by Dion Baia
“Dames,” Walter said, still shaking off what had just occurred.
“Well, you only got me for like another hour, then I have to relieve Dolores downstairs on the switchboard. Believe it or not, Walt, I do have a day job.” Tatum placed a hand on her hip. “I’m an independent woman who makes her own living so she can pursue her dreams at night.”
“I know, I know. Good for you, sister.” Walt turned up the volume on the Zenith and headed toward his desk. “Just let me know if anyone shows up for the secretary position.”
“I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes and turned to leave.
“We’re just getting information in regarding an amazing, puzzling feat perpetrated late last night at the Empire State Building.” The announcer almost shouted out his copy as he read the news. “Reports are still unclear about what exactly happened, but three to four men reportedly parachuted off the building in complete darkness, apparently to safety but leaving the police stumped. We’ll bring more to you as details come in.”
“See, those are the jobs I will take.”
The phone rang and Tatum headed back to the desk in the waiting room to answer it.
Walter sat down at his desk. Tatum’s head popped sideways back into view around the doorframe. “Hey, sunshine! You got Roland on the line.”
Walter nodded in thanks. He picked up the extension on his desk and held it to his ear, putting a finger to his other ear to cut out the loud volume of the Zenith. “Roland and Morris.”
Morris’s partner, Jacob Roland, stood in a phone booth in Grand Central Terminal. It was quite busy for the time of day there, and the cavernous space filled with marble and stone was loud with the sounds of daily commuters, sightseers, merrymakers, and troops coming and going. High up above, the reverse Scorpio chart on the ceiling was barely visible due to all the cigarette and cigar smoke that lingered over everyone, and the twinkling lights of the mural’s lit stars gave a dreamlike quality to the whole scene, as if the stale smoke were passing clouds in a sort of night sky.
Jacob Roland was British of origin, in his late forties, with black hair and light blue eyes. He wasn’t as svelte as Walter, but he definitely wasn’t out of shape either. He covered his exposed ear from the room so he could hear. “Walt, it’s Jacob.”
Walter smiled, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet up on his desk. “Ah, Mister Roland, how is the fruitful marital end of our business doing? I hardly see you in the office. You’re cheating on me, aren’t you?”
Jacob grinned. “I’m sorry, darling, but work calls. My end of the company is doing great. Who knew all these people were unhappy with their lives? And what about you? How’s the hunt for a secretary going? I see you’ve enlisted the building switch operator to help us.”
Walter looked toward the outer office. “I did indeed. Tatum was kind enough to give up her morning to help us. She’s a very busy woman, she tells me, of independent means. But remember, everyone must do their part for the war effort. Isn’t that right, Tatum?”
Outside in the waiting room, Tatum’s head twitched when she heard her name spoken on the call. She removed the receiver from her ear and quietly set it back down onto the cradle.
Once it was done, she yelled so he could hear in the other room. “What? What’s that you say?”
“Well, that’s super,” Roland said. “Listen, I’m not going to make it back tonight. I’ve got this heel who’s catching the 3:30 p.m. to New Haven and I need to tag along.”
“I was just talking to a very outspoken young lady about travels to Pleasure Island in Connecticut.”
“Divorce work, eh?” Roland turned to keep an eye on his mark who was in line to buy a ticket at the windows on the other side of the terminal.
Walter tried to make his answer sound as innocent as possible. “Nope.”
“When are you gonna learn that’s where the money is?” Jacob craned his neck to see around the large brand-new M26 Pershing tank that was on display there, so he could still see the husband he was tailing.
“So is the undertaker racket, but you don’t see me running to do that,” Walter was quick to point out.
“I see your humor hasn’t been affected. It’s an interesting dilemma you impose on yourself because what if Negro clientele come to you needing help with a martial issue?”
Walter looked up at the ceiling to think. He fancied another drink. “I guess I’d have to go on a case-by-case basis.”
That made Jacob laugh. “You have an answer for everything. Well listen, number one son, stick around there until about 6:00 p.m., okay? Maybe we’ll get a girl answering the ad. Lord, I can’t wait to not have to write my own reports up. Anyway, I must go, my boy’s on the move. I’ll call if anything changes.”
Walter swung his legs down and looked for his glass. “Roger that, will do. I shall wave to you when you pass one twenty-fifth.” Walter heard Jacob’s chuckle as he hung up the phone, which made him laugh too. He looked around then got up and walked over to Roland’s desk. He retrieved a bottle of Jameson out of the bottom drawer and found an empty glass by the small sink in the corner of the room. He poured himself a large drink and walked over to view the world from his window, looking south over 125th Street.
“Here’s to the war effort….” Walter threw back his head and the spicy liquid made its way down into his stomach. He hadn’t noticed during his conversation with his partner that Tatum had closed his inner office door. There was a loud knock, and she opened it and stuck her head in.
“Someone here to see you, um, boss.”
“Secretary position?”
She shook her head. “Business.”
He paused. “Okay, give me a moment then send them in.”
She shut the door and Walter gave his office a once-over.
He quickly fixed his tie, put his jacket on, made sure his straightened hair was properly combed back, and checked his cuff links.
A very proper and dignified-looking gentleman stepped through the door a moment later. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, was dressed in a fancy tailored black suit, and carried a cane which had a gargoyle face on its head. He wore a bowler hat, which he took off as he entered the room.
“Um…hello. I am looking for Mister Jacob Roland,” the man inquired in a very learned English accent.
Walter recognized this since his partner was from the south of England. From the inflection on this fellow’s words, one could infer he was from the northern region of England, perhaps Lancashire, or even higher than that. Hell, Walter felt lucky he could even discern the various accents in the first place. Pretty good for an uneducated New Yorker playing the role of Sherlock Holmes.
Walt bowed. “Mister Walter Morris, Esquire, at your service,” he said, trying to inject some humor into the situation.
“Ah, just the man I wanted to see.”
“Something I can do for you?” Walter asked with a grin.
“My name is Garland Crane. I represent a particular party that would like to engage your agency’s services.”
“An envoy?”
Crane’s thin lips formed a pleasant smile, “My employer wishes to remain discreet. I have been asked to be a middleman in the primary stages and, after you have been properly satisfied, take you to him.”
“I see.” Walter offered the man a cigarette before lighting his own. “Well, Mister Crane, if your employer wishes to retain our services, it’s twenty-five dollars a week, plus expenses.”
“Oh, my employer was thinking along the lines of fifty dollars per week, plus expenses.”
Walter frowned and pointed a finger. “Now see, that’s the kind of thing that gets a person asking questions. What would someone be getting themselves into for fifty dollars a week?”
Crane paused but decided to answer honestly. “A person has gone missing north of One Hundred Tenth Street, and we’d like to fi
nd them as soon as possible. We were looking for you specifically, Mister Morris, because of your…,” Crane gestured with his hat at Walter’s appearance, “…experience with the area. Does that pique any interest?”
Walt took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled. “A missing person in our own backyard here in Harlem? Okay, turn the record over, let’s hear the other side. Who do you work for, Mister Crane?”
Crane exhaled and said it slow for effect. “Mister Cuthbert Hayden. Esquire.”
With that, Walter was speechless.
Minutes later Morris was shutting his inner office door and following Crane out. Tatum was seated behind the secretary’s desk, doing her best to look the part.
“Got work,” he said.
Tatum nodded and whispered, “Looks important and expensive.” He moved his head away and she winked. “I’m gonna cut out soon because Dolores refuses to work after dark with that New York Ripper lurking about.”
“You can tell her she doesn’t need to worry. The killer so far is only targeting blondes.”
“I think she may be a natural blonde,” she said then pulled her head back and raised a brow.
Walter matched it with a lift of his own eyebrow. “I’ll come by the switchboard later then to see if the carpet matches the drapes.”
Tatum didn’t have a comeback for that.
Chapter 4
CUTHBERT HAYDEN
Walter stared out the back window of the 1942 Cadillac Series 75 limousine as they traveled along the West Side Elevated Highway, heading north. Technically the Caddy was the latest model because it was manufactured the last year cars rolled out before all of Detroit’s plants converted over for war production, and Walter expected nothing less with the money Cuthbert Hayden possessed.
Crane sat in the seat facing him with both hands on the cane that was between his legs, staring at the detective while another employee drove them out of the city.
Walt looked down at the gargoyle on the cane’s head that Crane twiddled within his hands and broke the silence. “Your boss anything like he’s made out to be in the papers, Mister Crane?”
The Englishman smirked dismissively and shook his head. “You know how the tabloids like to single people out. You’d be pleasantly surprised. Since his accident, he’s become quite the ambassador of goodwill, despite what those papers like to say about him.”
Walter looked back out to the Hudson at an aging tugboat pushing a barge filled with ice from upstate down river toward lower Manhattan. “The press doesn’t hinder his business success any, eh? Didn’t his company just test a helio-copter with a Russian up in Connecticut?”
Crane smiled, genuinely impressed. “Yes, Igor Sikorsky. You surprise me, Mister Morris. For a regular Joe, you seem to possess your fair share of knowledge.”
Walter looked back at Crane and smirked. “In my profession, a good amount of waiting is passed by reading. You read, don’t you, Mister Crane?”
“Oh, of course, that’s how we learned your father was a Pullman porter for the New York Central, as was his father before him.” His smile faded and his face became serious. “What I am curious about, Mister Morris, if I may be so bold, is why you did not follow in their footsteps and right now be carrying some socialite like Mister Hayden’s luggage on the Twentieth Century Limited or the Broadway Limited or, for that matter, stayed in the boiler room of the RMS Olympic, the last of the Olympic-class fleet, instead of setting your sights on a career as a gumshoe?” Crane looked intently at Walter. “And I mean no disrespect.”
Walter smiled matter-of-factly with a look of understanding. “Of course, of course.” He turned away from Crane and glanced out the window to the ice barge. “Divine intervention, so to speak. I mean, who wants to wait on someone their entire life, you know what I mean, Mister Crane?” Walter flashed a polite smile at Crane.
The large Cadillac limo crossed the Harlem River, leaving Manhattan Island, entering the Bronx and Riverdale, then headed up into Westchester County. The brick and mortar of the city was gradually replaced by the wood and stone of suburban homes, and before long, that gave way to trees and forests surrounding the curvy parkway. Walter didn’t make it up into Westchester much, especially to the beautiful, rich, and wooded areas. Going to Yonkers didn’t count.
It was twilight when they took the exit off the parkway outside of Sleepy Hollow, thirty minutes north of the city. They turned onto a secluded country road, shielded by trees on either side. Separating that from the motorway were two-foot-high rock walls that looked to be centuries old. They mimicked the hilly terrain and appeared to go on forever. At first there were long stretches of clear land which every so often had a large mansion situated upon it, far back from the main road, surrounded by expanses of green grass, accessible only by gated driveways. The acres of land were abutted by long rows of trees of different sizes. Soon the open areas ended, and they were surrounded by a thick forest. Occasionally they’d pass a gate to a private driveway, which led up to an estate deep within, well hidden from the casual passerby. If you had the money to afford the homes around here, you were paying for the view and the seclusion.
After a couple of minutes they decelerated and turned into an impressive driveway flanked by a high stone wall shooting out in either direction from a stone gate. The lanterns that hung from either side of the large stone pillars beside the gate were shining bright as if visitors were expected. The limo stopped at the enclosed guard booth in front of a tall, closed silver gate. A plaque on the stone wall read HAYDEN MANOR. A guard opened the gate, and the limo disappeared into the small forest that obscured the Hayden estate from the road.
Across but down the street slightly from the gate, yet still in a position to have a good view of the driveway to see the vehicles that came and went, a black Packard was parked in the opposite direction along the tree line. Night was setting in fast, and dusk helped the flat black sedan blend into the darkening forest. A man sat hidden in the shadows behind the wheel, watching. Only the cherry on his cigarette gave away that someone was there when he brought it to his mouth and inhaled.
A delivery van came around the bend, a party rental company, and as it passed by, a strip of light from its headlights illuminated the top of the man’s face in the driver’s seat, highlighting his eyes. It was the ringleader of the Empire State Building robbery, who had one clouded pupil. Their intensity held a far-removed coldness for the world and its idle pleasures. They were eyes that had been conditioned by the horrors and atrocities of man, by the tragedy and darkness mankind was capable of. Some never came back after the evils they had seen and were never the same way again. “Shellshock” some called it. Then there are those who were perfectly comfortable with the darkness and horror, who even invited it in. People who enjoyed it. People like him.
They’d been driving for so long on this private road that Walter almost forgot it was only a driveway to this man’s house. They continued up the windy lane toward the top of a hill.
“This must be hell to shovel in the winter, huh?” Walter remarked. Crane politely smiled.
Headlights appeared at the top of the driveway as another limo drove past them heading back down. Their vehicle slowed down as the woods ended, opening up and revealing another elegant, colossal, art-deco bronze gate that was already turning green from age, completely enclosing the vast green lawns that surrounded the house. Once they passed through the threshold at the summit, the large mansion came into view.
The house was enormous. Gothic and Victorian styles collided with a neoclassical structure, and it was covered in vines and brush. Where right angles of traditional corners would usually be on the building, instead were impressive and bold Corinthian columns framing out the structure. It was four stories, rising up in the center with a watchtower or turret at the very top reaching toward the sky. Each wing of the home stretched out in opposite directions like wide shoulders, resembling British Parl
iament under Big Ben more than it did a comfortable and inviting home.
A banquet was in progress. Other limos and touring cars lined up to drop off guests on a red carpet at the entrance. The mansion’s walls, surrounding shrubbery, and the edges of the tree line were all covered in strings of white fairy lights, giving the entire vista the feel of a soft-focused, ghostly dream.
Their car pulled past the other vehicles and stopped ahead of the entrance. A valet ran up and opened the Cadillac’s rear door for Walter and Crane to step out. “Maurice, please have her gassed up,” said Crane. “I’ll be needing her again shortly. Follow me, Mister Morris.”
Walter followed Crane along the red carpet as they politely sidestepped the guests that were exiting their vehicles. He accompanied him inside and even in his three-piece suit, Walter felt very underdressed stepping into a large, formal dinner party.
The first room they entered after walking through the front door, where typically may have been a foyer or vestibule, Hayden instead had a massive front hall the size of a train station. Three stories high, the room was as long as the house itself was wide, the entire space lit only by candlelight. Chandeliers and immense candelabras with long, thick, white candles were everywhere. The intimate illumination of the flickering candles made Walter think of his youth in the tenements on the Lower East Side, where he ate his dinners by candlelight with his mother, father, and his younger brother…a memory Walt hadn’t thought about in a long time.
Hors d’oeuvres and champagne were being served by an all-black staff, and a live classical music quartet was playing in the front hallway. It made Walter very aware of the class system around him, and even though there were famous black faces among the partygoers, because of his background, Walt felt a kinship with the people working this function.
