Anthony Carrick Hardboiled Murder Mysteries: Box Set (Books 1 - 3)

by Jason Blacker

  "Anthony Carrick?" he asked, the voice coming up creaking like old barnyard doors.

  "Yes," I said, "you must be Mr. Stampley."

  I was using my undusted charm.

  "John, just call me John," he said. "Come in."

  "Sure will," I replied.

  He turned around and walked up the hall a bit and then turned right into the living room. He was wearing worn gray slippers that matched his pants. He left me with the door wide open. I closed it after the both of us. The neighborhood was quiet. Nobody was around walking or snooping. I liked that.

  I followed him into the living room. He was bowed over his recliner and side table. He coughed a good throaty one that must have dislodged a slug. But I never saw it.

  "I'm going to make tea. Will you have some?" he asked, not turning around to look at me.

  "Sounds good," I said. "Do you need a hand?"

  "No."

  He picked up a white mug that had UCHS on it with a big blue eagle with wings flared upwards clinging to the letters. If I were a betting man I'd bet that was a mug from Union City High School. Stampley shuffled into the dining room that was behind the living room and then he went left into the kitchen.

  I looked around the living room. It was pretty sparse. There was a tube TV in one corner on a wooden TV stand with a VCR below it. On a separate stand in the middle of the room by the windows was a turntable on top with vinyl records all piled underneath, leaning towards the left. There was a couch along the wall that separated the hall from the living room. A wooden coffee table stood in front of it with an ashtray on it that hadn't been used. There were a couple of National Geographic magazines on it. I looked down at them. They were three years old. The couch was showing signs of wear. It was covered by a Salvation Army blanket but not all of its bald spots were hidden. On the wall across from the couch was a picture of a violinist. Looked like Stampley from about a couple of decades earlier. He was in the midst of some sort of crescendo. At least that's what it looked like. The only other frame hanging on the wall was of a Van Gogh print, Starry Night.

  I looked back towards the dining room. His recliner was black leather that was wrinkled as much as he was. It was showing extreme wear. To the right of the recliner was a small round wooden table. On it was an ashtray that had half a dozen or more crippled cigarette butts. A packet of cigarettes was next to the ashtray and on top of it lay a silver lighter.

  Stampley came back in to the living room carrying a plastic tray that looked like it was printed with a map of the New York City Subway system. He put the tray down on the coffee table in front of the couch. He waved at the couch with a limp hand. I sat down in it. Stampley picked up his mug which was already filled with creamy tea.

  "It's probably ready," he said.

  I helped myself. I poured the orange colored tea into a blue mug which had "World's Greatest Grandpa" written on it in white child's lettering. I didn't feel that old. It was signed by "Samantha" with a couple of hearts after the name. I added cream and sugar and stirred for a bit while Stampley coughed some more and sat down slowly in his recliner.

  "You have grandkids," I said, looking over at him.

  He looked at me through eyes topped by sagging lids. The corner of them drooped like jowls over the eye. He nodded and reached for his pack of cigarettes. He lit one up. I decided I'd join him. I fished out my own packet. He offered me a light, but I already had one. I showed him my cheap plastic lighter. I lit my cigarette and blew smoke towards the far wall.

  "How old would Samantha be now?" I asked.

  He looked at the blue mug in my hand and thought for a moment.

  "Nine in November," he said.

  I smiled at him. He wasn't looking at me. He blew smoke at the ceiling and looked at the tip of his cigarette.

  "So you're a PI," he said.

  He still didn't look at me. I nodded.

  "Sounds like dangerous work."

  "Can be," I said.

  I sipped my tea. He smoked his cigarette.

  "How many grandkids you got?" I asked.

  "Just Samantha," he said.

  "How many kids you got?" I asked.

  He looked at me and took a puff on his cigarette. He blew smoke in my direction but he was too far for it to reach me. I inhaled on my cigarette and blew circles around him.

  "You probably know that," he said.

  "I do."

  "Then why you asking?"

  "I'm being polite."

  He shrugged and took a sip of tea. He put the mug back down by the ashtray and tipped off his ash.

  "No need," he said. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

  "Tell me about your kid," I said.

  He looked back at me.

  "Maggie's unhappily married. Has been for years. It's only Sam that keeps them together. That and the money."

  I nodded. I knew all about unhappy marriages.

  "Sam's coming over after school. I'd rather this was finished by then."

  "It will be," I said.

  He nodded and smoked some more. I did the same. Above us the gray clouds gathered and huddled together by the stippled ceiling like Greek gods pondering the fate of men.

  "And your wife died some years back," I said.

  He nodded.

  "Breast cancer that metastasized to her lung. Drowned to death real slow. Horrible thing."

  I nodded again and drank some tea.

  "Thanks for the tea."

  Stampley nodded at me.

  "You're a miserable son of a bitch," he said in his monotone, crackling voice.

  "I get that a lot," I said. "Don't mean to be."

  "You sit there and talk to me about the sadness in my life like we're discussing the paint on my wall."

  "Would you rather I lie, pretend like it really eats me up inside to hear about your crap life."

  Stampley kept his eye on me for a bit. We stared at each other for some time. Seems that happens a lot.

  "No," he finally said.

  "The life of man can be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short," I said.

  "Hobbes was talking about war."

  Stampley drank more tea and offered me more of his hairy eyeball. I took a helping and offered him one of mine.

  "Seems to me that you've been at war for a long time."

  I was talking about an internal conflict. Stampley didn't look so good. He sat there, thin and frail and jaundiced, enjoying his cancer sticks while he waited for the Grim Reaper. Looked to me like he had nothing left to live for.

  "The only joy in my life was stolen from me," he said.

  "Family or music?" I asked, knowing the answer.

  "Music."

  "Tell me about it."

  "What's to tell? You know all about it probably."

  "I know what others have told. I haven't heard it from you."

  Stampley puffed on his cigarette some more. I drank tea and then inhaled. I blew rings across the coffee table and looked at The Starry Night.

  "It's probably what you heard," he said. "I was kicked out of first violin so that sniveling son of a bitch could get in. Spent the rest of the best of my life teaching whiny teens music. None of them interested in violin or classical music. All they want to learn is the riffs to their favorite rock songs."

  "But you got a pension," I offered.

  "I would have had a lot more if I'd made concertmaster like I should've."

  "What were you doing on Friday morning between eight and noon?" I asked.

  "That's when he was done in?" asked Stampley.

  I smiled at him.

  "Good," he said, and his lips curled at the corners. It was the first sign of emotion I'd seen in him. "I was at my doctor's from nine until ten. Then I was getting my blood taken. I only got home a little after eleven. You think I killed him?"

  I shook my head and puffed on my cigarette.

  "I'll take it if you have no one else good for it," he said.

  "I know who did it."

  "H
ow?" he asked.

  "Good old fashioned detective work."

  Stampley shook his head.

  "No, I meant, how did he die?"

  "Shot in the chest."

  "Good."

  "Do you own any guns?"

  Stampley shook his head again.

  "Did he suffer?"

  "Probably not," I said. "Seemed like the killers knew what they were doing."

  "Pity."

  Stampley looked down the living room and out the window. He seemed far away. He smoked his cigarette and then put it out in the ashtray. He picked up his mug and took a sip. He cradled it in both hands and they shook every so slightly.

  "I take it you and him didn't see eye to eye."

  "I hated the asshole."

  Stampley took another sip of tea and then looked at me.

  "He stole everything from me. Everything that was good in my life. Everything I was good at. Everything I loved."

  Stampley looked away and visited faraway places in his mind for a while. I watched him and finished my cigarette.

  "Even tried to bed my wife and daughter," he said, looking out the far windows.

  I followed his gaze but there was nothing there. He was deep inside his own troubled mind. I drank my tea.

  "I wanted to talk to you about his violin."

  That caught Stampley's interest. He looked at me.

  "The Blount Strad?"

  I nodded.

  "He didn't deserve it."

  "Because it was stolen?"

  "Because he didn't deserve it. He didn't treat it right. Didn't play it right. And yes, because it was stolen."

  "How did you find out it was stolen?"

  "Good old fashioned detective work."

  I thought he was trying to be funny but he wasn't smiling.

  "Do you have proof?"

  "Yes I have proof. I sent it to the Israelis, I thought they would be interested in it."

  "And were they?"

  "Never heard from them."

  "When did you send them the proof?" I asked.

  "About six months ago."

  "Did you keep copies?"

  Stampley nodded and put his mug back down on the table. He stood up and shuffled into the dining room. There was a small desk in the one corner. He opened up the top drawer and pulled out a couple of documents. He came back into the living room and handed me the two documents before sitting back down.

  "Cost me twenty-five thousand dollars to get this twenty years ago."

  I looked at the papers. They were both official looking Nazi records. The first one was signed by an SS Scharführer Eric Kaufmann. The second one was signed by an SS-TV Standartenführer Swen Boehm. I looked up at Stampley.

  "This doesn't mean much to me," I said.

  He nodded.

  "It's in German."

  "I can see that."

  "The top one is signed by Scharführer Kaufmann. That's like a squad leader. The important thing is that this is a copy of itemized possessions for Anke Mueller and family that Kaufmann's squad took when they arrested them."

  I nodded as I looked down at the sheet. One item jumped up to me immediately. Stradivari-Geige.

  "You'll see the Blount violin on that sheet about halfway down. It's called 'Stradivari-Geige', and next to it is the serial number."

  I nodded.

  "Look at the date of this form."

  It was dated the seventh of September nineteen forty-two.

  "Look at the date of the next form."

  I shuffled the first paper behind the second. The second was dated on the eighth of September nineteen forty-two.

  "Look at them closely."

  I looked at them closely. They looked identical. They were the same kind of form.

  "I don't see a difference other than the date and the signature."

  Stampley shook his head.

  "Do you see 'Stradivari-Geige'?"

  I scanned the page. That seemed to be the only item missing. I nodded my head.

  "You see what happened. Ms. Mueller gets captured by Kaufmann and a detailed itemized list is created of her belongings. But when she's brought into the concentration camp there's no sign of it."

  "Maybe Kaufmann took it," I offered.

  Stampley shook his head again.

  "No, it was Swen Boehm. And you know who he is right?"

  I nodded.

  "The very same Ryszard or Richard Kucharski. Klee's grandfather."

  "Exactly, and I checked the serial number on Klee's Stradivarius and it matched the serial number that Kaufmann took down when Mueller was arrested."

  "I see, so what did you do with all that information?"

  "I threatened the asshole with it. At first he didn't believe me. But the Germans are disciplined and detailed, they kept great records. When I showed him the papers he begged me not to tell anyone."

  "But all you wanted was your violin position back right?"

  He nodded.

  "But Klee never gave it up."

  Stampley nodded some more and drank some tea.

  "Right, but he eventually paid me over a hundred grand to keep quiet over the next five years."

  "Then how come you had a change of mind six months ago."

  "It looked like Klee was getting too big for his britches. He was on TV selling one of his CDs and bragging about how good it was. He just kept pissing me off over the years and I'd finally had enough. So I sent it to the Israelis. I figured if Mueller still had any family, then they deserved the violin back."

  "Magnanimous of you."

  Stampley shot me a look. When it suited him, twenty years later he was feeling all big hearted about it.

  "What did you do with the money?" I asked.

  He looked at me like I was an idiot.

  "A hundred grand over five years. You know how easy that is to spend?"

  I shrugged.

  "I spent it all. I should have saved some for Sam, but I was young and bitter and didn't think I'd have any grandkids."

  I put out my cigarette and drank the rest of my tea. Seemed to me I knew everything I needed to know about this case now. The hard part was about getting justice. Maybe Klee got what he deserved, but I figured he got it for the wrong reasons. I knew Sonia wouldn't be satisfied if his killers weren't brought in for justice. But that took reach beyond my pay grade. I knew a couple of guys who might be able reach that far, and I was gonna pay them a visit later.

  "And the Israelis never got back to you about it?"

  Stampley shook his head. I drank the rest of my tea and put the empty mug on the coffee table.

  "No. All I got from them was a letter thanking me for taking the time to write to them. Didn't even acknowledge what it was about."

  "How did you get it to the Israelis?" I asked.

  "I just mailed it to the Israeli consulate here."

  I nodded.

  "And nobody got in touch with you? You've never heard from a woman called Christina Tedder?"

  Stampley shook his head.

  "Should I have?"

  I shrugged.

  "I guess not."

  I looked at him for a while and at the papers in my hand.

  "Can I get some copies of these?"

  "You can have them. They are copies. Not that I care anymore. The bastard is dead. Justice has been done."

  I got up to leave. I looked around the room but it didn't seem like a musician's room anymore.

  "You still play?"

  Stampley looked up at me.

  "The violin?"

  I nodded. He took another cigarette out of his pack and lit it. Then he looked up at me.

  "I quit when I retired some years back," he said.

  I nodded at him. My charm was wearing thin. My phone started to vibrate. It was my guy from the CIA. I was gonna take his call. I started to leave but hesitated a moment. Stampley made no effort to show me out. So I did it myself.

  I closed the door behind myself and walked down the steps and out onto the si
dewalk. I didn't look back and I didn't think he'd be looking after me either. I missed the call but decided to make another one for a cab. They weren't as plentiful around here as they were in the city.

  NINETEEN

  Chapter 19

  I phoned my guy back from the CIA and he gave me the information I had requested. It was as I'd suspected, and I was going to follow up on it as soon as I'd seen a couple of New York's finest.

  It was after three and I was taking a stroll in the park. I was on my way to see Simms and Cooper. I didn't think they'd had much luck with their investigation, but I wanted to find out what they knew. I figured I could give them a helping hand. Point them in the right direction as a concerned citizen.

  I was walking through the Great Lawn. Simms wasn't at the other end to meet me. I wasn't expecting him either. A few of the baseball diamonds were being played. One of them had bases loaded. I watched for a few minutes but no runs made it home. I was starting to think this case might not be a home run either.

  I told the uniform at the front desk of the Central Park Station who I was. He made a phone call and sent me on my way. I found Simms in his office by himself. I walked in and sat down as he looked up at me. He was filling out some paperwork.

  "Anthony, good to see you," he said.

  "Likewise."

  Though I didn't feel it. I was in a bad mood. Stampley seemed to have that effect on people. Or maybe it was the useless hitters not being able to get runs in with bases loaded. Could be I just hadn't slept enough. I couldn't even muster a smile.

  "Where's Cooper?" I asked.

  "He's gone to get coffee. Should be back in a couple of minutes."

  "Swell."

  Simms smiled at me.

  "He's getting you one too."

  "Swell," I said again.

  "You're not having a great day are you?"

  "I've had better."

  "Tell me about it?"

  So I did.

  "This case is a dog's breakfast. This murder is going to go down unsolved."

  "How so?"

  "Because you guys ain't got jurisdiction over the killers."

  "Is that so?" said a voice behind me.

  Simms looked up at him and I looked behind me. Cooper came in carrying a cardboard tray with three coffees in it. He handed them out like medals. I took a couple of creams and couple of sugars from a brown bag he put on Simms' table and stirred my coffee with a plastic straw.