Willoughby smiled slightly and asked, “Didn’t even go to the little boy’s room? Should I check with your assistant on that detail as well?” Bellows was now angry and Willoughby, turning toward the door, decided not to provoke the archivist any longer.
Viola Finch had been listening at the door and caught a good deal of the conversation between the detective and her boss. When she saw the handle on the door move, she quickly retreated to her desk. Viola was anxious to challenge this impertinent detective who had the temerity to interrogate her boss. Willoughby, certain that she would regurgitate everything that Bellows had said and be just as recalcitrant, didn’t even glance over to her as he quickly walked out the door.
WILLOUGHBY SAT IN his car at the back of the Torpedo Factory and watched the exit. He had a half-finished Optimo in the ashtray and a pack of cinnamon gum on the seat. He debated with himself for a few minutes then reached for the matches and cracked the window. He had stopped by Snavely’s office after leaving Bellows and found out where the archivist had his reserved parking spot.
It was an hour before Bellows exited the building and walked to his car. Willoughby’s cigar was getting soggy and was down to half an inch. He crushed the butt in the ashtray and reached for the gum. Willoughby had a bad feeling about Bellows after leaving his office. His answers were too facile, too well-rehearsed. He wasn’t buying the notion that Bellows’ problem with Scatcherd had been resolved. And, partly, he just didn’t like the guy. Willoughby followed Bellows south on the George Washington Parkway, chomping away at his gum and hoping it would provide enough cover when he walked in the door and kissed his wife.
Ten minutes later, Bellows pulled into an estate overlooking the river. Willoughby kept driving until he found a place to turn around and circle back into town. He got on the radio and within minutes confirmed what he had suspected. Bellows had driven to the home of Augustus Dumont.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
Who Can You Trust?
WHEN BELLOWS WALKED into Helga Dumont’s sitting room, she almost immediately burst out with “You’ve got the originals, right?”
Bellows looked at her in astonishment. He was so dumbfounded that it took him a few minutes to figure out the reasoning behind her question. He searched for the right words before finally saying, “Are you suggesting that I had anything to do with Scatcherd’s death, that I would secure the photographs and then get rid of him. I’m an archivist, not a hit man, for god’s sake!” Bellows was warming to his own defense and felt outrage building by the time he got to the end.
Helga had a scornful smile on her face, unmoved by Bellows’ righteous outburst, and shook her head. “So, you don’t have them? Damn that man.”
“Everyone thinks he tripped and fell, that it was an accident, except –” Bellows hesitated just long enough for Helga to say impatiently, “Yes?”
“This Detective Willoughby is snooping around and questioning a lot of people. Apparently, he’s friendly with our Security Chief. He quizzed me after I called you this afternoon. Tried to get under my skin,” Bellows explained, intent on giving the impression that he had deftly handled the detective.
“I already know about him. Sort of a slovenly, slow-witted oaf of a man, from what I hear. He’s in over his head, a nuisance more than a threat. Scatcherd’s death will be ruled an accident, you can count on that,” she said, now pacing back and forth in front of Bellows. “So, what would you like me to do?” he asked calmly, determined to maintain his composure.
Helga’s mind was churning. She concluded that Bellows might not be of much use to her as events intensified and, in fact, might be an impediment. He was an intelligent and clever man but was also indecisive and weak. Just like Augustus, she thought. If he got pressured by the police, the less he knew about her future maneuvering the better. She scoffed at her earlier notion that he could have had anything to do with Scatcherd’s death. If Bellows had the original photographs, he would have turned them over to her by now. Perhaps, Scatcherd’s death was accidental after all but the timing of it seemed too coincidental for her to feel secure. And if it was murder, Scatcherd’s accomplices had the photographs and decided to dispose of the “weak link”. Would Bellows be next? Whatever the case, Helga was certain that Bellows had seen the originals and for all she knew he had made a copy just as Scatcherd had done. If Siegfried were here, he would have said that Bellows wasn’t the blackmailing type and he certainly didn’t need the money with his frail aunt likely to croak soon. She could also hear Siegfried telling her that now was not the time to antagonize and alienate the archivist.
“Do nothing and say nothing, Addison, until you hear from me,” she finally said in her most soothing tone. She had stopped pacing and was standing in front of him, striving to look and sound benevolent. Bellows bit down on his lower lip and looked into the cold, unflinching eyes of Helga Dumont. He said nothing but did manage to nod in acknowledgement. At the front door, they shook hands and as he stepped outside, he could hear the pounding of her shoes on the floor as she walked away.
HELGA WENT TO the window in the sitting room and watched Bellows get into his car. Nothing had been found in the apartment of the writer but that meant nothing. If Scatcherd gave him the photographs, he could have stashed them almost anywhere. Maybe he gave them to the girl he took to the café and their meeting wasn’t about love-making after all. To be thorough, her apartment needed to be searched as well.
ADDISON BELLOWS WOULD have been revolted at the suggestion that he was a sycophant. Yes, he had behaved in a cowardly manner in front of that Amazonian bully more than once and his pride was wounded. He could not ignore these harsh emotions as he walked to his car. That German woman, a possible Nazi collaborator or sympathizer for all he knew, who had attached herself to a respectable Virginia family with impeccable lineage, now treating him, a blueblood himself, with derision. She had tried to soften her acerbic edge at the end by using his first name but all it did was rankle him. He had tolerated Helga’s banality and her arrogance because he despised Scatcherd and harbored amorous fantasies about her daughter but there was a limit to his tolerance.
Bellows thoughts went back to Scatcherd and the detective’s insinuation that his death might not be an accident. That question about the “little boy’s room” had annoyed him which was exactly the detective’s purpose, right? He saw that now. The truth was that he had stepped out for a few minutes right around the time that Scatcherd died. He would stick to his story and remind Viola Finch to back him up if either of them was asked again.
WHILE HELGA WAS browbeating Addison Bellows, a Belgian tourist checked into a bed & breakfast on the outskirts of Old Town. It was a cool, cloudless evening and he walked a short distance until he saw a telephone booth in the parking lot of a diner. He had memorized the number and dialed the private line of Helga Dumont.
“HAPPY HOUR” WAS over at Pudge McFadden’s when Det. Willoughby spit out his gum and walked into the bar. The casual imbibers were gone and the serious drinkers, the lonely-hearts and the prowlers, were all getting down to business.