Looking around, she realized that the voice was coming from a partly open connecting door. As she pushed gently on it, clouds of cigar smoke wafted out over her head, forming eddies and swirls before slipping through an air vent in the ceiling of the outer office.
Hesitantly poking her head around the door, she saw a rather untidy man sitting behind a desk piled high with more buff folders and papers. He stood up as she entered, immediately tried to hitch up his sagging pants, stubbed a half-smoked cigar into an overflowing ashtray and, with a nod, indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Mrs. . . . uh . . .” He rummaged through the mess on his desk and finally came up with a scrap of paper. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Spencer, isn’t it?”
Margaret nodded, at a loss for words.
He brushed cigar ash off his already stained jacket and sat down. For a moment, he just looked at her. The blue of her smart Chanel wool suit matched her eyes perfectly, and the March wind had given her cheeks a healthy glow.
“Have you done any office work at all?” he asked suddenly.
“A long time ago,” she answered, not so winded anymore. “I worked as a legal secretary in my husband’s office. I’m afraid my typing is very rusty.”
Nat’s face lit up. “A lawyer’s office. Hey, that’s great. That’s the kind of experience this job needs.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret said, startled. “What kind of agency are you? It doesn’t say on the door.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He rummaged through the papers once again and came up with a grubby business card, which he thrust at her. “I thought you understood, I’m a detective. Nat Southby, Private Investigator,” he proclaimed proudly.
She read the card and then looked at him again. He certainly didn’t look like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon or any of the other detectives she had seen in the movies, for that matter. He should have been leaning back in his swivel chair, his .38 revolver in a shoulder holster, and his feet on the desk, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, staring defiantly into her eyes. Instead, Nat was somewhat overweight, probably in his mid-fifties, dressed in baggy grey slacks and a blue-striped shirt—a nondescript blue-and-red tie lay on the desk—with an ash-spotted, brown tweed sports jacket completing his ensemble. There was no drink and no gun.
“Don’t look the part, eh?” he said with a smile, which lit up his plump face. His brown eyes twinkled out of the creases at their corners.
Margaret blushed, and to hide her confusion, asked, “What kind of investigative work do you do, Mr. Southby?”
“I take on anything. Business espionage, stolen goods, dead-beats, missing persons, fraud. You name it and I’ll have a stab at it. Don’t touch divorce, though.” He paused for breath. “I also do a lot of leg work for different law firms. That’s why I said your experience would come in useful.”
“But that was years ago,” she said in alarm, “before I had my two daughters. And they’re in their twenties now.”
“It’ll come back,” he said confidently. “It’s like riding a bicycle. Now, let’s have some particulars, such as . . . are you still married? I mean, divorced or anything?”
“I’m married.”
“What about your girls? Still live at home?”
“One’s married and the other’s a nurse at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster.”
“And your husband’s a lawyer, eh? Criminal, I suppose?”
“Corporate. He’s a partner in Snodgrass, Crumbie and Spencer.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard of them, though they’re not one of the firms I work for.” Nat rose from his chair. “I really don’t know what else to ask you,” he said. “I started this agency five years ago, you see, but the office help I’ve had up to now’s been a disaster.”
“What would I have to do?” Margaret asked.
“Come into the outer office and I’ll show you,” he answered, leading the way. “It’ll be, you know—taking phone calls, typing up reports. Things like that.” He walked over to the two filing cabinets. “These contain all the files on my clients.”
Margaret sat down tentatively at the scratched wooden desk and took in the matching wooden filing trays, which were overflowing with letters and documents. “Is all this to go into those filing cabinets too?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “You can see things have sort of gotten out of hand. I’ve tried a series of girls, but since it’s just a part-time job, it attracts mostly young ones fresh out of school and on their way to something more permanent.”
“And the hours are from nine to one?”
“That’s right. Yeah. Will you give it a try?”
She got up from the desk and walked over to one of the windows to look down at the busy street, and then back at his earnest face. “Yes,” she said at last. “I can’t promise miracles. But I’ll give it a try.”
“Could you start right away—say, tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.
“Well . . . I don’t . . .” Then she nodded.
“Nine o’clock?”
“Well, yes. All right, I’ll be here.”
A half hour later, she sat sipping a cup of tea in the Aristocrat Restaurant on the corner of Broadway and Granville. Margaret, what have you done . . . ? How can I tell Harry about this? The waitress placed a sandwich in front of her, and Margaret absent-mindedly took a bite. I didn’t ask how much it paid. Harry will never approve . . . his wife working in a seedy office. And a detective’s office at that. She was still turning the problem over in her head as she slipped behind the wheel of her Morris to drive home.
The solution came to her as she was fumbling for her keys to the front door. Why tell him at all? Just keep the whole thing to myself. It’ll save all those I-told-you-sos if I should fall flat on my face.
• • •
HARRY AWOKE THE next morning to the smell of brewing coffee. He realized that Margaret must have risen early, and as he struggled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, he peered over the banister and was surprised to see her fully dressed in a navy-blue skirt and a cashmere twin-set in a pretty shade of coral. Before going downstairs, he showered, shaved and dressed, and when he descended to the kitchen, he found her already sitting at the table, sipping a glass of orange juice.
“You’re up early,” he commented as he sat down and picked up his morning newspaper. “Off somewhere?”
“Thought I’d spend my birthday money.” She felt a telltale blush starting, but she had no need to worry, as Harry was already immersed in his paper and munching on a piece of toast. Quietly, she picked up her plate and cup, put them in the sink and started for the stairs.
Harry looked up. “Mmm . . . sorry, dear. Where did you say you were going?”
“Shopping,” she answered shortly.
“Have a nice morning, then,” he said, before sticking his nose back into his paper. “Going to spend my gift on something pretty?” But Margaret could see he didn’t really expect an answer, as he was totally engrossed in the financial section.
• • •
THIS TIME MARGARET was lucky and found a parking place quite close to the office; to her relief, she was five minutes early. She hesitated at the door before pushing it open.
“You’re here. Great!” her new boss greeted her with an affable smile. “I was afraid you’d have second thoughts.”
She shook her head, and slipping her coat off, looked for someplace to hang it.
“Here, give it to me,” Nat said, taking it from her. “You can use this little closet for your things.”
“You know,” Margaret said, “I almost did.”
“Almost did what?”
“Have second thoughts about coming this morning. I don’t know that I’ll be able to handle the job to your satisfaction.”
Nat laughed. “You’ll be fine, “he said. “In fact, you can get the hang of things right away. I have to go out.”
“Go out?” Margaret was horrified at the thought of being left in sole charge. “What w
ill I do if the phone rings or if someone comes in?”
“Don’t worry,” he said as he struggled into his overcoat. “If the phone rings, just take a message. Putter around. You can get acquainted with the office this morning.” Nat opened the door.
“Find out where everything is. In fact, you might as well make a list of the things you’ll need to get us properly organized.”
“But Mr. Southby . . .”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” he called out as he bounded down the hall to the stairs.
She walked slowly over to the desk and sat down. Then, pulling open the top drawer, she examined the sorry state of accumulated mess. Within minutes she had a pile of candy wrappers, broken pens, pencils and bent paper clips on the desk. Then, with a determined jerk, she yanked the drawer completely out and gave it a bang against the side of the wastepaper basket, making a clean sweep of it.
The telephone rang.
As she reached for the handset, she tried to manoeuvre the drawer back into its slot with the other hand. The drawer jammed. Another push and a sharp jerk sent the telephone flying onto the floor with a crash.
She walked around to the front of the desk and picked it up. “Southby’s Investigations,” she said, trying to sound as if nothing unusual had happened.
There was a slight pause. “Mr. Southby?” a man’s voice asked.
“He’s out. I mean, he’s just left.” Then she remembered. “Can I take a message?”
A scratching noise on the outer door distracted her from the call, and as she turned toward the sound, she watched in fascination as the handle slowly turned. “When will he be in?” the man on the phone persisted.
“I’m . . . uh . . . not sure,” Margaret answered. The door had inched open a little more, and she could now see four gnarled fingers slipping around the edge. “He said about a couple of hours.” The door suddenly flew fully open, and there, clinging to the frame and gasping for breath, was a wizened old man. “You’re sure I can’t take a message?” Margaret added, trying desperately to keep her mind on the man at the other end of the line.
“No. I’ll call back.”
She replaced the receiver and looked enquiringly at the old man.
“Elevator . . . not working,” he wheezed. He tottered over to a chair and sank into it.
“Are you all right?” she asked him. “Can I get you a drink of water?”
“You should get that elevator fixed,” he answered, slowly unwinding a red woollen scarf from his neck. “Those stairs are a killer.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a grubby handkerchief. “She’s gone again,” he said dabbing his eyes.
“Who’s gone again?”
“My Emily, of course. She left two nights ago,” he answered, blowing his nose loudly into the handkerchief. He then gave his eyes another swipe and stuffed the offensive piece of rag into his overcoat pocket. “I’ve come to get Mr. Southby to find her. Like last time.”
Margaret rummaged through the pile on the desk, looking for a piece of paper and a useable stub of pencil.
“When did you see her last?” she asked, pencil poised over the paper.
“You don’t listen. I told you . . . night before last.”
“Can I have your name, Mr. . . . ?” she asked.
“What for? Southby knows me.”
“But I haven’t had that pleasure,” she answered through gritted teeth. “If you give me your name, I can then pass it on to Mr. Southby when he comes in.”
“Oh, all right. It’s Bradshaw. Ernie Bradshaw,” he answered. “But you’re just wasting time asking all these damn fool questions.”
“Perhaps you could give me a description,” she said as she wrote Missing Person at the top of the piece of paper. “Now, what’s the colour of her hair and eyes? And then perhaps you could tell me her size and anything else that would be helpful in finding her.” She sat back, feeling quite professional for asking such pertinent questions.
“I told you, Southby knows all about . . .” The look on Margaret’s face stopped him short. “Her hair’s white and she’s got sort of blue eyes.” He paused for breath. “And she’s a bit on the heavy side. Should cut her food down.”
“Perhaps she went to visit a friend,” Margaret said slowly. She was puzzling over the bit about cutting down the food.
“She went to the McCreedys’ place awhile ago, but they kicked her out. She wouldn’t go back there.”
“Kicked her out?” Margaret said in a shocked voice. “Why would they do that?”
“You don’t know the McCreedys.”
“Perhaps she’s not very happy?”
“Not happy? My Emily? Of course she’s happy.”
“But if she keeps leaving you . . .” Margaret was beginning to feel out of her depth.
“How can you say she’s not happy?” Mr. Bradshaw’s eyes began to water, and he added in a choked-up voice, “Don’t I give her everything she wants?”
Margaret quickly changed the subject. “Have you thought about giving her a night out?”
“A night out?” The old man looked at her incredulously. “Night out! What would I do that for?”
“Well, if your wife keeps . . .”
“My wife?” he butted in. “What do you mean, my wife?”
“Uh . . . your girlfriend, then?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Who in heaven’s name is Emily, then?” Margaret said in exasperation.
“My cat, of course,” he replied scornfully. “Don’t you know nothing?”
“Your cat!” She suppressed an overwhelming desire to laugh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradshaw, but you see, this is my first day, and I don’t know Mr. Southby’s clients yet. Give me your telephone number and I’ll make sure he calls you as soon as he comes in.”
“He’s already got it.” He stood up and rebuttoned his coat. “Just make sure you tell him.” And muttering to himself, he went out.
After the door closed, Margaret put her head down on the typewriter and laughed until tears ran down her face. “A cat!” she spluttered. “My heavens, a cat.”
The urgent ringing of the phone pulled her together.
“Southby’s Investigations.”
“You’re new. Who are you?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“You sure can. First of all, what’s your name?”
“Mrs. Spencer,” she answered stiffly. “And yours is Mr. . . .”
“Well, Mrs. Spencer,” he mimicked her, “give my pal Southby a message. Pink Lady, third, Saturday. Got that?”
“And your name?” she insisted.
“Just tell him Prout called. Prout the Tout—he’ll know.” And he burst into raucous laughter at his own joke.
“I’ll see he gets the message, Mr. Prout,” she said primly after the laughter had subsided.
“You wanna place a bet yourself?”
“No, thank you,” she answered and firmly replaced the receiver.
Margaret got through the rest of the morning with no further distractions. She cleaned out the desk, typed out a list of supplies she would need and made herself a cup of coffee, having found a fairly new and reasonably clean coffee pot and a hot plate under the debris on a small table beside the filing cabinets. Nat returned at twelve o’clock.
“How’s everything?” he asked cheerily. “No problems, I guess, eh?”
“Mr. Southby, do you happen to know a Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Old Ernie. Sure. What’s he want?”
“He’s under the impression that you’ll find a cat for him.”
“Not that blasted cat again!” Nat took his coat off. “This is supposed to be a detective agency, not a lost and found for cats. Anything else?”
“A man called just after you left this morning, but he wouldn’t leave his name. Said he’d call back.”
“Okay. Did you make a list of office supplies?” he asked.
Margaret handed him the list.
“I’m meeting a client fo
r lunch in thirty minutes,” Nat said, looking at his watch. “Why don’t you leave at the same time and slip over to the office supply store across the street. Just bill it.” As Nat reached the doorway, he turned and threw a set of keys to her. “Here, these are for you,” he said.
At twelve-thirty, Margaret knocked on Southby’s office door. “I’m leaving now,” she said.
He opened the door, shrugging into his coat. “See you in the morning,” he said cheerfully.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Another man called—Prout. Prout the Tout, he said. He told me to tell you Pink Lady, Saturday, third. Does that mean anything to you?”
Nat laughed. “He’s got to be kidding. I wouldn’t touch that nag for all the tea in China.”
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, as Harry put down his newspaper to butter his toast, he glanced over at Margaret. “I don’t remember seeing that suit before.” Then he frowned. “Are you going out again?”
“I thought I’d go into town since it’s such nice weather,” Margaret answered as she stacked the breakfast dishes. How long will I be able to keep this up?
“It’s unusual for you to go out three days in a row,” he persisted.
“For God’s sake, Harry, what does it matter?” she snapped, but the look on his face made her feel guilty. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit jumpy lately.”
“What you need is a change,” he said, as he neatly folded his newspaper. “Perhaps I can manage to take a couple of days off when the next long weekend comes around.”
“That would be nice,” she said as she reached for a clean dish-towel and began to wipe the crockery. “We could both do with a change.”
“I’m going, Margaret.” She came out of her reverie to realize that Harry was waiting at the front door for his briefcase. “That’s the second time I’ve called you,” he said in an aggrieved voice, as she dutifully handed it to him.
“Sorry, Harry. My mind was on something else.”
He bent and kissed her proffered cheek. “Shouldn’t be too late tonight,” he said as she closed the door on him.
It only took a few minutes to fly upstairs and straighten the bed. She grabbed her purse and raincoat from where she’d left them on the hall chair, and then practically ran through the front door, slamming it behind her before jumping into her waiting Morris.
Death in a Family Way Page 2
