by Dion Baia
“Please wait here a moment, Mister Morris,” Crane said to his special guest. “I’ll inform Mister Hayden of our arrival.”
Walter remained as Crane disappeared into the crowd of partygoers, all impeccably dressed in ballroom attire, top hats, and coattails. A throwback to fashion a decade before, prior to the war. Walter did what he always did, stepped back against the wall and watched the party around him. He recognized Carole Landis, who walked by with Fred Allen and Bob Crosby at her side. There were many other celebrities enjoying the festivities. He began to feel jovial and grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing tray.
He started to stroll through the people toward an adjoining smoky ballroom where he picked up the sounds of big band music reverberating in the air. The ballroom was luxurious and adorned with red garland. Walter estimated there to be well over a few hundred people within this room alone enjoying the festivities. At the far end, barely visible through the nicotine haze and dim candlelight, were what sounded like Kay Kyser and his big band on stage. Walter figured with all the famous attendees wining and dining, it probably was “The Ol’ Perfessor” himself and his boys playing up there. He scanned the crowd for other famous faces, particularly for any brothers. Walt spotted Eddie “Rochester” Anderson chatting at the far end of the bar.
He was going to drift over toward them, but Crane appeared behind Walter and tapped him on the shoulder. Crane indicated with his head, and Walter followed him out of the large ballroom. He’d have to wait for another day to meet his matinee and radio idols.
After some skillful tangoing around the various levels of inebriation, they made their way out of the ballroom, down a long hall, and away from the noise and festivities. They passed many different areas that looked like wings of a museum. One was filled with medieval weapons and armor from both western and eastern civilizations, dressed up on faceless mannequins. One room Walt glanced into as they passed looked like a tribute to hunting. Hundreds of stuffed carcasses of almost every animal that walked the Earth were positioned inside dioramas suitable to their indigenous region. Elephants, bears, lions, giraffes, wolves, and dozens of other four-legged creatures, frozen in time forever. A taxidermist’s dream but someone else’s nightmare. The next exhibit hall apparently was reserved for various mediums of art. Paintings on the wall, statues, pottery, and other priceless items were everywhere. It wouldn’t take an expert to recognize the untold fortunes gathered in this house.
Finally they came upon a doorway at the end of the long hall that led down a small flight of stairs, where they came out into another long, dimly lit passage, far away from the party. The bass of the swing music was still faintly heard in the distance, echoing toward them. Walt could barely make out the large dark objects of various sizes on either side of him, which in some cases extended from the floor to the high ceiling.
“Please make yourself at home.” With that, Crane started to walk out, leaving Walter alone. When he crossed the threshold, Crane flipped a switch and the room became illuminated in a weird kind of fluorescent black light, spotlights overhead trained on the exhibits in the hall. Walter stood alone, deliberating exactly what these objects were.
He looked around, thoroughly scanning the area while waiting for his eyes to adjust. Walt wanted to make sure he was the only one in the room. Once his eyes adapted to the low light, he realized that these were exhibits. It was then he heard a loud, feral noise echo throughout the hall, a powerful, primal call that terrified him. His hand instinctively went to where his gun would be under his jacket, but he wasn’t carrying it on this outing. He stayed still for a while, getting a feel for the room, making sure nothing was going to jump out at him. It suddenly became clear to Walter what all this was. At the nearest end, where he stood, there were sleek cages that had black steel bars with animals inside. It was an indoor menagerie. Walter began to inch closer, moving past the terrariums inside the various cages situated on either side, containing animals of who knew what species, to what lay beyond. He headed toward the far end of the hall, where huge tanks of water of varying sizes reached up like enormous monoliths into the high ceiling. Walter cautiously looked into a tank filled with water so dark he couldn’t see through it. He tapped on the glass and realized it was extremely thick and had the texture of something other than the cold touch glass would normally have.
Walt lit a cigarette, turned around, and walked over to one of the cages to peer in. Within the cage was an odd-looking white tiger that was at least twice the size of what Walter thought the average tiger should be.
“I see you found Matilda.”
Walter swung his head around toward the far end of the hallway, where a seated dark figure was gliding toward him, accompanied by an abnormal buzzing sound that got louder as it got closer. Traveling down the center of the hall, every ten feet or so the gliding man was illuminated by an overhead light as he passed underneath. It soon became apparent that the sound was a motorized wheelchair propelling the man toward Walter. The chair looked particularly modern, with flourishes of the popular Art Deco style and slick-looking aerodynamic skirts over the wheels.
Mr. Cuthbert Hayden was dressed in an extremely well-tailored tuxedo with a red woolen blanket covering his legs. He was slightly overweight, with dark gray slicked-back hair and a wrinkled face that didn’t appear to smile often.
“Matilda?” Walter said curiously.
The wheelchair stopped right in front of Walter and the two sized each other up. Hayden pointed to the cage with the odd-looking animal inside. “She is a “liger”. My pride and joy, a mix between a tiger and a lion. Only four are known to exist in all the world.”
Walter studied the animal through the bars with a level of disdain and sadness. “And one of those four is locked up in a small cage in front of us, eh?”
Mr. Hayden laughed. “Ah, Mister Morris…. You must appreciate, when money no longer becomes a concern…well, we all have needs, but to not have wants? One does become mildly eccentric with such pleasures. Do you understand?”
“I believe I do.”
“Forgive me. Please allow me to introduce himself. I am Cuthbert Hayden.”
Walter nodded in recognition. “I kinda figured.”
Hayden regarded the cage. “No need to worry about this poor creature’s plight, Mister Morris. Matilda will have the best life she could ever possibly have, be provided with the greatest care available. Only the very best.” He glanced from the animal up to Walter. “You must understand the context, Mister Morris. You see, all of this,” Hayden gestured with his hands, “all these trophies, are a grim reminder of an extremely extravagant, dramatic, and overindulged previous life of mine. I am a far, far cry from the man I was even five years ago. This compound was at one time the East Coast’s version of Hearst’s San Simeon in every sense. We even have a manmade lake abutting the northwest end of the house that rivals Lake Hopatcong in New Jersey, just to be able to simulate a coastal view.”
Walter continued to be pleasant. “Do you, now?”
“Indeed, Mister Morris. It was a very different world then. Wild parties filled with drugs, alcohol, orgies…you name it. Certain people care nothing about tomorrow as long as money is easy today.”
“It seems a far cry from your public persona. Millionaire philanthropist, pioneering in technology and engineering, rivaling that of even Howard Hughes or Henry Ford. Developing various vehicles and aircraft, experimental weaponry and flying machines. Like that new helio-copter machine up in Connecticut. You must have been making a killing the past few years, since the war’s been on.”
“Yes, Crane told me how up to date you are on your knowledge. Surprising, I must say. And impressive.”
“Well, I don’t know a lot about anything, but I know a little about practically everything. Comes in handy in my profession.”
“Ah, I see. But all this excess, the lifestyle and playboy living,” Hayden patted the arms of hi
s wheelchair, “all that changed on June thirteenth, 1938, when a bottle of JD and I decided to get behind the wheel of a Duesenberg and have some fun up on Mulholland Drive.”
Walter glanced at Hayden’s covered legs and slick wheelchair.
“God spared my life, but he took away my ambition and my mobility.”
The wheelchair came to life and pivoted, and with Hayden leading the way, the two began to move down the hallway past the exhibits.
“It appears you’ve made the most for yourself, despite your ailments. Somehow, though, I doubt you brought me here to see your little mixed-race zoo and hear your biography,” Walter ventured.
Hayden smiled. “You would be correct. To the point—I like that, Mister Morris. Speaking on the topic of mixed race, if I may be frank, I must admit it is very forward-thinking for you and your partner to have an interracial investigative firm.”
Walter nodded. “Wave of the future. Getting to drink out of both fountains.”
“It can definitely have its advantages, as evident now of a Negro gumshoe getting a crack at such a high-profile and sensitive case like this.”
Walt curbed his reply and responded diplomatically. “With all due respect, you’re the one who randomly summoned my firm to come over and take you away from this party of yours. I’m not an overly smart man, but like I said, as awfully inspiring as all this is, I don’t think it was just to boast and discuss forward-thinking business models, unless you’re looking to get into the private detective business and give the Pinkertons a run for their money.”
Hayden answered with another chuckle. “You are bold and have a sense of humor. I like that in a man. You and your firm came highly recommended, particularly for your experience in the Negro neighborhoods.”
Walking behind the automated wheelchair, Walter replied, “I am not a fan of that word, but in answer to your question, yes, we do a lot of work in various ethnic areas, black neighborhoods included. My partner and I, a Brit mind you, saw a corner of the market we could thrive in and a people we can help. We both possess certain talents from which we mutually benefit.”
“What of the war prior to establishing your firm, Mister Morris? You don’t feel so patriotic for your country that you will go fight for her?”
Walter flashed a smile. “I can’t speak for my partner, but I myself can find enough trouble in Harlem and the Bronx. I don’t need to cross the world to fight somebody else’s.”
Hayden took interest in his answer and pressed on. “Do you feel disenchanted with America? How the Negro is treated? Even though it’s eighty-plus years after a war was fought and won in this country to free your people?”
Although Walter bit his tongue, he continued with his polite and professional demeanor. “I make it a policy not to mix personal politics with my job.”
Hayden abruptly stopped his chair and turned to look up at the detective to make sure he saw exactly how his next comment would land. “What about the murder of your younger brother in 1930? He was supposedly under your care while your father was out working on the railroad? Do you blame yourself for that, or do you feel the government—your local police and by extension, your country—let you down?”
Walter’s pulse quickened. This was uncomfortable subject matter for him, but he purposely attempted to remain calm.
“No, I don’t think my baby brother being murdered by a sick pattern killer and it being ignored by the New York Police Department because, as they say, ‘Who’s gonna notice one less colored kid in the slums gone missing’ is a letdown? Of course not. That doesn’t put a bad taste in my mouth at all.”
Walter finished with a pleasant smile, one that made his jaw muscles flex.
Seemingly satisfied, as if putting Walter through such unpleasantries was all part of the job, Hayden nodded. “You must understand, I like to screen all the people under my employ thoroughly, so please, Mister Morris, take no offense.”
Walter put on his best pandering smile. “No offense taken. So, being frank myself, are we gonna dance around here all night, or are we gonna get down to business, whatever it maybe?”
This impressed Hayden further. “Ha! No sir, no indeed. Like you said, I have an event to get back to.” Hayden gestured with his arm. “Shall we proceed?”
Walter nodded and they continued on toward the other exhibits on display.
“I had a head maid here at Hayden Manor, a beguiling Negress named Corrina Jones. It seems even now to be a lifetime ago. She had a daughter while she was with us, Caldonia. Such a beautiful girl. I kept an eye on her as she grew up and promised her mother on her deathbed that she would be taken care of.”
“That’s very generous of you. Did, God rest his soul, FDR’s New Deal inspire you to help out someone less fortunate?”
Hayden grinned. “No, Detective.”
The two stopped at one of the large tanks lit by fluorescent lights from above. It was made of a very thick glass. “This is a synthetic called acrylic glass, a revolutionary material discovered quite by accident in our laboratories. It is completely transforming our world, and will do so in every facet in the coming decades. The incredible strength allows us to simulate extreme conditions and pressures that you’d find leagues down at the bottom of the deepest oceans.”
Walter nodded, impressed. “So, Corrina, her mother, you said she died then?”
“Tragically, yes. I am determined to keep my promise. I kept Caldonia by my side, trying by any means necessary to give her every chance she could have in this day and age, coming from, eh, class system.”
“That’s awfully gracious of you. Are you like that with everyone under your employ?”
Hayden glanced beyond, toward what was within the tank. “Corrina, she was an amazing woman. I…owed her this.”
Unexpectedly, out of the darkness of the water, a very bizarre translucent creature appeared and swam past. It had a piranha’s head with an elongated body, much like that of a snake.
Walter’s eyes widened, betraying his fright while the creature slithered by them in the dark water. He didn’t get startled very easily, so he tried to play off his unease with a timid smile.
Hayden responded with an emotionless smile of his own, not because of Walt’s reaction but more toward the gravity and context of his story. He looked back toward his tank, the dim reflection casting a phosphorus glow on the millionaire’s face. “In any event, Caldonia became wild in her teen years. She rebelled and started to frequent the underbelly of our society. You know how today’s youth are. Wild swing bands, jazz, and that Negroid backwoods music, the wretched ‘blues’….” He sighed. “Well, it caught up to her. The degenerates got ahold of her and she became a reefer addict. It all went downhill after that.”
“What happened?”
Hayden made eye contact with Walter. “About a week ago, she phoned Garland to have someone pick her up on a Hundred Thirty-First and Broadway.”
“Uh, that’s Mister Crane?” Walt took out his notepad and began to make notations.
“Yes, she evidently had a confrontation with a few men, but by the time Mister Crane arrived, she was nowhere to be found.”
Walter jotted more down. “You know what the argument was about or who it was with?”
“No, I do not.”
“And you haven’t seen her since?”
“No. No, word. Nothing.” The genuine concern became apparent in Hayden’s voice. “I just pray it has nothing to do with this ‘New York Ripper’ in the city.”
“Well, so far from what I’ve heard, he’s only been killing blonde white women, so we have that going for us. Have you contacted the police?”
“I thought it best to keep this a private affair.”
“No police?” Walter frowned. Hayden revealed a lot by preferring to take this course of action. “And no other inquiries were made to locate her?”
“Mister
Crane tried, to no avail. She has been absent from the estate before, but never for so long. This is why I decided it best to seek professional help. Your firm was recommended due to your absolute discretion and your experience in the Negr—uh, ethnic neighborhoods.”
Walter nodded sympathetically. “Well, going at it on our own will complicate things to a degree. Without the police and all that manpower, it’s gonna be a lot harder. No word on who she was arguing with?”
Hayden gazed down at the floor dejectedly. “No.”
As Walter looked around the room, he couldn’t help but be amazed at the absolutely strange and fantastical location he was in, straight out of a science fiction magazine, but he kept his astonishment to himself. “Anything else you can give me to work with?”
“Caldonia was an exceptionally close member of her church and the reverend there. That is, until her spiral into the abyss. She went to a popular house of worship down in Harlem. The irony there is going to worship God is how she was seduced by temptation.”
“It’s not something you can fault her for. Especially in this day and age.”
Hayden stared up at the detective and crossed his hands in his lap. “Do you have any initial impressions?”
Walter was always blunt and saw no reason not to be. So far there wasn’t anything that particularly made him like the old man. “Sounds like it could be a runaway case if she was unhappy here. Or…”
“Or?” Hayden raised an eyebrow.
“Do you have any enemies, Mister Hayden?”
“Aside from the Japs and the war in Europe? Ha, take your pick. Hearst, Howard Hughes, J. Edgar Hoover and his bureau, or…,” Hayden pondered for a moment. “You think ransom? What would someone think they could gain?”
Walter closed his pad and stowed it back in his pocket. “Very good question. It’s already gotten you to hire a shamus. Obviously if this was linked to you, they’d have to be keenly aware of your fondness for Caldonia and her mother. Just throwing around some healthy conjecture. Do you have a picture of her?”
