Woody racked his brain for the rest of the ride, trying to conjure up the name of Scatcherd’s nemesis who he, by proxy, also despised. As he pulled into the alley behind his apartment, Woody slapped the steering wheel when the name Bellows popped into his head.
There were three Bellows in the local telephone book, two of which were female. Before he dialed the number for an A. Bellows, he had decided exactly what he would say.
“Who is this?” Bellows demanded when he heard Woody’s voice asking him to identify himself as the individual who worked at the Torpedo Factory.
Woody took his evasion as confirmation and said, “I know who has the originals of the Dumont photographs and can get them for you. That’s all you need to know about me for the present. Meet me at the diner just north of the Torpedo Factory at 8:00 tomorrow morning. This is your one and only chance to recover the photographs.”
“What do you want in return? Name your price.” Bellows’ tone was now soft and accommodating. If there was going to be a negotiation, he didn’t want to throw away the opportunity to once more be of service to Helga Dumont.
“You’ll find out in the morning, Mr. Bellows. I’ll be sitting at the counter wearing a navy-blue baseball cap with a red B. I repeat, this is your only chance – don’t blow it.” Woody quickly hung up the phone before Bellows could respond. The archivist thought Meacham would be extorting money, just as he had guessed wrong about the motives of Leonard Scatcherd. For Woody, it was all about Nellie Birdsong and redemption.
ADDISON BELLOWS HAD been sitting up in bed during the conversation with Woody but slid down after he realized that he was holding a dead phone. It was not too late to call Helga but he decided to wait. Of course, he would be at the diner. If he could negotiate the return of the original photographs – plus any copies – the Dumonts would be indebted to him for life. It might even, with encouragement from the mother, convince a certain lovely debutante to look favorably on him.
WILLOUGHBY ALMOST GOT past his lieutenant’s door the next morning before he heard the roar of “Cannon” and was forced to stop. Lt. “Bud” Thorne, former Marine drill sergeant and inveterate blowhard, liked to ride Willoughby with allusions to the TV detective whenever he had the opportunity. Willoughby stood silently at the door and watched Thorne’s malicious grin turned into a frown when he observed the annoyed look on the detective’s face. “Damn good episode last night. Did you watch it? I don’t know how that guy moves so well. Has to be pushing 250–275 easily,” he laughed, his own potbelly hidden behind the desk. Willoughby nodded slightly but otherwise remained stone-faced, causing Thorne to frown again.
“Did you find a relative to claim Scatcherd’s body or are we going to be stuck with the cost? The Chief wants to know. It would be a shame to stiff the taxpayers.” Thorne was now posing as the dutiful public servant, concerned about saving money for the town and when Willoughby looked skeptical, he realized how foolish he sounded.
“No luck so far, boss, but I’m working on it. I heard he might have a cousin in Sheboygan Falls but we’d have to ship the body there at our expense. Should I pursue it?” “Hell no,” barked Thorne. “That’d be more expensive than if we handled it ourselves. Damn it, Willoughby, can’t you find someone local?”
Willoughby shrugged and Thorne busied himself rearranging some folders on his desk. He didn’t even ask where Sheboygan Falls was and Willoughby didn’t offer that it was in Wisconsin. It didn’t matter, though. If Scatcherd had any relatives in Wisconsin or elsewhere, Willoughby wasn’t going to chase them down at the behest of Lt. Thorne.
Willoughby was still bothered by the ruling of the medical examiner’s office on Scatcherd’s “accidental” death and the pressuring phone call Caldigate had received from someone in Richmond. He lingered at Thorne’s door until the lieutenant looked up and said, “Now listen, Willoughby, I want a final report on the Scatcherd investigation on my desk by tomorrow – relative or not. We’ve got more important cases to pursue. The Chief is pressing for some arrests on the check-kiting ring working the area. Rumor is that Bargani is pulling the strings. We need some notches on our belt.” Thorne drew in his stomach and grabbed his belt with both hands to show the detective he meant business.
Thorne was referring to Moe “The Nose” Bargani, a Miami mobster who used his supper club as a front for various illicit enterprises. The feds were still trying to nail him for his role in a con involving old German war bonds back in 1957 but he continued to elude them.
Thorne frequently invoked the Chief’s name or fell back on the cowboy analogy – sometimes both – when he felt stymied. Everyone knew he was feckless and it was just his cowardly way of making a demand. A middle-aged man who wasn’t a major league baseball player still calling himself “Bud”, with a thinning flat top left over from the 50s, starched into an upright position so you could see right through to the scalp. Every little thing about the man made it difficult to take the lieutenant seriously.
Willoughby had concluded some time ago that Thorne was never obtuse; that would be giving him too much credit. Rather, he was vacuous, an empty vessel available to be filled with whatever theory or opinion came down from a captain, commander, chief or other potentate. It usually depended on whom he had talked to most recently.
He looked at Thorne and tried to imagine him as a stalwart, steely young Marine but he could not conjure up the image. He was now a shell of that young man. When his body went soft, his head had been filled with porridge at the same time, turning him into a groveling, bootlicking sycophant who believed that the chain of command wasn’t just the cardinal rule but the only rule. If anyone could worm his way up the ranks, “Bud” Thorne had proven that it was possible. Willoughby was no picture of health himself. He had never been the Ron Ely-type who could swing from trees in the Tarzan movies but he did pride himself in being his own man. Around the station, it was a reputation which he had earned.
“Anything else, Sheriff?” Willoughby asked sardonically, trying to remember if Thorne had put any notches on his belt in his long career. Thorne had a pained expression on his face, trying to think of a comeback, when his face brightened and he almost looked joyful. “Yeah, there’s a VD epidemic in town, according to the health department. A team is being assembled to go around to the schools to warn the kids about the dangers of gonorrhea. They want a cop to accompany each nurse. I could get you assigned.” Thorne waited for Willoughby to plead for mercy but the detective gave him no satisfaction. After a brief stare down, the lieutenant caved and barked in exasperation. “Get the hell out of here, Willoughby, I have work to do.”
As he walked away from his vainglorious boss, Willoughby was more determined than ever to continue looking into Scatcherd’s death, starting with another visit to Addison Bellows and one last stop at the medical examiner’s office. He had planned, albeit reluctantly, to turn in the Dumont photographs that morning and explain how they had come into his possession. But now, he was so disgusted with Thorne that he decided to hold out a bit longer.
WOODY WAS SITTING at the counter sipping coffee when someone sat down two seats away. Bellows recognized the baseball cap and motioned Woody over to a booth by the window.
Woody looked Bellows over and wondered who this dandy was sitting across from him. Tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, button-down blue shirt garnished with a brightly-colored bowtie, blonde hair neatly coifed and fluffed up. Woody was tempted to ask him what kind of spray he used and how long it took him to primp in the morning. Bellows appeared soft and effeminate, reminding Woody of a few of the teaching assistants and assistant professors back at Thorndyke College who had never set foot outside the cloistered world of academia. He was determined to dislike everything about Scatcherd’s antagonist.