The man had a point. “As you wish. Last week, you said you had the bill of sale for the cuckoo clock that is now hanging in Arthur Muir’s home. Might I be able to see it?”
“Of course.” Chapman opened a desk drawer, withdrew a sheet of paper from it, and handed it across to Titus.
It was indeed a bill of sale for a clock, and from the detailed description, it was the clock in dispute. Titus pulled a small notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote down the serial number that appeared on the invoice before handing it back to Chapman. “Are you sure the clock was stolen? Might not it have been sold instead?”
“And who would dare sell it without my knowledge?” Chapman’s nostrils flared with his heavy breathing.
Although hesitant to provoke further outrage, Titus still thought he must eliminate that possibility before conceding ownership of the cuckoo clock. “Might your wife have done so?”
His opponent’s black eyes hardened at the suggestion. He rang a bell sitting near the spike.
The butler entered the room immediately. “Yes, sir?”
“Please ask Mrs. Chapman to join us.”
“Very good, sir.”
They waited without speaking. A chattering noise erupted into the hostile silence, and Titus sought out its cause. A wooden pedestal topped by a glass dome stood not too far from the telephone connection. An opening at the base of the dome dispensed a strip of paper tape, which lengthened, accompanied by the continuing clatter, as he watched. It was almost as if the machine were sticking a tongue out at him. Knowing Chapman’s source of income, Titus soon figured it out. “You have your own ticker tape machine?”
The stock speculator laughed. “It’s a necessity. Prices change so rapidly, if I’m not able to respond to fluctuations in the market quickly, I’d soon lose my fortune.”
It reminded Titus of playing poker in Golden Chances, the gambling room at the Seaview Hotel, except the other players were at a distance and you couldn’t read their faces during the game before placing your bet.
“You called for me?” a woman’s voice said from the doorway.
Titus rose and turned to see a middle-aged woman, her black hair parted at the center and pulled back from her face, giving it a severe appearance. She was dressed all in black, even though, as far as he knew, she wasn’t in mourning.
“I did, Pauline. This is Mr. Titus Strong.” Chapman glanced in his direction. “Mr. Strong, my wife. I believe you had a question for her?”
Sweat beaded on his forehead, despite the coolness of the room. He’d thought Chapman would ask her himself. He quickly tried to formulate a polite way of phrasing his inquiry. “I was wondering if it might be possible that you sold a certain cuckoo clock without your husband being aware of it.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes darted to a spot on the wall opposite where she stood. Titus followed her gaze and noticed it bore the shape of a cuckoo clock, a darker silhouette against the sun-faded wallpaper. He turned back to Mrs. Chapman, who had recovered herself.
“I would never dream of doing such a thing without consulting my husband,” she avowed.
“As I would expect,” Chapman said. “Thank you, my dear.”
She fled from the room.
“So you see, Strong, the only explanation is that Muir—or his wife—stole the clock while we were in Boston.”
“In my experience,” Titus said as he tried to save the situation, “there is usually more than one interpretation for a set of circumstances. It’s just a matter of finding the correct one. Thank you for your time, Chapman.”
CHAPTER 9
The next morning, Elisabeth had barely started the coffee brewing when she heard a knock on the outer office door. Who in the world could be arriving so early? There was only one way to find out.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said a young man wearing a tweed sack suit when she opened the door. He carried a large leather satchel in one hand, and a wooden toolbox in the other. “I’m here to install your telephone.”
Already? “Come in, then.”
He looked around the office. “I’ll need to put in a wire to the outside.”
“In that case, you’ll probably want to do it in Mr. Strong’s office. As you can see, there’s little outside wall in this room.”
“Is that where you’d be wanting the telephone?”
She thought quickly, not having anticipated she’d have to choose a location for it. Titus would expect to use the instrument at his desk, but she also imagined he’d prefer she handle the actual connections for him, given his qualms about operating her typewriter. “Would it be possible to have two telephones? I’d like one on my desk and one on Mr. Strong’s.”
The man looked thoughtful for a minute, then said, “One number or two?”
“Number?” She truly felt out of her depth.
He smiled gently at her. “Each telephone is assigned a number that corresponds to a line entering the telephone office. When you make a call, you ask the operator to ring that number for you. She makes the connection and lets you know when the other party has answered.”
“Oh.”
“What I need to know is if you want both telephones to be engaged at the same time, meaning they’ll each need a line, or whether you’ll share a line between the telephones.”
“I think we could share a line.” In fact, since there were so few telephones in Whitby, she couldn’t imagine a time when both of them would need to be using theirs.
The installer nodded. “I imagine you’d want the ringer box out here.” Having discovered how little she knew about the instrument, he quickly added, “There’s a separate box that holds the workings of the connection inside and has two bells on top to tell you when someone is calling you.”
“If it’s here, would it be loud enough to be heard in Mr. Strong’s office?”
“It would be, especially if the door is open.”
“In that case, put it here. Then Mr. Strong can close his door if he’s with a client and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
She followed him as he strode into Titus’s office and located a spot along the outside wall where he could drill a hole. The smell of coffee reminded her to remove the pot from the parlor stove and pour herself a cup. She hoped Titus wouldn’t be early this morning, and that the man would finish his work in this room before he arrived.
She sat at her desk and decided she might as well make use of the free time and change her typewriter ribbon. By the time she finished that, the installer came out of Titus’s office.
“I’ll be right back. I have to run the wiring to the line leaving the building.”
“Good morning,” Titus said as he entered.
Was his voice a touch warmer today? “Good morning. The telephone installer has arrived.”
“So soon?”
“I imagine he has little to do right now. Those who live in Whitby year-round who need a telephone most likely have one installed already. Most of those who only come for the summer haven’t arrived yet.”
The telephone company man was whistling as he re-entered the office. He stopped abruptly when he saw Titus. “I’ll be out of your way in a jiffy, sir. I’ll just leave my ladder here for a minute while I finished up inside.”
The man was as good as his word, returning with a spool of wire, which he unwound as he backed out of the private office. “Just a little drilling to feed the wire through here, then I’ll mount the ringer box and connect the telephones.”
Titus turned toward her. “Telephones?”
“I thought we’d each need one. There’s no charge for the extra phone. The Bell Company only charges for the calls you make.”
“I’m not sure I’ll have need of one.”
She fought back a smile. As expected, her boss hoped she would handle all the telephoning the office needed. But she counted on changing his mind, knowing that he wouldn’t be comfortable standing at her
desk to talk to clients. “We’ll see what happens. Did you speak with Warren Chapman yesterday?”
“Let’s go into my office to discuss that.”
Once they were settled, he began. “It appears as if the clock that is now in Arthur Muir’s possession does indeed belong to Warren Chapman. Of course, I’ll have to match the serial number from the bill of sale to the one on the back of the cuckoo clock hanging on Muir’s wall, but the design is so distinct, I hold little hope of there being a difference.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to convince Mr. Muir to surrender the clock?”
Titus opened his mouth to speak, but for once, he found himself at a loss for words. He recovered quickly. “Muir agreed to that condition, and I can’t imagine him going back on his word. He’s a gentleman, after all.”
Elisabeth looked skeptical. “I think you underestimate the emotional significance of the cuckoo clock. Remember, it was his last gift from his wife. I wouldn’t be surprised if he changed his mind about keeping it.”
He considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “No, he’ll have his gentleman’s honor to protect. I’ll admit he won’t be happy about the situation, but I’m sure he’ll comply.” Titus sighed. “And I’ll be quit of the petty squabbles of the rich.”
“What about the yacht club papers?”
Titus grimaced. “I forgot about those.” He tapped his fingers on his desk as he considered the situation. Then, noticing that Elisabeth had, as always, brought her stenographer’s pad and a pencil with her, he said, “If I didn’t have to see the serial number myself, I’d send Mr. Muir a letter relaying my findings. In fact, I might just do that. I’ll include the serial number, and Muir can verify it for himself.”
“With a copy to Mr. Thornton?”
His gut twisted at the mention of his former father-in-law’s name.
“Isn’t that the real reason you don’t want to handle this matter in person? You’re trying to avoid any contact with your former law firm, aren’t you?”
Was he? He realized she was right. “I thought I was done with the upper class, and here I am getting drawn into their dealings all over again. The cost of that clock could feed a fisherman’s family for a year. I sympathize with Mr. Muir’s feelings about it, but I can just imagine Gideon Thornton having a good laugh about how the star criminal defense attorney has been reduced to quibbling over a cuckoo clock.”
“But Mr. Thornton is also, as you put it, quibbling over a cuckoo clock.”
“I expect he has other business to attend to, which I, at the present moment, do not.” He heaved another sigh. Fortunately, he was rescued from further debate about the matter by the telephone installer sticking his head in the office.
“I’m all done. Have you got a minute for me to show you how to make calls?”
Titus stared suspiciously at the instrument that had been left on his desk. Was Elisabeth smirking at him? The expression disappeared before she turned around to face the man from the telephone company.
“I’m sure we can spare you a minute,” she said.
The installer strode across the room and positioned himself near the telephone. “I’ve already checked the connection with central from your desk, Miss Wade, so I know the line is working.” The man looked at him and said, “Now, to initiate a telephone call, you just pick up the receiver from the switch hook.” He pointed to a cylinder hanging beside the black stalk that supported the mouthpiece. “That causes a signal to be sent to the telephone operator. She’ll ask for the number you want to call. Every telephone has its own number, you see, that corresponds to a plug on her switchboard. When you tell her the number, she’ll put the plug in the right spot.”
“What if I don’t know the number?” Titus asked.
“Easy enough.” He put a sheet of paper on the desk. It was a list of names and numbers, about fifteen in all. “If you misplace the paper, you can just tell her the name of the person you want to call. As you can see, there are few enough who have telephones at present for her to find the number for you. I imagine the list will be bigger in a few months.”
Titus nodded.
“Why don’t you try it?” the installer said.
Panic tightened his throat, and he swallowed hard in an attempt to loosen it. “Me?”
“Go ahead,” the man urged.
Elisabeth rescued him. “Why don’t I try it first? I believe most of the time Mr. Strong will want me to initiate the call. In case the party he wishes to speak to isn’t available. He’s much too busy to spend his time making connections.” She picked up the sheet of paper, then removed the receiver from the hook and held it to her ear.
Her face brightened, and she glanced down at the numbers, then recited one. The installer handed her the base of the phone and pointed at the mouthpiece. Her face turned red, and ungraciously, Titus was glad he’d let her make the first call. She held the base up close to her mouth and repeated the number. A moment later, she said, “Is this Mr. Muir’s residence?” A pause. “Will Mr. Muir be available tomorrow morning for Mr. Strong to call on him?” Another pause. “Good. I’ll tell him you’ll be expecting his visit.” She pulled the receiver away from her ear, then stopped, moved the mouthpiece closer again, and said, “Goodbye.”
A victorious smile spread over her face. “That wasn’t very hard.”
“You’ll soon not even think about what you’re doing when you make a call,” the installer agreed. He looked at Titus again, whether with disdain or pity Titus wasn’t sure, then said, “I’ll just get Tillie to check that the bells are ringing.” He called the operator and asked her to ring the office number. Within seconds of him replacing the receiver, a strident outburst of the bells made Titus jump. The installer picked up the telephone, put the receiver to his ear, and said, “All good here, Tillie.”
“Does it make that noise every time someone calls?” he asked.
The installer laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”
CHAPTER 10
Elisabeth was sitting at her desk when Titus returned from a quick meal at the nearby pub. Once again, she’d declined his invitation to lunch with him, claiming she had errands to run. He wondered if it might be time to consider replacing her. Not that he wanted to, but their strained relationship was making what had been a cordial, even joyful office environment extremely disagreeable. But how would he broach the subject? That would be as difficult to talk about as the other one. Maybe more so, since her work as a secretary was exemplary. And the only reason he was considering losing her office services was because he was sure he’d lost her affections with his careless remarks. At a loss as to what he could say without hurting her, he pretended things hadn’t changed, forced a smile to his lips, and greeted her.
“Good afternoon. How was your luncheon? Did you get all your errands done?”
“Yes, I did.” Her eyes briefly met his, then turned back to a stack of letters on her desk. She shuffled through them, pulled out a couple, and held them out toward him. “These were waiting at the post office for you.”
He glanced at the return address of the top one. It was from the New York Yacht Club. The second was from the Portland Yacht Club in Maine. For the first time in days, Titus felt genuinely happy. “Ah! With any luck, these will be copies of their charters. I’ll study them this afternoon and begin drawing up similar documents for the Whitby Yacht Club.”
Elisabeth tilted her head as her eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you going to dictate a letter to Mr. Muir?”
“I thought I’d wait a while on that. I’d like to have Owen’s report before relaying the bad news to our client. If I can tell him the clock was pawned, it would at least remove suspicion from his late wife.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line, and Titus could see she still didn’t believe his stated motive for putting off writing the letter. Neither did he, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He proceeded past her, sank into the chair behind his desk, and opened up the first envelope.
The lawyer had covered two pages of his notepad with excerpts from the set of documents that had been inside when a soft knock on his door interrupted him. He looked up from the paper and peered across the room. Blinking several times to refocus his eyes, he realized it wasn’t just eyestrain that made it hard to see. Outside his office window, the day was dimming as the sun sank beneath the horizon.
“What time is it?”
“Five o’clock,” Elisabeth said. “You should light the lamp on your desk if you want to save your eyesight.”
He glanced at the oil lamp and wondered if he should light the gaslights in the wall sconces instead.
“Owen’s here.” His secretary stepped aside to admit the detective.
Campbell entered, took one look at the gaslight nearest the door, then moved toward it and lifted the glass globe. Over six feet tall, he had no trouble adjusting the flow of gas and striking a match to light it. After replacing the glass, he marched over to the one on the other side of the room and lit that. Satisfied that there was enough illumination now, he took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Titus’s desk.
“I didn’t see lamplighter in your list of services,” Titus said wryly.
“We never sleep,” the former Pinkerton quoted, “but I’ve had a long day, and I’m just liable to start snoring without some light.”
“Do you want coffee?” Elisabeth asked in a concerned voice.
Out of habit, Campbell glanced at the parlor stove. The coffeepot wasn’t on it. “I’ll make do without. It’s not as if I have a lot to say.”
Titus’s heart sank. “I assume that means you had no luck with the pawnshops.”
“None at all.” The detective straightened in his chair. “I tried the Last Remains Pawn Shop here in Whitby first, hoping I’d get lucky, but as I predicted, he hadn’t ever seen a cuckoo clock, much less had one in his store.
“Then I took the ferry into Boston and inquired of every pawn shop I could find within two miles of the dock. No luck there, either. Several of them even paged through their receipt books for last summer and fall.” He shook his head.
The Case of the Troubled Tycoon: A Gilded Age Historical Cozy Mystery (Shipwreck Point Mysteries Book 5) Page 5
