Jimmy the Stick

by Michael Mayo

  “Nix. And it’s Connie.”

  Just what I needed, another Connie.

  Mrs. Conway set down my sandwich and went around to the trays. One of them held a single pink rose in a narrow vase. She lifted the metal warmer lid from the plate and made a tsk-tsk cluck. “She barely touched her supper. Whatever is the matter with that girl?”

  As she turned back to the sink, Oh Boy grabbed an untouched slice of devil’s food from the tray before Mears could get to it. I tucked into the sandwich, carefully keeping myself from bolting down the excellent eats. Even so, as I was finishing, Mrs. Conway sliced more bread and mutton and made a second.

  She poured tea for herself and sat at the table. “You know they’re saying that gangsters from the city committed that unspeakable act on the poor little Lindbergh baby.” Her eyes widened. “Or maybe it was that Purple Gang from Detroit or even Scarface Al Capone himself, ordering it from jail.”

  “I don’t know anything about the Purple Gang or Capone,” I told her, “but it wasn’t any of the mugs I know in New York.”

  “And how can you be so sure of that . . . if you’re not a gangster?” Her tone was sharp. Connie Nix, the maid, followed the conversation closely.

  “I used to be a bootlegger. Now I run a speak.” I saw the question in the younger woman’s eyes. “A speakeasy. It’s not a fancy nightclub or casino. It’s just a place where a guy can get a drink of good whiskey and feel comfortable bringing his girlfriend or his wife. Or even a girl can come in alone and nobody will say boo. A nice place.”

  Mrs. Conway sniffed even more disapprovingly. A woman alone in a bar, the very idea!

  “But I do know some of the guys you’re talking about, the guys you read about in the papers, ‘racketeers,’ ‘the underworld.’ And they wouldn’t do anything like that with a kid. They’ll bust each other and they’re not too careful about bystanders, adults who happen to be in the way. But they wouldn’t go after a baby. Bad for business.”

  Everybody knew what happened to guys who hurt kids.“And even if they were gonna do something so stupid, they wouldn’t come way the hell out here to do it, pardon my language.”

  “Is that so? Well, what do you think about this?” Mrs. Conway ruffled through a stack of newspapers.

  “‘Racketeer Murdered in Union City,’” she read aloud. “And over in Boonton, two men arrested on ‘statutory charges,’ and we know what those are, caught with two underage girls in a bungalow at the lake. Stanley Pawlikowski and Joseph Scerbo—Polacks no doubt, or worse. At least they didn’t name the poor little girls who’d been led astray.”

  “Those girls weren’t led too far astray,” said Connie Nix. “I read that story. They ran away from the North Jersey Training School. I don’t think they did anything they hadn’t done before.” She had a slight accent I couldn’t place.

  Mrs. Conway paid no attention to her. “And look at this: not one but three, mind you, three fires of mysterious origin in Cedar Knolls. And here, another gangster, Izzy Presser, murdered in a car owned by a woman lawyer. Imagine that! A woman lawyer—but then they were both Jews.” She rummaged through more papers. “That sort of thing happens near any big city. But here? When I read this last week, a chill went straight up my spine, it did. Just look.”

  She read aloud again: “‘Young Daughter Strangely Killed.’ That’s the headline.”

  She looked around to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “‘Three-Year-Old Girl Caught on Branch of Tree, Virtually Hanged. The unusual facts connected with the death of three-year-old Patricia Thomas Holmes, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Holmes, a prominent New York broker who resides at his country estate in Peapack, became known today. The little girl died on Wednesday.

  “‘According to the police, little Patricia, dressed from head to feet in a warm woolen suit, attempted to climb a tree. Her nurse, standing nearby, failed to notice the child’s actions. Suddenly a scream was heard as the horrified nurse saw the fearsome spectacle of the little girl hanging from a branch of the tree. A part of her suit had caught on the branch, tightening around her throat.

  “‘The inert body was immediately taken into the house but efforts to resuscitate the child proved in vain. She died a few minutes later.’”

  Mrs. Conway put down the paper and pointed at me like all of that had been my fault. “That’s the mad world we live in today. Don’t tell me a gangster from New York or Detroit might not come here to steal a child. We’ve been cursed ever since Miss Mandelina was taken from us.”

  The silence stretched out uncomfortably. Finally I said, “OK, I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t know Miss Mandelina.”

  Something moved at the edge of my vision. A cat, a thick-bodied brindle that had crept out of a wooden box against the wall, stretched and sat beside me, leaning against my leg. It stared with a hunter’s patience at the dark space beneath the stove. Mr. Mears poured more wine, keeping the bottle close this time.

  Mrs. Conway busied herself with another cup of tea. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Oh Boy said, “She was Flora’s sister.”

  The cook sat and silenced him with a sharp look. “Miss Mandelina was Flora’s older sister, and you have never seen two girls more devoted to each other. When they were younger, the darlings were inseparable. For those little girls every day was a new adventure, both being so active and curious. You’d have thought they were boys, they were so full of energy, chasing each other from one end of the house to the other. And they were simply mad for horses from the day they could walk.”

  The woman’s face fell, her tone darkened. “That was the problem. Horses. It’s five years ago this autumn that Miss Mandelina had her accident as she and Miss Flora were riding between here and East Hanover. We don’t know exactly what happened because no one saw it. I always suspected they were racing; it wouldn’t have been the first time. They were arguing with each other over racing at lunch. Miss Flora was ahead, I’d wager, when Miss Mandelina’s horse ran past her. Flora rode back and found Mandelina on the ground unconscious. She was an excellent rider but even excellent riders can fall. Miss Flora did the only thing she could, and dashed home for help.” She sniffed back a tear before she went on.

  “We were so afraid that the child had broken her neck or her spine, and then thankful when we learned that wasn’t so. But she was unconscious for three days, and the whole house was on a virtual death watch. Doctors came from New York, discussing concussion, shock, and then coma. That poor child just wouldn’t come around. And even when she finally opened her eyes, she was never the same. For the first year or so, she was unusually quiet and still. And then she seemed to get better, more like her old self. But then she became . . . erratic. She laughed at the wrong things at the wrong time. Or she’d burst into tears for no reason. And then came the anger, the rages when the least little thing could set her off. And finally the wild stories. She accused her own father of nightly attacks in the most horrible way. And then she claimed that Mr. Evans tried to force himself on her.”

  Oh Boy nodded. “Yeah, she said that Clark Gable, Babe Ruth, and Bing Crosby came into her room one night.”

  “I loved those girls,” Mrs. Conway muttered into her teacup, so low that almost no one heard. “I loved them more than their own mother.”

  “What happened to her?” Connie Nix asked.

  “More doctors, the poor dear.” Mrs. Conway paused, on the verge of tears. “Dementia praecox, they said. Completely untreatable. Incurable, too.

  “Dr. Cloninger worked with her more than any of the others did. He came here every day, trying different combinations of drugs, and finally took her to his sanatorium.”

  Oh Boy shivered. “He gives me the creeps.”

  He was interrupted by the chiming of a loud electric bell. I looked up at the source of the sound and noticed a grid of numbered squares sitting high on the wall. The light on the number three shone brightly.

  No one moved until Mrs. Conway tapped the
old man’s arm. Startled, he looked up from his wineglass. “Mr. Mears, it’s Mr. Spencer for you.” The old fellow stood, clearing his throat and pulling at his shirtfront before he shuffled out.

  Mrs. Conway looked at the clock by the bell grid and frowned. “It’s late for the master to ring. Oliver, did he say anything about going out tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Oh Boy said, and got up.

  “Then you’d best see that the big car is ready.”

  Another bell sounded and the number-two light came on, then a third bell with the number-one light.

  “Aye, that’s it then.” Mrs. Conway stood up too. “Nix, see to Mrs. Spencer and the baby. You, gunman, make yourself useful. Check on the baby.”

  The brindle cat stayed where it was.

  Back in the library, Catherine Pennyweight was on the telephone. She said, “Yes . . . Fine . . . I’ll take care of it,” and hung up.

  “There you are. Our pilot called about rough weather coming our way; he wants to leave as soon as possible.”

  Ten minutes later Oh Boy brought the Duesenberg around and loaded Spence’s leather bags into the trunk. Flora, in a fur-trimmed jacket, fussed over the baby that Connie Nix carried. She wore a light coat over her uniform but didn’t seem to mind the cold night air. Spence and his mother-in-law were in deep conversation. I sat in front with Oh Boy.

  We drove for twenty minutes along dark country roads. I thought we were going to Newark until we came out of the trees to an open, foggy field, with the road leading to a small collection of buildings and a runway lined with lights. Oh Boy steered past the first place to a tall hangar behind it. A large monoplane with three engines rolled out onto the tarmac. It had a shiny, squarish aluminum body beneath the wide wing. The nose pointed skyward but the belly was low, barely clearing the ground. Even idling, the sound of engines hammered the air. Three guys in Pennyweight Petroleum coveralls busied themselves around it. I stared in absolute wonderment. I’d never seen a plane that close on the ground before, and I had no idea they were so damn big. When I got out of the car, I could smell gasoline, exhaust fumes, and motor oil, and I felt the engines’ vibrations through the soles of my shoes.

  A Cadillac with New York plates was parked nearby. Oh Boy opened the back doors and the trunk of the Duesenberg and carried Spence’s bags to an open door in the side of the plane. Two men, who had to be lawyers in their expensive overcoats, got out of the Caddy and huddled with Spence before they climbed aboard. Another chauffeur lugged their bags. Spence returned to his car to embrace Flora. He briefly took his son from Connie Nix and kissed him.

  Then he grabbed my shoulder. “Keep my family safe, Jimmy. That’s all I ask.” He was yelling against the noise of the engines, and his voice sounded different. I saw that he blinked back tears before he turned and hurried to the plane.

  The big plane lumbered into the darkness at the far end of the runway so slowly I couldn’t believe it would ever leave the ground. But then the throb of the engines became much louder, and we watched as the glittering silvery thing turned around and rumbled back down the runway. The tail lifted slowly and the plane floated up into the night.

  I was about to get into the front seat of the Duesenberg again when Mrs. Pennyweight gestured for me to sit in the back. I took the jump seat beside a polished wooden cabinet, facing the three women and the little boy. Flora fished a cigarette out of her purse. For a moment she seemed to be waiting for me to offer a light. Then her mother pinched her arm and demanded, “Give.”

  Flora winced, handed over a smoke, and they both fired up. Connie Nix shifted farther into the corner.

  “Walter will be gone for at least five days, probably more. I believe that we’re safe enough during daylight in our home,” Mrs. Pennyweight told me.

  “But at night . . .”

  “Precisely.”

  “I’m used to night work. Flora, can you handle a gun?”

  Her eyes widened in alarm, and her mother shook her head.

  “Miss Nix?”

  She cut her eyes to Mrs. Pennyweight, who nodded.

  “Yes, a rifle. I’m not as familiar with pistols.”

  Mrs. Pennyweight said, “We have guns. Walter refurbished the shooting gallery.”

  I almost smiled. Of course. Spence would.

  Oh Boy stopped in front of the house. Flora and her mother got out first and Flora immediately let out a shriek so loud it hurt my ears. Connie Nix held the baby close and sat tight. I hustled out and saw what had Flora so upset. It was a ladder, a tall ladder leaning against the side of the house and reaching up to an open second-story window. A white curtain was fluttering through it. I guess I should have stayed there, but I told Oh Boy and Connie Nix to lock the doors, and then followed Mrs. Pennyweight into the house. Flora kept screaming.

  The older woman detoured into the library for the Purdey. I went straight upstairs. On the second floor I turned away from the hallway that led to my room and gimped to the balcony that overlooked the main room. There were more rooms on the other side. I thought that the closed door straight ahead led to the room with the open window. I had the little Mauser in my mitt when I threw open the door. It was dark and something smelled god-awful bad. Mrs. Pennyweight shoved me aside and hit the light switch.

  In that first second when the light came on, I saw all the blood and what I thought was a dead baby. Gorge rose in my throat and I fought it back. The room was a nursery with a bed and an open cabinet with stacks of diapers, blankets, baby clothes, and more cardboard boxes of the baby food I’d seen in the kitchen. There was a waist-high table next to the open window. Sticky blackish red blood had soaked through a white blanket on the table and pooled on the floor beneath it. It also covered a doll, a headless doll that was pinned to the table with a knife through its belly. Bloody handprints were smeared on the wall, the windowsill, and the gauzy curtain.

  Even across the room, I could see that the knife was a cheap piece of work with a fake mother-of-pearl handle. It folded down to about five inches long, easy to hide and easy to throw away. Just about every cheap mug who couldn’t afford a piece carried something like it. At one time, so had I.

  The doll and the blood and the slaughterhouse smell got to Mrs. Pennyweight the same way they got to me. I heard her sharp gasp when she saw it too. She recovered quickly and her expression settled into a hard, angry frown.

  Sheriff Kittner and Deputy Parker showed up a few minutes after she called them. We were waiting outside. The sheriff looked like he’d been rousted from his bed or a barstool. He was boozy and bleary in a rumpled blue suit. Parker was still in his spiffy uniform. The sheriff wandered around with a flashlight at the foot of the ladder, pointing out things to Parker. Mrs. Pennyweight and I got bored watching them and went inside for a drink.

  The lawmen found us in the library later.

  The sheriff cleared his throat and held his hat in his hands as he made his report. By then he’d pulled himself together and tried to sound like he knew exactly what he was talking about. “I make out two sets of footprints outside. One of them goes out into the woods. The way I see it, they abandoned the ladder and took off when they saw your car approaching. They went down the service road around back to the driveway. There are fresh tire tracks there and we found something—a bloody steel pail.

  “We talked to the staff. They were downstairs and didn’t hear anything. According to Mrs. Conway, the doll isn’t one of the boy’s toys, and Dietz says the ladder doesn’t belong here either.

  “Now, you say that you were gone for an hour. Where were you—”

  “That’s right, about an hour,” Catherine Pennyweight said before he could go on, and he knew not to ask where she’d been.

  Deputy Parker took over, sounding embarrassed and unsure. “Mrs. Pennyweight, I’ve taken a look at the pail we found and I’m pretty sure it came from Bartham’s Butcher Shop. He uses it for slop.”

  She gave him a sharp look.

  “I hear talk in town,” he continued.
“Some of the merchants are unhappy. Well, they’re more than unhappy, some of them, about payment. When they’ve had enough to drink, they talk about coming out here and getting what they’re owed. Have any of them bothered you?”

  She stared hard at both of them, letting them stew for a long moment before she snapped back, “I will not hear this kind of talk in my own home. Yes, it is true that the household finances have been a bit disorganized since my husband’s death, but everyone knows that the Pennyweights pay their bills. We have been the best customers that many of these men have ever had and if they are displeased in any way, I will be happy to take my business elsewhere. But I refuse to believe that any of them would do something this vicious, particularly Mr. Bartham.”

  The sheriff said, “We’ll see what the state police think.”

  “No,” she interrupted. “I will not have them trampling around my property. That’s simply out of the question.”

  “But Mrs. Pennyweight,” the sheriff protested, “we have to let them know about this. It’s part of the Lindbergh investigation, I’m certain.”

  “No,” she repeated, more firmly. By then, she’d lost patience with the man. “There’s nothing more to be done here tonight. You may go now.”

  They left.

  So, what did it mean? The first moment when I’d seen that damn doll and thought it was a real baby still churned my stomach. I didn’t believe that the Lindbergh kidnappers had come out to Spence’s place to steal little Ethan. Maybe, I thought, the deputy was right and somebody had bloodied up the room and the doll to scare Mrs. Pennyweight. But if that were so, all he’d done was make her really mad. Seemed more likely to me that it was just a threat, a damn nasty threat that I had to take seriously. But who’d done it and why?

  For the moment, I didn’t really care. I went downstairs to the kitchen, where I found Mr. Mears and asked him to take me around and show me all of the doors that gave access to the house.