Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  "Charles McCray? Winner?"

  "Sometimes, never a big loser. He's cold. Looks and never sees. Cleanliness must be godliness because we don't exist."

  "I owe you."

  "Nice feeling."

  "How many cleaning crews do you have now?"

  "Three cleaning crews, a couple of yard-work trucks. Two maintenance men to keep the trailer park and those money-draining apartments under repair."

  "You've come a long way from selling bolita tickets and bootleg gin out of your car."

  "And you've moved up from trying to catch me on backroads to asking about the Elks Club poker games. I'm not sure that was the proper training for your present ambitions. Unpacking the Elks Club's secrets does not match blue, blue, blue and sliding tires."

  "Too old for sliding tires."

  "Might be too old for messing with gold fever too."

  Jimmie climbed back on his mower, putting on his ear protectors. Bubba climbed into the Bronco. Time to go home and have lunch. Let Elvis run.

  Bubba was sitting in his bentwood rocker on the back porch watching Elvis ramble up the slope from Lake Otis with the soggy tennis ball in his mouth when he heard a car stop in his driveway, a door slam, and his front doorbell ring. Elvis followed him inside with the tennis ball. At the front door was Charles McCray. Bubba invited him in. Elvis stayed behind Bubba but dropped his tennis ball.

  "May I have a few minutes of your time?"

  "Come on out back. Do you want a glass of iced tea?"

  "Thank you, no. I have still not acquired a taste for cold tea."

  They reached the back porch. Bubba motioned for McCray to sit. McCray settled into a rocker to the left of Bubba's. Elvis curled up on the right of Bubba.

  "This is a lovely view. Quite a charming little lake."

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Mrs. Taylor called, quite upset about the hundred thousand dollars that Griffith liquidated. She wants an accounting. Of course, we cannot supply its whereabouts. What he did with his earnings was not our concern. We wondered if you had any indication where the money went. We try to avoid unpleasant publicity, and she's threatening lawsuits. I can understand her grief, but we cannot allow false accusations."

  "Did he take the money in cash?"

  "He put ten packets of hundred-dollar bills in his briefcase and left."

  "That is a lot of cash."

  "In our business, we find that cash calms investors, right along with actual gold. More than a few of our clients use cash as their investment method."

  "Always less than ten thousand dollars in hundreds?"

  "Quite, but, oh, I see what you mean. Money laundering. No, that is not a problem. All our paperwork is proper. The vast majority of our investors leave their funds in place, growing, building wealth. Griffith removing that much money was a bit unusual. That is why we thought of asking you for assistance."

  "Obviously, my client doesn't know where the money went."

  "I have shown her the records, but her stress seems to keep her from understanding. If you could help keep her settled, it would be a great help."

  "The records appear convoluted to the ordinary person like myself."

  "I suppose so. I am so familiar with them that I forget others might be challenged."

  "You know, you don't look like a number cruncher." Bubba headed to the kitchen. "Sure you don't want an iced tea?"

  Charles shook his head. "What do I look like?"

  From the kitchen, over the sound of ice trays and pouring pitchers, Bubba said, "Like an engineer or a soldier or an expert from the home office come to town to fire people. Outdoors, active, not a number cruncher hustling gold."

  Charles laughed, "I'm not sure if I am insulted or complimented. I soldiered back home, worked in the gold fields, fired a few people who stayed fired, then discovered an affinity for numbers, which led to accounting and computers. I have always wanted to be wealthy, which led to the, as you say, hustle of gold. I like martial arts, the workout, the effort, the inner calmness. Attaches to the calmness of numbers."

  "I have to ask. Is that a dueling scar?"

  Charles laughed, revealing the bridgework again. "I suppose it is, in a way. Actually a bayonet thrust, which also removed three molars. But I won the duel. Happened in Rhodesia, a few months before the name changed, and before I migrated to the United States. Fortunately for me, there are fine dentists and surgeons here, so I sport a dueling scar instead of a bayonet wound."

  Bubba nodded and patted Elvis. He threw the tennis ball down the slope, but Elvis ignored it, remaining beside Bubba's rocker.

  Charles stood. "If you shared any discoveries that we should know, you would find us very grateful."

  Bubba stood, towering over Charles, who did not step back. "Is there anything worth discovering?"

  "If there were, then I would already have taken care of it. It is the unknown that I would be grateful to learn about."

  They walked to the front door. Bubba opened it. Charles stepped out. They shook hands. Charles walked toward his Mercedes, turned, and said, "Very grateful."

  He opened the door and eased in. Before the door shut, Bubba called out, "Did you lease your Mercedes from Griffith?"

  Charles smiled, "That is how we met. His numbers worked."

  Bubba walked to the back porch with Elvis swirling around his legs. Elvis bounded down the slope, returning with the soggy tennis ball. The game was on.

  When Bubba returned to his office, the fax machine overflowed. Herm had been busy. Bubba started a pot of coffee and began to read. Herm's summary said that the number was listed to JS Enterprises in Batesville, Arkansas. JS Enterprises was an Arkansas-based corporation, a dental restoration business. The JS stood for John Stevens, owner and proprietor. John Stevens was dead. Apparently murdered in Memphis three months ago. Shot with a .38 and his body tossed into the Mississippi River.

  Bubba poured coffee and read the newspaper articles about the murder. The dates meant that the death occurred two weeks after Griffith's trip to Memphis. He looked back at Griffith's records. His last call to Arkansas was the day before his trip to find a Lamborghini, or gold technicalities. The last fax sheet was a copy of the Batesville newspaper with the obituary. It listed a brother in Jonesboro, Arkansas. He was worth a call.

  But first, he faxed Griffith's trading statement to Herm. He'd be able to translate it from gobbledygook. Bubba might understand plain gook.

  Information found a number listed for Abner Stevens in Jonesboro. He reached a Mrs. Abner Stevens, who said that Abner was out playing golf. Abner would be returning shortly because he played poorly, but rapidly. She took Bubba's number.

  Bubba called Lieutenant Bisse at his office in Bartow. He was in.

  "You still working for the Widow Taylor?"

  "Found something you might be interested in."

  "Tell me."

  "A man in Arkansas that Griffith Taylor was calling, and made a trip out there to see, I think, was murdered a week before Griffith died. Shot with a .38, body tossed in the Mississippi."

  "The Big Muddy, eh? Anything else?"

  "Investing in gold is an effective hedge against inflation."

  "Right. Give me the details and I'll make a call or two. I don't have enough felonies now."

  "One other point. Griffith had received a hundred thou in cash shortly before he died. Bundles of hundreds in a briefcase. No one seems to know where the money went."

  "Real money. A motive, at last."

  "Did you dust the thirty gold coins for prints?"

  "Smudges."

  Before they clicked off, Bubba agreed to drive to Lakeland to lift with Bisse and his buddies at their gym. He knew they would end up having a bench press contest rather than deadlift so Bisse could win.

  Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Abner Stevens. "Is this about my brother's business? Is this a debt collection? I'm the executor of my brother's estate. I thought we had all the bills paid. His affairs were convoluted
these last two years. His wife was dying of the cancer and bills were killing him. He did anything, everything he could find."

  "I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Stevens. I'm a private detective looking into the death of man here in Winter Haven, Florida. The deceased had called your brother several times and, I think, even made a trip to see him. Does the name Griffith Taylor mean anything to you?"

  "No, but Johnnie did work all over. He was one of the best dental restoration designers in America. He was a real artist. Was Mr. Taylor a dentist?"

  "No. He leased cars. Can you tell me what a dental restoration actually is? I keep envisioning Washington's wooden dentures gleaming under a spotlight."

  "He made crowns and bridges, inlays. Any kind of adaptation to keep teeth in place, to replace missing teeth. All that gold work that you see in people's mouths was the kind of thing he did."

  "Did he do any other kind of gold work?"

  "He did any number of artistic items for people. Jewelry, necklaces, rings, brooches. He was more of an artist that a dental worker. He thought one day he'd make a design that would make him rich. Richer than his Batesville rich. Is there something about his work in gold that interests you?"

  "Gold is part of what my deceased was dealing with. Did your brother buy, sell, trade gold coins?"

  "He used to make medallions. He won several awards for his engraving and medallion design. He used to give gold medallions to champion high school athletes all over the state. They're collectors' items now."

  "That must've cost him a fortune. Giving away gold medallions."

  "Not really. Great advertising, he said. Besides they weren't solid gold. Gold plated. Another expertise of his, gold plating. Do you think Johnnie's death had anything to do with your Mr. Taylor?"

  "I don't know yet. Did you find anything unusual settling his estate, going through the papers?"

  "I think he must have been creating, casting a new series of medallions. Over the last six months before he died, he had used a big amount of the twenty-four-carat gold that he did his plating with. Usually he told me about new work, but that last year was tense."

  "Any idea of how many medallions we might be talking about?"

  "Perhaps a thousand to five thousand. Depending on the size. I didn't find any new castings, so I can't be sure. Does this help any?"

  "I'm not sure yet. Lientenant Ray Bisse of the Polk County Sheriff's Department, who's working the death down here, will probably call you."

  "Good, 'cause the police in Memphis are at a dead end. That was not intentional."

  "Puns sneak out. I am sorry for your loss; brothers are hard to replace."

  "Call me if you find out anything, or if you have any more questions."

  The phone rang moments after Bubba hung up. It was Winter Haven's mayor. "Bubba, I hear you're helping Brenda Taylor in her search for the truth about Griffith."

  "Doing all I can." Bubba knew they were on speakerphone. That meant the mayor, in one of his myriad pastel golf shirts, was talking for others.

  "Brenda is a fine woman and the loss of Griffith is tough for Winter Haven. If there is anything I can do, don't hesitate to call."

  "Thanks, Mayor. Was there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Nothing. But I was wondering if you'd heard anything about Jackie Jones in relation to Griffith's death?"

  "What have you heard?"

  "Nothing at all. It's just that Jackie has really pumped up the economy of Winter Haven with the gold profits. So many people enjoying the prosperity. And Griffith being his bird dog makes you wonder. If you come across anything really interesting, we'd appreciate knowing."

  "We?" Bubba couldn't resist pushing the mayor.

  "You know. The people. You know I always represent the people that care about the future of Winter Haven."

  "I'll call if I find anything you need to know."

  "I've always known we can count on you."

  Bubba leaned back in the chair and propped his boots on the desk. Who next, the United Way wondering if Griffith was going to honor his pledge?

  The next morning, the fax machine had a memo from Herm to call immediately. While the coffee brewed, he spread out the Taylor papers and looked for a pattern that matched his thoughts. It was not there yet. He dialed Herm's number. He left a message to call back. Five minutes later, Herm called.

  "That was a most interesting trading file you sent me. I had been hoping to access one of Jackie Jones's most-secret investment products. When you looked at it, what did it tell you?"

  "It told me that Griffith Taylor was a gold-trading demon."

  "First appearances are deceiving. But, as an amateur, you are forgiven."

  "What does the professional second-look say?"

  "Over a period of six months, Griffith Taylor made two hundred and seventeen trades, shorts, and sells. That's busy for a small day trader. But the remarkable part is that he shows a profit on every transaction. No one does that, any time, any where."

  Bubba sipped coffee and nodded to himself. "He could've been a savant, plus they supposedly have a great trading software."

  "I'll grant you all that, except for one thing that took me hours to find. Last November twelfth, he bought gold on the market for lower than it opened at, traded at, or closed. Interest rates in Asia jumped that day, gold shot up before the market opened here. There is a big gap between what his sheet says and what the market says that day."

  "Could he have bought off-market?"

  "Of course, but that is not what his sheet says. It says he bought off the regular commodities market in Chicago."

  "Okay, what does all this mean to me, an inquiring amateur?"

  "Making two hundred and seventeen trades without a loss and finding a specific day when the prices don't match might make a sneaky professional think that all of this is scam. No actual trading is being done, merely paper creation."

  "For not actually trading gold, they have hundreds of gold coins spread across a fish tank."

  "I have heard about the piles of Krugerrands. I haven't actually seen them."

  "I have, at least, seen what appears to be a huge pile of Krugerrands, and been invited to inspect the vault." Bubba sipped coffee, looking at the spread of papers. There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Bubba said, "If a Krugerrand was worth five hundred dollars and a skilled craftsman made you a nice gold-plated one for say, fifty dollars, you could create an impressive display for pennies on the dollar."

  "But, when people wanted their Krugerrands, you would need the real."

  "From what I hear, most of the people in Winter Haven are content to leave their coins with Jackie and watch the number of their coins grow."

  "Bubba, I need to make some calls. I have friends at agencies I need to bounce this off of."

  "I have a call or two to make myself. Stay in touch."

  Bubba found Bisse at his desk, packing to go home. "No. I have a ballgame to see with my son. I'm not talking to you."

  "Did Griffith have a gold coin in his pocket when you searched the body?"

  "What about it?"

  "Did you examine it?"

  "I thought it was heavy for such a small coin."

  "Did your lab look at it?"

  "There was no crime, no lab work."

  "Where is the coin now?"

  "Evidence room, waiting for a crime."

  "Tell the lab to take a close look."

  "Oh my, and I suppose now I'll have to pay attention to whatever the Memphis PD is sending me?"

  "Crime is your life. Enjoy the game."

  Bubba packed his briefcase, preparing to go home when the phone rang. It was the mayor again. "Bubba, I need a favor."

  "If I can."

  "Deliver a letter, pick up a package. In the next half hour."

  "No thanks, Mayor."

  There was silence on the line. He guessed the mayor had his hand over the receiver, consulting. "A grand, Bubba. The easiest grand you ever made."

&nb
sp; "You have no idea how easy some things are, Mr. Mayor. But I'll do it. You owe me, plus the grand."

  "Come by my office. I'll have the letter for you."

  "Fifteen minutes."

  It was four thirty when Bubba reached City Hall. The mayor was gone, but his secretary gave Bubba a letter, a check, and a big smile. The letter was for Jackie Jones. The check for Simms Investigations. And the smile for a voter.

  Ten minutes later, Charles opened the door of Jones Enterprises before Bubba could knock, invited him in. "Do you have news about Griffith?"

  "I have a letter for Jackie. I'm supposed to wait for a reply."

  "I'll take it to him."

  "Have him come get it."

  "He's busy with a client."

  "I'll wait or go find him myself."

  "No. You will not. Wait here."

  They glared at each other before Charles left the waiting room. Bubba stood in the middle of the room, enjoying the tension's rush. After five minutes, Jackie arrived. Bubba handed him the letter. Jackie turned, opening the letter, heading out of the room. He stopped and turned, "This is impossible. This is not regular business practice. The answer is no."

  "I'm supposed to bring the mayor a package within the hour." Bubba added that part. It felt right.

  "Wait here. I will make a call and have this straightened out." Charles strode out with him. Bubba waited in the middle of the room.

  Indistinct but loud voices came from the back of the office. Bubba recognized Charles's accent, but not the words. Quiet followed. Then, the voices were loud again. Then, quiet. If it weren't so much fun and such an easy grand, Bubba would have been bored. But the flood of gold coins in the pirates' tank captivated the eye, and the loud voices piqued his curiosity.

  Charles finally returned, carrying an aluminum case. He held the case out to Bubba, who almost dropped it. Charles smiled, "Eighty pounds in a small space." Bubba smiled back and curled the case, "Feels more like seventy-five. How many Krugerrands in a pound?"

  "Call it fourteen. If the case did contain Krugerrands, there might be a thousand or more. If they complain, tell them that we don't keep that much cash on hand every day. They can deal with hard currency."

  Charles placed a sheet of paper on the desk. "Sign this. It is a receipt, for our records."