The Miser's Dream

by John Gaspard

  Chapter 4

  “The Minneapolis Homicide Division does not take offers or make deals.”

  “No, but the Minneapolis District Attorney’s office does, so shut up and let him talk.”

  After combing through City Hall, I had finally come across Homicide Detective Fred Hutton and Assistant District Attorney Deirdre Sutton-Hutton in the midst of eating their lunch in the building’s cafeteria. After the kind of playful banter you’d expect one to exchange with one’s ex-wife and her new husband, I explained the reason for my visit.

  “Wait, who is this Mr. Lime?” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton asked, holding up a hand to bring the conversation to a dead stop and turn it in a direction more to his liking. “And why should we listen to him?”

  “You remember, his name came up earlier this year during the Dylan Lasalle murder investigation,” Deirdre explained, and then turned back to me. “We couldn’t find a trace of the man during that investigation, Eli. He was vapor. And yet you say he called you again out of the blue?”

  I shook my head. “No. Just like he did last time, Mr. Lime posed as a potential client, called my agent and booked me to perform at what turned out to be a bogus event. A kid’s birthday party, no less.”

  “You hate doing birthday parties,” Deirdre said, sounding almost sympathetic.

  “They are the worst. But work is work,” I replied. “Like Harry always says, follow the money.”

  Before we could continue this discussion on the microeconomics of being a working magician, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton jumped in. “And this guy claims to know who killed the projectionist, Tyler James?”

  I shook my head again. “No, but he does have a theory as to why he was killed, which I understand is more than you folks currently have.”

  “The Homicide Division is pursuing several important leads,” he said with great diplomacy.

  “In other words, you have nothing,” I translated. He just stared at me, so I turned to Deirdre. She nodded.

  “Let me tell you what he told me, and then I’ll lay out his offer,” I said. I gestured toward their uneaten food. “You may want to eat while I talk. I’d hate to see your food get cold.”

  “We’re eating cold sandwiches,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton said dryly.

  “Well, then I’d hate for them to get warm,” I shot back. “Anyway, Mr. Lime said Tyler James has made a good living for years as a movie memorabilia broker.”

  Deirdre, who had just taken a bite from her sandwich, raised an eyebrow and reached for a napkin. I held up my hand and began to elaborate.

  “You see, as a broker, Tyler acted as a middleman. If you were looking to buy an expensive, original movie poster or you had a rare film print to sell, Tyler would handle the deal. If you were selling, he’d find a buyer. If you were buying, he’d find a seller. However,” I added, “Tyler also offered services which other brokers avoided.”

  Deirdre was still chewing, so she gave me a shoulder shrug, gesturing that I should continue. Homicide Detective Fred Hutton just stared at me in his patented bovine manner, chewing slowly and methodically.

  “The first was that Tyler was more than happy to look the other way if the piece he was brokering was warm or perhaps even hot. He didn’t seem to mind who the rightful owner was, only how much commission he could make on the sale.

  “The other service he offered,” I continued, “was he was willing to work anonymously. The buyer didn’t need to know who the seller was and vice versa. In some instances, even Tyler didn’t know who he was dealing with.”

  Deirdre had finally finished chewing. “How did that work?”

  “Bogus email accounts. Cash drops. Wiring money to and from offshore accounts.”

  “And Mr. Lime thinks this was a deal gone bad?”

  I nodded and then eyed Deirdre’s potato chips, suddenly remembering breakfast had been a long time ago. She pushed the plate in my direction and I grabbed a couple chips and quickly scarfed them down.

  “Perhaps Tyler was completing a deal in the projection booth with a customer,” she began to theorize. “Something went south and the killer shot Tyler and left him to die in the booth.”

  Her husband was shaking his head slowly from side to side as she spoke. “Doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “The killer left empty-handed, leaving the money on the table and the gun on the floor.”

  “And somehow locked the door from the inside on his or her way out,” Deirdre added.

  “That’s just the thing,” I said, taking the opportunity to grab more potato chips. “Mr. Lime doesn’t think the killer left empty-handed.” I glanced at the pickle slice on her plate and then up at Deirdre. She gave me the nod, and I didn’t need to be told twice.

  “Remember those two empty film canisters next to the weight bench?” They both nodded at me. “If the film which was in those canisters is the one Mr. Lime thinks it was, the killer left with something very valuable indeed.”

  “What does he think was in there?” Deirdre asked.

  “Oh, only the most famous lost movie of all time.”

  * * *

  “It doesn’t look all that amazing.”

  “I didn’t say it was amazing, I said it was famous. And lost. And therefore valuable.”

  At my behest, we had moved our impromptu meeting up to Deirdre’s office, where I availed myself of her computer and the internet. Moments later I was clicking through a series of still photos from the classic 1927 silent movie, London After Midnight.

  “It is generally believed the last surviving print of this Lon Chaney movie had been destroyed in a fire around 1967,” I explained, as I pointed out the Man of A Thousand Faces in one of his least seen yet most iconic performances.

  Wearing a black top hat and a coat which seemed to open like a pair of wiry bat wings, Chaney peered back at us from the computer screen. Long, stringy hair flowed from under the hat and his eyes were deep rimmed, wide and bulging.

  But the standout feature—the primary reason the image possessed its haunting quality—was his broad, wicked smile and his teeth, each of which appeared to have been sharpened to a razor point.

  “Okay, but if the last surviving print of the movie was destroyed in a fire,” Deirdre said, “then what was Tyler selling?”

  I turned away from the computer and looked up at her. It was odd to be sitting at her desk, but no odder than laying out the terms of a deal from a wispy ghoul like Mr. Lime to my ex-wife and her cop husband. I pressed on.

  “Apparently, there’s been a rumor floating around for years that a German film collector had a copy, which was seized—along with all his other assets—by the Nazis during the war. Somehow the film print made it to Switzerland, where it was purchased by a buyer on the black market. He sold it to someone who sold it to someone else, who sold it to someone else.”

  “Then it’s not really a lost film if this copy exists,” Deirdre began, but I cut her off.

  “That was exactly my point to Mr. Lime. But it was stolen by the Nazis and should, by all rights, be returned to the original owner’s family in Germany. Whoever has it now can own it but can never admit to owning it.”

  “It’s stolen property,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s right,” I said. “They can’t claim ownership, they can’t screen it publicly, they really can’t get any of the benefits of owning the only print of the most famous lost movie of all time.”

  “Except the satisfaction of owning it,” Deirdre offered.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “But is it worth killing for?”

  “Apparently it was to someone.”

  “Here’s Mr. Lime’s offer,” I began.

  We had all shifted positions in Deirdre’s office. I was now seated in one of the two chairs in front of her desk. She was in her rightful place beh
ind the desk, while her husband had taken up a bored position, leaning against a windowsill.

  Deirdre had a dish of hard candies on her desk. The earlier pickle and potato chip combo had not sated my appetite but instead intensified it. I considered pulling one or two candies from the dish, but they’d been in that bowl as long as I’d known Deirdre. I suspected if I attempted to pluck one out, I would instead pull out the entire sticky messy mass.

  “Because of his familiarity with the world of local black market movie memorabilia,” I said, “Mr. Lime believes there are four likely suspects in this case.”

  “Including him?” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton muttered under his breath from his sullen position across the room.

  “He insists he was not involved in this transaction in any way, and I for one am inclined to believe him.”

  “Why?” Deirdre had noticed my longing look at the candy dish. She reached into her desk drawer, produced a granola bar and tossed it my way, as if mollifying a cranky toddler. I gratefully grabbed it out of the air.

  “For one, I don’t believe he’s ever lied to me in the past.” This produced a derisive grunt from Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. I acknowledged it and continued. “The other reason is, why? Why would he pull himself into this investigation if he were involved in some way?”

  “Because maybe he’s insane?” Deirdre suggested.

  “Oh, there’s no question he’s crazy. But he certainly isn’t stupid. And his offer is so…benign, I guess would be the word,” I said, trying to best capture the nature of his request. “It’s so benign that, in the long run, I don’t see how it can hurt. And if nothing else, it will give you four names to look into, which I understand are four more than you currently have.”

  Deirdre leaned back in her chair thoughtfully, then turned and looked at her husband across the room.

  Their silence said volumes.

  He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod and she pivoted her chair back in my direction.

  “Okay, what’s the offer?”

  “The way he laid it out to me, it’s simplicity itself. He said, ‘Tell Woodward and Bernstein…’” I stopped and looked at their blank faces, realizing I had left out a key piece of information. “I should explain. Mr. Lime is big on movie-themed nicknames for people. He calls his mute assistant Harpo, he calls me Mandrake. He calls you two Woodward and Bernstein.”

  Deirdre gave me a long look. “Why?”

  “Because you’re investigating this, so in his mind you’re Woodward and Bernstein from All the President’s Men. Trust me, I lobbied hard for Nick and Nora Charles from the Thin Man movies, but he was adamant.” I looked at both of them and the puzzled looks I got in return told me it was time to move on.

  “Anyway, after he gives you the suspects’ names and you interview the four people, he wants you to allow me to talk to them as well. After you’re all done.”

  “He wants you to talk to them after we talk to them?” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton spat out the words. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why he keeps picking me. He says he likes my perceptions.”

  “And that’s it? He gives us the names, we give you access?” Deirdre’s tone told me she was highly suspicious of the simplicity of the deal.

  “That’s it.”

  “Why?” she said, repeating her husband’s previous question while dragging the word out to several syllables.

  “I don’t know. Something about this whole thing is sticking in his craw,” I said, not really certain the rail-thin old monster actually even had a craw.

  “Okay,” Deirdre sighed, leaning back in her chair. “What’s the next step?”

  I smiled. “Do you still have that big flowerpot out on your balcony?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes. I still have the flowerpot. It’s covered in snow, but I have it.”

  “If you agree with these terms, you need to put a flag in it.”

  “A flag?”

  “Yeah. Nothing elaborate. A stick with a handkerchief on it will work fine.”

  “Why?” I had to give Deirdre credit. She continually found new and curious ways to draw the word out.

  “Because that’s how Woodward, or was it Bernstein?” This stumped me for a second. “I think it was Woodward. Whatever. That’s how Woodward communicated with Deep Throat in All the President’s Men.”

  She gave me a long, penetrating look. “I put a small flag in the flowerpot on my balcony and he’ll give us the four names?”

  I nodded. “What could be simpler than that?”

  Her response was typically short, sweet and utterly obscene.

  Chapter 5

  “How much of your life do you think you’ve spent shuffling cards?”

  The question was a good one, though hardly original. It had come up numerous times over the years at the back table of Adrian’s, where the remaining Minneapolis Mystics spent much of their days chewing the fat and the occasional burger.

  It’s not the sort of question you’d expect from a card man or even a coin man, but in this case it came from a ventriloquist. Consequently, it was greeted with the same degree of patience and tolerance one would grant to a dog who suddenly spoke English but not very well.

  I had taken a temporary seat at the table, awaiting Megan’s arrival for a dinner date. She works down the block at the store she owns and runs, Chi & Things, and since Adrian’s is situated between her shop and Uncle Harry’s, it has become a frequent post-work hangout for dinners that often extend well into the evening.

  “I can’t begin to fathom how many times I’ve shuffled a deck of cards,” my uncle Harry said as he began to answer the question posed by Gene Westlake.

  As a ventriloquist, Gene was not considered to be a core member of the Mystics, which counted among its number mentalists, magicians, coin men and card sharks. Others who dabbled in the variety arts—jugglers, clowns, and other “circus geek acts” as the Mystics called them—were not generally offered membership to the exclusive group. But Gene’s skill as a ventriloquist was just this side of magical, and he was also a terrible poker player who bet high and often, so he was ultimately if grudgingly welcomed into the group.

  “But consider this, if you will,” Harry continued, as he warmed up to the topic. In addition to Gene, two other Mystics were currently in attendance and both turned to listen as Harry launched into a mini-lecture. “When you shuffle a deck of cards, you change the order of those cards.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” This came from Abe Ackerman, who sat directly across from Harry.

  “Yes, but did you know this: Every time you shuffle the deck, they obviously can land in any order. How many different orders do you think they can end up in?”

  Abe grunted and glared back at Harry. “What am I? A mind reader?” The question was particularly ironic, as Abe had made his living—and it had been a good one in his day—as a mentalist in the Kreskin mold.

  Coin man Sam Esbjornson stopped rolling quarters across the backs of his fingers, set the coins gently on the table and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see, there are fifty-two cards, so there are fifty-two possible orders, times fifty-two for each card…”

  His voice trailed off. Harry looked to Gene Westlake, who shrugged. Gene glanced down at the small suitcase which sat on the floor next to him. “Any ideas, Kenny?”

  “Hell if I know,” came a muffled voice from inside the case. “Next, ask me if I care.”

  “The number of possible sequences for the cards is a big, big figure,” Harry said to the group, pointedly ignoring the remark from the suitcase. “In point of fact, it’s the number eight, followed by sixty-seven zeroes. To put it in perspective for you,” he continued, picking up cards off the table and quickly shuffling the deck, “it is not only possible but highly likely that the order I just put thi
s deck in—via this single shuffle—is an order that has never occurred before and might never happen again.”

  He fanned the cards dramatically, showing the faces of the cards.

  “So, in short, you’re saying you’ve shuffled a lot of cards,” Gene Westlake finally said, bringing something resembling closure to the topic.

  It was circular conversations such as these that had driven my late aunt Alice to dub the group The Artful Codgers. Given their average age and temperaments, this was an apt description of the old coots. My interest in the conversation was momentarily derailed by the arrival of Megan, which for me is generally a happy occurrence. However, in this instance it was less so, as she entered the bar with none other than the dreaded Quinton Moon practically hanging on her arm.

  “Look who I found wandering around outside.” Megan was bubblier than I would have liked.

  Quinton chuckled good-naturedly. “When Harry proffered his invitation to stop by, I misheard the name of the pub and thought I was looking for an establishment called Hadrian’s,” he explained to the table. “Not sure exactly what I was looking for. Perhaps the Pantheon and some chaps decked out in Roman togas, I suspect.”

  “Hadrian was a Roman Emperor,” Megan said to me in a terrible stage whisper.

  “I know that,” I lied.

  “I’m glad you finally found us,” Harry said, getting up and extending a hand.

  “Couldn’t have accomplished it without the help of this fetching lass,” Quinton replied, taking Harry’s hand firmly.

  “Let me make introductions all around,” Harry continued, mercifully pulling Quinton away from Megan’s grasp. I stood up and stepped back while Harry played the good host and Quinton the delighted guest, repeating each name as it was presented and smiling warmly at every greeting.

  “And of course you know Eli and Megan,” Harry concluded. Quinton removed his black, broad-brimmed hat and gave a deep bow to Megan and then extended a hand to me.