by Jeff High
Meanwhile, Rhett provided an altogether different problem. Recently he had developed a troubling habit of lying at my feet and emitting certain odors. I had come to realize that the dog contained more natural gas than a Canadian province. So, after showering and scratching together some dinner, I settled into an evening of random TV, light reading, and a pet whose GI tract could be used as a weapon of mass destruction. Yet all the while, in the back of my head was a nagging wonder about Matthew’s call.
Around half past seven, my curiosity got the best of me. I considered calling him, but oddly, the idea of paying a visit had a stronger appeal. After all, I reasoned, the intent of his call was for me come by his house. I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. Just as I had done a month before, I started the engine and began the long, curving assent up to the heights of Society Hill.
As soon as I pulled through the iron gates of the old estate, a haunting memory of my previous visit swept over me. I had the peculiar sensation of an unexplainable presence; as if an apparition had casually joined me in the passenger seat to serve as my escort up the long driveway. I gushed a short laugh; an expression of dismissal of this absurd, ominous feeling. But I also took a quick slanting glance at the seat beside me, just for good measure.
With headlights on high-beam, I pulled up to the dark front entry and cut the engine. After getting out, I put a little extra juice behind closing the car door so that it would loudly slam shut. For some reason, I wanted to be obvious, to make my presence known. As I made my way through the shadows and climbed the front steps, I began to whistle, something I hadn't done since grade school. The outside door and entry hall lights were off, but lamplight glowed from the large room beyond. I rapped several times and continued whistling, only to abruptly stop when I realized I was inadvertently tooting the tune to "The Adams Family." Soon the front porch lights lit up, and Matthew appeared in the entrance hall.
I was about to diplomatically explain my presence when he took a step back and opened the door invitingly wide. “Luke! Glad you dropped by. Come in, come in.” Even though his actions were modulated with his normal reserve, he was clearly in a buoyant mood.
We shook hands as I stepped past him. “I got your voice message. Hope I’m not showing up at a bad time.”
“Not at all, not at all. I just got the children off to bed and, as I remember it, I asked you to come by whenever you could.”
Even though we had scarcely seen each other in the past weeks, there was a spontaneous energy between us, an instant comradery. The drudgery of the everyday had made Matthew and my previous suspicions about him a largely forgotten topic.
“Can I get you something to drink? Beer or wine perhaps?”
“Beer sounds good.”
He departed to the kitchen, leaving me to wait in the magnificently appointed great room. The splendor of the huge chamber served as an easy distraction for it seemed that instantly, Matthew reappeared. He smiled warmly as he handed me the beer and gestured for me to have a seat on a nearby sofa. He settled into an opposing chair and lazily rested his crossed feet atop the antique coffee table that sat between us.
“So, how’s the doctor business?”
We talked casually for several minutes, during which time I noticed that Matthew's comments tended to center around his children and a collective relief that school and their transition to the world of Watervalley were going well. I quietly concluded that this was confirmation of his reasons for making such a sizeable donation to the charity run a month earlier. I also noticed something else.
Matthew had changed. He was more smartly turned out, more relaxed, and spoke with a confident, amiable reserve. His clothes were crisp and well-tailored, and he carried himself with a more definitive social assurance. The haunting cloud that previously shadowed him had largely faded, leaving in its place a strangely sensitive face that seemed full of understanding and patience.
His only note of annoyance regarded the High Society Book Club, who had made several requests about resuming the use of his home for their meetings.
“What is with that bunch?” He inquired, his face framed in an amused incredulity. “I politely told them that I would have to think about it. Apparently, that created some hard feelings.”
“Don’t let it bother you. For the most part, the people here rarely pretend to be what they are not. The majority are decent, unprepossessing souls. But Watervalley is no different from any other Southern town. There’s a hierarchical social system in which those on the upper rungs practice a graciousness to all, but they also staunchly cling to some unspoken lines of inclusion.”
“But this is a private residence. Don’t they get that?”
“You’ve robbed the High Society Book Club of their identity. My guess is that the ‘Public Library Conference Room Book Club,’ doesn’t quite attain the same lionized distinction.”
“I suppose not,” he said, smiling reflectively. An odd lull in the conversation followed. I was likely doing a poor job of concealing the strain of curiosity that, with each passing minute, was churning larger and larger beneath the surface. Matthew had contacted me for a reason, and we both knew that at some point, the conversation would turn in that direction. I decided to press the issue.
“So, is that why you called? Do you need someone to help slay those Philistine blue-bloods?”
Matthew grinned, his head appraisingly cocked a little to one side, and he nodded mirthfully; a non-verbal confirmation that he knew the time had come to discuss what was on his mind. He removed his legs from the coffee table and leaned forward, gently resting his arms on his knees.
“Luke, I need a confidant.”
I shrugged impassively. “Sure.”
“Allow me to start with a little background. The last time you were here I believe I mentioned to you that about a year before Emily passed away, we had moved into her grandmother’s house on King Street in Charleston.”
“Yes, I remember.”
"When Hiram Hatcher left here in early 1928, he bounced around a few places, but he ended up in Charleston. Later that year he met Sofia Moncrief, a Charleston debutante who was ten years his junior. Hiram and Sophia married in June of 1929. Ten months later, in April of 1930, Hiram bought the house on King Street. He and Sophia had only one child, Eloise Hatcher, who was born in 1931. Eloise was Emily's grandmother.”
“In 1953, Eloise married and had only one child, a daughter who, of course, was Emily’s mother. She, in turn, married and had Emily who was also an only child. You with me so far?"
“Sure, I think so,” I said mechanically.
“Hiram and Sophia Hatcher both passed away in 1961 and ownership of the King Street house passed to their daughter, Eloise. Upon her death, the house would have gone to Emily’s parents. However, they died in a boating accident when Emily was eighteen. Thus, upon Eloise Hatcher Duchamp’s death a few years ago, she left the house to my wife, the only heir.”
I nodded my understanding. “Okay. That all sounds pretty straightforward.”
"True. But there is one oddity. I had a title search done when we were bequeathed the property. Originally the old mansion on King Street was owned by the Moncriefs, the parents of Hiram's wife, Sophia. It turns out that Hiram bought the estate from her parents in April of 1930 at a rather exorbitant price for the times."
“Seems odd. Everything I’ve heard about Hiram Hatcher points to him being a rather shrewd businessman. The house purchase would have been on the heels of the market crash in 1929. Doesn’t seem like a time when real estate would be at a premium.”
“It wasn’t. I did a little further digging and discovered that Sofia’s father had been a prominent Charleston banker. As you might guess, he lost his shirt in the crash.”
Matthew paused to allow me time to process what he was saying. I began to nod slowly. "So, it would seem that Hiram bailed the in-laws out of debt, allowing them to save face."
"Exactly. And not only that, but I also found in the Charleston real
estate archives that around this same time, Hiram bought a very nice house only a few blocks away. That's where the Moncrief's lived until both of them passed away in the late forties. Soon after, the house sold. But it had always remained in Hiram's name."
“Sounds like Hiram was a pretty generous guy.”
"He was. I found his obituary in the newspaper archives. It covered half a page."
“Really?”
"Yes. The man was practically a saint. He ran a very successful shipping business, was an elder in the Presbyterian Church, and at one time, or another was the head of every charity in the county. He could surf the waves of Charleston Society as well as anyone."
“Well, okay. Pretty interesting stuff. But, I’m not sure I follow your point with all this.”
Matthew calmly scratched one of his elbows and nodded his understanding. He spoke in a kind and engaging manner. “You’re a good fellow, Luke. I imagine you’re as curious as anyone as to why I moved my family here. But you’ve been polite enough to not just bluntly inquire. I wanted to reveal all of this about Emily’s family because I need your help. There was something that has always bugged me about Hiram’s story.”
“And that would be....?”
“Where did he get all of his money? I mean...even when the stock market and all the banks failed, apparently, he was still sitting on a mountain of cash.”
“Yeah, seems that way. So, what’s the answer?”
Right after we moved into the house on King Street, we had some repairs done to the tile roof on one of the attic dormers. The wood underneath the tile was rotten, so the roofer had to replace it. That's when we noticed that the area underneath the dormer in the attic had been walled in, boarded up if you will. It wasn't something you would usually notice. When we tore the boards away, we found an old wooden steamer trunk in there. It was modest in size but quite elaborate. On the outside, there was a brass plate with the initials ELH. It took some doing, but I finally busted the lock with a crowbar. What we found inside was, well, pretty incredible."
By now I was unwittingly sitting on the edge of the couch, absently drawing closer to Matthew to make sure I didn’t miss a single word. But without uttering another sound, he stood, walked to a nearby wooden secretary, and retrieved a manila folder from the top drawer. Upon returning to his chair, he extracted an old black and white photograph from the file and placed it on the coffee table between us. “Among other things in the trunk, we found this.”
I took the photo from him. The ancient and faded sepia picture was of two men in suits, standing side-by-side and arm-in-arm in an elaborate bar. They were holding up their beer mugs and smiling for the camera in what was clearly a moment of celebration. I studied it for a few seconds before speaking cautiously. “Based on the other picture of him, it seems pretty certain that the fellow of the left is Hiram Hatcher.” I turned over the photo and looked at the back where a penciled inscription read, “Gabe and me, January 1927.” I flipped it back and examined the two men a moment longer. “But who’s the guy on the right? For some reason, he looks incredibly familiar.”
Matthew spoke with a kind of odd, amused reserve. “Apparently, Gabe was something of a nickname. He looks familiar because his full name was Alphonse Gabriel Capone.”
Chapter 21
PROMISES TO KEEP
ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I gaped at Matthew like a wide-eyed, open-mouthed child. Further words hung in my throat. Matthew patiently nodded his confirmation. I looked at the picture again and deliberated.
“So, you’re saying Hiram Hatcher was a bootlegger?”
"Not sure. He might have been...in part, at least. He had some legitimate businesses. It's well proven that he was in the phosphate business here in Watervalley. Prohibition ended in 1933. But by that time, he had migrated into the shipping business."
“Then what was his connection with Capone?”
Matthew reclined in his chair and relaxed his hands on the back of his head, pondering. “I’m not completely certain. But it does look like they were friends and probably had business dealings of some kind.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a ledger in the trunk, one that had dates and shipping details.”
“What kind of shipping details?”
“It’s a little cryptic. First, there is a transaction number. Then there’s a to and from entry, like WV to Mobile or WV to Chicago. I assume the WV is Watervalley. Then there is a units entry.”
“Units of what?”
“Doesn’t say. Also, there are no dollar figures associated with any of the transactions. My guess is that there was a separate money ledger that listed financial details against the transaction numbers. Keeping two separate ledgers was likely a security measure. It would be difficult to build an incriminating case if you didn't have both of them. That is if, in fact, he was doing something illegal."
“So, no second ledger in the trunk?”
“No.”
“Well, what else was in there?”
"Several photos of the house, including the one you saw on the mantle. Many were of the inside. It turns out, much of the furniture from the King Street house came from here. I used the photos to return each piece to its original spot."
I lifted my head in a gesture of understanding. That explained the room's incredible glamour and symmetry with its furnishings.
Matthew continued. “There was some clothing in the trunk also. An old tuxedo which I assume was Hiram’s and something rather odd; a dress.”
“A dress?”
"Yes, a sleeveless number covered in black sequins with matching elbow length gloves. Fairly typical of a flapper dress of the times, I guess. Quite elegant looking, though. According to the label, it was custom made by a Chicago tailor."
“I have to ask this question. Did the dress, by chance, have any blood stains on it?”
He responded with an entertained smile. “Yes, I’ve heard the rumors that Hiram had murdered a woman here in the mansion. But no. The dress was spotless.”
I thought for a moment. “So, any other papers? Anything else significant?”
Mostly travel receipts...mainly from Chicago. Apparently, Hiram went there quite often. There were invoices from both the Drake and the Palmer House Hotels in Chicago along with nightclub and entertainment bulletins. No idea why those would be important. Besides the ledger, the only other curious thing was a Bible.”
“A Bible? Really?”
"Yes. It does seem a little out of place. Maybe I'm being unfair but having a Bible somehow doesn't exactly fit the general persona of Hiram Hatcher from that time period. At a minimum, I think it is safe to say he led quite a flamboyant lifestyle. He traveled extensively, entertained lavishly, and always had a house full of out of town guests. I suppose that's why he built such a grand place."
“Makes sense.”
“Anyway, there are two curiosities about the Bible. There is an inscription on the inside cover that reads, ‘Always know that you have done the right thing.’ There was no signature, and the handwriting was a flowing cursive. In all the documents I’ve seen, Hiram always wrote in a blocked print. So, someone besides Hiram wrote it. No idea who. But then right below the inscription, in what is clearly Hiram’s handwriting, he wrote, ‘Forgive me. Everything is in the camera. I could not throw it away.’”
“What does that mean?”
Matthew smiled and shook his head. “Again, no idea. I presume there were some old photographs tucked away somewhere at the Charleston house or maybe even an old camera with some kind of note or clue inside of it...but there was nothing.”
“So that’s a dead end.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, the other thing is this. Who was he asking forgiveness from?”
“Again, no idea.”
We both fell silent, perhaps hoping that added time would somehow add illumination. “You mentioned that there was a second curious thing about the Bible.”
“Yes, the other matter wa
s a hand-written notation in the book of Ecclesiastes.”
“Hiram’s handwriting?”
“Definitely. He had underlined the second verse from the third chapter, the one about a time to be born and a time to die. Evidently, somewhere along the way, Hiram learned a little Latin. In the top margin of that page, he penned, ‘Praeteritis obsignatus est in via,’ and then added a second inscription at the bottom, ‘Non sum qualis eram.’”
I tightened my gaze at Matthew, a gesture that he ably noticed. He spoke cautiously.
“Did I miss something?”
I was deliberating, trying to recall when and where I had recently heard the latter quote when John Harris’s name emerged from the depths of memory. He had quoted the same Latin phrase during his last visit to my office; an odd coincidence. Matthew’s imploring silence refocused me.
"No, nothing," I said abruptly. "Just a random thought. I'm somewhat familiar with the second phrase. But just for clarification, what is the translation of both?"
“Well, the top inscription states, ‘It is sealed in the past,’ and the bottom one reads, ‘I am not the kind of person I once was.”
“Any idea why he wrote that?”
“None at all,” Matthew replied. “All I can gather is that in the waning months of 1927, something big must have happened in Hiram’s life. Whatever plans he had for living here all changed.”
I recalled John’s story about the scandal around his grandmother and Hiram taking the trip to Chicago in December of that year. I was endeavoring to assimilate this with all that Matthew had said when a final oddity occurred to me. “You mentioned that the initials on the trunk were ELH. How does that match up with the name ‘Hiram?’”
“Good question. It doesn’t. Apparently, ‘Hiram’ was a nickname. The name on the deed of the King’s Street house was Emanuel Lorenzo Hatcher.”
"Sounds like a mix of Italian and English. It certainly accounts for Hiram's dark hair and the tan complexion."
