“Bellows?” Helga asked next. “It’s possible, but then does he have the guts to do it?” Siegfried inquired. “No,” Helga said emphatically. “Okay, so let’s put aside all the conspiracy theories and focus on the task at hand. If emotions get in the way, we will not be successful. You asked for my help and I am here. Are you with me, Helga?” Siegfried asked soothingly.
Siegfried’s voice was mellow and measured and Helga knew it was futile to challenge him. When they hung up, she felt better. Siegfried confided that he would search Bellows’ apartment and stop by Pudge McFadden’s to engage Meacham in conversation if that would make Helga feel better. In the meantime, she was cautioned to remain calm and to give Bellows a chance to explain himself. If he reached out to her right away and provided details of the meeting with Meacham at the diner, then he was assuredly still in their camp. If not, there might be cause for concern. In either case, she was to call Bellows and invite him to the house that evening.
BELLOWS SMILED WEAKLY when he saw Det. Willoughby sitting behind the door. His head was still swimming from the meeting with Woody Meacham and he was anxious to speak with Helga Dumont. Reluctantly, he pointed to his office and as they walked in, Willoughby said, “Perhaps you could send your assistant to the cafeteria for coffee?” Viola Finch was standing in the doorway, looking stern. Unfazed and not waiting for an answer, Willoughby said cheerily, “Black for me, young lady.”
Despite his discomfiture, Bellows couldn’t help laughing. “The usual for me, Miss Finch. Thank you.” To Viola, Willoughby was a predator threatening her nest. She wanted to resist but instead fluttered her arms and hurried away. She would be gone no longer than necessary.
“I just don’t get it,” Willoughby said, stroking his chin. “We’re wrapping up the investigation on Scatcherd and his death will be officially classified as accidental. And yet, I keep seeing that wretched soul laying on his back looking up the stairwell. Are you sure he didn’t have any other enemies here – besides yourself, that is? Of course, you have a solid alibi for the time of his death so there’s no question there.”
“I wasn’t his enemy, detective. I hardly knew him but if you ask around, you will learn that it didn’t take long to dislike him. He was a low-life creature, a cretin if you will. And don’t forget, he purloined classified government documents,” Bellows said calmly, before changing his tone and adding, “But why are you here, detective? Is there anything else? We are in the process of moving a considerable number of sensitive government files to another facility. We are all rather busy.”
“Right. Of course, someone might suggest you’ve been rather sloppy with what you admit are some highly classified files, letting some clerk carry them around, unsealed and all. Cretin and purloined, I like that Mr. Bellows. Well, hopefully those missing documents will turn up before the move, heh?”
As Willoughby was talking, Bellows was bent over, unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk. When he sat up, he dropped a set keys on his desk. If he had heard Willoughby’s not so veiled insult, he didn’t show it. Willoughby looked at the keys and had an epiphany, prompting him to change his strategy on the fly.
“Oh, I almost forgot why I stopped by. I am going along with your story that Scatcherd gave you his key to search his apartment and that you found nothing there pertinent to this investigation. He’s dead now so what does it matter, right?” When Willoughby finished, he saw Viola Finch standing in the doorway. She had floated in without a sound and he wasn’t sure how much she had overheard.
Willoughby stood up and lifted the coffee from Viola’s hand as he walked past her. “Much obliged, young lady,” he said to the back of her head.
VIOLA FINCH SMILED tentatively at her boss, hoping for some sign of appreciation, if not affection. Bellows hardly noticed, once again pre-occupied with thoughts of Woody Meacham and his own eagerness to speak to Helga Dumont. All he wanted now was privacy.
The telephone rang in the outer office and Viola rushed out to answer it while Bellows stood in the doorway. He heard her say “Yes sir, Mr. Armbruster, I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone and turned to Bellows. “He said for you to drop whatever you’re doing and come down to his office now. I hope it has nothing to do with Scatcherd or that detective,” she said plaintively.
Bellows shrugged. Everything was urgent with Armbruster. He was the consummate bureaucrat who lived for protocol. Damn it, the call to Helga Dumont will have to wait, he said to himself.
WOODY WAS QUIET all morning while setting up the bar and it didn’t go unnoticed by Pudge. “Anything bothering you, kid, that you want to talk about?” he asked. Woody shook his head and said, “Yeah, Pudge, but not right now.” Pudge wasn’t the sort to press anyone unless it was urgent. He felt certain that Woody would open up before long. He knew they needed to come clean with Willoughby regarding the Polaroid facsimile sent to Prof. Humboldt. Without thinking, Pudge had acted brashly and gone out on a limb for Woody. He hoped it would not ruin his friendship with the detective.
WILLOUGHBY LEFT BELLOWS’ office and walked up the stairwell where Scatcherd had fallen to his death. He went down the long hallway to the clerical section. Bellows was truthful about one thing – sealed boxes were everywhere in anticipation of the move. Willoughby stood by the coat rack in the hallway. There was a long row of hooks and all but a few were occupied.
Before leaving the Torpedo Factory, Willoughby stopped by the security chief’s office. He told Snavely about the official ruling on Scatcherd’s death and, after some small talk, Willoughby asked if there was a locksmith within walking distance of the Torpedo Factory.
“There’s a little shop called Lock & Load, if you can believe it. Clever name, eh? Run by an ex-navy guy by the name of Jasper Pendleton. Over on South Union, just south of King. What’s up, Hank?”
Oh, just a crazy hunch. Probably nothing. Thanks,” Willoughby said as he walked away.
WHEN WILLOUGHBY WALKED into the Lock & Load, a bell rang over the door and a short, wiry man with close-cropped salt and pepper hair emerged from the back room. Willoughby flashed his badge and Pendleton tensed up. “Anything wrong, detective?”
“Nothing at all but I’m hoping that you can help me out. Snavely at the Torpedo Factory sent me over. Do you by chance have a key-making machine?”
Pendleton laughed derisively and said, “Yeah, and I’d like to get my hands on the salesman who convinced me to buy it. Boy, was he slick. He’s the kind of guy that could coax a pack of hungry dogs off a meat wagon.”
“Not a lot of customers, I gather?” Willoughby said, trying to sound sympathetic but quickly realizing that the paucity of customers requesting duplicate keys would make his inquiry more productive. He described Bellows and Pendleton bit his lip and shook his head no.
“How about a girl, maybe so tall?” Willoughby asked next, leveling his arm about 5’ from the ground. Pendleton grinned broadly. “Damn, you got ESP or something? She was my last customer, for the key machine, that is. Perky little number. In a big hurry, said she had to get back to work. Yeah, now that I think about it, she was kind of agitated.”
As Willoughby was leaving, Pendleton stopped him and asked, “Hey, did anyone ever tell you –?” He was interrupted by Willoughby saying, “Yeah, he’s my twin brother. We flipped a coin and he got to play the detective on television.” Willoughby kept walking, leaving the shop owner scratching his head.