Harry Lipkin, Private Eye

by Barry Fantoni

  Norma Weinberger plumped up a pillow and placed it next to hers.

  “I’ll sleep in my bed,” she said. “Unlike the chair, I can thoroughly recommend it.”

  Then she undid the back of her robe and it slipped gracefully from her body. If she was wearing anything underneath I couldn’t see it. In the shadowy half light I saw only Doris Day. With dark hair.

  · THIRTY-SIX ·

  The Thief Strikes While Harry Sleeps

  A woman’s voice was calling me.

  “Wake up! Mr. Lipkin! Wake up!”

  It was the kind of voice I heard waking me eighty-seven years ago.

  I was Harry the baby. Opening my eyes to the lace-trimmed drapes of windows filled with the tops of leaf-heavy summer trees and uncluttered skies above the gray roofs of tenement houses. The baby in his cot. The old man on his bed. One journey. One timeless pointless journey.

  “Wake up, Mr. Lipkin.”

  Hands were gripping my shoulders and shaking me. Kind hands with soft skin.

  I was half stuck in a dream and half out. Stuck somewhere between. A dream where Amos the chef had built a synagogue out of cheese blintzes. Inside Maria was marrying Steve. Mr. Lee was in a prayer shawl conducting the service. Rufus was in riding boots driving a coach and pair. Somewhere in the center of it all I was struggling to shout something. Where or what I never found out. Mrs. Weinberger had got me unstuck.

  “I thought you were dead, Mr. Lipkin,” she said. “I’ve been shaking you. Shaking and shaking.”

  My eyes did the standard old man’s wake up slow focus and settled on Mrs. Weinberger’s face. It was so close to mine I could smell cold cream.

  “What time is it?” I asked. More out of instinct than curiosity.

  She let go of my shoulders.

  “I have no idea. Seven. Seven-thirty. Mr. Lipkin, how could it have happened?”

  I eased myself slowly upright and shoved the pillow behind my back.

  “How could what have happened?”

  “The necklace. It has gone!”

  It wasn’t news I wanted that early in the morning. Or anytime.

  Mrs. Weinberger perched herself on the edge of the bed.

  “I went to get the necklace to put it back in the safe …” she paused. “But the table was empty.”

  “Not on the floor? Underneath on the carpet? Dropped off maybe?”

  She shook her head.

  “I looked all over. It was nowhere. Mr. Weinberger’s last gift. Stolen.”

  It didn’t take me long to figure out the theft had taken place less than a couple of hours ago. In daylight. Or near daylight.

  “Whoever took it must have had some idea of what was going on in here,” I said. “They knew I was no longer in the chair and made their move. I got to admit it beats me how.”

  Norma Weinberger was back in her robe. She looked at me. Helpless. Her fingers fiddled with one another.

  “We have missed our one big chance,” she said.

  “Looks that way,” I agreed and scratched an itch around my elbow.

  Mrs. Weinberger left a long silence. She was thinking. Thinking deep. I looked at her. A lot closer than I had at any time before. Or had the right. She was my client and you don’t stare at your client in that way. But I felt that a night in her bed had given me that right. She was aging. But aging in style. A handsome woman. The hair. The skin. They had better care than a hothouse orchid. I had seen it from day one. But there was something I hadn’t seen. A dullness behind her eyes. It made her face waxy. Lifeless. Like the mask they make of the dead. And when she finally spoke her words sounded strangely distant. Disembodied. Like the voice you hear from the loudspeaker on a railway station.

  “All that matters Mr. Lipkin, is that you, you know who did it.”

  I let her carry on.

  “During these long days of pain and anguish one thought alone has kept me from sinking into despair. You, Mr. Lipkin. You would discover my thief. And now the time has come. Now you will point the accusing finger and the whole terrible business will be over. They will come and take the robber and put them behind bars. Justice will be done and I shall begin to live my life again in peace and tranquility. And I will owe it all to you.”

  A private detective gets to hear a lot of speeches they don’t expect. I never heard one like this. I didn’t know if I should clap or whistle Swanee. I did neither. I noticed the only cover Harry Lipkin had over his bones and gristle was a sheet. I looked for my undershirt. It was on a chair beside the bed.

  I reached over and hauled it on.

  While I struggled to get my arms and head to poke through the right holes, Norma Weinberger got up from the bed. She moved to the window and thought some more while looking into the early morning sky and the high white scattered duck-down clouds passing over the bay.

  Then she turned and faced me. Her expression was nearer the one I was used to. A little dippy on top but bright as a sunrise underneath. The dead look that had taken her was nowhere to be seen.

  “What are you going to do now, Mr. Lipkin?” she asked in her normal voice. “What is the next step?”

  I’d been doing some thinking of my own.

  “We come clean,” I told her. “Let Mr. Lee and the others know I was here all night hiding in your bedroom. But say nothing about me dozing off. Let them think I saw it all. The guilty party will be sure to show some kind of reaction. You follow?”

  “Perfectly, Mr. Lipkin.”

  “Tell Mr. Lee to assemble everyone in the lounge.”

  “Do you have a time in mind?”

  “Make it for eleven. I got to get myself organized. Take a shower. Find my socks.”

  Mrs. Weinberger moved to the bedroom door. Then she turned to face me.

  “I almost forgot,” she said. “Can I get you breakfast? You must be hungry after such a long night.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Weinberger.”

  “Anything special?” she asked.

  “I operate best on a plate of eggs. Sunny side up. Two’s plenty. Not too burned under. And waffles. I like waffles crisp with honey. And a glass of fresh juice. No special kind. I’m not fussy about juice. Grapefruit juice is good. Any juice is good. Orange. Pineapple. Even carrot. And a cup of coffee. I take coffee black. Not too strong. And one sugar.”

  I was playing for time. I could have ordered a ten-course meal but it would not have made the slightest difference. The race was over and I was still running.

  Mrs. Weinberger made a mental note of my breakfast menu. Then a little of the dead look came back. But only a little.

  “Mr. Lipkin. Even I know the thief must be one of my staff.”

  “Has to be,” I said. “Unless you got a ghost living here.”

  “A ghost?” She laughed. “I never thought of a ghost.”

  I was counting on it.

  · THIRTY-SEVEN ·

  Harry Gets Ready

  Norma Weinberger served me breakfast and I ate it in bed. It is something I never do. Eat breakfast in bed. I have nothing against the habit. It is just that my bed is in one room and the TV is in another.

  After eating half a waffle watching a redhead on TV talking about the weather in Kansas and how it would soon be the same kind of weather in Florida I got out of bed and took a shower. I dried off and got back into my light tan gabardine double breasted. I put on my dark tan mercerized cotton socks, my two-tone brogues, my cream shirt, and my mint-green silk tie. With nothing else to put back on I went and checked myself in the mirror that was on the inside of the closet door. The guy in the reflection looked pretty close to the Harry Lipkin I knew. But he still hadn’t a single clue.

  “What do you think?” I asked the mug in the mirror.

  “Magpies,” he grinned. Full of himself. “Magpies stole the stuff.”

  I laughed. Big laugh. Big sneering laugh.

  “Oh, yeah? Since when do birds work nights? Bats work nights. Moths. Owls. Birds sleep nights. And the last time I took a look magp
ies were birds.”

  There was a polite tap on the door.

  “Hello!” I called out a little startled.

  “The butler,” a voice announced.

  “Come in, Mr. Lee,” I said. “The door is not locked.”

  Mr. Lee came in and looked around.

  “Is sir alone?” he asked after a short pause. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “It is a condition that affects one in fifty. Voices here. Voices there. Medical science is at a loss.”

  There was a pause. Somewhere near a deep sigh of impatience got stifled.

  “We are waiting for you, sir, in the lounge,” Mr. Lee said. “In accordance with your instructions.”

  I followed the butler from the bedroom to the flagstone path edging the lawn to the room overlooking the pool. The sun was already shining brightly. It was hot. In the low nineties. Someone had opened the flower-colored umbrellas. Beyond the shrubs at the far end of the garden gently moving arcs of sun-dappled water were keeping the lawn from getting thirsty.

  Inside they were ready for me to deliver. My audience. Apart from the faint hum of the cooling unit there was absolute silence. It was like when the lights go down in the theater and the curtain goes up. “What now?” No one says it. The silence says it. “What now?” In Ibsen they got an answer.

  I looked around.

  Maria was closest to me. She was sitting in one easy chair and Rufus in the other. Steve sat alone in the center of the pink velvet sofa and Amos uncomfortably on the piano stool. Mr. Lee stood just to the right of Mrs. Weinberger, who was standing just to the right of me. She was in a pair of drawstring slacks and a loose-fitting cutaway sage shirt with outsize buttons. She stepped out of the group and spoke. And with more authority than I had heard her use before. The voice of the young Norma Weinberger. In the old days. Back in the hat factory. Any problems Isaac couldn’t handle, Norma would fix it.

  “As you all know,” she said, “Mr. Lipkin is the private investigator I have employed to discover why certain items in my possession have gone missing. I use the word ‘missing’ but it is not strictly correct. They have been stolen. I believe this to be the case and so does Mr. Lipkin, who is a professional in these matters. The items stolen range from an inexpensive porcelain pillbox to a priceless emerald necklace. The necklace was stolen as recently as the early hours of this morning. Someone here is the thief. He or she knows who I am referring to. Now the time has come to reveal the culprit. Mr. Lipkin. If you would be so kind.”

  She gestured to me to step into the spotlight.

  I felt like a cross between a game-show host and the foreman of a jury. But I had nothing to give away and no verdict.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Weinberger,” I said and stared blankly at her staff.

  I had never seen a bunch of people more bewildered. Each one had the same two words written large as a front-of-house movie title over their head. Not Me.

  In my pocket was the sheet of paper with the list of suspects and their motives and all the other stuff that I had typed earlier. I took it out and put on my reading glasses. With careful timing and a few long jokes thrown in I could spin out reading it aloud till lunch. During the dessert I might just be able to slip away without being noticed. I cleared my throat and began. Slow and ponderous.

  “I have here … in my hand … a list of names.”

  It was as far as I got. The doorbell chimed.

  It went ding-dong. Like it always did.

  “May I be permitted to see who is at the door?” Mr. Lee asked Mrs. Weinberger.

  She nodded. I looked to heaven and mumbled words of thanks. Mr. Lee bowed and left the room.

  · THIRTY-EIGHT ·

  Dr. Glasser Arrives Unexpectedly

  The man who rang the bell walked confidently into the room followed by Mr. Lee. He was middle-aged with a full head of closely trimmed silver hair. The pants were linen. Light blue in color. A bleached-out blue. So was the casual jacket. No tie. Deck shoes. No socks. His dark eyes were gentle and his mouth looked like it would smile easy. And turn serious just as easy. He could have been anything. A man with plenty who didn’t let it bother him.

  “Hi, Aunty Norma,” he said cheerily and gave Mrs. Weinberger a peck on her cheek. “What’s going on? Some kind of séance?”

  He waved a hello to the staff. No one waved back.

  “This is my nephew, Rubin,” Mrs. Weinberger said. “Harry Lipkin, Dr. Rubin Glasser. Rubin is my sister’s son.”

  “Hello, Mr. Lipkin,” Dr. Glasser said and we shook hands.

  “Rubin is my doctor, as well as my nephew,” she said proudly. “He treats me like a mother. I treat him like a son.”

  Dr. Glasser smiled at me. Amused and curious.

  “What’s the game?” he asked. “Maybe I could be in on it?”

  “I don’t think so, Rubin, dear,” Norma Weinberger said. “Mr. Lipkin is a private investigator. A number of thefts have taken place here recently.”

  Dr. Glasser looked at his aunt. He looked at me.

  “What’s been stolen?” he asked. “Anything valuable?”

  His immediate interest was unexpected. And his question direct. But some people are like that. No ceremony. So I told him.

  “All kinds.”

  Dr. Glasser put his fingers to his chin and used the tips to stroke it. Same as wise old men do when they get to thinking hard about where it all began. And when. And why?

  “Could you be more exact about the items?” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. “You figure it might matter?”

  “It might.”

  Something in his tone suggested his interest wasn’t outside of his work. A doctor’s curiosity. Not a nephew’s.

  I gave it a spin.

  “Okay, Doc,” I said. “A pillbox. Love letters. Jade. You want a full list?”

  He shook his head and thought.

  “Were they all small, Mr. Lipkin?”

  Mrs. Weinberger beat me to it.

  “They were very precious to me, Rubin. The love letters more than any other.”

  “I am sure they were, Aunty,” Dr. Glasser soothed. Then he turned to me. “Nothing large?”

  “Portable,” I said. “Pocket size.”

  “And you have a suspect?” he asked and turned his gaze on the assembly. “Is that what my aunt’s staff is doing here?”

  Steve put in. Loud. So everyone could hear nice and clear.

  “He’s got nothing on nobody. We are clean. All of us. Amos. Maria. Rufus. Mr. Lee. Me. I am telling you, Doc. There isn’t an alibi he can bust.”

  There was a muttering of agreement.

  Dr. Glasser dug into his jacket and pulled out a pipe.

  Sherlock Holmes smoked one when he wasn’t playing the violin or messing around with laudanum.

  “Is that true, Mr. Lipkin?” he asked. “No suspects?”

  “Kind of,” I said.

  “Meaning what?” he asked.

  I went along with him. Maybe he could lead me someplace I hadn’t been.

  “Everyone and no one,” I said.

  He put the pipe back in his jacket. The smoke was going to have to wait.

  “Aunty Norma,” he said firm but gentle. “We need a few words together. In private.”

  Dr. Glasser moved close to his aunt. He took her arm and led Mrs. Weinberger to a swing seat by the pool. They sat side by side and the doctor began talking. They were too far away to hear what was being said but it was clear it was plenty. When he was through he waved to Mr. Lee to join them. There was some more out-of-range talking and then the butler returned to the lounge.

  He stood in the middle of the room. There was more hubbub from the staff. Mr. Lee put up the palm of a hand to ask for silence. It came at once.

  “I have some very important news that affects us all,” Mr. Lee said with the detachment of a railway station announcement. “There is no longer any mystery concerning those possessions that Mrs. Weinberger had momentarily cons
idered stolen. Dr. Glasser has solved the case. You may now return to your duties. The matter is closed.”

  The news had hit me like the first custard pie thrown in a film fight. Slap bang in the face. Dead center. My brain was grappling with the news. It had less success than a mountain climber who lost his rope. Maybe Dr. Glasser knew something I didn’t. Maybe they all did. There was no other explanation.

  The cook. The maid. The chauffeur. The gardener. They all got up and filed out of the room. And they did so without looking my way. Heads down. Eyes on the floor. I had put them under the white light. Shone it in their eyes. Made them suspects. Made them feel shame.

  Mr. Lee came and stood facing me.

  “Dr. Glasser has asked if you would be kind enough to wait for him, sir?” he said. “He will not detain you long. Now, if you will permit me, I must attend to my duties. Life has been a little disrupted recently and there is much to put back in order.”

  Mr. Lee could go. But first I wanted more on Dr. Glasser. More on what he knew and I didn’t. I wanted to know just how he could stroll into a room with no socks and a pipe shaped like the saxophone my cousin Bernie played in his high school band and wrap up a caper in minutes I’d got nowhere with in a week. I knew I was just aiming wild but I took a shot anyhow. I had to. It was about pride. Plain and simple. Old and young. It never goes. Same as the bone in your ear. Same size from birth to death. Unchanging.

  “Mrs. Weinberger’s nephew,” I said. “He looks like he’s at home here. I guess he drops by quite a bit?”

  “Once a week is customary,” he replied.

  Mr. Lee took a pace to the door. The butler wanted out. I wanted him in.

  “Lives close, then?” I said.

  “A short drive.”

  Mr. Lee left a pause.

  “Now, sir. If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have a busy morning ahead of me.”

  I was all through with being treated like a cold kreplach.

  “I got a busy morning ahead of me too, bud,” I snapped. “I got a busy day. A busy week. A busy life. You will go when I say so.”