WILLOUGHBY HAD NOT expected to get much useful information, if any, out of Nigel Longstaffe and agreed with Pudge’s assessment that Scatcherd and he were unlikely cohorts. The detective had to acknowledge that he was also going along with the theory Woody had espoused earlier, apparently without even knowing that the two dead men were neighbors. The kid’s got pretty damn good instincts, he said to himself. The clerk lived upstairs and probably trusted no one that he knew – or that knew him. So, he went to two complete strangers for assistance. Bellows was harassing Scatcherd and Woody had turned him down. Desperate or in a panic, he had most likely slid the envelope with the cryptic message under Longstaffe’s door.
Willoughby had struggled through a few years of Latin at St. Ignatius High but could hardly conjugate when he got done. Mercifully, his mother had not forced him to take a third year. He never got as far as Marcus Aurelius, but he did remember something about Romans drinking hemlock when death was closing in on them. Nigel Longstaffe had chosen wine and while it took longer, and with the cancer gaining on him, still got the job done.
On the way back to the saloon, Willoughby told Pudge about the envelope that Longstaffe had given Woody but provided no details.
WHEN THEY GOT back to the bar, Pudge told Woody that Longstaffe was dead. For them, it was sadness mixed with relief. Willoughby pulled the envelope from his pocket and everyone agreed that the Latin message on the envelope was in a hand-writing distinctive from Scatcherd. No one doubted that it had been added by Longstaffe before he brought the photographs to Woody.
“He rarely spoke English when he was here, Hank, almost always Latin quotes like this one. He got tired of me asking what they meant. Hold on,” Pudge said, as he retreated to his small cubicle next to the kitchen. He came back with a paperback entitled Famous Latin Quotes and started flipping through it when Woody stopped him and said, “It means beware the Ides of March.”
Pudge looked at Woody and said, “You’re the college boy, help us out here, kid.” Both men were now staring at him. “If I’m not mistaken, it refers to the warning to Julius Caesar to be on guard against his enemies just before he was murdered. The 15th day of the month is known as the Ides.” Nobody said a word. Everyone understood that Longstaffe’s warning was for Woody Meacham.
IT WAS NOW late afternoon and all three men were lolling about Pudge’s bar and not saying much. Death has a way of making thoughtful people go silent and contemplate their own mortality.
Willoughby still felt certain that Longstaffe had been unwittingly drawn into Scatcherd’s half-baked scheme to expose the Dumonts. But why warn Woody? Perhaps, he had a premonition that some undeserved evil would befall the young man just as it had him back at the private school where he had taught Latin for so many years. More likely, it came from the delirious imagination of a drunk who was addled by alcohol and couldn’t restrain his penchant for spouting ominous or dire Latin quotations. It went against all of Willoughby’s instincts as a detective, that a man approaching death would have an epiphany, and see things clearly that were unknowable to others. And yet he couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that the warning was significant. Woody’s apartment was tossed and Scatcherd was dead after his apartment had been searched. Bellows had now been caught in multiple lies and the unlikely chain of events continued with Longstaffe living just long enough to pass the damning Dumont photographs on to Woody. If Longstaffe had been suspected of being a co-conspirator, surely his apartment would have been thoroughly searched and the envelope almost certainly would have been found. So, if the bullseye was now on Woody Meacham, did that mean his life was in danger?
Shortly, Scatcherd’s death would be ruled an “accident” and Willoughby would be ordered to move on. He could hear his superiors now, telling him it wasn’t the Police Department’s job to expose a prominent local family to a scandal for events that may have transpired decades ago. And if all he had were a few break-ins, an accidental death and some old photographs, how could he argue with their insistence that precious department resources needed to be allocated elsewhere? Willoughby realized in that moment that he needed to work on the weakest link in his investigation before he ran out of time and was forced to throw in the towel.
WILLOUGHBY LEFT PUDGE McFadden’s after telling the Irishman to “keep an eye on the kid”. He might confront Bellows in the morning and show him the two photographs, or at least describe them, and gauge his reaction. If he told him that Scatcherd’s neighbor was dead, without describing the cause, it might rattle him and compel him to talk. He was determined not to give the photographs to the archivist unless he was directed to do so.
Willoughby had promised his wife and daughter that they would go out for a pasta dinner. Afterwards, they would ensconce themselves in front of the television where he would get some good-natured ribbing as the latest episode of “Cannon” aired. With his mind set on his course of action for the following morning, the detective headed home.
CHAPTER TWENTY:
Woody Hatches A Plan
AFTER WILLOUGHBY WENT home, Woody sat at the bar with the Polaroid photograph cupped in his hands, staring at the images in the side by side pictures. He didn’t know it but he was holding the twin of the one that Scatcherd had mailed to Helga Dumont along with the original threatening note. Pudge had a puzzled look on his face when he saw Woody, deep in thought, hunched forward on a bar stool. He tapped him on the shoulder and Woody jolted up, startled out of his ruminations. He turned on his stool to face Pudge who saw the photograph in his hand. “What the –” Pudge stammered. Woody grabbed Pudge’s arm before he could continue and motioned for him to quiet down. Two regulars looked up from their drinks, annoyed that they had been disturbed out of their reveries.
“I’ve got an idea, Pudge, so please hear me out. This Polaroid is just a copy of the originals so, yeah, I rationalized to myself that I didn’t withhold any evidence from Det. Willoughby. I may have a way to find out the history behind the original photographs and why Bellows but especially the Dumonts don’t want them exposed. If I’m right, it could even be useful to the detective.” Woody was flush with excitement and Pudge was drawn in. It was still an hour before the “Happy Hour” imbibers arrived so Pudge plopped down on the stool next to Woody and agreed to hear him out.
WAITING FOR WILLOUGHBY and Pudge to return from Longstaffe’s apartment, Woody remembered taking a course in German history at Thorndyke College and was highly impressed with his professor, one Carl Humboldt. If Humboldt was still there, he might be able to identify the soldier seen cozying up to Helga Dumont. Then, there was the question of marriage and birth records. Humboldt would undoubtedly know where in Berlin to search for them. Woody suggested to Pudge that he could call the school and ascertain if Humboldt still taught there. If so, and he were amenable, he would mail the Polaroid to the professor and ask him to analyze it.
“Hell no, lad. There’s no time to waste. If he agrees, ask him if his department has a fax machine. My lawyer, Bennett Carbury, has one and we can have that bloody photograph to him in a matter of minutes. Go ahead, now. Get on the blower. I’m paying for it. No time like the present.”