by Howard Engel
“Of course I’ll do my best to help you. Naturally. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” She smiled her answer, and I thought that we were safely launched. “Let’s begin at the beginning. Tell me about it first.” I shuffled a yellow legal-sized block of foolscap under my nose, and removed from it the doodles I’d made while listening to Myna Yates nearly a week ago. New customer, new paper, that’s me. No expense too great, no effort too small. I began with a new series of doodles in the upper left-hand corner. “What is your name, Miss …?”
“Campbell, Phoebe Campbell. I’m from Chatham originally, grew up there and I’ve been in Grantham for just a few months. I work for the Upper Canadian Bank. I’m just a teller. But it was there that I met someone, and that’s how I got into this mess,” she said breathlessly. I could see her trying not to get the story twisted. Most people let a story come out sideways, so that you can’t tell the beginning from the end or one side from the other.
“I guess that you can tell that the person I met was a man.” When she said that, she looked about twelve years old. Into the word man she put all the boogeymen she’d ever heard of, and her raised eyebrow tried to tell me at the same time that she’d learned her lesson and wouldn’t ever do it again, so I shouldn’t judge her too harshly. That might be reading a lot into a raised eyebrow, but it was either that or watch the delicious frontier marked by the hem of her skirt and the nicest part of her knees. I try all times to keep things on an up and up business-like basis, so I looked at her raised eyebrow.
“I met him at the bank. He came in almost every day, and always got in the line in front of my window. He got my name from the plastic sign on the counter, and started calling me by my first name. Then one day, when we closed, he was waiting for me outside. He was very nice, and asked me if I would go with him to have some coffee. I know I shouldn’t have, Mr. Cooperman, but I did. I regret it now, of course, but then now I know better. You see, Mr. Cooperman, I didn’t know anyone in the city, apart from the girls at the bank. Do you understand?” She looked at me imploringly with her big green eyes. I could see that in the light from the window, they had gold flecks in them, and they looked about five fathoms deep. “We’ve been seeing one another for about two months. First it was just coffee, lunch and that sort of thing, but later … I’m having difficulty telling this part, Mr. Cooperman. Need I go into details?”
“Let’s say I can guess the next part. Go on to the part after that.”
“Thank you. We used to go to his house here in the city. We spent many evenings there. And he gave me things: jewelry, mostly. Not really expensive jewelry, but the nicest I’ve ever seen. And in so short a time. I was quite bowled over. Then, last week, he told me about his wife. He’d told me about her before, but those times he talked about her as though she were far away, part of his distant past, someone he hadn’t really cared about in years. But this time, I mean last week when he spoke of her, she became real for the first time. She was a presence in his life and I could see that she was going to continue to be.” She riffled her large bag for a tissue, but came up with one so crumpled and old, that I offered her one of mine. It’s all part of the service.
“Did he break it off?”
“Yes.”
“Have you seen him since last week?”
“No. I haven’t wanted to. He’s tried phoning, but I don’t want to speak to him. I’m not blaming him, Mr. Cooperman, but I just want to get clear of it and start again. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” I couldn’t take my eyes off her smooth transparent skin. Her cheeks coloured with every difficult thing she told me. “I think we’ve come to the part you want me for. Am I right, Miss Campbell?”
“Yes.” She dug into her bag again and extracted a package about the size of a couple of paperback books, wrapped in white paper, tied with string and patched here and there with Scotch tape, which caught the light as she passed the moderately heavy parcel to me over the desk. “These are the things he gave me. Things I don’t want to see any more. I would like you to return them for me, Mr. Cooperman. I’ll pay you, of course. Will you do this, please?” I hefted the package in my hand, and she began laying out twenty-dollar bills on her side of the desk like she was playing a game of solitaire. When she got to ten of them, I called: “Whoa! That’s too much. Let me try to get you straight: all you want me to do is to return these trinkets to your friend?” She nodded. “Look, Miss Campbell, I’d like to help you, but to be honest, I think you can get the post office to deliver the parcel a lot cheaper than my night rates. Delivering parcel is right up their street. They do it all the time.” She looked at my desk-top for a few second.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Lady, your money looks real. If you believe it, that’s good enough for me.”
“I’ll show you what’s in the box,” she said, beginning to tear off the paper.
“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’ll do it later myself,” I added under my breath. But the paper was already off and I was looking into a blue box of silver bangles, a very good dress watch with sparkling brilliants on the band, a couple of brooches, a string of pearls and other “trinkets” like she said; a couple of thousand dollars worth by the look of it, some of the pieces looked like old family jewels, but of modest value. Her boyfriend may have been getting his “trinkets” from his wife’s vanity drawer. When I looked up, I could see that she hadn’t wanted to see that stuff again, and her fingers were already busy taping the package back together again.
“Okay, I understand why you don’t want to drop this in the mailbox. However, you could have it registered. That’s still cheaper than involving me.”
“I think I can trust you,” she said. Her eyes found mine and I wanted to believe her. I’m a sucker for green eyes. “But if there is something about the job you don’t like, I’ll find another way. I’ll find something.” She had got to her feet and turned away from me gathering up her bag and parcel. I got up and came around the desk.
“I’ll do it,” I said. Now she wouldn’t look at me, as though she’d said too much already. “I’ll do it,” I repeated. Now she turned to business.
“All you have to do is to take it tonight to the address on this paper.” She handed me an envelope. “Inside is a key to the back door. Don’t turn on the lights—I assume you have a flashlight?”
“Naturally.”
“Good. At the top of the stairs, there are two doors leading to the right of the hall. Take the second one. That was our … a bedroom. Put the package in the top bureau drawer next to the bed. When you’ve finished, call me at the number in the envelope.” I opened the envelope, read the address: 186 Bellevue Terrace, pocketed the key, and put the paper with the telephone number away next to it.
“Is that it?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t going to add a few details like the fact that a wedding reception would be going on at the time or that the place was booby-trapped. “Whose house is this anyway?” I asked.
“The owner is Tom Twining. He works for Griffiths and Dunlop, the real estate firm. You know them?”
“I guess I’ve seen their ads in the paper.”
“What time do you think you’ll be able to phone me?”
“Oh, say around ten-thirty. I should be in and out by then. That should be late enough.”
“Good. I’ve paid you in advance, Mr. Cooperman, so there’s no need for us to meet again. Nothing personal, of course.”
“That’s understood.” I raised my palms in mock protest. She nodded, smiled a wispy smile and turned toward the door.
“There’s one thing more,” I said. She turned quickly and shot me a startled look, as though I was about to ask for a couple of hundred dollars more. “You haven’t given me the package.” I smiled. She looked into her bag, found the parcel again, and was almost laughing as she passed it to me. In another second, she has left the room. I sat there wondering what kind of cock-and-bull story I’d fall for next, but at least this one
left a pleasant fragrance behind. At least it didn’t involve stealing kids from one parent for the other in a messy post-divorce case, or turning in a perfectly decent fellow just because you happened to be working for his estranged wife. At least this looked clean.
I got out of my chair, and left the office. Across the street in Woolworth’s I looked for Bellevue Terrace on a tourist map of the city. It was across the valley, on the same side of the creek as Martha Tracy, but located on the ravine like Chester’s place. I worked my way along the counters, past the pastel bins of lingerie, bumping into old ladies with shopping bags that should have been checked at the door and kids discovering what was new in cap guns and holsters. In passing a pay phone, I couldn’t resist taking a peek. I was right: no Tom Twining listed on Bellevue Terrace. This caper was getting to be as irresistible as Phoebe Campbell herself. I caught the eye of a salesgirl, and made the purchase of a serviceable flashlight. The batteries were extra, but what the hell.
FOURTEEN
At ten o’clock I found myself driving over the high-level bridge which connects the two halves of the city. Below me, in the dark, I knew the mingled waters of the canal and creek began their joint run to the lake about two miles away. Below me too the ghosts of the old sailing fleet haunted the valley, and the echoes of a thousand hammers and adzes at the vanished drydock were enough to distract a man going about a foolish mission because of the pretty place it came from. I turned left at the first street over the bridge, and went down the bumpy, short steep hill to Bellevue Terrace. I checked the numbers. On one side ran a group of frame and stucco houses, not unlike Martha Tracy’s house, all dating from the 1920s. On the other side of the street, all of the houses looked as though they’d been built within a month of one another just after the Second World War. The houses on the right and left looked at one another across a gap of at least thirty thousand dollars. The last house number I read was still too high, and by then I could see that the street continued on higher ground, the two parts joined by a hedge-bordered cinder path. To get to the upper section of the street, it was necessary to drive around the wedge-shaped beginning of a gully, which led down a dark and forested incline to the creek.
On this part of the street, at least the houses were all about the same value, with the ones backing on the ravine looking a little more desirable than the ones across the road. Still, I wouldn’t say no if you offered me any of them. I picked out my house, and kept on going. The street ended in a right-angled turn to my right, with the new street slipping into working-class houses as soon as the corner had been surely rounded. Squatting inside the angle itself, I could see a huge, brooding mansion of stucco and wood, with dark protruding eaves and unfriendly-looking screened-in porches. The house I was looking for stood next door to this. It was much smaller than the houses around it, without looking shabby, or suggesting that the owner sipped his tea from his saucer. It was simply dwarfed by the mansion, from which it was separated by a high privet hedge.
I parked my car around the corner in front of a brick veneer bungalow with three small square windows under the eaves. I felt in my pockets; I had the flashlight and the package. I wished I had a rabbit’s foot for luck.
There was no moon. It wouldn’t have mattered much if there had been. There were street lights all over the place. Luckily, there were lots of shade trees and hedges. I could hear my footsteps thundering behind me; my shadow came up under me, grew, marched ahead, then faded away, as I walked along the sidewalk. The house was dark. I turned in and made my way past the attached garage, and a very noisy-looking garbage can, to the back. Here I found a screened-in porch with stacks of summer furniture lying in dusty disorder. The screen door opened easily, with a twang of its spring. There was enough light for me to find the inside door without lighting my flash. I could make out the metallic glint of the spring lock above the knob. I fished out the key, and inserted it. I was a little surprised that it turned.
I closed the door behind me, and brought out my flash. I was in a bright kitchen. The tile was real, 1930s, not plastic, and it extended down to the counter tops. The floor was terracotta. I moved forward keeping the beam of my flashlight as low as possible. I made my way through a narrow hall into the front vestibule and then easily found the stairs, which curved down at me. I went up. The walls in the hall upstairs looked mushroom col-our in this light, but were probably pink. I found the second doorway to the right and went it. A large bed dominated the room. It was neat, covered with a chintz bedspread that matched the curtains. The bureau stood between the two windows. I opened the drawer. A flash of light had cut across the front of the house. I slipped the package into the drawer, which was full of rolled socks, and closed it quickly. I was half finished. The other half of the job was for myself; I was going to nose around and find out what this whole thing was all about.
My retreat took me back the way I’d come except that when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw the light slide by the front window again. I felt a flea crawl from my armpit down to my waist. On second thought, I’d nose around someplace else. I must have crossed to the back door in less than two seconds and without making a sound. You couldn’t hear the clock as I closed the door, and in a second I had left the porch. My mind was working out where I could safely hide for a few minutes when the sun exploded in my face.
“Hey!”
“Don’t move!” I didn’t, although I tried to shield my face from the powerful flashlight shining in it. I tried it every way, but the light held me like the arm of an arresting officer.
“Get that light out of my eyes. I’m not going anywhere. Is this 184 Bellevue Terrace?”
“You know damn well it isn’t. Stand where you are, and don’t try anything.”
“What should I try?” I could hear footsteps coming along the sidewalk leading from the front of the house.
“Bill?” a voice inquired.
“Yeah,” said a voice behind the light. “I got him.”
“Good. See if he’s carrying a gun.” That idea was almost too much for me.
“Look, you guys, I know what you must think this looks like, but let me tell you straight out that I can explain everything.”
“I’m sure you can, sir,” said the voice called Bill. A dark shape worked around the edge of the blinding light and came around behind me. I could feel my pockets being slapped, as a pair of expert hands worked me over.
“He’s clean,” said the voice, and the light dipped enough for me to catch sight of a dark blue police uniform standing behind it. I looked over my shoulder. The other man was a cop too. And I might have spent the evening watching television, or reading a good book, or even going to the movies.
“Turn around,” said the first cop, the one called Bill. “We’re going back into the house.” An arm prodded my shoulder, and I followed quietly.
I opened the back door, and turned on the lights in the kitchen. To the left there was a small breakfast nook with a round table. Bill motioned me to sit down. I sat. They placed themselves at the edge of the curved red leatherette bench, blocking my escape from both directions.
“Okay,” said the one that wasn’t Bill, “let’s hear who you are and what you think you’re doing here. But remember, we’ve got a pretty good idea about it ourselves, so try not to waste all of our time with a lot of made-up malarkey about getting the address mixed up. Give it to us straight, and it will go better for you.”
“Okay, here’s the story. It’s simple enough. I’m Ben Cooperman, I’m a private investigator. If you’ll let me reach into my pocket, I’ll show you my I.D.”
“Just don’t move suddenly. Take it easy.” I pulled out my wallet and handed it to the one not called Bill. Bill intercepted and looked through the wallet thoroughly.
“Right, Mr. Cooperman, let’s hear the whole thing from the beginning.”
“Fine,” I said, “fine.” I took a big breath and let them know I was going to start. Bill brought his notebook into play with a lazy motion, the ot
her fellow was more deliberate.
“Okay, you think you’ve caught a burglar, right? Well, how many burglars carry a key to the house they’re burglaring? I know where I am and I can’t remember any law against conducting private business in a private house.”
“Don’t get excited,” said the one called Bill. “Take it easy. We haven’t said anything about burglary, have we? Don’t do our job for us. You were saying that you were what? Using a flashlight in order to save electricity.”
“In a private house a person can bang about in the dark if he wants to. It only becomes police business if I bother the neighbours.”
“Is this your house?” said the other one.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Whose house, then?”
“The owner of the house is Tom Twining of Griffiths and Dunlop, the real estate company.” They both wrote that down. The name tasted like artificial sweetener in my mouth. God help me.
“You were seen carrying a parcel into the house. Where is it now?”
“Look, I don’t see where you get off asking me these questions. You saw my ID. I’m a private investigator pursuing an investigation. How come you guys never followed me home before? Where did I get so popular all of a sudden?” Bill looked over at the other cop, whose neck was red around his collar, and who’d missed a few spots on his chin with this morning’s razor.
