by Bill Bernico
I stood at the curb wondering about the connection between Mrs. Kilgore and Harry Marcheske. It was more than a coincidence that her picture showed up in Harry’s wallet. I decided that now might be the time to talk to Nancy Marcheske. Maybe she knew more than she was letting on and I had to find out for myself.
I stood there for a minute or two before I was able to flag down a cab. The cab pulled over to the curb and I opened the rear door, sliding in behind the driver. “Take me to…” I started to say but forgot the address I needed. I pulled out my note pad and flipped through several pages before I finished my order. “6059 Camerford Avenue in Hollywood.”
“Sure thing, pal,” the cabby replied, lowering the flag and pulling away from the curb.
I placed the note pad back into my pocket and sat there, staring out at the rows of houses as they whizzed by. I was still half daydreaming when I heard the driver say, “Well, is this it, or ain’t it?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “This’ll be fine, thanks. How much do I owe you?”
“Two-twenty,” the cabby said with his hand outstretched.
I peeled off two singles and fumbled around in my pants pocket before producing a quarter. “Sorry, but the only other thing I got is a twenty. I’ll catch you next time,” I said, closing the rear door and turning away from the cab.
I could hear the obvious screech of an annoyed cabby behind me as the cab left, but I was too preoccupied to care. I walked up the sidewalk and up onto the cement stoop. Collecting my thoughts for a moment, I rang the doorbell and stood there with my hat in my hand.
After a while, the door opened and a woman appeared. She looked like she hadn’t had enough sleep and wearily said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Marcheske?” I said. “My name is Matthew Cooper. I’m a private investigator looking into your husband’s death.” I produced my billfold and identification card, holding it up so that the woman could see it. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Wasn’t it your office where they found Harry?” The woman asked, her eyebrows turned upward in the center.
“Yes, it was, ma’am,” I said. “I’m sorry about your husband, but if I could just come in for a minute, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, if that’s all right with you.”
“Oh my, I’m sorry,” she said. “Come in. Let me take your hat. Please, sit down, won’t you?” Nancy Marcheske extended her hand toward me and took my hat, hanging it on a hook near the door. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee, maybe?”
“No thank you, Mrs. Marcheske,” I said. “I won’t be long. I just have a few questions and then I’ll be on my way. Tell me, have you seen the note that Harry was supposed to have left to make it look like a suicide?”
“To look like a suicide?” she said. “You mean it wasn’t? What happened to Harry?” The woman’s voice cracked with anticipation as she leaned closer to me.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Marcheske,” I said. “I thought the police had told you already. Forgive me for being so blunt, but I have every reason to believe that Harry was murdered.” I grabbed Mrs. Marcheske’s hands and held them as she wept.
“Mrs. Marcheske, I have reason to believe that Harry was killed by a fellow named Willy Cornelius, who worked for Nate Kilgore. Would you have any idea why Mr. Kilgore would want to harm your husband?”
“Why, no,” she said. “In fact Mr. Kilgore had his business right next door to our dry-cleaning shop. I always thought they got along pretty well. Why would Mr. Kilgore want to kill Harry?” she asked, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.
“I’m not exactly certain,” I said, “But I came upon a lease to Kilgore’s building. Did you know that Harry owned the building where Nate Kilgore did his business, and that he was leasing it to Kilgore all these years?”
“Yes. I knew that Mr. Kilgore rented from Harry.” She said. “But what does that have to do with Harry’s death? I never knew of any lease. Where is this lease?”
“I left it back at my office,” I said. “Apparently no one else knew about it, either, and Kilgore wanted to make sure they didn’t.”
“What was so important about that lease, anyway?” She asked, half wiping the tears from her eyes.
“I don’t have all the details yet,” I said. But I did stumble upon a few things that didn’t quite make sense. I rose from the sofa and walked over to the hat rack. I retrieved my hat and returned to the couch. I pulled the photo out of my hat rim, “Have you ever seen this woman before,” I asked, holding the photo up for her inspection.
“Who is she?” she said. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it in Harry’s wallet the night he died. The woman in the picture is Nate Kilgore’s wife.” I saw the puzzled look on Mrs. Marcheske’s face as she tried to make sense of it all.
“Are you saying that Harry knew this woman?” she said. “Are you insinuating that my husband and Mr. Kilgore’s wife had some sort of relationship?” The tears returned to her eyes as she threw the photo down and stood up, turning her back to me.
I rose and grabbed the woman by the elbows, half hugging her. “Mrs. Marcheske, at this point I don’t know what to think. For all I know the picture might have been planted on Harry to throw the police off. Give me a little time and I think I’ll be able to sort out a few of these questions.”
“Would you please leave, now, Mr. Cooper?” she said. “I think I’ve said about all I care to say to you.” Mrs. Marcheske rose and walked to the front door, holding it open for me.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “I’ll be in touch if I hear anything else. And again, I’m sorry about Harry. I’m sure he was a fine man.” I couldn’t think of anything more to add to what was already said and scooped up the picture from the floor before I walked toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Marcheske.”
This was the part of the job I always hated. Ruffling the feathers of the victim’s wife made me uneasy and I usually tried to avoid making a call like this one. “Maybe I’d better get over to Rudy’s and see how they’re coming with my car,” I thought and walked toward the corner, hoping to flag another cab.
I stepped out of the cab at the corner of Highland and Melrose and walked across the blacktop surface of Rudy’s Body Shop. As I approached the garage, I could see the overhead door standing wide open but saw no sign of Rudy. I carefully stepped over and around the car parts that were strewn everywhere on the floor and made my way around the ‘39 Chevrolet which was situated in the middle of the space. From there I could see a pair of legs protruding from beneath the chassis of the sedan. The feet waved back and forth, rhythmically following the beat to the song that blasted from the car radio.
“Rudy? Is that you?” I asked, crouching down to get a better look.
“Hey, Matt, how you been?” Rudy replied as he slid out from under the vehicle and stood up to greet his old pal.
Rudolfo Maguera was a Mexican-American who loved to tinker with anything automotive, and my Olds always gave him a challenge. I’d met him last year at a used luxury car lot called “Playing The Rolls.” It seemed I was always bringing the car in for something that never seemed to work right.
Rudolfo, or Rudy, as I had come to know him over the past couple of years, was forty years old with a thin, black mustache perched on his upper lip. Rudy had a slim build. He stood just over five feet tall and tipped the scales at one hundred seventeen pounds. I always kidded him about the seventeen pounds part. I liked to tell Rudy that he’d be an even hundred if he’d only take a bath. Neatness was never one of Rudy’s strong points, but he knew his cars and that’s all I cared about at the moment.
“They towed your car in earlier today,” Rudy said. “I got it around back. What’d you do to that car?” Rudy stood up and held his hand out to me.
I automatically grabbed the brown palm and shook it vigorously. “Never mind, Rudy, how soon can I have it?” I said, wiping my right palm with my handkerchief and returning the cloth to my pants pocket.
“Oh, I think I can have it fixed in about a week or two,” Rudy said. “You know, Mr. Cooper, maybe you ought to trade it on another model. Something easier to fix, maybe, like a Dodge or a Cheby,” he said pointing at the ‘39 he was just working on.
“No thanks, Rudy,” I said. “I don’t need a Cheby, er, I mean Chevy. I like my Olds. Just fix it, okay?”
Rudy hesitantly nodded agreement and I continued. “Rudy, I’m going to need some wheels while mine is tied up. You got something I can borrow until then?”
“Let me see,” he said. “I think you could use the Ford for a while.” Rudy dug into his pants pocket and produced a single key on a chain and held it out to me. I reached for the key but Rudy quickly withdrew his arm and finished his sentence. “If you don’t let it end up like your car.”
“I’ll treat it like it was my own,” I responded but quickly retracted when I saw the look on Rudy’s face. “That is, I’ll treat it like it was your car,” I added, snatching the key from between Rudy’s thumb and forefinger. “Thanks, Rudy. Gimme a call when mine is done, will ya?”
As Rudy stood there shaking his head, I quickly found the Ford and was gone, not taking any chances on Rudy changing his mind. Rudy lay back down on the creeper and slid back under the Chevy and continued to tinker.
I drove along Melrose Avenue feeling liberated from the dependency I had begun to feel for cab drivers. It was getting dark and I was hungry but my curiosity got the better of me and I headed back toward Nate Kilgore’s building.
I drove past the front of the building but didn’t stop. I decided that discretion was the best bet at this point and drove around back. I was no sooner out of the car than I heard that ol’ familiar voice. “Mr. Cooper. Pssst! Over here.” It was Stanley Duncan.
“Stanley, what are you doing here?” I said. “And why are you whispering?”
“I think I have something for you,” Stanley began to say. I interrupted him.
“Hey, that was a good job you did on my place. Thanks,” I said referring to the thorough cleaning Stanley had given my house.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Mr. Cooper,” He said. Stanley dug into his pocket and retrieved my key. He handed me back my key before he produced his note pad and began reading. “I straightened everything out, like you asked and made notes as I went. Boy, someone really turned that place upside down, didn’t they?”
Without taking my eyes off that note pad, I answered, “Huh? Oh yeah. I guess so. Anyway, what’d you find?”
“Well,” Stanley said, “After I got everything back in its place I found this in the bedroom.” He returned to his pocket once more and produced a book of matches and held it out to me.
I took the matchbook and examined it. “So what? They’re probably mine. I do smoke, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, “But look at the name on the front. These are from The Crystal Room at the Hotel Montigue—in San Francisco. Ever been there?”
I examined the item closer. “No, come to think of it, I haven’t,” I said. “And now that you mention it, look at the matches. They’ve been pulled out from the left side. Whoever dropped these is left-handed.”
“Right.” The kid agreed and proceeded with his recitation, but not before writing my ‘left-handed’ remark in his notebook. Flipping the page in his note pad, he continued. “Also, I came across this.” He opened his clenched fist and displayed a woman’s earring. It was an unusual earring. It was a bright silver ball with three silver link tassels hanging down. Stanley looked at me and waited for an explanation.
I hesitated, and then blurted out, “Well, don’t look at me. I don’t wear that kind of stuff.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you, Mr. Cooper,” he said, “But maybe a lady friend of yours might have dropped it while…” Embarrassed, Stanley didn’t finish his sentence.
“Nope,” I said. “I haven’t had company over for months. Besides, I had the place cleaned just two weeks ago.
“What’s our next move?” Stanley asked, eagerly awaiting his next assignment.
“I have something I have to do,” I said. “But you could do me a big favor,” I said.
“Sure, what is it, Mr. Cooper?” Stanley stood there poised, ready to take notes if necessary.
“Here,” I said. “Take my key and go over to my office. It’s just two blocks from here at...”
“I know where it is,” Stanley said. “What do you want me to get for you?”
“Nothing. Just wait there. I’m expecting an important call from a Sergeant Hollister.” I watched as Stanley jotted this down in his note pad. “When he calls, tell him I’m on a hot lead and to meet me in my office in one hour. Got all that?”
“One hour,” Stanley repeated, writing it down and returning the book to his pocket. “Got it.”
Stanley quickly ran down the alley toward my office as I returned to the Ford I’d just parked. I smiled a smug smile at the thought of tricking Stanley out of my way once again. I climbed behind the wheel and sped away down the alley. Remembering the lease I’d left above my visor, I hurried back to Rudy’s body shop.
The overhead door was still up and Rudy’s legs still protruded from beneath the ‘39 Chevy. The radio was blaring out a Mexican music station and Rudy obviously could not hear me approaching even as I yelled out Rudy’s name. I reached for the radio and turned the station off.
“Rudy,” I yelled. “Rudy, it’s Matt. I just came back for something out of my car.” There was no response from the man under the car. I opened the door of my Olds and pulled the visor down. The lease was not there. I leaned in further and pulled down the passenger side visor. Not there either. I rifled through the glove box. Still no lease. I backed out of the car, stood upright and turned my attentions back to Rudy.
“Rudy,” I said. “I left something in here. Have you seen anyone near my car lately?” There was still no answer. Just a pair of legs sticking out from under the car. I walked over to the Chevy and lightly kicked Rudy’s shoe. “Come on out, Rudy. I need to talk to you.”
Rudy still didn’t answer. I grabbed Rudy by the ankles and pulled hard. The creeper glided out from under the car. I quickly stood erect and jumped back at the sight of Rudy lying there on the creeper, his throat slit from ear to ear.
“Oh Jesus, Rudy. Jesus Christ! What the hell happened?” The words were out of my mouth before I realized that Rudy would not answer. Rudy’s brown eyes were fixed open with a terrified look in them. I removed my hat and wiped my forehead with my handkerchief. I shook nervously at the sight of my friend lying there dead. I winced and bent over him, closing Rudy’s eyes with a single sweeping action of my hand.
I half walked, half ran to Rudy’s office and grabbed the phone. I dialed the precinct house and asked for Hollister.
“Hollister,” I said. “It’s Matt. Listen, I’m at Rudy’s Body Shop. Rudy’s dead.”
“Cooper,” Hollister yelled back into the phone, “What is it with you? Everywhere you go, people wind up dead.”
“Shut and listen for a change,” I said. “I think I have this thing just about pieced together. Ya gotta trust me on this one. I gotta go someplace right now. I can’t wait around for you, but get your guys over here right away.”
“Cooper,” Dan yelled. “You stay put ‘til we get there. You hear me?”
It was too late. I had already hung up the phone and was gone. I climbed back into Rudy’s Ford and headed back to Kilgore’s office building. I parked once again in the alley behind the building.
I grabbed Rudy’s flashlight from the glove box and walked to the alley. I silently slipped between the buildings and quickly found the odd sized window again. Giving a slow, steady push, the window swung open again and I lowered myself down into the bathroom.
Switching on the flashlight, I quietly stepped over to the bathroom door, peeked out and went on to the apple cellar. I gave the string a pull and the small room lit up. I closed the door to the space and found the hole once more.
Dropping to my knees with my flashlight, I crawled back to the spot where I had dropped the hatchet. The crawl space was silent now. The Dennison Company workers had all gone home for the day.
I propped the flashlight up toward the spot where I’d been scraping. I picked up the hatchet and continued to scrape away at the dirt, revealing mortar and brick. A few minutes of scrapping revealed a patch of brick wall about three feet wide by three feet tall.
Without missing a beat, I turned the edge of the axe toward the mortar and began scratching up and down. The building was old and the underground section was damp. The mortar gave way with little resistance. I scratched and scraped for another few minutes before I turned the axe on its side and tried to pry at one of the bricks. It wiggled back and forth before I pulled it toward me.
When the brick was protruding out an inch or so, I dropped the axe and grabbed the edge of the brick with both hands and pulled. It yielded easily, revealing a small, rectangular hole into the next compartment.
I picked up the flashlight and peered into the hole. It was a vast empty space about four feet high and the length of the adjoining building. I could see water pipes, wooden posts and cobwebs but not much of anything else. Replacing the flashlight on its perch, I retrieved the hatchet and scraped away at the next brick. It loosened easier than the last and I pulled it out and threw it on the dirt floor of the tunnel.
The next dozen bricks popped out easily as I discarded them on the pile I’d started. After a few minutes of scraping, scratching, prying and pulling, I had an opening large enough to pass through. With flashlight in hand, I stuck one leg into the new hole and followed it with the rest of my body.
On the other side, I kneeled, looking up at the beams and trusses of the overhead floor. This utility crawl space was to be Nate Kilgore’s entry into the Dennison Company’s office. Unfortunately all his hard work of digging the tunnel was for nothing. Nate didn’t live to reap the rewards.
