My Darling Detective

by Howard Norman

  “Let’s talk about it after the radio, is that okay?”

  I carefully prepared the soup, simmering it for about an hour, and Martha took a bath, and what with this, that, and the other thing, we didn’t sit down at the kitchen table until Detective Levy Detects came on. The episode was called “Our Boy Confesses to Leah Diamond, and She Does It Right Back.”

  “Good title,” Martha said. “Good for their relationship, huh?”

  We ate the soup, listening raptly. The gang of hoodlums, Leah’s mobster pals, as in every episode, help Detective Levy solve a case, a jewel thief and murderer is caught, and the gang has a big celebration in the Devonshire Hotel.

  The party goes on until dawn, and when Detective Levy and Leah leave the hotel to catch a taxi to go out for breakfast, Levy confesses, “I love you.”

  “No kidding,” Leah says. “I knew that since you first laid eyes on me.”

  “How about you?” Levy says. “When did you know you were in love with me?”

  “For me, more gradually. Some ladies slip off their silk stockings more gradually than others. Maybe you never noticed.”

  “How long did it take, finally?”

  “You want a date on the calendar?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, a date on the calendar would be fine.”

  “Six weeks ago Thursday.”

  “Okay. So, six weeks ago Thursday, what happened?”

  Screech of car tires. A shot rings out and Leah Diamond groans and says, “Oh, Freddy, I’m hit.”

  Sirens. In the back of the ambulance, Detective Levy tries to hold Leah’s attention, to keep her conscious, but she keeps drifting off. “Stay with me, darling,” he says. “I love you. Want to know something else? I love you.”

  Leah gets some traction and says, “I gotta confess something to you too.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?” Detective Levy says.

  “It wasn’t six weeks ago Thursday. It was six weeks ago Tuesday.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I didn’t want to swell your head up, thinking I fell for you too early in the game.”

  The episode ends.

  “Radio fiction, such as it is,” Martha said. “Still, I’m very upset Leah’s been shot. I happen to already be familiar with the next episode, so I know that Leah pulls through, but at this moment it feels like she might not. The power of radio, eh?”

  “I’ve noticed one thing in particular about the criminals Levy goes after,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Martha said.

  “They all double up on crimes. Take this episode we just listened to. The guy’s both a jewel thief and a murderer, right? No way would he just be one or the other.”

  “Sure, that’s the end result,” Martha said. “But you’re missing something, Jake. It’s always how one thing leads to another. The guy breaks into jewelry stores, correct. But the longer he doesn’t get caught, the more confident he gets. And when he gets good and confident, he gets reckless, he gets careless, and when he gets careless, he makes a fatal mistake and gets cornered and has to shoot somebody, so now he’s a murderer. It’s one thing, it’s the next thing, it’s the next thing, and then the boys are called in—you also notice that Detective Levy has never, not once, solved a crime on his own. Because if he could do that, the boys and dames at the hotel—and who knows, maybe even Leah Diamond—wouldn’t be needed, and they would disappear into the past. They aren’t about to hang around where they’re not needed, right?”

  “I was just stating an observation,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Jake. I’m no genius at figuring it all out. I’ve just heard it so often, I get the logic, that’s all. Know what? It just now occurred to me we will never quarrel about the radio.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because when it comes to the radio, I’m always right.”

  That settled that, and we were kissing, leaning up against the kitchen wall and kissing. But Martha said, “I want to, but . . .”

  “Don’t tell me Leah Diamond going to the hospital has got you too distracted to go to bed with your fiancé.”

  Martha pushed me away in a dramatically huffy fashion, in the main playful, and then she looked all business. She walked to the front hall closet, took out a shoebox, and set it on the kitchen table.

  “What’s in the box?” I asked.

  “Sit down, Jake, please,” Martha said.

  I sat down across from Martha. She opened the box and set the lid aside.

  “Yesterday I was at Arts and Crafts with Nora. I told you I was going and I went. We were doing watercolors. My God, how many scenes of the harbor from those windows do the patients make every year? I can’t imagine. Anyway, we sat at one end of the big table and each of us made a few watercolors, your mother and me. And she was telling me things, without me asking, about Bernard Rigolet.”

  “When I was growing up, he was always referred to as my father.”

  “Sitting there painting with her, I noticed this shoebox on the table. I thought it was filled with Arts and Crafts paraphernalia. But when I was about to leave, Nora said, ‘Martha, you’ve been good to tell me so much. How you and Jacob met, and what you mean to each other. And I suspect you tell him about Arts and Crafts, as well you should. I’m happy for you both. I’m only sorry Jacob hasn’t talked about such intimacies with me, but as you know, he doesn’t come to visit. Now I have a favor to ask. It concerns Jacob directly.’ She slid the shoebox over to me and said, ‘Here’s the four letters Bernard sent me from Europe. Would you kindly give them to Jacob for me?’ The letters Nora’s husband sent from the war are in this shoebox, my darling.”

  “Your detective work has taken a surprising turn.”

  “I feel lucky as far as that goes. I mean, when you think about it, how many women really ever get to know their husband’s family? Let alone their husband.”

  We both laughed hesitantly.

  “I’m torn,” I said. “I want to read these letters and I don’t”

  “No, you must read them,” Martha said. “Otherwise, you’re a coward.”

  Letter from Bernard Rigolet

  March 28, 1944

  Darling Nora,

  Night has fallen shipboard as we are out in the Atlantic, and it is fairly rough seas so far. I am lying in my bunk, all the other men in theirs, trying to sleep. I can’t see a single one actually sleeping, though. Lots of seasickness whose consequences are not too pleasant to hear. So far so good in that department for me, but then again, we’re only six hours out of Halifax, and no storms yet. There’s two horses on ship. I went down to look at them. Just this little time out and so many unknowns up ahead, Nora, and I am both bucked up and a little afraid, back and forth, and I guess it’s going to be like that. I am going over in my mind our last hours in the house together. I don’t want to be driven crazy but then again you can’t help where your mind goes, isn’t that true? You seemed to be conveying yourself around room to room—what can I possibly mean by the use of the word “conveying”? Well, I mean that you seemed to be carrying yourself, physically, from room to room, like carrying a burden, or a weight. This was evident to me, and saddening, my love, because I knew the heaviness had to do with everything in life, our parting, the war, all of what we cannot predict. I noticed you signed on for all the extra hours possible at the library too. Part of this was, I’m sure, about having the income to get by, but remember, you’ll be receiving my military paycheck directly too, every month. That was all worked out. My technical skill with radios is already in demand, even shipboard here, as I’ve been put on the technical core roster—that means I’ll be going over every possible communications apparatus we’ll have at the front. I won’t bore you with the details except to say I already feel useful. Whoever thought that a childhood fascination with radios, and then being in the high school Radio Club and the Short-Wave Club that I attended regularly in Halifax right up until we got married—and I’ll join right back up when I return home t
oo!—who would have ever thought I’d be using my childhood radio skills in France and Germany during a war? Not me, that’s for sure, not me.

  The announcement—it’s 4 a.m.—just came over the squawk box, what we’ve run into is called a Region of Delay—one fellow here says that’s a term from ancient Greek, translated into English, that is, that applies to journeys, not always perilous ones, but journeys at sea especially—Region of Delay. I want to think about it more. I feel it might refer to both emotions and geography, not entirely sure yet. We’re navigating a little south to avoid a storm—and speaking of Greek, there’s a fellow I’ve met named Nick or Nicholas, last name Condaxis, who’s of Greek ancestry himself, and who I overheard talking to three or four men about war in ancient Greece. I drew closer to listen and it was fascinating, I have to admit, and a good distraction too. “See, you have to have some perspective, some philosophy about what we’re entering into,” he said, “or else it’s all going to seem useless and your hearts and brains and everything else will just be in a total state of confusion,” is how he put it. Of course, a little bit, with Nicholas Condaxis, was a man trying to convince himself, is what I heard. But still he had me hooked, I admit. Maybe in the Halifax Free Library you have books about some of the figures that Nick Condaxis was talking about—the ones that come most directly to mind are King Leonides and Nick’s favorite—well, the one he seemed to know most about anyway—fellow named Themistocles, who convinced all the people of Athens and all the politicians that Greece needed a navy to defeat the Persians at sea, because the Persian army was just too powerful. Stuff like that. Maybe because Nick is from Greek lineage he pronounces the ancient names so well, I don’t know. He also speaks the Greek language. I think it will be good for me to stick close to him and maybe pick up some of his ways of thinking philosophically about what we are about to see and experience, Nora. Only some of the officers on board have really seen the war first-hand close-up, so there’s not a lot of actual fighting to talk about amongst us tenderfeet. But I do like the way Nick Condaxis describes Greek warfare as if he was right there at the time. He’s a scholar, really.

  I’m feeling just now pretty bad we didn’t have a chance to talk more specifically about my plans for a radio and radio repair shop in Halifax—I think it will eventually bring me a solid living, along with your librarian work of course, and I had scouted out several locales in Halifax, and the one I liked best was on Hollis near Water Street, but I’ll just have to wait and see whether the building is even available by the time I get home, my darling, won’t I.

  There’s a dentist aboard ship, and he’s been very persistent, he wants to make sure that once we land nobody’s got a bad toothache or any related thing. So this fellow, Dr. Aukland, he’s pulling teeth like a madman and will be the whole voyage, I would imagine. That’s hardly earthshaking news but it’s the kind of news I have.

  Tomorrow we get briefings and look at maps—

  Nora, darling, I continue this days later and guess what? England has come into view. We God bless us have made it past German U-boats and even any air attacks, which I’m told is almost a miracle right there to begin with—and now out ahead of us is England. We will have only two days before we go to France. But longer term, Germany is definitely our destination point. We’ve all gotten two lessons in German so far—not much. I can definitely say I’m going to be happy to get off this ship, Nora—definitely yes I will, but today I had a case of nerves. I’m told it’s only to be expected, like Nick said, “What kind of human being wouldn’t get a case of nerves?” Not that I fully understood what he meant, only that I think he’s right. I don’t much feel in charge of my imagination, though, and it’s been taking me to some pretty awful places—and soon enough, soon enough real life will replace imagination anyway, so I will need to be prepared for that as best I can. I’m here with solid good men and so many of them look ready and worried and every other kind of emotion a face can show. I’m certain I look that way too. What I want most to say is that I am happy we are married.

  Love,

  Your adoring Bernie

  Straight-B Student

  I was learning a lot in library science, but my grades were not tops. The first semester, in three classes I got straight B’s; the second semester, which ended May 2, the same, except for a B-plus in History of Library Science—Second Part. I had met with Dr. Margolin two times to discuss my progress. In the second meeting, on May 4, she said, “My main concern is that your essays often lack your working out your thoughts along a clear enough line, Jacob. Would you consider a tutorial?”

  “Do you think I need that?” I asked.

  “Yes. I can make some recommendations as to whom you might work with over the summer. But in general you’re doing just fine. Some are doing a lot worse, believe me.”

  “I’ll take all of this as encouragement.”

  That evening in her apartment, I told Martha about this consultation, and she said, “Speaking of your mother—speaking of Nora—”

  I took a second helping of meat loaf and mashed potatoes. “I didn’t know I was speaking about her,” I said.

  “Not directly. But all through your curriculum so far, it’s like you feel you have big shoes to fill, what with your mother being head librarian. Or was head librarian. So maybe there’s some ambivalence at work here, know what I mean? Like, are you doing this because you couldn’t come up with anything else to do? Or are you doing this because it’s a way to stay close to Nora? Or are you doing this because you think you’ll be good at it? Or all of the above?”

  “It’s like you want me to fill out a questionnaire.”

  “I guess I should say things more directly, huh? Okay. Why haven’t you once visited your mother in the hospital, darling? It’s your mother. What are you afraid of looking right at? What are you afraid of seeing?”

  “When she first went in, I visited her all the time.”

  “You could join us during Arts and Crafts.”

  “I guess I could.”

  “She asks why you haven’t been to see her, Jake. Every time, she asks.”

  “All right. I’ll go next time you go.”

  “That would be a good thing. I have tremendously enjoyed visiting her.”

  “Practicing as you are to be her daughter-in-law.”

  “Well, maybe you should start practicing being her son again.”

  “I’m grateful she talks to you.”

  “It’s obvious to me that Nora’s relying on the fact that whatever she tells me, I’ll tell you. I think part of the reason she’s telling me so much is because she wants you to know everything too.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’m a professional interlocutrix, remember?”

  “This is the best meat loaf I’ve ever eaten.”

  “You don’t have to say that. I already can’t wait to get in bed with you.”

  “Okay, then. Both things are true.”

  “It’s a slightly different recipe is all. My mother’s recipe has oatmeal to hold everything together. But I did something different.”

  “What’s troubling you, though, Martha? You have that look.”

  “The real reason I want you to start visiting Nora is so I can rest assured that should something happen to me—say, we’re married for ten years and I’m shot during an investigation—how can I trust that you’ll be there to take care of me? So far as it pertains to your own mother, you are flunking that particular test, Jacob. I know wife is different from mother, I get that. But surely you take my point. You can see what I’m concerned with here.”

  “Trustworthiness during the tough times ahead.”

  “Enough said about that. Just come with me to Arts and Crafts, please.”

  The Deeper Concerns of Martha

  The depth and urgency of Martha’s concerns about her line of work (she liked to call it “detectiving”), as she addressed them at dinner at Halloran’s on June 9, put a lot of things in a new light for us. Of co
urse, she had often talked about this or that investigation, as far as propriety allowed. But this was different.

  “Detectives Tides and Hodgdon and I got assigned a flight risk,” Martha said.

  “What kind of flight risk?” I asked.

  “First thing this morning, Jake, we were out on the street.” Martha was dressed in her favorite black pantsuit, which she wore with black tennis shoes, for comfort. I started to pour wine for her, but she placed her hand flat over the glass and shook her head no. “Flight risk was a fellow named Torredon Stilgoe—what a name, huh? It sounds like a fjord. Anyway, this guy has a wife and—get this—six kids, all in an apartment on Queen Street. In fact, guess what? He’s a groundskeeper at Holy Cross Cemetery, across the street from his apartment. You know how Holy Cross Cemetery and the military cemetery are contiguous, right? So anyway, Torredon Stilgoe has a thirty-second commute to work. There’s the six kids, all under the age of fifteen, and his salary’s what? His file says eighteen grand. He’s at wit’s end over finances. His wife, Justine Stilgoe, she’s a part-time bookkeep at some place or other, I forget. Not regular employment by any means, and when she gets work, she’s got to pay for someone to look after her kids, so there goes most of the income right there. Not a good situation, so being at wit’s end, Torredon Stilgoe makes a decision. He decides to rob J. Nelson Imports at Commercial Wharf. He conscripts his cousin Rudolph to aid and abet. So now there’s Torredon and Rudolph Stilgoe, one shitty little rusty revolver between them and stocking caps with holes cut out so they can see—I am not kidding—and they walk into J. Nelson’s. Stupid stupid stupid, and they walk in and one of them, I think it was Torredon, waves the pistol around. The guy who oversees the payroll says, ‘Are you here for the payroll?’ And then Rudolph says—are you ready? Rudolph says, ‘Well, what do you think, Lewis, you dumb fuck. Do you think we’re here to play checkers? Of course we’re here for the payroll!’”