I decided not to do so any more that day.
I clicked our cradle a couple of times to make sure Mrs. P and I had disconnected properly, and then I telephoned the Pasadena Police Department. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet, so Sam might not be there, but Sam was a tenacious so-and-so, so I took the chance.
An officer on the other end of the wire picked up the police department's receiver and said in a grim voice, "Pasadena Police Department."
"Detective Sam Rotondo, please. This is Mrs. Majesty and it's kind of an emergency." Bother. I'd just lied to a policeman. But I didn't want the guy on the other end to think I'd called just to chat with Sam.
"I'll see if he's in, madam."
Madam? Very well, so I was a madam. It was better than a snicker, I supposed.
I heard a few clicking noises that I recognized as my telephone call being transferred through some intricate process known only to operators at various telephone exchanges, and a moment or two later, I heard Sam's gravelly, "Yeah? What now?"
Chapter 22
"For pity's sake, Sam Rotondo! What if it had been someone other than me on the other end of the wire?" Or should that have been I? Well, never mind. Irritated, I fingered my juju, wishing it did contain magical properties. I'd wish for Sam to sweeten up.
"Doan said it was you when he buzzed me."
"Oh. I didn't recognize Officer Doan's voice." Wait a minute. Sam had been buzzed? What in the world did that mean?
"Well, what do you want?" Sam repeated, and I decided to ask about buzzing later.
"Mrs. Pinkerton just called—"
"Huh," said Sam, interrupting my narrative.
"Mrs. Pinkerton just called," I said once more. "She told me Mr. Pinkerton smells a rat in the Florida deal. He thinks Mr. Hastings is getting nervous about it, too. Have you made any headway with Enoch Billingsgate."
"No. Except to learn he doesn't exist."