“Is George Bedford here?” said Adams.
“He’s in the back of the store. You sure I can’t help you?”
Adams and Mike brushed past and headed toward the back of the store where an older white male was barking orders at two young blacks.
“God-damn it, I told you that I wanted the brown-striped sofa, not the green one. God-damn it.”
The older white male was dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt, open at the collar. He was a large man. His graying hair had not been cut in some time and was combed back over his head. His dark brown trousers hung under his well-developed stomach, which shook as he shouted at his workers.
The cuffs of his trousers dragged on the floor behind the scuffed brown wing tipped shoes he wore. In one hand he held a well worn clipboard, which strained under the weight of the papers clipped on to it. The papers themselves were dog-eared and stained. In his other hand he held a foul-smelling cigar, which he pointed as he emphasized his various commands.
The two young black men were dressed in clean forest green uniform shirts and trousers. Over the right pocket of the uniform shirts in white script was embroidered the name, “Catonsville Furniture and Bedding Company.” They had obviously been laboring under the tyrannical orders of the older man for some time.
“Mr. Bedford?” said Adams.
“God damn it, can’t you see that I’m busy.”
“Mr. Bedford, I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I would like to speak to you for a moment.” Adams showed Bedford his identification card and gold badge.
The two young blacks stared with great admiration at the unfolding events.
Bedford, who had turned to face Adams and Mike, swung around toward his two workers. “I don’t pay you two fuckers to sit and gawk. Get to work and get me that brown-striped sofa. God damn it!” As the two workers wheeled away the offending sofa, Bedford glared at Mike and Adams. “Is this about my truck? I told them feds all I knowed already.”
“Actually, we’re here to see if you could help us identify someone. By the way, this is Mike Liu with the Department of Defense.”
Bedford glanced angrily at Mike.
“Come on; hurry up with your question. I’m trying to run a god damn business here.”
Adams maintained his passive presence. “Did you know anyone by the name of Trent?”
“Sure, I had a salesman by that name, but he left here over two months ago. Do you think he took my truck?”
“Do you have any records on Mr. Trent?” said Mike.
“Just the usual stuff — address, stuff like that.”
“Where does he live?” said Adams.
“He lived in a boarding house near here. Mrs. Brentwood.”
“Where can we find Mrs. Brentwood?” said Adams.
“I think Mrs. Brentwood lives at the corner of Towson and Greenwood Streets.”
Adams glanced at Mike, who nodded.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Bedford,” said Adams.
As Adams and Mike left the store, they could hear Bedford screaming at his helpers.
“Sure sounds like a happy place to work,” said Mike.
“Yeah, real happy.” Adams’ jaw was set with a hard edge.
Adams and Mike got into Adams’ sedan and drove the short distance to Mrs. Brentwood’s boarding house on Towson Street.
Adams knocked on the red front door of the neatly kept white frame house in an older residential neighborhood that was fighting quickly encroaching commercial use.
In a minute, a small, slender, white-haired woman answered. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Adams. “I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Mike Liu of the Defense Intelligence Agency. Could we ask you some questions?”
“Do you have some identification?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry,” said Adams as he took out his FBI identification card and gold badge. Mike also took out his DOD identification card on which he was listed as Special Investigator, Defense Intelligence Agency.
After carefully examining the proffered cards, Mrs. Brentwood said, “Please come in. You just can’t be too sure these days, with the neighborhood deteriorating the way it is.” Mrs. Brentwood’s right hand fluttered toward the strip mall of one-story stores that encroached on the view from her front porch.
Adams and Mike entered the house and stepped into the tastefully decorated living room. The heavy curtain on the front window served to drown out the traffic noise from the busy commercial street. The pieces of furniture in the living room were period reproductions of Queen Anne and Chippendale furniture. In the corner sat a massive Chippendale wing chair. The white bricked fireplace was accented with a highly polished brass spark screen and andirons. The walls were covered with colonial period wallpaper in a large floral pattern. The fireplace tools were all heavy brass, probably from Colonial Williamsburg, thought Mike.
The quiet refinement of the Brentwood home contrasted sharply with the sprawling urban decay occurring just outside her white-enameled door.
Over the mantel hung a Gainsborough print in a heavy gilt frame. Various color photographs in gold metal frames sat on the mantle, detailing a rich and happy life with plenty of children and grandchildren. On one side of the mantle sat a larger black and white photograph of an attractive brunette woman in a long white wedding gown and a ramrod straight young Navy ensign in white summer dress uniform. From the cut of the wedding gown, Mike guessed that the photograph was probably taken in the forties. A finely crafted wooden model of a square-rigged sailing ship sat on a heavily varnished stand.
Mrs. Brentwood noticed Mike’s interest in the model ship. “My dear departed Clarence made that model.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been staring,” said Mike. “It’s quite nice. You sure don’t find that kind of craftsmanship anymore.”
“Clarence would have been happy to hear you say that, Mr. Liu. Clarence served in the Navy, you know.”
“Really, where?” said Mike.
“Mostly in the Pacific during World War Two. He commanded several destroyer escorts. Retired right after the war and went into the retailing business. He’s been gone more than ten years. Would you two like some tea?”
“Please don’t make a fuss over us,” said Mike.
“Oh, it’s no fuss. I seldom get two handsome gentlemen callers these days.”
Mrs. Brentwood came back and poured tea from a bone china tea pot into equally delicate bone china cups and saucers. Then she sat down demurely in the wing chair.
“Now, Mr. Adams. How can I help you?” she said in a soft voice, as her light gray-blue eyes focused on Adams.
“We’re investigating a matter that may involve one of your house guests, John Trent. Does he live here?”
“Why, yes. That nice Mr. Trent stays in Clarence’s old study, which I remodeled into a bedroom. After Clarence died, I felt like a marble rolling around in an empty box. The kids suggested that I take in boarders and I usually have two. A nice young lady lives upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms. Are you married, Mr. Liu?” inquired Mrs. Brentwood as she noticed Mike’s bare ring finger.
“No, I’m not, Mrs. Brentwood. Is Mr. Trent here?”
“That’s the funny thing. He left for work several days ago and hasn’t returned. He sometimes leaves for short trips. This is the first time he hasn’t let me know when he planned to return.”
“Can we see his room?”
“I suppose it’s okay, as long as you don’t touch anything.”
Except for the high quality furniture in the small room, the room was devoid of personality. There were no photographs, books, or other artifacts of human existence. The closet contained one suit, several shirts and two pants — but nothing else. The bed was neatly made, but both Mike and Adams assumed that the efficient Mrs. Brentwood had probably taken care of that. The room looked as if Trent were camping out.