The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  “Randy?” I said.

  “My middle name is Randall.”

  The dimmest of sparks began to flicker in my mind.

  “It was a stupid kid thing that I did. There were so many fellahs called John or Johnny in the army, and I wanted to be different. Go figure, right? So anyway, while I was overseas, I went by a derivation of my middle name, Randy.”

  “Randy?” My mental flickering started to smolder.

  “Yeah, and it was your uncle who pinned the name Randy Katz on me . . . because my last name was difficult to say. Yet I think the real reason that your uncle gave me the name was he thought I was a bit of a lady’s man. But it was all in fun, I didn’t mind the moniker . . . And between us, he was sort of right, if you know what I mean.” The old guy gave me another knowing wink, triggering an eye roll from Karl.

  “Randy Katz . . . You are Randy Katz!” I repeated, coming to terms with Katzeneinbogen’s alternative identity.

  The old man’s eyes opened wide as I reaffirmed his a.k.a. of his youth. The mention of his name from his military days briefly resurrected a proud, self-satisfied countenance to his time battered figure.

  “In the flesh. Your uncle and me were sort of a team in the army. Back then, I was his driver when he was on assignments off base. We had some interesting times. We became very close and stayed in touch long after we left the service. I owe him a lot. He was a straight-up guy, a man of his word. He was a little strange, maybe at times, but who isn’t when you think it about. I liked him. I liked him a lot. He’ll be missed; I miss him already.”

  “Dad,” interrupted Karl. “We do have a long drive.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, hold your horses, Karl.” John reached into a little blue pouch attached to his walker and pulled out a red-covered book, about the size of a good pocket dictionary. With mournful eyes, he wistfully looked at the book and handed it to me.

  I saw from its cover that it was some type of travel book.

  “Your uncle gave that book to me at an Octoberfest that he held at his home years ago. That was when I met you.”

  “Thank you. But why are you giving this to me?” I asked, being both taken back and confused. “Since it is a keepsake of my Uncle Raymond, maybe you should hang on to it to remember him.”

  “I don’t need it. I got part of my family back because of your uncle. That keeps his memory very much alive for me.”

  “John, I don’t understand—”

  “Yeah, it would be very confusing for you if you didn’t know, but he—” Then for a second, John’s body shook, and he almost lost his balance. He gripped his walker tightly. Several sets of helping hands speedily reached him in time to him from falling over.

  “I am so sorry,” declared Karl, “but we really must be going. My father is not well, and it is a long trip for him.”

  “But just a few minutes more,” I said with my mind ablaze with questions.

  “I am sorry, but he has to get home.”

  “Karl, be kind,” countered John. “Richard has just lost his uncle—”

  “And I don’t want to lose my father. Richard, I don’t mean to be rude, but we really must be on our way.”

  Before I got a word out, Morgana jumped in. “We understand.”

  I only had the chance to say, “But—” before Morgana added, “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Let’s go, Dad,” gently ordered Karl, assisting his father to the exit.

  “Richard,” said John. “Walk with us. We can talk on the way to the car.”

  As the three of us inched our way to the parking lot, John chatted, and I listened.

  #

  CHAPTER 24

  “Your uncle entrusted me with that book I gave you, and he said that if anything should happen to him—his death, to put it bluntly—I should give the book to you.”

  I looked at the red book in my hand, “He gave you this guide book so you could give it to me? Why?”

  “Yeah well, you’ve got me there; I don’t know. I have been holding onto that thing for years. I remember when your uncle purchased the second book. I think it was that one. There were two books, if I remember rightly, two.”

  “Two books?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  We had walked halfway to the car when John stopped. He put his hand to his head in sort of a panic. “Karl,” he said, “I haven’t got my hat. I don’t have my hat. It must be in the funeral home. Please go back and—”

  “ You want me to get your hat?” said Karl, impatiently waiting for us by their car.

  “If you would, please.”

  “Dad, we have to get home,” protested Karl. “Maybe you left it in the car.”

  “Was it a Mets cap?” I asked. “Because I saw you wearing it when you arrived.”

  “You see, Karl, it can’t be in the car. Now, please get it. How long would it take? It’s a very valuable hat. It was signed by half of the 1986 Dream Team?”

  “Dad, if it is so valuable, why did you wear it?”

  “Because it is a hat. Now, just go back, Karl, and find it. I’ll be okay. Richard will stay with me.”

  I nodded my head. “It’s no problem. I’ll stay with him.”

  Rather than spend time arguing with his father, Karl dashed back to the building in a huff. When Karl was inside and out of sight, John ‘psst’ at me and slyly pulled his NY Met’s cap from inside his jacket and quickly tucked it away again. “That should keep Karl busy for a few minutes.”

  “John, did you just sent your son on a wild goose chase?” I asked, a little confused.

  “I don’t have much time tonight or, for that matter, much time beyond tomorrow, either. It’s my heart.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. I lived a good life. As your Uncle Raymond use to say, ‘What is, is. At a certain point, there’s no use in complaining.’ Now, I have something to tell you and not much time.”

  “John . . .”

  “Just listen. Ask questions after.” John glanced at the funeral home’s entrance—no Karl. “This whole thing about the book started when your uncle and I were stationed in Austria. We were in our jeep, riding back from HQ to our base on a forest road near the Austrian-Hungarian border when we heard people yelling, then some gunfire, and then more shouting. Now, remember, this was a time when the Cold War was heating up. The Soviets were on the free world’s doorstep. It would be just a year later that the Reds would be crushing the Hungarian Uprising . . . Those poor slobs didn’t have a chance against Russian tanks. Things were pretty tense and unpredictable back then.”

  “A terrible time, yes . . . I remember. Go on.”

  “We stopped our jeep and got out to see what was up. With our sidearms at the ready, we proceeded into the woods in the direction of the ruckus. We had gone about 300 yards when we came upon three men. Two of them were wounded. One soon died after we got there. But before we could ascertain what was happening, a couple more gunshots rang out—small arms most likely by the sound of them.”

  “More shots?”

  “Yeah, but now the bullets were coming at us. So what does your brave but foolish uncle do? Rather than making a speedy advance to the rear and safety, he fires off several rounds into the air from his .45 ACP. When another shot came whizzing in our direction, he starts yelling at the top of his lungs. ‘You are in the American Zone of Occupation,’ he hollered. ‘We are American GIs. We are many and heavily armed.’ Then he repeats what he had just said in German.”

  “Wow,” I muttered. “I never thought of my Uncle Raymond was such a—”

  “A bluffer.” John chuckled.

  “You mean he was lying?”

  “Your uncle was telling a whopper . . . A big one. There were only the two of us, and we only had .45s. For gosh sakes, we were part of the clerical staff, not the sharpshooter unit. We were probably the worst two shots in the entire US Army. Anyhow, your uncle shouted again to our unseen assailants. ‘Cease fire,’ he said. ‘Put down your we
apons, and come out with your hands up.’”

  “And?”

  “Well, they didn’t put down their guns or come out from the bushes. But they did stop shooting, and, get a load of this, they ran away. We heard them skedaddling through the brushes.”

  John’s tale tickled me and made me feel proud of my Uncle Raymond. But at the same time, I felt a little disappointed that he never told me the story himself. I asked John the inevitable question that started to burn in my mind. “John, were two of the three men in the woods that day, priests?”

  “Yes, they were. You know them?”

  “Not really. What can you tell me about the two?”

  “Not much . . . Ah, one priest was definitely an American. The other one, I remember, was some European scholar or something. He didn’t have that white-collar thing on; he just wore a dark suit, black shirt, and a crucifix around his neck. He had been shot and was bleeding bad when we got to him. He kept mumbling in German something like, ‘Hotspur wurde verraten.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Something like ‘Hotspur betrayed,’ or ‘was betrayed.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t know. The poor guy was in pain and a little delirious. The wound to his gut was fatal. He died soon after. I remember that the third fellow wasn’t a priest but was someone who worked with the American priest at the Vatican.”

  John took a deep breath and then asked, “Didn’t your uncle ever tell you the story of our adventure in the woods?”

  “No, but I read an old newspaper account about the event. Now tell—”

  Suddenly, the click and the squeaking of the wooden door opening pierced the still night air.

  “Dad,” called out Karl, “I can’t find the hat.”

  “Look some more,” said John back, punctuated with a cough.

  “Dad, we’ve got to go home!”

  “Just give it another look around. Richard and I are doing fine.”

  With Karl’s muttering, the door closed again.

  “So,” I asked, “tell me about this book.”

  “That book, or one just like it, was with the stash of papers that your uncle, me, and the American priest found when we returned to the spot a couple of days later.”

  “You and my Uncle Raymond—”

  “And the American priest, eh what was his name, eh . . . Moran, Morrison, eh . . .”

  “Mason?”

  “Yes, that was it. Mason said that he worked at the Vatican with the non-clergy fellow who was wounded. Anyway, your uncle, and me, and this Father Mason drove back to the spot of the incident two days later. It was all very hush, hush. No one was to know what we were up to. That was easy for me because I didn’t know what we were up to. Only your uncle and Mason did. The two of them had me swear to secrecy, though, like I said, I really didn’t know much about what was going on.”

  “Why did they ask you to go with them?”

  “The way things were back then, I was the one who could secure a jeep from the motor pool without too many questions being asked.”

  “And so the three of you went back—”

  “Yeah, and near the place where we found the dying priest. Near the spot, under a fallen tree trunk and some dead leaves, was a box with all sorts of papers in it. That book, or the other one like it, was also in the box.”

  “You said something about purchasing another one?”

  “Like I’m trying to tell ya, there were two books. A week or so after we collected the papers, your uncle and I went all over the country, looking for another copy of that particular book—Nagel’s Austria Travel Guide 1952 edition. We eventually found a GI in Vienna who had a copy. The guy got it as a gift from his English girlfriend, and he never used it because he had one already; he was afraid to tell her. Your uncle bought it off him. And listen to this, your uncle paid the guy ten bucks . . . Ten bucks for a secondhand book, back in the 1950s . . . from your uncle. That really surprised me.”

  It really surprised me too.

  “You are holding the book or an exact copy of the book that we found with the papers. Why your uncle wanted another copy of the guide book, I don’t know. Initially, at the time, he said that the book looked interesting, and he wanted another copy. Some years later, when he gave me the book at the Octoberfest, I asked him about it. He said that keeping duplicates had made things easier, and he didn’t elaborate other than to keep the book safe for him. Now, did he possess the original book from the box in the woods when he gave me this book? I don’t know. But I let it go and didn’t ask any more questions about it or its twin.”

  John took another deep breath and then sort of stared through me. “Yeah, your uncle was a good man; he had some very interesting qualities.”

  “He sure did,” I said and thought Uncle Raymond was as quirky as they come. “As I was helping him do the paperwork for his medical insurance, I found that he had almost two of every form, bill, and receipt. And they were kept in two different places in his house.”

  “It was his way of doing things, I guess. I had forgotten about the book until some years later when your uncle gave it to me at his party. That’s when I met you. You and your brother were wearing—”

  “ —lederhosen. Yep, you mentioned that. Why did my uncle give the book to you?”

  “He never completely explained why. All he said to keep the book safe for him, and if anything chanced to happen to him that I should give it to you when you come of age.”

  “Well, I came of age quite a few years ago—”

  “Yeah, but he only died a few days ago.”

  “That he did.”

  “For some reason, it was important to him to do it this way,” continued John reassuringly. “So, in my will, I have instructions saying that upon my death, the book would be forwarded back to you.”

  “And you told no one about this?”

  “Not to a soul. Not about your uncle and me going into the woods the second time, or of the box of old papers, or the second travel book. As far as my son Karl knows, this book was a keepsake of your uncle’s, and I was determined to give it to you. After all these years, I have kept my promise up to this very moment. You are the first person that I told my story to.”

  Again, the squeaky door opened and closed.

  “Dad,” shouted Karl as he briskly walked to us, “I am sorry. We can’t find your baseball cap. If someone finds it, I left my phone number so I can be reached.”

  “Don’t fret about it, Karl,” answered John, slipping the cap on his head. “I have it.” Then without skipping a beat, he said, “Richard found it.”

  “He what? . . . You found his hat?” Karl looked far from happy.

  “Ah, huh . . . yep. It must have fallen and rolled off. I found it over there. ” I pointed indiscriminately to somewhere in the distance. “It was in the shadows. I was lucky to find it.”

  “Because it may be valuable?” Karl asked with suspicion.

  “Because it’s a nice hat,” quipped John.

  “Right . . . Well, let’s get a move on, Dad. It’s late.”

  As Karl was helping John to get into the car and stowing his walker. I had time for one more question.

  “John, why did you do it? Why take care of the book for all those years and go through this trouble in getting it to me?”

  John closed his door and lowered his window. “It was the least that I could do. It was a favor in kind, in a way. When I came back from overseas, things were not going well with my family. Offhandedly, I mentioned to your uncle that my niece, Joyce—she was a toddler at the time—needed some fancy kidney operation. Back then, my poor sister and my brother-in-law didn’t have two nickels to rub together. They couldn’t afford such an expensive operation. No one in the family could.” John paused and swallowed hard. “It was your uncle and that Father Mason, who somehow arranged for her to get the operation without cost—gratis, free. I don’t know how they did it. All I know, it was a very generous gift. We will always be gra
teful.”

  “Was the operation was a success?”

  “Absolutely. Joyce is married and has two kids of her own.”

  “Dad, I’m sorry. We really have to go. Close your window, Dad,” instructed Karl. As the glass went up, Karl said, “Richard, I sorry about your uncle. Take care.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that the two of you came.”

  Through the glass that separated us, John added, “May God bless you and your uncle.”

  Before I could respond, Karl’s blue Honda Civic drove out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, heading south. Watching them go, I muttered back, “And God bless you, Randy Katz.” As I walked back to the funeral home, I wondered if I would ever see old John again. I knew that I wanted to. I had many more questions to ask him about my mysterious, enigmatic uncle and their adventures.

  Sadly, we did not reunite. Fate had other plans. Three weeks later, she shipped Randy out to meet his Maker.

  #

  CHAPTER 25

  Morgana and I returned home shortly before 10 o’clock. Though tired, we talked some; well, at least I did. There was so much to talk about. I wanted to fill her in on all that I had learned from John Katzeneinbogenin, but she kept insisting that I should wait until breakfast. “Richard, Uncle Raymond’s funeral is in the morning. I am exhausted. Tell me all the details after I’ve had some sleep.”

  True to her word, Morgana drifted off as soon as her head hit the pillow. On the other hand, as tired and weary as I was, I had no such luck. I tossed and turned as if I were a dog with fleas. I couldn’t sleep for the life of me. Too many things were bouncing around in my brain—Randy Katz, the red travel book, Uncle Raymond and Father Mason retrieving the box containing the ‘Stoner Papers.’ The same box, I presumed that was stolen from the college library.

  In vain, I tried to think of other things, pleasant things, calming things, but my brain would have none of it. Unnerving scenes flashed before my mind’s eye—me being shot at by Mapledale, Uncle Raymond in his casket, the deaths of my parents. And as these visions played out, they became more unsettling. Wild fantasies visited my tormented mind—Morgana dying by a secret lover’s hands, my falling from a hot air balloon, the possibility of a man-eating catamount stalking about in the nearby hills. No effort on my part could stop the wild imaginings from whirling about in my brain.