Fall Guy: A Persephone Cole Vintage Short Story

by Heather Haven

  “Tell the Don that Percy Cole’s here. He knows who I am.” Percy paused in the lobby of the funeral parlor and looked around her. She removed her fedora and shook out her long, red mane, running quick fingers through damp hair.

  The elderly man behind the counter, taken aback at her request, rose slowly. He stared at her with wide eyes, before he turned and went behind a curtain into another part of the mortuary.

  Percy sat down in one of the comfy chairs, adjusted her bulk, and blotted at her wet face with a handkerchief. The old man returned a few minutes later and ushered her into a solemn but expensive looking office.

  Behind an ornately carved mahogany desk, a dapper middle-aged man sat, dressed in a suit that cost more than the entire Cole Family’s yearly wardrobe allowance. A diamond pinky ring sparkled on his finger as he moved his hand. He wore his affluence well.

  “Good evening, Miss Cole.” His voice was honeyed with the softness of a cultured Italian accent, but his eyes were cold and appraising. “Not many people come in here and demand to see the Don. But I remember you from the incident of the stolen groceries from the Boys Club on Church Street.”

  “I thought you would.”

  “The Club is dear to my heart. I went there for hot meals when I first arrived from Sicily as a boy. How did you figure out it was the mom and pop store three blocks away?”

  “When oranges go missing from one place and show up in another, it’s not hard.”

  “Nobody else did, though.”

  “I made it my business.”

  “You always were smart.” There was a moment’s silence. “What can I do for you, Miss Cole?”

  “Don Carbone, I saw your son this morning at the Whitehall Recruiting Station. He seemed to be signing up.”

  The don turned away for a moment, a look of anguish crossing his face. But when he spoke, his tone was matter-of-fact. “My son believes it’s his patriotic duty, no matter what I say.”

  “Children often don’t listen to their parents. Sad fact of life. But I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so I’ll get to the point. I was at Whitehall because I have a client whose brother has been accused of stealing files from there. In those files were the names of recently inducted minority applicants. You might be surprised by who the army sees as minorities. Within the last week, three of the boys on those lists have been shot dead after the process of being inducted, but before they went to Boot Camp. Have you ever seen the recruiting station at Whitehall?”

  “No.”

  “It’s built like a fortress. Tiny slits for windows on the first floor, up twenty feet in the air. It’s right out of a medieval castle. Perfect setting for a clever killer.”

  “Your client’s brother.”

  “That’s what everyone is supposed to think. But when you use your noodle, you realize it isn’t him. It’s somebody else. This somebody else got the files by paying an athletic little guy – a midget – to scale up the outside wall, squeeze through a window not much wider than my arm, and come down the inside wall of the room. Then he broke into the file cabinets and took the files the killer wanted. They were easy to find. The army keeps things very clear in that office; a lot of people go in and out of the files every day. So it doesn’t take the little guy long to find what he’s looking for. But here’s an odd thing. When he gets through, he leaves a mess. He was very messy.”

  “So?”

  “In the morning, the soldiers can tell right away the files have been burglarized. No missing it. The army couldn’t figure out how anyone could break in to steal the files – they’re not thinking about the slit windows - which is just what our killer wants. He wants them to think it was an inside job. So they do. Then the killings start. The army thinks my client’s brother – who showed up around the same time and is of German descent – stole these files. They think he wants to do a little ethnic cleansing, along the lines of Hitler and his boys. Last night the little guy was killed, himself, up at Madison Square Garden. He was an acrobat in the circus. Shot the same way as the others. Back of the head.”

  “That’s too bad, but how does this involve me and my business?”

  “I thought you might ask about the connection. But I’m going to tell it as if it were a bedtime story. More palatable that way.”

  The don said nothing but shrugged and gestured with his ringed hand she had the floor. She took it.

  “Once upon a time, there was a king. And he had a vast kingdom. Sort of like what you have here, Don Carbone. And he had a son, the prince. Now this prince was meant to inherit the business.”

  “The kingdom.”

  “The kingdom. But there was someone else, a wannabe king. He’s out to usurp the throne. You know what a usurper is, right? That’s someone who would like to be king, but there’s somebody else in line for the job. But maybe – just maybe – if he eliminates this somebody, he’s going to run things some day.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “The nephew of the king. He thinks about how he can get his cousin, the prince, out of the way. If he does anything direct or obvious, the king might suspect it’s him. That’s no good. He might be dead before he can wear the crown. Understand?”

  “I’m starting to.”

  “But if the prince is killed in what seems to be a random series of killings that might be different. And our killer’s got another problem. The prince, as long as he’s under the protection of the king and his royal guard, is not so easy to get at.”

  “No, he wouldn’t be.”

  “So our usurper comes up with a scheme that serves two purposes. One, he finds a way to make it look like the prince is just one more victim of prejudice. Did you know those three men were killed just before or after they boarded the bus to Boot Camp right here in Manhattan?”

  “You mentioned it.”

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “That took care of his second problem. He’s set up a way to do the assassination. Here’s some good news for my client and her brother. Once it was pointed out to the army how it was possible for the recruiting center to be burglarized, they checked on those narrow windows. They found gouges from something like a large hook in a couple of the sills. Plaster was rubbed off or missing, like a body had gone up and down on a rope. Now the police, even though they can’t be involved in a military crime, have the bullet from the little guy’s head, because that took place in Madison Square Garden. The circus came to town about a week ago, right before the first killing. Did I tell you the name of the midget?”

  “No.”

  “Vito Berloni. He weighed about sixty, sixty-five pounds. Little guy. No bigger than a minute. I saw his name on a list of employees in the circus. You may remember Vito. He was from our neighborhood. He left to join the Big Top about five-years ago, but he kept up with his friends.”

  “I remember.”

  “But back to the bullet. The cops showed it to the army, who has the bullets from their dead recruits. And what do you know? They match. Now as my client’s brother was in custody at the time of the midget’s death, these two things weakened their case considerably, so they have to let him go. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, my job is done. My client’s brother will be free in a day or two. But it doesn’t bring any justice for those three kids who got murdered to provide a smoke screen for our killer. And it doesn’t solve the king’s problem. The prince is still vulnerable if something isn’t done.”

  Pressing well manicured hands together, the Don leaned his forefingers against his chin. “Do you have any proof, Miss Cole?”

  “No, but I know. The proving should be easy enough for someone like the king. Like where our usurper was when each of the men were shot, stuff like that. There’s always proof out there. Once you know what you’re looking for, you have only to find it. Just like the oranges.”

  “Who else have you talked to about this usurper? I think the king woul
d like to keep his business his business.”

  “Nobody. I’ve been paid to clear a flier and I did.” She stood and put the fedora on her head, adjusting it automatically at a jaunty angle. “I should go. I have a PTA meeting I need to attend.”

  The Don watched her with a smile.

  “That’s right. You, too, have a son.” He rose and took her by the arm, escorting her to the door. “We both try to take care of our sons.”

  “I do my best, Don Carbone.”

  “Thank you for dropping by, Miss Cole, and sharing your story with me. The king will keep the prince safe.”

  “That’s good to know, Don. But three families are in mourning. I don’t want any more.”

  “I’ll take care of it. And I’ll do what I can for the families. If you ever need a favor, Miss Cole, you have but to ask. One good turn deserves another.”

  “I didn’t come here for that. I came for justice.”

  “I understand.”

  “But thank you.”

  * * * *

  “Thank you, Miss Cole, thank you so much for everything. What a relief! He’s free. My big brother is free.”

  Emily Ahlbrect, a girl Percy had taken for as shy and reserved, gushed her appreciation again and again. She reached over and touched the sling of her brother’s wounded arm, giving him a worshipping look. Percy could see why. While Emily was sweet but plain looking, Hank had the appearance of a movie star. The actor Robert Taylor came to the lady detective’s mind, especially in his uniform.

  “I thought I was going to be in the clink forever, maybe even face a firing squad,” Hank said with a grin. He glanced at his sister. “But Emily found you. That was my lucky day.”

  “’All’s well that ends well’, as the Bard would say,” replied Percy.

  There was silence. They gave her a puzzled look. Percy smiled before saying,

  “Shakespeare.”

  Same puzzled look.

  “He was a playwright,” Percy added.

  Sister and brother nodded, more in an effort to be agreeable than in understanding. Percy rose.

  “Well, you two better get going if you want to catch that bus to Albany. You don’t get a week’s leave every day, soldiers.”

  Both Ahlbrects’ stood almost as one.

  “Wait, I nearly forgot,” said Emily, opening her handbag. “Your fee. You didn’t tell me how much I owe you.”

  “Nothing. Consider it my contribution to the war effort. Two more pilots in the sky defending America. That’s my payment.” She extended her hand.

  “Thank you, Miss Cole,” said Hank, grasping her hand and shaking it with enthusiasm. “You’re aces in my book.”

  “You sure are, Miss Cole,” added Emily. “Aces.”

  “We all do our bit. Now get out of here. Give your father my best.”

  Percy watched them leave her office then sat down again, deep in thought. Pop opened the door and entered, carrying a folded New York Tribune.

  “I thought they’d never leave, Persephone.”

  “Neither did I, Pop. Grateful kids, but long on the goodbyes.”

  Pop held out the morning’s paper. “You read this yet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You read where Don Corbone’s nephew was found wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Hudson?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Surprised you played it that way, Persephone. You’re usually a big believer in law and order.”

  “Still am, Pop. But sometimes it’s more expedient to have it be somebody else’s law and order. Besides, he was a bad one from the beginning, even as a kid. Stole donations from the Boys Club and sold them to mom and pop stores. I hoped the Don would have seen it back then. But he was blinded by family loyalty. I had to break that loyalty. Otherwise, it could have wound up being a bloodbath between our boys in blue and the Corbones’ to get to the nephew. I didn’t want that.”

  “Still and all, it must be hard on you.”

  “Never mind that, Pop. Now why don’t you sit down and tell me about your trip to the Big Top? I’ve always loved the circus. ”

  If you like the characters and setting, please try:

  The Persephone Cole Vintage Mystery Series:

  *The Dagger Before Me – Book One

  **Iced Diamonds – Book Two

  The Chocolate Kiss-Off – Book Three

  at http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004QL22UK

  And you can read more about Heather at her website:

  http://heatherhavenstories.com

  *Formerly Persephone Cole and the Halloween Curse

  **Formerly Persephone Cole and the Christmas Killings Conundrum