Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Yes!” Creighton interrupted loudly, successfully drowning out the word ‘again.’ “It is nice to meet you.” He grabbed the shopkeeper’s hand and pumped it vigorously.

  “Why in heaven’s name are you shouting?” Marjorie reprimanded. “Mr. Schutt isn’t deaf.”

  “I’m sorry.” Creighton laughed nervously as he relinquished the older man’s hand. “I’m so excited. I’ve never been this popular before. Dr. Russell’s right, I must be the talk of the town.”

  She eyed him askance. “Unfortunately, this isn’t a social call, Mr. Schutt.” She motioned toward the two men standing behind her. “This is Detective Jameson and Officer Noonan from the Hartford County Police. They’d like to speak to you about Henry Van Allen.”

  Mr. Schutt was surprised. “Henry Van Allen? Why, I haven’t heard that name in quite a while. Does this have anything to do with that body you folks found up at Kensington House?”

  “It has everything to do with it,” Jameson explained. “‘That body,’ as you called it, happens to belong to Victor Bartorelli, the Van Allen’s gardener.”

  “You’re wasting your time here, then,” Schutt argued crabbily. “I don’t know anything about this Bartorelli person.”

  “But you did know Henry Van Allen,” Officer Noonan interjected.

  “I did, but he never mentioned his gardener, or anything else having to do with horticulture, for that matter.”

  “Well, you can just tell us what you did discuss,” Noonan persisted.

  “I fail to see how that information could possibly help you,” the bookseller contended.

  “Mr. Schutt,” Jameson implored, “we have reason to believe that Bartorelli’s death is somehow connected to Van Allen’s. Therefore, any information you can give us might be helpful.”

  “Connected? But the person Miss McClelland and Mr. Ashcroft found was murdered, and Henry’s death was a suicide, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, that was the ruling,” Jameson answered evasively.

  “That was the ruling? You’re questioning it?”

  “No, we’re exploring all the possibilities,” Jameson stated abruptly. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s time we ask you some questions.” He scanned the area. “Is there an office or someplace where we can sit down?”

  Mr. Schutt shook his head, “We all can’t fit in the office; I’ll bring some chairs out here.” He shuffled behind the counter muttering to himself and anyone else who would listen, “Nothing better to do than to sit here and chat all day . . . waste of time, that’s what it is . . . waste of time and taxpayers’ money . . .”

  “I’ll lend you a hand with those chairs,” Creighton volunteered. He followed Schutt through a pair of heavy woven curtains that served to partition the office from the rest of the shop. Once safely concealed behind the drapes, he grabbed the man by the shoulders. “Mr. Schutt, I have a favor to ask of you,” he whispered frantically.

  “A favor?” the merchant repeated. “What sort of favor?”

  “Marjorie mustn’t find out that I was here the other day.”

  “Why not?”

  Creighton should have realized that this was not going to be easy; Mr. Schutt needed to know the why and wherefore of everything. “I want to surprise her.”

  “Surprise her how?”

  “I’m sending Marjorie’s book to a publishing friend of mine in England.”

  Schutt’s forehead wrinkled. “Why?”

  What would the man ask next? “Why is the sky blue?” “Where do babies come from?” “I hold Marjorie’s work in very high regard. I think she would be a great hit there.” He studied the older man’s face. “Can I count on you to keep quiet about this?”

  “I don’t like to lie.”

  “You’re not lying,” Creighton cajoled, “you’re just not telling her everything.”

  “That’s a sin of omission.”

  “Yes, but look at the big picture. You’ll be helping a local writer to become an author of world renown.”

  Schutt yawned in apathy.

  Creighton sighed. So much for altruism. “I tell you what. I’ll sweeten the pot. If you cooperate, I’ll throw in a little bonus for you.”

  The man’s eyebrows twitched. “Bonus? What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. Just name your price: money, books, a night on the town, anything you want.”

  While Mr. Schutt mulled over the offer silently, Creighton realized that his companions on the other side of the curtain were probably growing anxious. “Well?” the younger man pressed. “Will you do this for me?”

  The merchant nodded reluctantly.

  “Good man,” Creighton proclaimed while patting him on the back. “And when you figure out how I can repay you, just let me know.”

  Mr. Schutt hoisted a pair of folding chairs from their position against the office wall. “Don’t worry,” he assured, tucking a chair under each arm and pushing his way through the drapes, “I will.”

  Yes, Creighton thought, that’s what I’m afraid of. He inhaled deeply, grabbed the upholstered desk chair and a tall, wooden stool, and followed the older man back to the public area of the shop.

  “What happened to you? You were gone forever,” Marjorie commented upon the return.

  The two men deposited their cargo and arranged them in a circular formation. “We were scrounging around for a fifth seat,” Creighton explained as he moved the upholstered chair beside Marjorie and motioned to her to be seated. “Alas, we didn’t find anything.”

  With Marjorie’s comfort ensured, Creighton looked for a seat for himself, but found that they had all been occupied. Schutt and Jameson were stationed in the two collapsible chairs, and Noonan had positioned his bulky frame rather tenuously upon the wobbly stool. Seeing no other place to roost, Creighton leaned an elbow on the back of Marjorie’s chair. “That’s all right,” he gibed his fellow men, “don’t get up on my account.”

  Jameson flashed a guilty look at the Englishman and then began the interrogation. “So, Mr. Schutt, when did you first meet Henry Van Allen?”

  “I remember it plain as day. It was January 1929, a couple of days after New Year’s. We had just been hit by one of the worst snowstorms on record. Shut down everything—roads were blocked off, train tracks were frozen, and the whole town was without electricity.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “The morning after the storm, I came down here to open the shop.”

  “You were open for business in spite of all the snow and the fact that the power lines were down?” interrupted Jameson.

  Mr. Schutt chuckled. “What do you mean ‘in spite of’? I opened the store especially because of all the snow and the power lines being down. The situation was a boon to my business. Snow-blocked roads meant that people couldn’t go to Hartford for a movie, and no electricity meant that people couldn’t listen to the radio. In those circumstances, what else can one do to entertain oneself, other than read a book?”

  “There’s always a game of cards,” Creighton offered helpfully.

  “So you opened the shop,” Jameson prodded.

  “Yes, I opened the shop and who do you think was the first person to come through the door?”

  “Henry Van Allen,” Creighton answered.

  “That’s right. You guessed it in one!”

  “And they say guessing games are strictly a sport for children.”

  Marjorie looked up at him and grinned. “And you’ve disproved that theory how, exactly?”

  Creighton bared his teeth in a mock snarl.

  Mr. Schutt carried on with his tale. “Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. That’s how surprised I was. The Van Allens didn’t make a habit out of coming to town, and they certainly never associated with ordinary townsfolk. To see Henry Van Allen standing in my doorway was quite a shock.”

  “What did he want?” Jameson inquired.

  “Nothing, except maybe a reprieve from his boredom. He told me that he and his family had come to
Ridgebury for the holidays. They were scheduled to return to New York when the blizzard struck and left them stranded. Like everyone else in town, the Van Allens were without electricity, so Mr. Van Allen decided to take a walk into town to pass the time. It was then that he first saw my shop. Being a book collector, quite naturally, he was drawn inside.”

  “So, he told you right away that he was a collector of old books,” Noonan commented, his voice questioning.

  “I guess he figured it would open up discussion: favorite books, favorite authors . . .”

  Noonan nodded. “Is that when he mentioned his interest in first editions?”

  “He mentioned them in passing, yes.”

  “Did he mention a particular first edition?”

  Mr. Schutt’s mood immediately soured. “I know what you’re getting at, Officer. You want to know if Henry asked me about the copy of David Copperfield. If you’ve heard the whole story already, then why are you bothering me?”

  “It’s like you said, we got nothing better to do with our time.”

  Schutt scowled at the officer. “From what I see, I’m right.”

  Creighton leaned his head next to Marjorie’s. “Watching these two is like watching the eleventh round of Baer and Carnera.”

  Jameson intervened. “Mr. Schutt, we’re here because we want to hear your version of what happened. When a story gets spread around as gossip, the truth very often gets lost.”

  The older man conceded this point grudgingly. “Then to answer Officer Noonan’s question, no. Mr. Van Allen did not mention the first edition of David Copperfield during our initial meeting. It would be several months before he finally broached that subject.”

  “And during that time a friendship developed,” Jameson postulated.

  “I wouldn’t use the word friendship. That would imply a certain degree of intimacy. It’s more accurate to say that an ‘acquaintanceship’ developed. He’d stop by every few weeks and make idle conversation: the weather, the economy, the latest authors. He never spoke of his personal life, and I never spoke of mine.”

  “So, when did he ask you to obtain the first edition for him?”

  “Saturday, September sixteenth,” the shopkeeper answered flatly.

  Jameson was startled by such a rapid and precise response. “You remember the exact day?”

  “Yes, I recall it vividly because my wife and I were hosting an engagement party in honor of my daughter, Sheila, and her future husband.” Schutt paused a moment and then added, offhandedly, “My other daughter, Sharon, is still at home.” He cleared his throat and continued. “Anyhow, I planned to close shop early that day in order to help my wife with the preparations for the party that evening. Just as I was locking up, who should come wandering by but Henry Van Allen. He was surprised to see me leaving work so early and asked if I was ill. I assured him that I was fine and then told him of the party and of Sheila’s betrothal. It was the only personal bit of information we ever exchanged.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He was polite; he was always polite. He congratulated me heartily, and then remarked that his timing could not have been better. I asked him what he meant, and he explained that he had come to me that day with a business proposition. I informed him, very nicely, that I wasn’t interested in any business other than the bookstore. He laughed and then told me that his business and my business were very closely related.”

  “His business being the acquisition of a rare book,” Creighton commented.

  “That’s right.”

  “What, specifically, did he tell you?” Jameson queried.

  “He told me that he possessed a first edition copy of nearly every major work by Charles Dickens. The only two books missing from this collection were Little Dorritt and David Copperfield, and he thought that perhaps I could find them for him.”

  “And you told him you could?”

  “No, I told him he was out of luck. I had never dealt in first editions. I never had that kind of clientele.”

  Creighton spoke up. “A man like Van Allen wasn’t going to let you off the hook that easily.”

  “You got that right. He told me that I stood to earn a great amount of money out of the deal, and then proceeded to remind me that my daughter was getting married. How nice it would be if I were able to provide her with a beautiful wedding or a new home as a wedding gift.”

  “And that’s when you agreed,” Jameson surmised.

  Schutt, glassy-eyed, nodded. “I wanted those things for Sheila. I want those things for all my children. What parent doesn’t?”

  “It’s true,” a whiny voice concurred. The group was surprised to discover that the foreign sound had risen from none other than Officer Noonan. The police officer’s eyes were damp and his naturally ruddy complexion was now a deep crimson.

  “We all want to give our children the things we never had,” his voice cracked. Massive teardrops streamed down his cheeks.

  Creighton pulled a starched white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to the sobbing man perched beside him. “Here,” he ordered irritably. “Pull yourself together. You’re frightening Mr. Schutt . . . not to mention me.”

  Noonan tilted his head downward and blew his nose into the handkerchief, exuding a honk that made the frail legs of his seat tremble violently.

  Marjorie drew a hand to her mouth to hide her amusement.

  Jameson tugged awkwardly at his tie and cleared his throat. “I realize that this is a difficult subject.” His eyes slid to Noonan, who was using the white cloth to wipe his brow. “But what were the terms of your arrangement with Henry?”

  Mr. Schutt, still mesmerized by the hypersensitive Officer Noonan, was only half-listening. At Jameson’s question, he jolted out of his awe-stricken state. “Terms? What terms?”

  “For starters, how and when were you to deliver the book to Mr. Van Allen?”

  “He didn’t specify a date or a time by which he needed the books. I was instructed to call him as soon as I had either book in my possession.”

  “So you were to purchase the books on your own, and Mr. Van Allen would reimburse you,” Jameson concluded.

  “Correct.”

  “And how much money did he offer you to do this?”

  Schutt laughed bitterly. “Henry Van Allen was the consummate businessman. He said to make him an offer, but he hinted that it wasn’t uncommon for a good dealer to add a 200 percent markup on an item.”

  “So he led you to believe that you would triple your investment,” Jameson interpreted. “Did you happen to get any of this in writing?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Schutt answered as he sunk lower in his chair.

  “You agreed to pay money out of your own pocket and trusted that this man would make good on his side of the deal?”

  “Yes,” Schutt nearly shouted. “Yes, I trusted him. I realize now that I was stupid. But Henry Van Allen was a wealthy and well-respected man. I had no reason to think he would go back on his word.”

  Jameson nodded morosely. “What happened next?”

  “I went searching for the two books. I couldn’t find Little Dorritt anywhere, but I did manage to locate a copy of David Copperfield so, as per Van Allen’s instructions, I purchased it and immediately placed a call to him. He arranged for us to meet at Kensington House the following weekend.”

  “And when was this?” Noonan asked as he poised a pencil over his reporter’s notebook.

  Schutt cast his eyes toward the ceiling as he searched his memory. “Umm, around the middle of October.”

  Noonan jotted down the information as Schutt continued his story. “I went to the house as scheduled, showed him the book and named my price. Do you know he actually brought an appraiser with him? As if I were going to swindle him. Me! A simple store owner! As soon as I stated my price, he called his appraiser into the room. They examined the book and then went off to discuss the findings in private. When they returned, Van Allen declined my offer. He said that his so-calle
d expert claimed that the price I wanted was for a book in ‘very fine’ condition, but that the copy I was offering was only in ‘fine’ condition.”

  “Did he make a counteroffer?” Creighton asked.

  “Yes, but it was only slightly more than what I had paid for it. In hindsight, I should have accepted that offer. At least I would have broken even, but instead, I lost my temper.”

  “You lost your temper,” Jameson repeated, his curiosity aroused. “What did you do?”

  “I grabbed the book, called Van Allen some choice names, and left.”

  “Did you see him again?”

  Schutt folded his arms across his chest. “Yes, I saw him a few days before he died, when I paid a visit to Kensington House.”

  “You went to Kensington House?” Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Did Van Allen summon you?”

  “No, going there was my idea. I wanted to make amends.”

  “Why? Did the better angels of your nature suddenly take hold of you?”

  “No,” Schutt rejected with a chuckle. “I’m not that big-hearted.”

  I can certainly attest to that, Creighton sneered to himself.

  “I was looking out for my own interests. After the scene at Kensington House, I tried to sell the book elsewhere. When I couldn’t find a single taker, I decided it was time to swallow my pride and try to renegotiate a deal with Van Allen.”

  “Was he receptive?” Jameson asked.

  “He was polite, as usual. He welcomed me inside and even offered me a drink. I declined and got straight down to business. I apologized for my behavior during our previous meeting and explained to him that, in my inexperience in dealing with first editions, I had misjudged his offer.”

  “How did he react to all of that?”

  “He was silent for a very long time after I had finished, and then he started to laugh, softly at first, and then with more and more zeal. Finally, after laughing himself red in the face, he spoke. I’ll never forget his words. He said, ‘You’re very much the tragic hero, aren’t you Walter? And like the tragic hero, hubris has been your downfall.’”