The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  Our breath made white puffs in the crisp morning air and Tucker, in his dark brown hat and dashing caramel-colored overcoat, turned to me saying, “Say, how was your trip to your house in Michigan?”

  “Oooohhhhh . . .” I said with an indecisive sigh.

  “That good, huh?” he quipped.

  “Let’s just say, it’s complicated. It wasn’t that great of an experience, but it’s all right.”

  “That’s a shame. Do you think you’ll go back anytime soon?” He looked at me, studying and searching my face.

  “I don’t know,” I said noncommittally. As I had been thinking of going back to Rochester the past few days, I started to get excited all over again. But then . . . there was a tiny, black, ugly crumb of something. Fear maybe?

  “Hmm . . . Well, I go back there frequently, let me know if you need anything. I always stay at the Statler. You can leave a message there anytime at all. Really, Lane. Just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Tucker. I’ll do that. All right, here I am,” I said as I came to the bottom steps of City Hall. “It was good running into you. Take care!”

  “You too, Lane!” he exclaimed with a wave as he made his way past me.

  * * *

  After a long day at work, trying to focus on my job, but having trouble doing so, I was just about to pack up and head home.

  “Lane, you need to hear this,” yelled Fiorello from his office. I rolled my eyes. I popped up from my desk so many times a day, sometimes my thighs hurt as if I’d been doing squats at the local gym.

  “Yeah, chief?” I asked, taking a quick look back at my chair, wondering if I should bring it in. I’d hoped to have a night to relax but that looked uncertain now.

  Fio was at the police radio and he was patting it like it was his pet. Then he leaped up and grabbed his hat and coat. “Just heard it on the radio, Lane. We have to go!”

  “Wait! You want me to come, too?”

  “Yes! Go, go, go!”

  I grabbed my hat, coat, and purse, and ran out the door after my surprisingly fast boss. Outside, we found his car and driver and jumped in. Fio told him Union Square. We raced up to 14th Street and Fio leaped out of the car before Ray could even come to a complete stop, making the usually calm driver swear a rant worthy of Mr. Kirkland.

  I jumped out and warily made my way to what was obviously a crime scene. Fio was almost always a first responder, his dedication to the police radio and all city drama was limitless. A few police cars had arrived, their lights flashing. A body was slumped on the ground near a park bench, as if it had slid off the bench.

  “Oh God, it’s not . . .” I stuttered.

  “No. No, it’s not Hambro, Lane,” said Fiorello, easily reading my thoughts as I’m certain that had been his own fear. “But it doesn’t look good,” he said in a low voice.

  It most certainly did not look good. Sticking straight up from the guy’s back was the hilt of a knife. Just then, a little flash of light caught my eye. Next to the man on the cold ground were a little pair of circular gold glasses lying forlorn, crumpled, and crushed. Right at that moment, one of the officers turned the guy on his side, to get a look at his face.

  “Oh no,” I whispered.

  “What, Lane?” asked Fiorello.

  “That’s one of the junior managers at Hambro’s bank. Red Tie Guy.”

  “Who?”

  “I mean Marty. Roarke knows him. He’s the guy Roarke and I met in the park to see if an insider at the bank had a feel for what was going on.” I looked over at the bench. “That’s a lot of blood. You’re right. This definitely doesn’t look good.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” uttered Fio, his face a pasty white.

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “That’s Hambro’s bank manager?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s Hambro’s knife.”

  “Oh shit.”

  * * *

  “Oh shit,” said Roarke outside the mayor’s office, where the press camped out waiting for my boss to create headlines.

  “I know.” I had filled him in on the horrible news of Marty and the damning evidence at the scene. It was indeed Hambro’s knife with his family crest nice and shiny on the hilt. Two eyewitnesses had seen two men on the bench when another person wearing a long overcoat joined them from behind and drew a gun on them. One was obviously Marty, and the other he was sitting with sounded like he belonged at the old Hooverville that used to be in Central Park, with an old torn coat, dirty hat, ratty-looking gloves, and shoes with holes in the toes.

  “So, if that was Hambro’s knife, one of those men must have been Mr. Hambro?” asked Roarke.

  “Seems likely. There had been a big scuffle and witnesses say the guy with the gun who had come up behind them was suddenly flashing a knife around. It sounds like both the other men might’ve gotten stabbed in the fight. But after Marty sank to the ground, the knife sticking straight out of his back, it was pandemonium. No other useful details after that. It wasn’t a theft; Marty’s wallet was intact. And they know it was recent—not only because of the eyewitness accounts, but because the blood was still wet,” I said, a little nauseous.

  Roarke thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Yeah. It doesn’t sound like a mugging gone wrong. It’s actually harder to stab someone than the movies make it seem, without the knife getting caught up on a rib or a button or whatnot. And for it to be in his back, he’d been about to run away. Seems to be someone who knew what he was doing.”

  “Or she . . .”

  “Definitely. Or she,” said Roarke, nodding.

  I shivered at the thought of the stabbing. To get back on track, I quickly said, “It was pretty dark out already. There were just vague descriptions of the hobo. Tall, probably white male, bearded, dark hair, and somewhere between thirty and seventy.”

  “Aw, jeez. Half of Manhattan fits that description,” said Roarke.

  “Yeah, and it also fits a general description of Hambro. And the gunman’s description was even more vague, so Hambro fits that description, too.”

  “One of the two men must be him. I can’t imagine him pulling a gun on someone, let alone stabbing Marty. So let’s just say the hobo was Hambro, how did the other guy get his knife? I mean, why come up behind two men, draw a gun, but then use a knife?” asked Roarke.

  “Well, it’s quieter, or maybe he wanted to implicate someone other than himself . . . But, yeah, it doesn’t make sense,” I said. “The police are looking for any other evidence on Marty and at the scene.”

  “Okay,” said Roarke. “Keep me posted. I’ll get my contacts looking around.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “That knife is definitely Hambro’s, but I just can’t see him being the killer. And if he’s not, we don’t know where he is. It sounds like he could be injured, or worse.”

  Roarke nodded and then blew out a huff of air. “Lane, I hate to say it, but no matter how we feel about Hambro, the evidence is pointing to him.”

  I nodded. “I know. He’s the number one suspect.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “. . . a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror of the mind.”

  Roarke and I arrived at Mrs. Hambro’s home the next day and rang the bell. Fiorello had already visited her personally to notify her about the incident at Union Square. The police questioned her about the knife and anything else that might shed light on Mr. Hambro’s whereabouts.

  I wasn’t looking forward to unearthing more unhappiness for her as we scoured through the details. I had liked her immediately. The doleful, stick-up-his-ass Robbins answered the door as if he’d been lying in wait.

  “Hello, Robbins,” I said. “This is Mr. Roarke Channing. We have an appointment with Mrs. Hambro.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Come in, please.”

  We were led past that beautiful rose and cream-colored parlor that we had enjoyed the last time I was here with Fio. I practically groaned as I longingly looked into
it, wanting to enter into its cheerful, soft comfort. We went to the back of the house to Mr. Hambro’s office.

  I had expected it to be dark. It seemed that most men’s inner sanctums were covered in dark, masculine colors with heavy wallpapers and large furniture. But this office was a soft shade of wheat, with oak beams and caramel brown pillows mixed with other tones of neutral colors. It was very masculine, but had that same inviting atmosphere as the front room with many textures and tones. A bright aqua caught my eye. A white earthenware bowl sat on the desk with the little blue mints that were too peppery for me, but that Mr. Hambro always carried. Sometimes, he reminded me of a grandmotherly type who kept butterscotch candies and lemon drops in her purse at all times. If Mrs. Hambro decorated these rooms herself, she had an artist’s eye, that’s for sure. I wanted to go around touching everything. I had to rein in my texture-hungry fingers.

  Mrs. Hambro was at the desk in the middle of the large window on the back wall. She stood to greet us and we sank down into the chairs in front of the desk. The worry lines of her forehead had deepened a bit and she looked tired. It was easy to imagine that sleep could be elusive for her.

  As we settled ourselves, I looked around at the many books covering the walls and the other pieces of Mr. Hambro’s life that were set about with intention and care. He must have liked horses; photographs and a few horsey mementos were lying about on the shelves. The many photos of Mr. and Mrs. Hambro together on vacation in various places brought a smile to my lips as the couple looked like they were enjoying themselves immensely.

  But, as I sat there admiring their delighted faces as they sat at a European bistro or in the back of an old-fashioned horse carriage and other tourist traps, there was something about those photos that was striking me as odd. I couldn’t put my finger on why. The frames were all in a similar silver finish. The photographs looked like they were taken over at least a couple of decades with both Hambros looking slightly different as styles came and went. Mrs. Hambro mostly looked the same, however, quite ageless and lovely in her insouciant way.

  I mentally shrugged as I crossed my legs and got right to business. “So, we know Fiorello came by with the police to get your statement and any other information that might help. We set up this appointment just to get another updated interview for Roarke’s paper, but now with this new development . . .” She nodded grimly. “Roarke and I, let’s just say, we like to give a helping hand where we can. The police are of course investigating, but Roarke has a lot of contacts and we want to help. And let’s just face it, we’re nosy.” Roarke snorted and it brought a small grin to the side of Mrs. Hambro’s mouth. “Would you mind if we looked into this, too?”

  She answered promptly, “Frankly, we need all the help we can get. I would definitely appreciate your assistance.”

  Roarke asked, “So were you aware that Mr. Hambro had that knife when he disappeared?”

  She hadn’t known he’d taken the knife, but these days it wasn’t all that unusual for a gentleman to take along a small weapon of some sort. The rest of the conversation just went over all the details that we already knew, but wanted to confirm once again. She felt awful about Marty, but had no idea why he would be a target for anyone, let alone her husband.

  “There’s just no reason he’d kill Marty!” she exclaimed in frustration. “It just wouldn’t be advantageous at all.” She resolutely nodded her head.

  She looked at me, assessing my eyes, my face. I could think of a reason he’d been a target. “But . . .” she prompted me.

  I paused, and took a breath. “Well, Marty was the one who found Mr. Hambro with a second red envelope at work. And . . . he witnessed Mr. Hambro enter the vehicle of Louie Venetti.”

  “Louie Venetti?” she whispered breathlessly. She pensively brought her fist to her lips. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect this quiet reaction. No one reacts quietly to an announcement that Venetti is around. She tapped her mouth pensively with the knuckle of her thumb, and said to herself, “Venetti . . .”

  But there was something else happening. Something different. She was still just as honest and open. None of the details of her story had been adjusted in any way. But that niggling thing about the photographs . . . her demeanor . . . there was something definitely different from the previous time we’d met.

  I looked at her with a tilt of my head. “Mrs. Hambro, has Mr. Hambro made contact with you?”

  “No,” she said, not too quickly and not too slowly. She looked into my eyes. Was she trying to communicate something?

  “Has anyone else contacted you?” Roarke asked.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  But there it was again. Last time, Mrs. Hambro held an air of fear and concern, her mouth tight, her eyes wary. She was still deeply concerned, but despite her fatigue that I’d noticed earlier, and the worry lines, she was somewhat peaceful. Even with mentioning Uncle Louie and the fact that Mr. Hambro might be implicated in a murder, for cryin’ out loud. Kinda strange. I gave her the once-over with a squint to my eye, taking in her cornflower-blue eyes and her blond hair streaked with gray framing her lovely face. Her eyes were intense, full of wit and wisdom.

  “Mrs. Hambro, are you . . . ? I beg your pardon, but are you holding anything back? You seem different today.”

  She sighed, putting her elbows on the table. She looked carefully at Roarke and me in turn, considering her next words. “No. I honestly don’t know what’s going on. And I’m devastated about poor Marty. But I have a . . . how shall I say it? A sense of peace that I didn’t have the other day. I admit Mr. Hambro is in more trouble than I could have possibly imagined, but I certainly don’t believe he’s a murderer. I’m worried about how he got involved in all this and that he may be hurt,” she said as she shuddered. “I know this sounds silly, but a friend dropped off some chestnuts today, on my doorstep. It was such a cheery thing to do. And, you see, Mr. Hambro and I have a joke about them. He loves nuts, yet vehemently hates chestnuts. I relentlessly tease him about it because it’s like he’s mortally wounded that chestnuts are soft and mushy. I know it’s dippy,” she said, with a self-deprecating grin. “It’s a typical inside joke, only funny to us. I guess receiving those chestnuts just made me feel that he was all right. I know it sounds strange, but I just feel that in my heart I would know if he had died or something. I guess I have . . . hope.”

  We left her house after we wrapped up a few further details. I hoped this case would clear soon, as I wanted to get to know her when the circumstances weren’t so strained.

  Roarke and I left and walked out toward the gated and only privately owned park in the city: Gramercy Park. Even though it was cold, I wanted to take a stroll through there. Mrs. Hambro sent Robbins to open the garden gate for us, and as he did so, down the block I spotted a little cart with hot beverages being wheeled about. I thought a hot coffee or hot chocolate might warm us up a bit for our walk. I told Roarke to hold the gate open and that I’d be right back.

  He smiled as he saw the cart. “Good idea, Lane.”

  I went back to Roarke with two cups of piping hot chocolate and he said, “Nice!” as he took the cup I held out to him. As we walked around the brown path, the artistry of the garden that would be opulent in spring and summer strolled about with us, waving hello in a sweeping branch of wisteria and a clutch of papery hydrangea. I made a mental note to come back in a greener month.

  Through the clutter of the last few weeks, it was hard to believe that tomorrow was Thanksgiving. It had been such a busy, regular work week that the holiday crept up on me suddenly. Mr. Kirkland and Aunt Evelyn were having their annual Thanksgiving party at the house, including any and all friends or family that we could possibly ask. It’s a day that I’d always loved. And you never knew who might show up.

  “What time is everyone coming over tomorrow, Lane?” asked Roarke, mirroring my own thoughts.

  “I think about three, we’ll eat around five.”

  “I could practic
ally drool, thinking about it,” he said. I don’t think I remembered Roarke ever making a meal for himself. He always ate out, so he was a devoted visitor to our place for home-cooked dinners. For Thanksgiving and Christmas Mr. Kirkland and Fio went all out. They cooked for days on end to prepare with the aromas of cranberries, brown sugar and apples, cookies, and baking bread filling our home.

  “So, Lane, do you think Mrs. Hambro was telling us the truth? Do you think she knows something?” he asked.

  “She seemed very earnest, and not overly so. It didn’t seem like she was lying . . . But . . .”

  “But what?” he asked, taking a careful sip of the hot chocolate.

  “I don’t know. There’s something there. And I believe her, she and Mr. Hambro seem very close and she might very well sense if he was in danger or dead. But there was something more than that. She seemed relieved and even before I picked up on that, I had been looking around at his office and had the feeling that there was a clue looking right at me. There was something up with those photographs on the wall, but I can’t figure out what it was.”

  “Was there anything out of the ordinary? Anything seemingly out of place or strange?”

  “Nope, not a thing. Just a lot of photos of the both of them together over many years. And for the record, I still don’t sense anything amiss about their marriage. I don’t think his disappearance has anything to do with infidelity.”

  “Yeah. With all the red envelope business, and now this stabbing that’s linked to him, it’s something else. For sure.”

  “Exactly. Plus, they seem to be kind with each other. There’s no contempt in either of them. I feel like you see that in couples who are in trouble,” I said.

  Finishing our stroll through the little park, we made our way to Park Avenue and started north to catch the subway at 23rd. The sound of sirens approaching fast smacked up against us in direct opposition to our peaceful retreat that we had just enjoyed. Sirens were a common noise, of course, but in the city, you distinguished the different tones of sirens. Like the insistent, tinny siren of fire engines, the beeps of the ambulances, the roar of the larger ladder trucks and police cars . . . Or this most alarming sound: all of the above.