by Marvin Kaye
“Mr. Hollow, my wife and I know Simon James well. He doesn’t want to add our pieces to his collection. He doesn’t even want to sell them for money. What Simon James wants to do with our Ruba Rombic collection—is destroy it. He will break each piece into tiny shards of useless glass. That is what is disturbing my wife so much.”
“But why destroy it?” I asked amazed.
“So that he will have the best collection of Ruba Rombic in the world and so that his collection will increase substantially in value,” Castle said matter-of-factly.
I laughed. That certainly seemed twisted, but being a collector myself, I knew the collector mentality. Any collector worth his salt would never even consider such a thing, but a few—certain ones—well, they just might. Castle’s words were not as far from the realm of possibility as they sounded.
“And you and your wife actually believe this?”
“Years ago when we were on social terms, Simon even told us as much when he first saw our collection. He lamented how, without the existence of our pieces, his own collection would become the finest in the entire world. He told me with a smile then how the value of his pieces would easily quadruple in value.”
I nodded. The dark side of the collector mentality.
“We can pay you well, Mr. Hollow,” John Castle continued, handing me a small piece of paper which I looked at, noting a substantial number followed by four zeroes. I gladly placed the check in my pocket. Castle added, “Can you look into it? See what you can find out? Please.”
“I’ll look into it,” I said carefully, “but I can’t promise much if the police have come up empty. Any idea where James would stash the stolen goods?”
“No,” Castle said helplessly. “The police didn’t find anything incriminating at his home.”
“What about his destruction of the glass?” I asked. “It’s been a few weeks, it may be gone by now.”
Castle shook his head nervously. “I hope not. I don’t think so. He’d want to look each piece over, savor each item for a while before he destroys them. At least that’s what I’ve told Susan, to calm her—she gets so worried that the glass may have already been destroyed.”
“And you don’t think so?” I asked.
“No. Not yet. I don’t think so.”
“I think you may be right, Mr. Castle,” I said, thinking of what I knew of the collector mentality—but I also knew I didn’t have much time. I had a lot of work to do. I got ready to leave. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Castle.”
John Castle’s check would be a boon to my police pension and allow a bit left over to buy a Depression Glass piece I’d had my eye on in an Internet auction. Since my wife, Beth, had left me for a doctor last year, I’d been living alone in an empty house with only the glassware she had left behind for company. I missed the wife but at least I had the glassware. That Depression Glass is really quite lovely; bright, colorful, graceful even, with so many charming patterns—but this Ruba Rombic stuff…sheesh! I hadn’t wanted to mention to the Castles that I thought the stuff was brutal. I mean, if my glass collection was made of vomit, I’d have Ruba Rombic too! Still and all, this was a paying case and I’d been given a nice-size check to do the job as best I could.
My first step was to call my friend Detective Jackie Harris to get the lowdown on just what the police file had on the robbery; also to get her take on the Castles and Simon James.
“Ben,” Jackie told me over the phone, “a search warrant was issued and came up blank on the house on Michigan Avenue. As far as the robbery, it looked legit, but it’s a dead end. No prints, the alarm was circumvented. The Castles were out of town at the time. Only that damn glassware was missing. It was a pro job for sure, or an inside job.”
“Inside job?” I asked quickly. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, maybe. The husband and wife don’t always seem to get along. There seems to be some tension there. That glass is supposed to be worth a small fortune, pretty amazing, eh? Anyway, my partner thinks that maybe one of them stole it, to hide it from the other?”
“Any evidence of that?” I asked.
“No,” she replied carefully. Did she know more than she was willing to tell me? I wondered. Usually Jackie was very up front, but now that I was retired and out of the loop, she might be holding back a card or two.
“I don’t know,” I said thoughtfully. “That doesn’t make sense to me, from what I’ve just seen of them. They hired me together to find the stuff, they’re both adamant that James stole it—or hired someone to steal it. And they do seem to get along well enough, your average retired older couple. I didn’t see any tension between the two.”
“Oh well, that’s all we have now. Nothing on the street about the break-in, or anything about any valuable glassware. We squeezed the usual fences and informants. Checked the local pawn shops. Nada.”
“What about Simon James?” I asked.
Jackie was silent for a moment, “That’s a bit complicated.”
“What do you mean?” I told Jackie the Castles’ theory of why James had stolen their glassware.
“Yeah, I remember them telling us something like that. Seems crazy but I could see James being like that, you know, that kind of person. If he can’t have it—no one else can,” Jackie said, then added, “But, Ben, we’ve got nothing on him and he’s got a lot of juice in this town. Captain Wallace was told to back off unless he had substantial and serious proof. Being Captain Wallace…well, you know.”
“Yeah, thanks, Jackie.”
Jackie’s info didn’t leave me much to go on. I made a mental note that I’d probably want to speak with Simon James at some point but in the meantime I did an extensive Internet search of the big man and this glassware. Not only Google, but I emailed all my contacts in the collectable glassware field for info. I wanted to know if James bought from them and what he bought. How did he pay? What was he like to deal with?
I came up with a lot of info, most of it seemingly contradictory. Simon James was a big player in the Depression Glassware field, aside from being wealthy and powerful overall. He lived in a big house and collected all kinds of things but seemed to specialize in Art Deco works and Depression Era glassware. His house was filled with it—but it was big enough to hold whatever he wanted. By all accounts he had an extensive and priceless collection. It didn’t make sense to me that such a man would cause this theft—unless you were a collector yourself and knew someone who was this type of collector, I kept telling myself.
I smiled. That’s why John Castle had been so adamant on my taking this case, and why he knew that being a collector myself I was the right person for the job.
The Internet proved to be a wash. Contacts via email were better but didn’t really pan out. James bought a lot of stuff from the same people and places I bought from—just a lot of higher-end items for a lot more money. I was about to call it all off and close up shop on the Castles when I got a call from Jenny Rogers at Kalamazoo Arts.
“Hi, Ben,” Jenny said cheerily with her usual enthusiasm. We went back a bit, Beth and I had been buying and selling to her for years. I’d kept up the relationship. “You know, you still owe me $75 for that Peach Lustre bowl.”
“Yeah, I remember. I was just going to send you a check,” I said. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget you.”
“I know, Ben. The check is in the mail. I know you’re busy and all. Look, I didn’t call you to remind you to pay your bill—though that would be nice…”
I laughed, “Sure.”
“And you didn’t hear this from me, understand?”
“Yes,” I said, more attentive now.
“This Simon James; I’ve never met him but he buys from me a lot, also from some other dealers I know. Well, when you emailed me about what he buys and pays, it’s only the best stuff and he pays top dollar. You can understand I don’t want to lose him as a customer.�
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“Sure,” I replied. “I’ve heard all that. His house is full of only the best stuff. It’s like a museum.”
“Well, that’s just it. I ship almost all the stuff to his home on Michigan Avenue, but…”
“Almost? Where’s the rest of the stuff go?”
“That’s just it, he’s got another house.”
“Really?” I asked totally interested now.
“Well, it’s not really a house, it’s some kind of hunting lodge up in the mountains. He’s very secretive about it and I always feel like I’m doing something not quite on the up-and-up when he has me ship there…”
I smiled, “Jenny, you’re a peach! What’s the address?”
I drove up right away. The house was in the mountains outside of town. It was not exactly a hunting lodge and not exactly a mansion. I left my car on the side of the highway and walked up the icy road. The house was set back in the snowy woods, alone, quiet. It looked like it was closed for the winter. I wondered.
The place was a two floor log home with a pointed roof and a wooden porch all around it. The lights were off. It looked deserted. I carefully walked up the pathway, onto the porch and found a doorbell. I rang it.
There was no answer.
I rang it again and again.
No answer again.
Now I had to decide, bite the bullet, earn my money for the Castles or give it up and slink away, never to know the truth. I took a deep breath. B&E wasn’t my usual thing but there were questions I wanted answered and besides, I needed the money. I used my shoulder to break in the front door. It wasn’t a very solid door and after three tries it flew open and I flew inside.
The place was dark, but there was enough daylight left for me to look around. What I found was an amazing accumulation of boxes—Postal Service, UPS, FedEx. Some opened, others still sealed. They were piled throughout every room; the place was overrun with various collectables. Especially glassware—Depression Era glassware. I walked around, marveling at all the lovely objects, some things I knew I could never afford and would never own. I was amazed as I walked through room after room.
I found the Castles’ Ruba Rombic collection on the kitchen table. All the missing pieces were there, wrapped up in boxes. Now what to do?
I thought of calling the cops of course; making Simon James pay for his crime and even more so to me, his violation of the collector’s code—stealing from a fellow collector. But it just didn’t seem to make sense to get the cops involved and have them over-complicate everything. The cops would make a mess of it, asking me all kinds of nosy questions, with James eventually getting fancy lawyers involved. Those lawyers would make me the darn criminal. His people would accuse me of B&E, theft, whatever else they could. I knew that wouldn’t end well for me.
Or I could just put the stuff in my car and drive over to the Castles and give it back to them. Which is just what I did.
I carried the boxes into the house carefully, one at a time from the back of my car. The Castles were shocked and overjoyed when they looked at what was in those boxes.
“You found them!” Susan Castle cried in joy, suddenly planting a kiss on my cheek. She called her husband and they looked through each box in sheer delight.
“Mr. Hollow, you are amazing,” John Castle said obviously relieved. I placed the boxes on the dining room table and both husband and wife got busy going through each box, carefully unwrapping their precious objects, looking them over minutely, then lovingly placing them inside a large oak display case.
“John, they’re home,” Susan Castle said in relief. She delicately placed the last piece of that infernally ugly Ruba Rombic into the display case and locked the glass door with a small key.
I smiled, “I guess it’s an acquired taste.”
“You either love ’em or you hate ’em,” John Castle answered with a knowing smile. “So where did you find them? What did Simon James say when he was arrested?”
I held up my hands. “There’s not a lot to say about that. You wanted your precious Ruba Rombic back, so here it is. Safe and sound. The less said about any of this—my involvement, your suspicions about Simon James, or even the fact that you have it back at all—well, it would be best for all concerned to keep mum. You get my drift?”
“Then he gets away with it?” Susan Castle flared in anger.
“He gets away with nothing. Your property is returned to you and without any damage, just as you wanted,” I replied more forcefully.
She nodded slowly. I saw her face soften as she looked over at the rescued glassware that now filled her display case. “Well, then thank you, Mr. Hollow…Ben. We won’t say another word.”
“You did a hell of a job,” John Castle added. “My only regret is missing out on seeing the look on Simon James’ face when he realizes that the items he filched from us, have been filched from him. There’s justice in that, at least. You’ve made me and my wife very happy. Thank you.”
“There’s just one more thing, Ben,” the wife said rather hesitantly. “This box over here. These six pieces. They are not ours.”
“Really? Are you sure?” I asked, watching as John now examined the pieces and soon concurred with his wife.
“Nope, not ours at all,” he stated.
“So what now?” I asked.
The Castles looked at me. “Well, they’re not ours and we do not want them.”
“Well, I can’t put them back now,” I stammered, perplexed by the problem. “I mean, it was a big risk taking the stuff in the first place.”
“Well, why don’t you just keep them?” Susan Castle asked.
“Yeah, Mr. Hollow, Simon will miss them but then again, he probably stole them too,” John Castle added. “Who knows, maybe you’ll be contacted by the true owner and will be able to return them? If not, just look at it as the perks of the job.”
“I don’t know, it would be too risky to return them now, and I guess I could hold on to them for a while…but that stuff is just…so damn ugly!” I said with a smile. Then I looked at the six pieces in the box more closely. “You know, this stuff does kinda grow on you. I think I’m actually getting to like it. In fact, they might fit well in my own collection if no one claims them. After all, I am a Depression Glass collector and this Ruba Rombic is sorta unique.”
ONLY THE DEAD, by Gordon Linzner
Wind tore at Paddy McGuire’s threadbare ulster, drove stinging rain into his face, as he hurried across the Great Bridge. He pulled his cap more tightly onto his head and reached again beneath the coat for the cudgel tucked in his belt. Its heft should have been more reassuring.
Electric lights, first on any bridge in the world, made his shadow lengthen and shrink, lengthen and shrink, on the wooden walkway. A dozen years after the bridge opened, connecting two of the country’s greatest cities, and Paddy still marveled at that yellow glow.
But not tonight. Never had the sky seemed so dark, the city behind so looming, the choppy waters forty yards below so black and threatening. The boards beneath his feet trembled with the vibration of a passing elevated train. He thrust a hand into his right coat pocket, fingering anew his latest prize. Perhaps it was only the October night’s bitter cold, but the metal seem to burn against his flesh.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Up here he could see he was no longer being followed. In the dark, twisting streets near the fish market, footsteps echoed all around, shadows shifted in every corner. That drunken Lascar had not been as alone as Paddy’d thought, though his fellow sailors had not been close enough to save him.
Other footpads in New York’s Five Points district mocked Paddy’s frequent journeys to Brooklyn. Inefficient and corrupt and loath to cooperate as the police were on both sides of the East River, however, they occasionally captured a felon. By shifting between jurisdictions, Paddy had extended his career long past that of many of his fellows.
>
A gust of rain blinded him; he wiped his eyes. When he blinked them open again, what he saw made him gasp.
A crowd was racing at him from the Brooklyn side, less than twenty yards away, faces contorted in panic. A woman in the lead slipped and fell, to be trampled by the others. Paddy felt a sharp pain in his ribs, and struggled for a moment to breathe.
Yet, most disturbing, there was no of sound. The woman’s cries, the mob’s shouts, were apparently lost in the pounding rain and shrill wind.
Paddy leapt to the side of the walkway to pull himself onto one of the cables, out of harm’s way. As he reached up, he saw a wheelbarrow, a workman still gripping its handles, plunge off the far tower. What the devil was the man doing up there in this storm? Paddy froze, distracted. His hand slipped on rain-slick steel. He fell backwards onto the walkway.
Now the crowd was almost upon him, though he still could not hear them nor feel the boards tremble under their approach. He covered his head and curled up, presenting as small a target as possible, tensing for the impact of trampling heels.
A minute passed.
Two.
“Are you well, sir?”
Paddy opened one eye. A man wearing a long frock coat, holding a top hat in place with one hand, stood over him. He looked little older than Paddy’s own one score year and four, though the stubble on his puffy face indicated a dissipation more common to more senior aristocrats. His other hand clutched a cane with a heavy brass grip Paddy suspected was not entirely decorative.
Paddy slowly unfurled his body and felt beneath the ulster for his cudgel, which dug painfully into his gut. Under other circumstances, on this deserted bridge, the stranger would seem a perfect victim. Paddy was too rattled to consider anything but self-defense.
