(02 - 04)

Work

The following are a collection of original short stories and scenes, some published, some not. Some funny. Some sad.

If you like them, tell your friends to visit. I could use the company and somebody to walk the dog. Oh, and come back often. I’ll add new stuff and keep it fresh.

01

Bostwick Blues

Margot’s jaw muscles are working overtime. She’d take a punch at me if she was sure she wouldn’t break a nail. She’s sitting in the passenger seat staring into oblivion and I wonder if bringing her along is as good an idea as it seemed when I thought of it.

This isn’t what you want running through your head on a stakeout. I focus on the front door of the Bostwick Hotel fifty feet away. I check everyone. Some punk with a shaved head walks by and suddenly I’m thinking about ammunition.

“Excuse me.” I reach across Margot and open the glove compartment. Without taking my eyes off the hotel, I find the spare clip and close the glove box.

“Forget to load your little gun, Pike? I thought you were a hotshot detective.”

I smile. “Call me Hancock. All my friends do. This is a hot load. I’m not taking chances with ricochets on a crowded street.”

She’s staring out the window again. “You’re really going to kill him, just like that.” Her voice is matter-of-fact and it’s not a question.

“No, not just like that. That’s what you’re here for. You said he might listen to you. He’s an escaped felon. Tell him to surrender and nobody gets hurt. That’s the deal. If he puts up a fight, I’ll take him down.”

“Jake would kill you if he knew you dragged me here.”

“Nobody dragged you and who the hell is Jake? Oh, you mean Eugene? Yes, well, if I had a name like that, I’d change it too. Who you gonna scare with a name like Eugene?”

“He scares plenty of people.”

I can’t tell if she’s trying to convince me or herself. “Really? Like who? Children and small animals? You? Did he scare you when he gave you this?” I touch the scar near the corner of her eye.

She jerks away and glares at me. It’s supposed to be her angry look, but she’s close to tears.

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not the first woman he’s beat up. He got two years for battery in ’04.”

Silence. I check the hotel. She’s staring out the window, but the jaw muscles are quiet.

“You didn’t know about the assault conviction, did you? When he got convicted for armed robbery, the judge came down hard because of the priors. What’s a pretty girl like you doing with that scum?”

She lets the question hang there like wet pantyhose draped over a shower rod.

Shorty, my street snitch, walks out of the hotel, rubs his neck and goes back in. Nothing to report.

“I suppose you never had a bad day and went home and beat up your wife or your girlfriend?” Her question takes me by surprise. “All guys do that.”

“No, all guys don’t do that. Hell, even if I had a wife or a girlfriend . . . don’t make every guy a bastard just because you fell for some creep.”

I can see the street lights reflect off damp eyes. I wonder if she’s feeling sorry for me or herself or Eugene. Probably not Eugene.

“Do you really think I’m pretty?”

“You don’t have mirrors?”

“Well, of course. I think I look okay, except for my nose and my mouth is too wide. You can’t hide that with makeup. Jake is the only one who ever said I was pretty until you said it, sort of.”

“He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear. Don’t kid yourself. When you’re not around, he says the same thing to somebody else.”

“Oh, like you’d know.”

I take my eyes off the hotel. “I’m the one who brought him in, so yeah, I know what he says when you’re not around. I’m just saying you could’ve done better. When Eugene goes back to the joint, he won’t be getting out.”

“They said that before. The next time he escapes, he’ll be looking for me.”

Shorty is in front of the hotel again. He adjusts his cap and walks into the deli next door.

“This is it.” I chamber a round and open the car door. “Get out and stay close to the buildings. Wait for my signal before you tell him to surrender.” I keep the car between me and the hotel and focus my attention on the entrance. From the corner of my eye I watch her cross the sidewalk. 

Eugene pushes through the hotel door, resplendent in a cheap suit and bad haircut.

I look at Margot. She’s ten feet away. Her voice is shrill.

“Jake, look out. He’s got a gun.”

Eugene does his best imitation of a bobble-head doll, trying to look everywhere at once.

I use the car roof to steady my aim while he fumbles for a weapon. Now he’s made me. I’m thinking there should be a warning as I watch the gun come up. “Don’t . . .” the Colt jumps against the heel of my hand, “. . . even think about it.”

The wall of the hotel breaks Eugene’s fall. Surprise hasn’t had time to register. People are screaming and running, but his eyes never leave me. He tries to bring the gun up again.

Margot’s line about a next time comes to mind. The Colt kicks twice and Eugene goes limp. I move around the car, keeping the .38 trained on my target.

Shorty is in front of the deli dialing 911.

The smell of Margot’s perfume tells me she’s close. Shalimar and gunpowder and the stench of the city are a heady combination.

“Did I do okay, Pike? Did I get it right?” Her voice is shaky.

“You did just fine, kid. Take a taxi. You’ve been home all night if anybody asks. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

I listen to her heels click down the row of parked cabs. My toe nudges Eugene’s Glock away from him. The wail of approaching sirens mixes with the murmurs of a gathering crowd and from somewhere, the riff of an alto sax punctuates the night. 

~~

02

03

The Substitute

 “Must every job involve more risk than the last? If I didn’t know better . . . .” John Addison wore his pained expression like a non-verbal argument. Those hours spent learning to emote had paid dividends.

 “I just picked a name from a list, John—your list. You’re reading too much into coincidence.”

“Maybe, but at this rate, you’re going to get yourself killed. I don’t like the set up.”

“You never do.” I paid John to worry. He was my lawyer as well as my business partner.

“It’s dangerous and . . . .”

“All our jobs are dangerous. We’d be out of business if they weren’t. Any pluses?”

“Well, it’s local, so no travel. The retainer cleared the bank this morning.”

“Sweet. I hate living out of a suitcase. What have we got?”

Addison pulled his rimless glasses down the length of his nose and gave me his well-practiced look of resignation before reading from the papers he held. “Sweeney, Brendan. Saloonkeeper, age thirty-four, married, two children, a boy and a girl, ages seven and nine respectively. Found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe the right time, depending on your point of view. He witnessed a mob execution and lived to tell about it. Now our illustrious District Attorney wants to put him in front of the Grand Jury.”

“Let me guess. Friend Sweeney is getting cold feet.”

“No. He’s getting death threats. His family is being threatened. He doesn’t have any faith in the DA’s ability to protect him. That’s why his lawyer called me.”

“Smart lawyer. Has he explained to his client that by hiring us, he forfeits all legal claims to his identity until the job is completed?”

“I’ll assume he has, but go over that with the client as a precaution. In any event, the requisite paperwork was signed and sent back with the retainer. Legally, we’re on solid ground. I also have a picture of Mr. Sweeney. I’ll email it along with the pertinent details. I still don’t like this.”

“You worry too much, John. It will make you old.”

“You don’t worry enough. One of these days, it’ll make you dead.”

I folded John’s notes into a pocket and gave him my most reassuring smile. “Give the mouthpiece a call. Get me a meeting with Sweeney. Usual place. Usual rules. He shows up alone.”

~~

The coffee shop at the Academy Street Station was a constant flurry of activity, varying only in intensity between rush hour and the lunch crowd. Sweeney looked like his picture—a thickset Irishman with a florid face and reddish-blonde hair that conceded his clan’s Scottish roots.

He registered surprise, then annoyance when I put out an arm to block his progress. “Take a seat, Mr. Sweeney, before that over-sized head of yours stops a bullet.”

“You’re . . . ?” He hovered over the table, staring.

“Sit down! Yes. Are you having second thoughts about this?”

Sweeney sat. “No. Well, okay, maybe. It’s just that I thought . . . you’d be bigger, I guess. More dangerous.”

“More dangerous or more obvious? Going unnoticed is an asset in this business. Are you prepared to start?”

“Now? Well, I suppose. I should call my wife and . . . .”

“Suppose? Suppose I’d been an assassin. You’d be calling no one. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive. The neighborhood nasties must be off their game. Either we start or we don’t. It’s your life. You choose.”

Sweeney’s face lost some color at the prospect of his own demise and he looked like he might be ill. I signaled the barista to bring two coffees.

“You understand, Mr. Sweeney, that I am about to assume every aspect of your life. Did your lawyer explain that to you? That legally, I will become you?”

Sweeney gulped his coffee and swallowed hard. “Yes, but I can still . . . .”

“You can still what? Until this contract is completed, you are a non-person. You do only what I tell you. The terms are specific. I will keep you alive until the threat is eliminated. Fail to follow my instructions and the contract is void. You’ll be back on your own. Is that what you want? 

Sweeney sat in silence.

“I’ll take that as a no.” I put my briefcase on the table and opened it. “Give me your cell phone and your keys. Are the keys for the tavern on here? Show me. Do you keep any weapons there?

“My grandfather’s shotgun. It’s been there since he opened the tavern.”

“That may come in handy. This is your new phone. It’s been modified to accept only incoming calls. These are your keys. One is for the white delivery van parked out back. The other is for your hotel room. Directions and the rest of your instructions are on the passenger seat. Here, put this hat on. Give me your jacket. The barista will show you out the back. Go directly to the hotel. Speak to no one. I’ll call you.”

I picked up his jacket and my briefcase, nodded to the barista and left. I had a full night’s work ahead of me.

At seven the next morning, I called Sweeney. He didn’t sound happy, but that was to be expected of a man whose routine has been disrupted. “Do not leave the hotel, Mr. Sweeney. I have a man on your floor. Another in the lobby. You’re quite safe. Keep the shades drawn. Stay away from the windows. You’ll be easier to protect if you follow instructions to the letter. I trust you used the hair dye I left? Don’t worry. It’s not permanent. It’s a game now. We wait.”

I listened to him curse me, but that was just Irish recalcitrance. He was quite happy to no longer be Brendan Sweeney.

The first day passed without incident. On the second day, the hotel started getting some unwarranted attention. It was nothing overt—a few extra deliveries, odd inquiries at the desk and switchboard. It was enough. On day three, I called Sweeney early and made a change.

“You’re moving today. The van is parked behind the hotel by the south lobby entrance. Leave at precisely 8:30. Traffic is heaviest then.”

Sweeney balked and cursed me. Two days in a cramped hotel room had only served to consolidate his fears. It was a pattern I’d seen before.

I ignored his complaints and continued with the instructions. “A blue pick-up will follow you when you leave. That’s one of my people. As long as you see the truck, you’re safe. Drive directly to the tavern and come in through the delivery entrance. I’ll leave the door open. Confine yourself to the kitchen area unless I tell you otherwise. You’ll be easier to protect if you’re here close at hand.”

~~ ~~

The brass bell on the door of Sweeney’s Tavern rang and a couple of mugs in overcoats strode in. It was too warm a day for a jacket, let alone a coat. The taller one went to the end of the bar on my left. His shadow stayed several paces back.

“Lunch doesn’t start until eleven, boys. You’re early.” I polished a glass. “Something I can get you?”

“You ain’t Sweeney.” The tall one spat the accusation.

“I’m the substitute. Sweeney’s sick.”

“Substitute, huh? Okay, substitute, gimme a whiskey.”

“Rocks or neat?”

“Rocks with a splash.”

The bell rang and another overcoat came in. This time, I recognized the face—Carmine “The Clown” Carnivale, mob enforcer and target of the Grand Jury. He drifted to the end on the bar on my right. This was how they played the game. They were primed for the kill.  

I added water to the Jameson and slid the drink down the bar. It made three-quarters of the journey before a pile of cocktail napkins blocked its progress. The tall guy grunted and moved a few steps to retrieve it. That was his last voluntary action.

My foot tapped the detonator and the shaped charge beneath the bar overhang blew him halfway across the room. Concussive shock waves momentarily disrupt the senses—advantage goes to the one who knows they’re coming. I pulled my Walther from under the bar, put a cap above shadow-boy’s left eye and turned the gun on Carmine.

His hand was already inside the overcoat near his left shoulder. He struck that pose.

I struck mine. “I wanna see nothin’ but fingers, Carmine.”

His hand came out clean. He held it near his right shoulder like an idiot politician swearing on a stack of bibles.

I got out Sweeney’s sawn-off, cocked both hammers, put the Walther on the bar and leveled the shotgun at Carmine’s chest.

His face lost color. He backed up as I came from behind the bar. “Who the hell are you?” His voice was raspy.

“I’m the substitute. I trade places with people who’d rather not be who they are for whatever reason. For your purposes, I’m Sweeney. You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah, that’s it, talk. Not this . . . this insanity. I wanted to tell you you’re mistaken. That’s what I want you should tell the Grand Jury.”

“There won’t be a Grand Jury, Carmine. You’re about to join the dearly departed.”

“You can’t just kill me in cold blood.”

“Why not? I just killed your two pals. Well, almost.” The tall man still twitched.

“But you can’t . . . at least let me call my wife. Say goodbye.”

“Oh, well, sure.” Carmine’s hand plunged into his pocket just as I pulled both triggers. The blast nearly cut him in half.

“You can have your saloon back, Mr. Sweeney. It’s over.”

Sweeney came out from the backroom, took one look and developed a case of the dry heaves.

I poured whiskey to calm him.

Sweeney drank.

“You’re officially Brendan Sweeney again.” I wiped down both guns. “Call 911.”

“Jesus H., you just freakin’ killed everybody.”

“Yes. What did you expect? Oh, one thing I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . .”

“I didn’t expect this. How the hell am I going to explain this?”

“You might have a little trouble, especially with the C4 but not too much. Listen, about your wife, her and I kinda . . . .”

“I don’t even know where to begin.”

“You begin by telling the dispatcher that Mr. Carnivale stopped by to help you rehearse your testimony. Did I mention your kids really seem to like me?”

“Okay. Calling 911 now. What am I saying? Oh, yes, Mr. Carnivale.”

“Stop worrying. The DA will be happy to talk about Carmine in the past tense. Your wife and I will be going away, Sweeney. She’s taking the children. You still have the house, of course. I suppose I should tell you that I never intended . . . .”

“It’s still ringing. Aren’t they supposed to answer right away?”

“Patience. Sometimes they’re busy. I have to go. Your wife and children are waiting.”

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“Me? I said I’m going out the back. Your lawyer will have the final accounting by Tuesday. Good day, Mr. Sweeney.”

~~

04

Cocaine Nights

[A scene from a work in progress.]

From the street-level entrance, you could see almost everything The Subterranean had to offer. The club occupied the basement of a two-story building on the Lower East Side in a neighborhood that couldn’t decide if it was coming back or going to hell.

Staccato projections danced on the walls and people danced everywhere else. Some even had partners. I waited until my eyes adjusted to the light then made my way down the open metal stairway.

At the first landing, a steroid junkie playing bouncer had set up shop. He gave me the eye but decided he didn’t like his chances. Smart. At least a little smarter than his counterpart on the door had been.

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder as I passed. “You might want to check on your girlfriend at the door. He wasn’t looking so good when I came in.” We moved in opposite directions.

In the dim light, my hand didn’t look broken. I flexed it just the same. It was sore, but all the pieces and parts seemed to work. 

Like a hundred other nightspots, the club had been made over to cater to the whim of the city’s youth—each new fad briefly reigning before bowing to its successor. In a different era, these were speakeasies. In the age of tolerance, alcohol was the least of their sins. It was the kind of joint that moved a half a dozen lines for every gin-and-something they poured.

At the bar, I sat next to a retro-girl in a black dress with a white feather boa. “Nice outfit. Joey told me how to find you.”

“Then you must be Shackley.” Her glazed eyes registered mild surprise. “Joey said you were a big guy. I thought you’d be fat. I wasn’t expectin’…I’m Jean, Jeannie. That’s what my friends call me. You want to buy a girl a drink?”

“Will it get me information any quicker?” I signaled the bartender for a new drink and watched her down the one she had. She was a plain-looking girl with mousey brown hair and makeup that had stopped trying a while ago.

“How’s Joey? He was supposed to come around today, but I haven’t seen him.”

“The next needle will probably kill him, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t come here to talk about your boyfriend.”

“No. No, you came because you’re looking for Councilman Townes. Everybody’s looking for Councilman Townes. Did he really kill somebody?”

Her lips asked the question but her eyes said she didn’t want the answer. “I’m not the jury. They found a dead man in his office. That puts him at the top of the list.” 

A bartender brought the girl’s drink and waited for me to order. I waved him off, but he wasn’t dissuaded that easily. I glared at him until he decided his health was more important than a tip.

The wordless confrontation made the girl uncomfortable. “We shouldn’t be talking about this out here.”

“Where else did you have in mind?”

“This club belongs to my uncle.” She grabbed her purse and her new drink. “C’mon, I got a room in the back.”

I followed her through a doorway at the end of the bar. “It’s right down here. Hey, I’ve got an eight-ball of coke we can try.” Her key fumbled at the lock.

“Some other time.”

Inside, she made another offer. “I’ve heard that if you rub cocaine on your private parts, it’s great for sex.”

“That’s probably the last place you’d want to go numb.”

A digital clock flashed midnight in red numbers and a nightlight offered the only other illumination. An unmade bed stood against the far wall next to a nightstand with a lamp. On the opposite wall was a table with a mirror and a small stool. Clothes were scattered on the floor, or hung on chairs and doorknobs.

“Maybe we should just rub our private parts against each other.” The black dress joined the other items on the floor. She hadn’t been wearing anything beneath it. She pulled at my clothes and I didn’t stop her.

When she sat up, I heard the soft click of the lighter and smelled the cigarette. I listened to her inhale before propping an eye open.

“You didn’t say anything.” Her complaint was accompanied by a pout.

“Nothing seemed appropriate.”

I watched her smoke in silence until she felt my eyes on her. “What?”

“Just wondering why you’re turning the councilman in. You didn’t say anything to the police. Why roll on him now?”

“Lots of reasons. None of them would interest you.” She took another drag on the cigarette and crushed it out. “Part of it’s because I don’t want him dead. I don’t need that crap on my conscience. Mostly I don’t want the cops coming here an’ tossing this place. I don’t want them shutting down my uncle’s club because this is all I have.”

“So where’s Townes?”

“Jump me again and maybe I’ll tell you.” She pulled me down on top of her. “This time, say something. Tell me you love me. I don’t care if it isn’t true.”

We jockeyed for position under the sheets and used each other in silence, conversing and convulsing with our private demons.

She sat stoically while I dressed, her small breasts barely moving with each shallow breath, lost in her own world. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“Townes? Depends on who finds him first. There are plenty of people who would like to keep him quiet.”

“What about the cops?”

“What about ‘em? If he puts up a fight, they’ll kill him. If he surrenders, who knows?”

It wasn’t the definitive answer she was looking for. “Maybe he’ll just go to jail?”

“Maybe. He’ll sit it out on Rikers Island until his trial, if he survives that long. He doesn’t have a lot of options. Where is he?”

Silence again. I wondered if she was having second thoughts, or if reality was sinking in. Her voice was barely audible when she spoke.

“I don’t even know your first name.”

“Leon. My name is Leon.”

“You could take me with you, Leon. I wouldn’t be any trouble. Really. I’d…”

“You wouldn’t last in my world, Jeannie and I couldn’t live in yours.”

I put on my coat and turned back to her. Her eyes were closed but the dim light reflected the tears. I lit a cigarette and put it in her hand. “Where’s Townes?”

“The Boat Basin on 79th.” She took a long drag and brushed away a tear. “It’s a sloop called Moondancer.”

I opened the door to leave.

“Are you going to kill him, Leon?”

“Not if I don’t have to.”

“Don’t kill him. Please? Tell Daddy that Jeannie is still his little angel.”

I closed the door and left her sitting on the edge of the bed. Leaving was harder than it should have been. I walked out into the night to see a man about a murder.

~~

05

The Max Moxie Murder Mystery Theater

Episode #37: Anger Mismanagement

Max Moxie stirred his coffee with the barrel of the .38 Smith & Wesson. Milk and sugar weren’t necessary. The Militec-1gun oil gave the dark brew enough flavor to make it palatable. He tapped the revolver on the edge of the cup and tasted the results.

“S’matter, Max?  Ya don’t like the meatloaf?”

“Is that what it was? I thought it was armadillo . . . or one of those furry things you see in the road.”

“I guess it ain’t so good tonight, huh?”

“To be honest, no.” Max glared at the insipid smile and greasy apron his inquisitor wore like a badge of honor. “What I ordered was the goulash. This is supposed to be Gaspar’s House of Goulash, isn’t it?”

“Yeah but only because the sign was already there when I bought the joint. New signs are a lot of money y’know?  Anyway, I never learned how to make that goo-stuff.”

“That’s just swell.” Max went back to stirring his coffee.

“I can make you somethin’ else?”

“No. Guess I’ve lost my appetite.”

“Say, how come your girlfriend, whatzername . . . er, Zoe, ain’t cooking for ya? You guys fightin’ again?”

“Yeah. Zoe’s what I’m really hungry for. She is so ticked this time though.”

“Well, if yer hungry, ya wanna try one of my wife’s cookies?” The proprietor offered a plate of the flattened confections.

“Hey, don’t mind if I do.” Max put the revolver on the counter and reached for the one with the chocolate sprinkles.

“I’ve been waiting all night for you to put that iron down, Moxie.” The man’s voice from the far side of the room rasped its demand.  “Keep your hands up where I can see them and turn around.”

“Well, well, well.” Max turned to his foil. “Look who got out of jail free. Hello, Raul. I didn’t expect to see you for twenty-five to life.”

“One of my boys put my name on a list of non-violent offenders.” Raul grinned his satisfaction. “When the prison got too crowded, I was the first one they let go. Ain’t bureaucracy grand?”

“Who’s the nut with the gun, Max?” The proprietor’s whisper showed the strain of holding the cookie tray high above his head.

“I’m forgetting my manners. Raul, this is Gaspar. Gaspar, this is Raul Juan Carlos Etchasketchavera.”

“That’s Echevera.”

“That’s what I said. Raul is a master criminal and wannabe artiste. Since I’m the one who put him away, my guess is he’s back to thank me properly.”

“You always were a good guesser, Max.” Raul cocked the hammer of the Colt revolver. “Well, so long.”

“Wait, Raul.  What about my cigarette? You know the rules. You can’t shoot me until I smoke a cigarette.”

“What cigarette? There ain’t no rules here.”

“Of course there is. . .are.” Max tried to sound authoritative. “Everybody knows the cigarette rule. I get to smoke. It’s not a health risk since you’re going to shoot me anyway.”

Raul relented. “Okay, okay, go ahead and light up, but only one and not one of those extra long ones either.”

“Y’know, I quit years ago, Raul. Can I have one of yours?”

Raul bellowed.  “Now you’re just stalling, Moxie. I’m gonna blast you...”

The roar was deafening. Raul’s white shirt turned crimson as he stumbled backwards, half turned and pitched face first through the plate glass window of Gaspar’s House of Goulash.

“Not today, Raul.” The woman’s voice from the shadows had an angry edge.

“Zoe, baby, you’re back. I knew you loved me. I knew you couldn’t leave me.”

Zoe stepped into the light cradling the double barrel Winchester 24. “Nobody is going to shoot Max Moxie,” she ejected the two spent shells and reloaded, “except me.”

Max ran.

~~

06

The Butcher of Wellesley

I got tired of watching the snow-covered landscape meander past our window and decided ogling my wife would be more pleasant. She sat in the opposite seat engrossed in a Dale’s Department Store catalog, oblivious to the world in general and me in particular. Shopping does that to a woman.

“I’ve come to the conclusion England is larger than it appears on the map.” Vickie had no response to my observation, so I tried another. “Maybe English trains are slower than the ones I’m used to.”

“You’re just bored because you’re brooding, Jack.” She tossed the Harrod’s catalogue onto my lap. “Be a dear and pick out your Christmas present.”

I noticed several suitable items had been circled and their pages dog-eared. “I’m not brooding.”

“Yes you are. You’re mourning the loss of wintering in Miami. You’d much rather be hanging out with your friends at Pimlico and ignoring your writing. Don’t give me that look, mister. I can see the palm trees waving in your eyes. You’re probably hearing the pitter-patter of little horsey hooves calling you.”

“You’re mixing your racetracks, dear. It’s Hialeah. The little horsies would freeze their tails off in Maryland this time of year. I thought you liked Miami?”

“Yes, but I miss my old friends and my family. I haven’t seen Mother in three years. Besides, everyone’s dying to meet the man I eloped with. This will be fun.”

That wasn’t the description that came to mind but I didn’t say so. Instead, I said, “Perhaps I should get us a drink. What would you like?”

“Oh, Jack, it’s only nine in the morning. We want to make a good impression on Mother.”

“Alright, just one for me then.” I opened the compartment door only to startle the porter with his hand raised to knock.

“I’m sorry, Mister Misses Hickox, I . . . I . . . .”

“Don’t apologize.” Vickie was in a forgiving mood. “Your timing is perfect. My husband was going to throw himself from the train but, you’ve forced him to reconsider. What can we do in return?”

“Um, Wellesley station in fifteen minutes, Miss. I’ll make sure all your luggage gets put on the platform.” The wide-eyed porter backed down the corridor without ever taking his eyes off me.

“What a shamelessly cruel wife I have. The poor man will spend the rest of the week wondering if you were telling the truth. Of course, with no time for a drink, I might really be suicidal.”

I got a commiserating pat on the shoulder. “I’ll get you one at the house, dear. Can you get my extra bags down?”

At Wellesley station, the platform was crowded. “Christmas shoppers,” Vickie said in answer to my unasked question. By the time we found our baggage cart, a blond-haired brute in a chauffeur’s uniform was mauling the luggage.

“See here, my wife and I have already been through customs.”

He turned a quizzical look in our direction until the glint of recognition washed it away. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Hickox. I recognize you Miss Victoria. Your mother has pictures of you all over the house, except now your hair is shorter.”

Vickie put her hand to her coif, happy for the attention. “This is the way they’re wearing it in New York this year.”

“Yes, Miss. My name is Hadley. Let me take those two bags.” The chauffer started for the end of the platform and spoke over his shoulder as we followed. “The station man will watch your luggage ‘til I come back for it. Your mother wants me to get you up to the house right away.”

Hadley led the way to a silver Rolls Royce Phantom and held the door. The back seat was large enough to require its own map so it took a moment before I spotted the cabinet. “Is the bar stocked?”

“No sir. Mrs. Chambers doesn’t have liquor in the cars. Maybe it’s me she don’t trust. I only started with her first of the month.”

“Woodhull was always our chauffeur. I don’t remember mother telling me he left. Hadley, what happened to Mr. Woodhull?”

“Gout, Miss, so I’m told. Got so bad he couldn’t take care of the cars. That’s why Mrs. Chambers hired me. You two coming to visit is all anyone has talked about since I started. I guess you live in America now?”

“I do. I was born there. She was imported from . . . .”

Vickie elbowed her disapproval and finished my sentence. “I went to school in America. This is my first time home since I graduated.”

“Well, they’ve got a right proper greeting planned for you, Miss.”

~~

What appeared to be the entire staff waited in the courtyard for our arrival. Vickie was mobbed. I was gaped at, pawed, prodded and introduced, and not always in that order. Hadley abandoned us to our fate.

The coterie surrounding my wife consisted mostly of middle-aged women and a sprinkling of younger ones. The cackle of questions and answers and announcements became an impenetrable din. I shook hands and repeated names at each introduction, but doubted I would recall a single one.

Through it all, an older man in formal attire stood near the door with his hands folded in front of him. I made my way in his direction. “This is quite the welcoming committee.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder to indicate Vickie’s admirers.

“Miss Victoria has been absent far too long.” Without changing his posture, he added, “We’ve all missed her.”

“I’m Jack Hickox.” I thrust a hand in his direction. “And you are?”

“Jefferies.” My wife’s shrill voice answered my question. She strode up the sidewalk, arms extended. That got some movement out of the old boy as he returned her embrace.

“You look lovelier every day, Miss Victoria.” The beginnings of a smile cracked Jefferies stoic exterior.

“You’ve been saying that since I was a child. Jack, this is Jefferies, our butler. Did you two meet?”

“Very nearly.”

“Perhaps we should go inside, Miss Victoria.” Jefferies took my wife’s arm and led her into the foyer. “Otherwise, they’ll stand out here and catch their death. Let me take your coats. I’m told you’ll be staying through the New Year.”

“Yes. Mother insisted.”

“Well, everyone will be glad to see this year gone. They say 1937 will be better.”

“I didn’t see Mrs. Hobbs.” Vickie fumbled with a pin holding her hat.

“Mrs. Hobbs is at the butcher ordering another goose.” Jefferies handed our coats to one of the maids. “Your mother has invited more people for Christmas dinner.”

“And where is Mother?”

“She will be down for breakfast shortly. She wanted the staff to greet you first for fear she’d never have a moment with you. Will you be having breakfast?”

“Thank you, Jefferies, we ate on the train. Just coffee for me. Would you like something, Jack?”

“A martini.”

Jefferies looked appalled. “Vodka and gin are vulgar spirits, sir. We’ve never had them in this house. I could bring you a glass of brandy if you insist.”

“Then I suppose brandy will have to do.”

~~~

The mother knew how to make an entrance. “Victoria, darling, how dare you break a mother’s heart?” Agatha Chambers was everything Vickie had warned me she would be. At scarcely a hundred pounds, she dominated the room.

“Mother, you look wonderful.” Vickie’s shrillness was back. Between the compliments and admonishments, neither stopped talking, but it gave me the chance to see them side by side.

Vickie was a head taller, with jet-black hair and translucent green eyes. The mother had the kind of blondeness that’s only found in a bottle and her eyes, while the same color, held none of the softness. She reminded me of those cat statues they find in Egyptian tombs.

They shared the slender frame and graceful athleticism that comes from heredity or years of walking around with a book on your head. At some point, Jefferies brought my brandy. I was taking a drink when Vickie and her mother crossed the room.

“Mother, this is Jack. Didn’t I tell you he was cute?”

“Mrs. Chambers, a pleasure to meet you.”

“Undoubtedly.” She ignored my outstretched hand.

“Um, mother, Jack is an author. He wrote all the Ace Highsmith Detective stories. He’s working on a new one now.”

“Madam, I’m sorry to interrupt.” Jefferies stood in the doorway. “The luggage arrived. Shall I have it all brought up?”

“Oh, yes. Mother, do I have my old room?”

“Of course, dear. I suppose you’ll be sharing it?”

“Mother, we’re married. Jack, I’ll see to the luggage. Why don’t you and mother get better acquainted?” She made a gesture bringing her hands together. I rolled my eyes.

Vickie was scarcely out of earshot before the cat sank her claws into me. “When my daughter told me she eloped, I had no idea it was with a man in his forties.”

“Thirties.” The same statement would be a lie in six months but I let it stand.

“I’m sorry the years haven’t been kinder.”

Agatha’s animosity surprised me. Vickie warned me that the mother could be difficult, but this was beyond the pale. I decided that antagonizing our host would be both bad tactics and bad manners. “Why can’t you just be happy for her?”

“Happy she’s mixed-up with a gigolo who drinks before noon?”

The brandy was still in my hand. “Medicinal purposes. Your weather doesn’t agree with my delicate constitution.” I raised the glass in mock toast and drained it.

“Your sad attempts at humor won’t disguise the obvious, Mr. Hickox. I’m sorry to say that you fail to exceed my expectations—a phenomenon I’d hoped was impossible.”

The sound of breaking glass and a woman’s wail interrupted our verbal sparring.

“Now what? Wait here.” Agatha moved in the direction of the noise and I followed. The commotion led us to the front door.

“Jefferies, what is the meaning . . . Mrs. Hobbs . . .” In the foyer, Jefferies and two policemen were trying to hold a hysterical woman upright. Her knees had other ideas. A broken vase littered the floor. “What’s happened here?”

A constable named Owensby spoke up. “Someone’s killed the butcher. Murdered him in his own shop.”

The racket attracted Vickie and most of the staff. “Nicky Grogan murdered? I’m not surprised.” Vickie’s statement carried no emotion as she and her mother helped the unfortunate Mrs. Hobbs.

“Not Nicky, Miss, his father. George Grogan is the one who was murdered.”

The mere mention of the elder Mr. Grogan set off another round of hysteria from the distraught cook.

I caught Jefferies’ eye. “Bring her a brandy. Better make that two. I’m not feeling so good myself.” I turned my attention to the constable. “What can you tell us?”

“Your cook said she went down to put in an order. Nobody came to the front when she rang, so she goes around the counter and finds him on the floor with a knife in his back. We got called when somebody heard her screaming.”

“Any idea who did this?” I didn’t expect an answer.

“No sir. It took an hour just to get that much from her. The doctor is down there now. Chief Constable’s been notified. He’ll likely be here within the hour. We got a couple of our lads at the shop now, but Blake and me have to be getting back.”

“Jack, go with them. You’ve done this in a dozen books.” Vickie was insistent. “This could be the story you’re after.”

~~ ~~

The doctor was examining the body when we arrived and didn’t look up. He was a frail man with a fringe of white hair and the demeanor of a chained dog. “You’re standing in my light.” No mistake about who he thought was in charge.

I moved. The victim lay face down behind the counter with a carving knife protruding from his back. There was no sign of a struggle. He appeared to have fallen where he was attacked. It was difficult to avoid the blood and I said so. “What a mess.”

“Perforation of the right lung and a hemothorax.”

“Hemo-who?”

“He bled to death.” The doctor turned with an inquisitive stare. “Who are you?”

“Mrs. Chambers sent him over.” Constable Owensby answered for me. “Her cook was who found the body and Mrs. Chambers wants a proper explanation.”

“Jack Hickox.” I put out my hand. “I’m an American writer—here to do a story.”

The doctor ignored my hand and harrumphed his indifference but didn’t otherwise protest. The family fortune carried some weight, at least with the locals.

“He’s a big guy.” I offered the observation for no particular purpose.

“Six feet, two inches. About 16 stone, I’d guess. Oh, that’s a little above two hundred of your pounds.”

“Who’d want to do this to an elderly gent?”

“Not so old. Sixty-two.”

“You can tell that just by examining him?”

“I examined his wallet. Good thing you’re not a detective. I have to finish here. Mrs. Chambers can get a copy of my report from the Chief Constable when I send it.”

I thanked Owensby and Blake and made the ten minute walk back to the house. There were more police vehicles in the drive. A matron escorted Mrs. Hobbs to one of the wagons, followed by several uniformed policemen.

I found Vickie, her mother, more policemen and half of the domestic help in the library. Some of the servants were crying. Agatha looked catatonic. I turned my palms up and shrugged a silent question to Vickie.

“They’ve arrested Mrs. Hobbs for murder.” She had an arm around the mother, helping her to a chair.

“That’s ridiculous. Jefferies, bring Mrs. Chambers a brandy . . . and bring one for me while you’re at it. This butcher was a big fellow. I saw him. Mrs. Hobbs is too small to have knocked him down. What about the son? There’s a more likely suspect.”

Vickie took me aside. “I asked the same thing. Nicky was in jail when this happened. He was arrested in Whitstable yesterday afternoon. He’d stolen something or other.”

“That’s not enough to put him in the clear. He could have arranged it.”

“There’s more, Jack. The police searched Mr. Grogan’s house. They found letters. Mrs. Hobbs was his lover. They think she killed him because they had argued over money.”

“Whose money?”

“Hers. Mrs. Hobbs was upset he’d used her money to help Nicky. Apparently, the father couldn’t say no. Nicky was always a bad one, Jack. I heard he went to prison after I left for school.”

“It still won’t wash. Whoever killed the butcher brought him down on the spot and lover or not, she doesn’t have the size. Police have the wrong man . . . so to speak.”

“What are we going to do, Jack? I told mother she needn’t worry because you would get to the bottom of this.”

“Not much I can do until the police finish their investigation.” I arched an eyebrow in Agatha’s direction. “What happened to your mother? One minute, she had her teeth in me and the next minute, this.”

“Mother doesn’t deal well with change. She had a lot to contend with today and this business with the butcher and Mrs. Hobbs was the final straw. She needs a couple of days, so be patient with her. I’m going to take her to lie down.”

A moment later, Jefferies returned with a tray and two brandies. “Shall I take them up to the ladies, sir?”

“Just leave them, Jefferies. I have to start figuring out how to get rid of evidence. I may as well start with these.

~~ ~ ~~

I felt a sharp pain in my ribs and heard Vickie’s urgent whisper. “Jack, wake up. Someone’s at the door.”

I shook the cobwebs off long enough to see a silhouette momentarily framed by the light from the hall before the room was again engulfed in darkness. In the next instant I was blinded by the flick of a wall switch.

Vickie’s voice was shrill. “Jefferies, what is the meaning . . . .”

I squinted one eye open to see Jefferies standing just inside our bedroom door. He was holding an old-fashioned revolver and it was pointed at me.

“If I surrender unconditionally, can I go back to sleep? My wife can negotiate her own terms.”

Jefferies lowered the gun. “I know you’re not frightened, Mr. Hickox. I came to say good-bye to Victoria and I didn’t want any interference from you. That’s why I brought this.”

I showed him the palms of my hands in the universal gesture for surrender. Vickie was full of questions. “Why on earth would you leave?”

“Because the police will be here in the morning to arrest me for murder. They’ll figure out Mrs. Hobbs couldn’t have done it and they’ll be looking for someone else. I didn’t kill George Grogan either, but I’m the only one with a motive. I’m too old to spend the rest of my life in jail.”

“Oh, Jefferies, what possible motive could you have?”

“George Grogan killed my brother. Forty years ago. Yesterday was the anniversary. It won’t take long for the police to figure that out.”

“Wait a minute.” I couldn’t resist getting my own questions in. “If Grogan killed your brother, didn’t he go to jail for that?”

“It was a bare knuckle fight, sir. Forty years ago, those weren’t uncommon. My brother was the local champ. Grogan beat him, but my brother was too tough to fall. In those days, you didn’t get paid if your opponent didn’t go down and stay there, so he kept hitting him.”

“That’s awful.” Vickie’s hand was at her throat.

“I never wanted you to hear that story, Victoria, but now you have to. They say my brother died on his feet. Grogan paid a fine for unlicensed fighting, but he was never prosecuted for anything. Now they’ll charge me even though I didn’t kill anyone. That’s why I’m leaving.”

“Running is never a good idea, Jefferies.”

“Perhaps not, sir, but neither is spending the rest of one’s life in prison. Oh, I nearly forgot.” Jefferies took a small ring of keys from his pocket and laid them on the side table. “Keys for the liquor cabinet, sir. I thought it best if you had them.”

“Damn decent of you.”

“I’m sorry, Victoria. Give your mother my apologies when she’s feeling better. Oh, and have the kindness not to raise the alarm ‘til I’ve had some time.” Jefferies backed through the door and plunged the room into darkness.

I turned on a lamp.

“Jack, do something.”

“I’m hardly dressed for the occasion.” I struggled into my robe and retrieved the keys from the sideboard. “I’ll make drinks. What would you like?”

“I meant do something about Jefferies. You can’t let him run off like that.”

“What would you have me do, dear? You’re forgetting the man is armed, although I doubt that relic could fire or that he could hit anything if it did. He’s not thinking clearly. Let him think things through. I’ll be surprised if he’s not back by morning. Scotch?”

“A double please.”

~~ ~~ ~~

The morning saw no sign of Jefferies, so I played butler. Around ten, our two local constables and a police matron returned with Mrs. Hobbs in tow. I invited them in and sent the maid for my wife. By the time Vickie came down, the entire household had been alerted and the more curious began filling the foyer.

The staff took charge of the visibly shaken cook and we went into the library with our police visitors. Vickie made drinks and passed them out. I felt vindicated and decided to say so. “Who finally figured out that Mrs. Hobbs couldn’t have done this?” My question was directed to Owensby, but Blake answered.

“Chief Constable Roberts said to bring her back, sir.  Your man Jefferies was arrested this morning and charged with Mr. Grogan’s murder.”

“Oh, that’s absurd.” Vickie’s sharp tone brought Owensby into the conversation.

“Yes, Miss, but he was packed like he was going somewhere . . . and he had a gun.”

“I wouldn’t call that relic a gun.” I rattled my empty glass at Vickie for a refill. “Besides, wasn’t the butcher stabbed?”

Owensby got defensive. “Chief says we don’t know the cause of death because he hasn’t got the report yet. Did you know Mr. Grogan killed Mr. Jefferies’ brother?”

“Sure, but that was forty years ago. If Jefferies was going to shoot somebody, he would have done it when you could still get ammunition for that blunderbuss.”

“It’s probably like you say, sir, but the Chief won’t rule anything out.” Blake stood up. “We have to be getting back. Thanks for the drink, Miss.”

“Oh, Jack, this is preposterous. First, Mrs. Hobbs and now Jefferies? Mother will be apoplectic. I’m taking her shopping to get her mind off all this.”

I patted Vickie’s arm and finished my drink. “Let me walk you boys out. If I wanted to talk to this Chief Constable Roberts, where would I find him?”

“He’s in Canterbury today, sir.” Blake tried to be helpful. “That’s where they’re holding Nicky Grogan. Went to question him about his father’s murder.”

“I thought he was convinced Jefferies was his man?”

“Oh, he is, sir, but like I said, he’s thorough. Not a man who leaves anything to chance. Well, we’re off, then.”

I had a couple of ideas rattling around in my head. While Vickie tended to her mother, I changed and went looking for the chauffeur. I found Hadley under the hood of the Phantom. “Just the man I need. Is this beast in running condition? I have to go to Canterbury.”

 “Oh, dear. I’m taking your wife and her mother to London to do Christmas shopping. You might be able to get a train, sir.” He consulted a schedule inside the driver’s compartment. “Eleven-ten, sir. There’s a train to Canterbury at 11:10. If I drive you to the station, you’ll have time.”

Hadley closed the hood and rolled down his sleeves. I noticed a cross tattooed on his forearm which struck me as odd only because Hadley didn’t seem like the tattoo-type. It took all kinds, I supposed.

The train to Canterbury gave me time to think over what I knew, which was precisely nothing, but I knew the police were going in the wrong direction. Perhaps this Roberts fellow could shed some light on things.

~~~ ~ ~~~

I found Chief Constable Roberts in his office and got in to see him after a short wait. A burly man in his mid-fifties, he had a cheerful demeanor and an unruly mustache. I was surprised when I didn’t have to introduce myself.

“You’re Jack Hickox, the American writer.” He came around his desk and crushed my hand by way of greeting. “You look younger than the pictures I’ve seen. I’m told you’re here working on a new story.”

“Yes, and now I find myself in one.” I rubbed my knuckles, trying to make the feeling return. “I didn’t know my books were available in England.”

“My Canadian cousin sends them on. Read ‘em all, she has. I once imagined I would do well in the private detecting business.” Roberts had a faraway look. “Well, none of that. The missus wouldn’t hear of me abandoning the pension, would she?”

“I suppose not. I wanted to talk to you about the murder in Wellesley.”

“Ah, the butcher, yes. Nasty business, that.”

“Did you ever get the coroner’s report?”

Chief Roberts consulted some papers on his desk and selected one. “Preliminary report. Stab wound to the upper back. Bled to death. Only other injury was a bruise on the side of the skull. Appears he hit his head on the counter when he fell.”

“You’re holding Mrs. Chamber’s butler because he had a gun.”

“Ah, that’s what this is about. We caught the fellow sneaking off at four in the morning. Did you know the victim killed Jefferies’ brother?”

“Sure, but that was…”

“Innocent men don’t run, Mr. Hickox. You said as much in one of your books—Ace Highsmith and the Robin Hood Murders.

I couldn’t very well argue with a fan—or myself. “Jefferies’ brother died forty years ago. If he was going to avenge him, he’d have done that long ago.”

“Not necessarily.” Roberts waved an index finger at me. “Revenge is far better when properly aged. You said that in Ace Highsmith and the Bourbon Street Bloodbath.”

“I think I was talking about the bourbon.” If Roberts was going to quote me, I’d have to find a way to turn it into an advantage. I took out a small pad and a pencil. “You came down here to question Nicky Grogan. Do you think he had something to do with his father’s murder?”

“Not directly. He was in jail when his father was killed. No, I think Jefferies is our man, but I’ll not rule out one of young Nicky’s associates until I’m sure. You’re taking notes?”

“Like you said, I’m here for a story. I want to get my facts straight. No reason for you not to be in it since it looks like you’ll be the one to solve it. What can you tell me about Nicky Grogan? I heard he’d done prison time.”

Roberts’ face brightened. He pulled a folder from his desk and put on reading glasses. “He did a two-year stretch in Brixton for possessing stolen goods. Then they added another year for fighting. Got out last year.”

“A year for fighting seems harsh.”

 “The other fellow was hospitalized—a Kraut named Braun. He got an additional two years because he pulled a knife. He was released last month.” Roberts pushed the folder across his desk.

“You’ve talked to Nicky. What’s he say?”

“Nothing. Oh, we’ve questioned him alright. He just stares at the wall. Not the sort you’re likely to beat it out of.”

“I’d like to talk to him if I could.”

Roberts pulled at the insubordinate mustache. “What makes you think he’ll talk to you?”

“I don’t think he will, but I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions rattling around in my head. If one or two of them make him nervous, we may learn something anyway.”

“You are a clever fellow.” Roberts picked up the phone and ordered the prisoner brought up. “Follow me.” We made our way down the hall to an interrogation room.

We were seated at the table making small talk when the guards brought Nicky Grogan in. He refused to sit down, choosing instead to stand and stare down at us.

One of the guards pulled a truncheon, but I held up a hand. In that moment of silence, everything fell into place.

“Come on.” I jumped up and grabbed Roberts’ arm. “There’s no time to lose.”

“But you haven’t asked any…” I saw Roberts gesture for the guards to take the prisoner and I heard him trudge down the hall behind me. I was pulling on my coat when he huffed into his office. “This is highly irregular behavior. If it weren’t for your reputation . . .”

“How would you like a murderer, all tied up with a Christmas bow, before the evening is out?”

“You know who killed the butcher?”

“Yes. It was the German and I can prove it.”

“How did the German get into this?”

“Release Jefferies in my recognizance and I’ll show you. I’m going to have everyone in the library at seven o’clock this evening. Oh, and I’ll need several of your men there to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

A hint of recognition showed on the Chief’s face. “That’s one of your books. That’s Ace Highsmith and the Pilsner Poisonings.” Roberts started to relish the idea. “Only there, you herded everyone into the wine cellar where you unmasked the murderer.”

“Yes, but this time the solution won’t hinge on how long it takes for bubbles to dissipate from beer. You’ll have a full confession.”

“This is highly irregular. It’s my pension if you’re wrong.”

“Your pension has nothing to worry about. Oh, and bring Nicky Grogan with you. Just keep him under wraps until I call for him. He’s our ace in the hole.”

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

Vickie helped Jefferies distribute drinks while her mother sat quietly near the fireplace. The staff had been herded into the library and they occupied what seats they could find while others stood. Constables Owensby and Blake guarded the door.

Chief Roberts was the last man in. He gave me a nod to indicate that everything was ready and took a position where he could see everyone in the room.

I took a drink and cleared my throat. “We’re all here because yesterday morning, someone in this room killed the butcher.” There was a murmur and a few guarded glances. “Thing is, they didn’t know they were killing George Grogan. They thought they were killing his son, Nicky.

“Our killer had this well planned. They broke in and hid in the darkness until someone opened. But in the dark, you couldn’t tell the difference between Nicky and his father. They were the same size. Same shape. Our killer jumped from hiding and planted a carving knife in his back and that’s when everything went wrong.

“Nicky didn’t open the shop that morning because he was in jail. His father didn’t know that. He only knew his son didn’t come home. George Grogan opened the shop because his irresponsible son hadn’t. This time, it cost him his life.

“Wait a minute. Chief, aren’t we missing someone?” I nodded to Owensby and he opened the library door. Two constables escorted a manacled Nicky Grogan into the room. “Hello, Nicky. Good of you to join our party. I think you know a few people here. Take a look around.”

Nicky glanced around the room until his eyes fell on the chauffeur. “You . . . .”

“I thought you two might have a passing acquaintance.”

“Bastard.” Hadley looked at me when he spoke. For a big man, he moved fast. I jumped in front of Vickie and her mother as the gun came up. Blake’s truncheon found the back of Hadley’s skull and the echo of the shot filled the room.

The bullet gouged out a few inches of plaster in the ceiling but otherwise did no damage. Nicky had fulfilled his purpose and Chief Roberts had him taken back to the wagon. I refilled everyone’s drink while Owensby and Blake took turns slapping Hadley back to consciousness.

I spun a straight-backed chair around and straddled it, facing the still-dazed chauffeur. “Well, well, look who’s back with us. Mr. Hadley, or is it Mr. Braun? Gerhard Braun from Brixton Prison who had two years added to his sentence for trying to stick a shiv in Nicky Grogan. Two years to plan this and you still made a mess of it.

“How did you figure out who I was?”

“Your tattoo. You have an Iron Cross on your forearm. I saw it earlier today when you were working on the car. I didn’t think anything of it until I found out that Nicky had a year tacked on to his sentence for fighting with a German.

“Not likely an Englishman would have an Iron Cross tattoo. That’s too . . . Teutonic. I guessed you were Braun because that made the most sense. You came to Wellesley after your release to get revenge on Nicky. You watched him open the butcher shop every morning. So you picked a morning and stuck a knife in Nicky’s back, except it wasn’t Nicky. George Grogan died for nothing. He’s all yours, Chief.”

“Wait.” Braun pulled away from the constables and stood glaring at me. “You’re pretty clever. You got most of it right, I’ll give you that, but I didn’t kill the butcher. I don’t mind sticking a knife in a man, but I’ll be looking in his eyes when I do it.”

“So you say.” Roberts nodded to Owensby and Blake to take the prisoner out. “We’ll let a jury decide that.”

“If he wants to tell us anything we missed, I wouldn’t mind hearing it.” I refilled the Chief’s glass to give him an excuse to stay. “A few extra details might make you look better in the story.”

I poured drinks and we all sat back down.

“Like you said, my name is Braun, but I was born in Leeds an’ I’m as English as any of you lot. Well, not you. You’re an American. People with German-sounding names weren’t popular after the war, so I used my mother’s maiden name. That tattoo was for my grandfather. He got the Iron Cross in ’70.

“Nicky Grogan used to be my partner, but he crossed me. We were arrested for handling stolen goods and we both got two years in Brixton. What the coppers didn’t know was that we had a couple of warehouses full of stuff.

“While we were inside, Nicky had some of the boys move the merchandise to another location with the idea of cutting me out. I found out about it and that’s what the fight in the exercise yard was about. Nicky got an extra year and I got two.

“The rest you know, except when I went to the butcher shop, it wasn’t to kill Nicky. I went to get my share of the money. When his father walked in, I thought it was Nicky and put a length of pipe into the side of his head. I put on the lights and then I saw it was somebody else, so I scarpered.”

Chief Roberts rose from his chair. “It will still come down to a jury’s decision.”

I put another two fingers of whiskey in the Chief’s glass. “Who have you shown the coroner’s report to, Chief Roberts, besides me?”

“Well, no one yet—why?”

“Mr. Braun just admitted to striking the victim with a length of pipe that perfectly describes a wound only you and I and the coroner know about.”

Chief Roberts’ eyes widened.

“Now all the stories make sense.” I finished my drink. “Even Mrs. Hobbs’ story makes sense, doesn’t it Mrs. Hobbs?”

Mrs. Hobbs’ face was crimson and tears welled in her eyes. Her voice was barely audible. “I wish it didn’t happen.”

“You went to the butcher shop, just as you told us. When no one answered the bell, you went behind the counter and found George Grogan, but he was unconscious. You were angry with him because he was obstinate. There was a knife on the counter. You were angry about the money. You picked up the knife and drove it in his back.”

Mrs. Hobbs screamed. “I only wanted him to listen to reason. He wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t see past that no-good son of his. Everything went to Nicky. There was nothing left for us. Oh, George, why couldn’t you listen?”

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The last of the police finally left and most of the staff had retired. Vickie sat with her mother while a couple of maids tidied up.

“Would anyone care for a nightcap?” I put ice in a glass and looked around for a syphon.  

“I would like a damn brandy.” It was the first thing I’d heard Agatha say in nearly two days.

“One damn brandy coming up. What would my lovely wife care for?”

“What are you making in the glass with the ice?”

“Scotch and soda if I can find the syphon.”

“On the table behind you and if you make it a double, I’ll take it.”

I handed out drinks and looked around for another glass. “Jefferies, we’re out of glasses.”

“Christmas is ruined.” Agatha drained her glass in a single gulp and held it out for a refill. “I feel badly for the people we invited.”

“People will understand, Mother. Jack, I told Mother she should take a trip to get her mind off all of this.”

“That’s a marvelous idea.” I gave Agatha another brandy. “There’s a boat leaving Southampton for New York tomorrow afternoon. We should all be on it.”

“We’ve hardly unpacked anything. I suppose we could make it. What would we do in New York?”

“We’d go to Penn Station and get on a southbound train.”

“I see where this is going.”

“You’re a clever girl. That’s why I married you. We can have Christmas with the icebergs and New Year’s Eve with the ponies at Hialeah. We’ll spend our days drinking with the horsey crowd and ignoring my publisher until he raises his offer. You’ll like Miami, Agatha.”

Agatha forced her best stage whisper. “Your husband is beginning to exceed my expectations.” Vickie raised an eyebrow and smiled.

Being a gentleman, I pretended not to hear and instead proposed a toast to our new plans. “Unfortunately, I have nothing to toast with.”

“I’m sorry for the delay, sir.” Jefferies apologetic voice caused me to turn. “I believe it was you who ordered the vodka martini?”

“Why, so it was, Jefferies. It was the first item on my Christmas list. I’m not even going to complain it isn’t gift wrapped.”

~~

07

08

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