The thin, baritone voice interrupted Percy’s thinking. She swiveled around in the hard chair she’d been occupying. Fred Rendell stood in the doorway against the backdrop of the pink and red curtain.
“Come on in, Rendell. I dragged this chair over to where the killer copper kettle was. Some things are bothering me and I wanted to mull them over on the spot. Glad you could get here so fast.”
“It’s been an hour, ma’am.”
Surprised, Percy checked her watch then looked up at the sound of the man’s leather shoes crossing the cement floor. She studied the slender, compact man, wisps of fine dark hair not covered by his black felt hat fluttering as he walked. No more than thirty, Rendell had been in the infantry and still retained the toned body of a man who until recently had been crawling on his belly to get the job done.
He wore grey slacks with a thick, dark green cardigan sweater. The day having turned warmer, his worn, brown leather jacket was thrown over his left shoulder, clasped by his one good hand. Hanging out of the other side of the long-sleeve sweater was his wooden hand, sheathed in a black leather glove. She’d seen the piece of teak wood cut in the shape of a hand at rest, hard and unyielding. He called it a prosthesis. She called it a damn shame.
“Haul that stool over here and sit.” Percy pointed to a lone white stool sitting against the wall next to the storage bins.
With a quick stride, he went to the far wall, threw his jacket over the top of the stool, picked it up with his one hand, and carried it nearer to her. Rendell removed his jacket from the top and hitched himself up on the stool, easy and lithe. He still wore his hat, but pushed it further off his forehead. She watched his movements with sharp eyes.
“You left-handed or right-handed?”
“I was right-handed. I’m left-handed now.”
He shot her a smile, simple and direct. No self-pity dwelled in his eyes that Percy could see. He took those eyes off her and looked around.
“So this is the place. When they’re not killing people, they make chocolate here.” He gave off a small laugh.
“They do.” She reached inside her breast pocket and took out a small notebook and pen. After she flipped it open and found the right page, she looked at Rendell. “You bring a notebook like I asked?”
He nodded, reached into his left trouser pocket, and pulled out a small spiral book found at any stationary shop.
“Can you write with that left hand?”
“Nobody but me can read it, but I write well enough.”
Percy cracked a smile. “After we talk, take my notebook over to that counter and copy this top page and the two after that. These are my notes about the two cases you’ll be working on. Don’t make contact with anyone, and don’t let anyone know you’re tailing him. Think you can do that?”
He nodded before saying, “Part of my job in the army was a tracker.”
“So Sylvia mentioned. Your wife also says you’re lucky to be alive. They still don’t know why that landmine didn’t take off more of your body than just your hand.”
“My buddy took the brunt of it. He stepped right on it. They never found much of him.” He changed the subject. “So what happened here? Sylvia didn’t know.”
“Dead body partially dumped into a giant chocolate vat. The vat’s gone now, but it was right there.”
Percy nodded her head toward a squatting, stainless steel gas stove with a huge single burner. Two arms came up from the floor on either side the stove, and curved toward each other.
At the end of each arm was a steel clamp. Behind the stove was a rudimentary pulley system coming from the ceiling. To one side, the long and narrow conveyer belt made out of a rubberized canvas rested, silent and still.
“Wouldn’t the vat have to be pretty big? I mean, to hold a body?” Rendell raised an eyebrow.
“A hundred and fifty gallons. Not big enough to cover the entire body, but big enough.”
“And the vat normally holds chocolate? How do they control that much chocolate as of a day?”
“I haven’t seen the vat, myself. The police have it. But the way it’s been explained to me, these clamps are on a swivel and locking mechanism and attached to the pulley. When the chocolate is ready, a funnel is fastened to the vat and it’s raised off the fire. The vat is swiveled over the conveyer belt. It’s angled and locked in place. The chocolate feeds into the funnel, and comes out onto whatever is moving along on the conveyer belt. When they need more chocolate or it needs to be rewarmed, they make adjustments. That was part of Howie’s job, to control that.”
“But why would someone put a woman into a vat of chocolate? It seems like a messy thing to do, ma’am.”
“Especially as she was strangled by a rope beforehand, yes.”
“You’d get chocolate everywhere, especially on you.”
“And that is exactly what happened to Howie. Chocolate everywhere. Very damning.”
“But you don’t think he did it?”
Percy shook her head and gave her new employee a faint smile before saying, “No, and I’m going to prove he didn’t. You’ll be on your own for the most part on these two other jobs, but you need to report everything back to me. If you’ve thought about it and you’re going to have a problem taking orders from a woman, tell me now.”
It was his turn to shake his head. “I was raised by my mother, grandmother, and three older sisters. Women telling me what to do is old hat to me.” He let out a small laugh at some past memory. “Nobody was quicker than granny, although Sylvia’s pretty close.”
He looked her square in the eyes. Percy nodded.
“Good. As long as we’re clear on that.”
“Yes ma’am. Crystal.”
“You have two cases; one urgent, one not so much. The urgent one involves three stolen paintings, missing for nearly two days. They belong to a collector, a man who owns an up and coming modeling agency. His older, society wife is subsidizing his business while it’s getting off the ground. She’s also the one who forked over the dough for the paintings. The wife’s in California right now but our client doesn’t want her to find out the paintings are gone, especially as we now think members of his family might be responsible. It was an inside job, no forced entry. They knew right where they were going. In and out in less than five minutes.”
Rendell whistled. “That’s a pretty sticky situation.”
“By the time cases get to us, they’re usually covered with glue. Mr. Sheppard’s wife could return from California any time. We haven’t got long. I’ve narrowed it down to three suspects, all his siblings. One of the brothers owns a gallery uptown on 74th Street. Two others work in a gallery on 68th Street and Lexington Avenue. He doesn’t necessarily want them to be caught and punished; too much publicity. But he does want the paintings found and returned.”
“What’s the second case?”
“A cheating husband. Not such a tight time-frame on that one, so we’ll put it on the back burner for now. Back to the art.”
She gestured with a nod toward the edge of the counter against the wall.
“I left photographs of the missing paintings on the counter over there. They were used for insurance purposes, so they’re pretty grainy. But they’ll give you an idea. In my notebook are the dimensions of the paintings and the brothers’ names, with a bit of their history. I’m going to stress again we don’t have a lot of time. It might already be too late. The paintings have been missing for almost forty-eight hours. They could be crated and heading for parts unknown, but maybe not. This is Friday. If it was me, I’d do what I needed to do over the weekend. Less prying eyes.”
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small badge, and chucked it on his lap.
“You’ll need to see where each gallery stores their paintings, not just the ones on display. I find saying you’re with the gas company gets you in almost anywhere. Hang that from your shirt pocket. If somebody challenges you on it, make an excuse and leave. You see anyone when you came in?”
> “Yes, some Italian guy. He was heading out. That’s what I should be doing, after I copy your notes.”
Pocketing the badge, he stood, moving toward her. Percy turned over her notebook and watched him go the marble counter to transfer information and to examine the photographs she’d left there. After a moment, his head snapped around. Rendell’s face was covered with an amazed expression.
“One of these looks like a Picasso.”
“You know your art, Mr. Rendell.”
Neither said more. Rendell turned back to the counter and scribbled furiously. Percy let her mind return to where it had been. She came back to the same place repeatedly.
Sixty-four dollar question: why put a woman into a vat of chocolate, especially when she’s got a rope around her neck that probably choked the life out of her? Answer: Maybe if you were making a point, there’d be no better way. Okay, second question: She was a little woman, but even if she weighed less than a hundred pounds, it’s still a lot of dead weight to haul around. That says it’s more likely a man. Of course, I could do it, but then I’ve got the strength. Comes with being bigger than your average male.
“I’m leaving now, Miss Cole. Anything else?”
Percy looked up into the solemn brown eyes of Rendell. “Yeah, write anything and everything down. And keep a list of all your expenses. Some of them we might reimburse you for. Don’t count on it, but you never know.”
“Then I’ll wish you good day, ma’am.” He touched his hat in a gesture of respect. He gave her a quick grin and nod then turned on his heels to leave. Percy watched the back of him.
He’s eager to start and asks good questions. I like that.
Chapter Seventeen
Percy rose and crossed to the set of lockers running down one wall of the room. Twenty in all, sixteen had names printed on tape in the upper right hand corner of the door. Out of the sixteen, four had locks on them, cheap and easy to open. The twelve lockers without a security device were first, starting at the one nearest the door. Percy flipped open the handles of each and did a quick check. They revealed nothing out of the ordinary or of importance.
Inexpensive smocks, obviously provided for by the factory, and hairnets hung in each one, with the occasional addition of a piece of soap or pair of shoes. Each smock was thread-bare but clean. The hairnets were in much worse shape, holey and ripped.
Maybe they have to pay for the hairnets themselves.
Percy pushed her hat forward on her head, reached back, and removed a hairpin from near her pony tail. After flattening the pin, she inserted it in the first lock of the four secured lockers. Within ten seconds, the lock released itself and she opened the door of the locker.
Several boxes of chocolate were inside a wrinkled paper bag tucked into a corner of the floor. On a top shelf, three wads of crumpled paper had been tossed. She grabbed one and smoothed it out. A deposit slip to a nearby bank read for fifty-dollars in the account of Alfred Ziglar. With a hasty hand, she picked up the other two. They, too, were for fifty dollars.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? Get out of my locker, fella!”
Percy turned to see a short, wiry man around her age hurry toward her.
“Why, you ain’t nothing but a broad!”
His shock was amusing to Percy as he raced across the floor to her. She looked at him with a smile.
“I’m a detective broad. You must be Alfred Ziglar.”
Instead of answering, he snatched at her hand containing the deposit slips. Percy pulled back and held them higher than his reach.
“Not so fast, Alf. That’s what they call you, right? Alf?”
“What’s it to you? You give me those back before I call the cops.” He gestured toward the deposit slip then glared at her menacingly.
“Go ahead, call the cops. Or you could just answer some questions.”
“You got no right to be here. I could have you arrested.”
“I got every right. Ask your boss, Bogdanovitch. You could say I’m working for him. You know what happened here last night?”
“Sure, I know. The owner got iced by that Jew boy.”
“Watch your mouth, Alf. Or somebody might have to wash it out with soap for you.”
“Says you.” He sneered at her. “Give me back my property. You ain’t got no right--”
“What’s with the monthly deposits for fifty bucks? Seems like a lot of money for an ex-con like you.”
“How do you know I’m a--”
“You got the same pair of shoes they give every jailbird coming out of the pen who doesn’t have any of his own. Besides, you smell like one.”
“Why you --” He made a lunge for her.
Percy sidestepped, as he came toward her. She reached out and using his momentum, threw him against the door of the locker. Percy held the gasping man at arm’s length and stared down at him.
“You know, I don’t like you, Alf. So don’t give me any reason to knock you around any more than I have to. I’m going to ask you again, what’s with the deposit slips?”
Alf struggled to be free, but Percy held him with a tight hand at his throat. Arm taut, she leaned against his neck with her body weight, which was considerable.
“You being a bad boy and stealing somebody else’s money?”
“I ain’t stealing nothing.” Red faced, he fought to get the words out, despite her hand clamped around his throat. “That money’s mine.” He pushed hard against her hand. She pushed back.
“That means you’re putting the squeeze on somebody. No other way a scumbag like you would have that kind of dough three times in a row and all at the beginning of each month.”
Thrashing about, the man broke free. Percy grabbed the front collar of his shirt, spun him around in a circle, knocking him against the locker again. A button ripped from his shirt in the scuffle, and skittered across the floor with a clicking sound. This time she picked him up by his neck, and raised him to her eye level. He stared at her terrified, as he felt his feet being lifted off the ground.
“You’re starting to make me mad, Alf. Now I want to know where you got this money and until you tell me, you’re going to be ‘hanging’ around, so to speak.”
“I got it from the owner, Carlotta. I got it from her.” His voice was hardly more than a squeak but understandable.
‘A shakedown? For what?” He tried to look away. Percy banged his head against the tin of the door. “Talk, Alf, before I put you inside your locker, roll it down the front stairs, and all the way back to jail.”
“It’s for something she done. Something she done way back. She don’t want nobody to know. But I knows, see? Let me down. Let me down.”
She allowed him to slide down the locker door to the floor. “What didn’t she want anyone to know?”
Safely on the ground, some of his bravado returned. “I ain’t telling you.”
“But she’s dead now, Alf.” Percy’s voice took on a reasonable tone. “What difference can it make?”
“Somebody else cares, so I ain’t telling you.”
Alf gave Percy a sudden, hard shove, throwing her off-balance. He made a break for the door, leather shoes thudding against the hard concrete.
Percy’s initial reaction was to follow but she stopped herself. She brushed off her hands, spied the button lying in the middle of the room, and strode over to it. Deep in thought, she bent down to pick it up.
Alf, Alf, Alf, what were you blackmailing Carlotta for? And did she threaten to turn you in? And did you decide to silence her in a macabre sort of way? I need to find out why you were doing time. Maybe you like to repeat yourself.
Pocketing the button, she opened and searched the three remaining lockers, found nothing, and relocked them.
It was too much to hope for. So whoever killed Carlotta wore his own clothes or took the stained smock with him. Maybe by now they threw the clothes away. Did the cops searched nearby trash cans? Probably not. Next on my agenda.
She looked up at the small offi
ce at the top of the stairs. The lights were on, yet no one came out to see what all the racket was about at the lockers. Who was up there? Percy strode across the floor and up the stairs toward the office.
The door was unlocked and she pushed it open to see the room was empty, despite the blazing lights. Not only that, the door to Carlotta’s safe, a safe Bogdanovitch claimed was impenetrable, was wide open, Blue Boy lying on its side against Carlotta’s desk.
Somebody knew the combination or was a better safe-cracker than Bogdanovitch claimed to be.
Flinging her hat on the desk, Percy hurried over and looked inside the safe. Empty. Her attention was drawn down to the floor. A Spanish passport and two legal-size documents were splayed out to the side, as if thrown from impatient hands. Without touching them, the detective squatted down for a better look. Besides the passport, one looked like a will, the other a deed. No book with a formula. Percy grabbed a pencil from the top of the desk, flipped the passport open, and began turning the pages.
Born December fifteenth, 1901. That made her forty-two. Younger than anyone thought, but that’s the way of the world for bow-wows.
She pressed open the page showing entry into the United States and found something surprising.
She came to the U.S. in 1918 from Barcelona. Seventeen years old. Pretty young. I wonder if she came alone.
Percy strained to read the small print further down the page.
Spent six months here. Hmmm. Interesting. Didn’t come back again until 1937, when she stayed.
Using the pencil, Percy closed the passport and pushed it to where it had been on the floor. She flipped over the first document, blue covered. It was, indeed, a will, and left much of what Carlotta owned -- including the formula for her chocolate -- to her next of kin, with the exception of the chocolate factory, itself. Surprisingly, she’d left the business et al to Howard Goldberg.
Holy Cow! This includes ownership of the building.
Considering the fight Carlotta had with Howie, plus the demotion, this surprised Percy.
Obviously, she’s hadn’t changed her will yet, if she intended to. But crap, whether she intended to or not, this adds a bigger motive for poor Howie. The cops are going to love this.
The Chocolate Kiss-Off (The Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries Book 3) Page 8
