“You know who these people are?” Willoughby asked next, softening his tone and pointing to the photographs. “Some of them. If I hadn’t visited the library and written the Dumont article, they would have meant nothing to me. That’s Helga Dumont in both photographs, one with her husband wearing the American uniform and holding the baby. In the other picture, she is standing with what I assume is a German soldier, possibly an officer.”
“Okay, so the Dumont lady had a German boyfriend, no surprise there for an attractive fraulein, and then she apparently meets and marries an American soldier. They have a baby and return to the United States. That’s it? Your message said ‘urgent’.” Willoughby almost always played the sceptic and did so now, figuring it was the best way to get Woody to tell everything he knew and possibly offer some fresh insight. Feeling stymied and frustrated after his latest confrontation with Bellows, he was even open to conjecture.
Woody smiled. Suddenly he was enjoying himself. He spread out the newspaper on the bar so that Willoughby could see all the pictures of Barrington Dumont. Then, he took the photograph of Helga and the German soldier and laid it right next to the one of Barrington in his Air Force uniform. For added effect, Woody went back and forth with his index finger between the German soldier and Barrington until Willoughby smiled and said “Okay, I get it.” The German soldier and Barrington Dumont were roughly the same age when the photographs were taken approximately 30 years apart. The detective could not deny that the resemblance was remarkable.
An irrepressible grin formed under Willoughby’s bushy mustache. “Son of a bitch”, he exclaimed, saying each word slowly and adding a staccato punch to each of them. Woody was now energized and the words came tumbling out. “My guess is that Scatcherd came in here right before he died and wanted to give me the photographs in the hope that I would write a story exposing and shaming the Dumonts – and most likely ruining the son’s political career. When I turned him down, he gave the photographs to Longstaffe. That part puzzles me. I never saw these photographs until this afternoon. It sure makes Scatcherd’s accident seem like a bizarre coincidence. Could someone want these photographs bad enough to kill for them?”
Woody was hoping to get a reaction from Willoughby but the detective did not take the bait. “Do you know where this Longstaffe character lives?” Willoughby asked. “No, but Pudge does. The poor guy is on death’s door and Pudge checks in on him from time to time. He’s a regular at that stool over in the corner,” said Woody, pointing to Longstaffe’s unofficial, reserved seat.
Willoughby’s eyebrows arched and he craned his neck as if he was looking for someone. Woody caught on and said, “Pudge is over at City Hall but should be back soon if you want to wait.” Willoughby’s stomach was growling and he thought about the fried chicken he missed out on. He pointed to the kitchen and asked, “What did the Irishman make today?” “Beef stew. I think there’s some left,” said Woody, turning toward the kitchen and looking back for a signal from Willoughby who just grimaced and shooed him along.
ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES later, Pudge walked into his saloon grumbling about “gombeens and poxbottles.” He shook the document in his hand violently as if he wanted to punish it. “Three hours to get a simple license renewal and those cabbages treated me like a criminal. I’ll bet I could negotiate a deal with the Viet Cong to end the war faster than that,” he stormed, to no one in particular. When Pudge was irate, he piled on the Irish insults. While Willoughby usually found it amusing and might even egg the Irishman on at another time, he finally had a solid lead to follow and refused to be distracted.
Willoughby decided it might be best to lighten the atmosphere and said, “Nice batch of stew, Pudge. Hey, I need to talk to you about one of your regulars, a guy named Longstaffe.” Hearing the culinary compliment helped but Pudge couldn’t stop cursing those “sorry bastards” at City Hall. Willoughby repeated his request but Pudge was still fuming and said nothing. “It’s a long story, Pudge. Give me Longstaffe’s address and I will fill you in after I speak to him. As much as I can, that is,” Willoughby said.
“I’d better take you there myself, Hank. I was planning to go over there tonight but I might as well check on him now. He left here earlier than usual today, which is not like him at all. He’s more apt to talk to you if I’m there to make the introduction and provide some encouragement. Besides, it will do me good to walk off my frustration,” said Pudge, shaking his head in disgust.
AS THEY APPROACHED Longstaffe’s apartment building, Willoughby stopped abruptly and grabbed Pudge’s arm. “Do you know if Longstaffe had a relationship with Leonard Scatcherd?” he asked. “Can’t imagine that, Hank. Longstaffe’s a highly-educated man from England. Plus, he’s a loner. I was shocked when he took me into his confidence. Hell, I badgered him about his health until he gave me a key so I could periodically check in on him. Advanced stage of esophageal cancer. No hope, so he decided to drink himself to death. But why would you bring up a possible connection to Scatcherd anyway?” Pudge asked.
Willoughby had an occasional flare for the dramatic and would wait to answer Pudge until after they got into the lobby of the building. Willoughby saw that Scatcherd’s name had already been removed from the mailbox. Cecil Lawrie didn’t waste any time, he said to himself, adding to his ill humor toward the landlord. He pointed to Scatcherd’s mailbox and said, “When I was here earlier, Scatcherd’s name was still over this box. His apartment is – or was – directly above Longstaffe’s.” Pudge scratched his head and said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Pudge knocked on Longstaffe’s door but there was no response. He called out his name, hesitated and then tried again. “Nigel, it’s me, Pudge”, the Irishman said with his face close to the door. After a few seconds of silence, Willoughby turned to Pudge and asked, “You have your key, right? I don’t want to go back to the landlord unless it’s necessary.”
Pudge slowly turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The shades were drawn and the only light was from an antique floor lamp with a built-in circular tray, positioned next to an old high-back chair with rounded arms. Upon entering the room, the two men could only see the bottom half of Longstaffe’s body. Pudge noticed a half-finished drink on the tray and softly called out Longstaffe’s name. Then, he saw the book on Longstaffe’s lap and smiled. “Dozed off reading” he whispered to Willoughby, relieved that the dying man was getting some temporary reprieve from his daily torment.
When they stepped in front of the chair. Pudge was still smiling and was going to suggest that they leave the man undisturbed and come back later. Willoughby was less sanguine. He put two fingers to Longstaffe’s neck and said, “It’s probably too late but call an ambulance.” Pudge stood frozen and Willoughby said, more urgently, “C’mon, hurry!”
Nigel Longstaffe had a peaceful, almost beatific look on his face. Whatever anguish, physical or mental, that he had been experiencing had ceased. Perhaps, it was because he had been reading the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in the original Latin the moment he died.