Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

“But that wasn’t the end of it,” Matthew said.

“No. The daughter came to see me. His daughter. His little bitch, Helen. A chip off the old block.”

“In what way?”

“Tried to milk me, same as her father did.”

“This was last month sometime?”

“Yes.”

“Would you remember the exact date?”

“Yes. The twenty-eighth. A Thursday.”

Two days before the Parrish murder, Matthew thought.

There is a fire going in the living room when Helen Abbott enters. Sophie has let her into the house more out of curiosity than anything else. She wants to see what this brazen little bitch looks like. What she looks like is her father. Blond hair and blue eyes. The image of her father exactly. Tears fill the baby blues.

“Oh, Grandma,” she says, and falls to her knees before Sophie. She clutches at Sophie’s black skirts. She is playing Anastasia in a road-show production, but Sophie has already met and tossed the dog who masterminded this little scheme, and she is no more receptive to his conniving daughter than she was to him.

“I love you, Grandma,” she says, sobbing.

“You don’t even know me!” Sophie says.

“I want to know you. You and my mother both. Please let me know…”

“You have no mother here.”

“Grandma, please…”

“Nor a grandmother, either.”

“I don’t care about the money…”

“Then why are you here? ”

“The money was Dad’s idea. All I want…”

“You want the same thing he wanted, you little thief.”

“I promise you…”

“You can promise me you’ll never come here again…”

“Grandma…”

“Because next time I won’t let you in, do you hear me?”

“I want to see my mother.”

“Liar, liar!”

“I can prove she’s my mother!”

“You can prove no such thing.”

“I’ll have proof. The next time I come…”

“There’ll be no next time.”

“The minute I have proof…”

“Leave me. Now.”

“I want my share !” Helen shouts.

“Ah,” Sophie says, and nods. “I see.”

“Yes, damn it! I want what’s mine!”

“Yes, show me your true colors, thief. The money was Dad’s idea,” she says, mimicking her. “All I want…”

“I want a million goddamn dollars, you old cow!” Helen shouts. “You’d better get out your checkbook. Because the next time I come here…”

“Shall I have you thrown out, the way I had your…?”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” Helen says, and turns her back and flounces out of the room.

Silence.

Matthew waited.

The silence lengthened.

Out on the water, a sailboat came suddenly into view. Red and blue sails. Spinnaker out. Matthew wished for a fleeting instant that he was out there on that boat. Wind in his hair. Everything clean and fresh out there. Here in this house…

“The next thing was the phone call from Arthur Hurley,” Sophie said. “Same song. Said they had proof. Said they wanted a million dollars. I hung up.”

“And that’s the last you’ve heard of them?”

“Well, of course . The claim is entirely specious. They know it, and what’s more, they know I know it.”

Sophie Brechtmann looked at her watch.

“Your time is up,” she said. “Good day, Mr. Hope.”

Warren Chambers came to the office at a few minutes before nine on Wednesday morning. Matthew had just ordered coffee and a cheese Danish from the deli on Heron. He buzzed Cynthia and asked her to make that two orders.

Warren got straight to the point.

“I hired a woman named Toots Kiley,” he said, “used to work for Otto Samalson. She’s very good. Or at least was . She hasn’t been working for a while.”

“How come?”

“She was doing cocaine.”

“Terrific,” Matthew said.

“I think she’s clean now. I hope so, anyway. Matthew, this town ain’t overrun with fantastic investigators, believe me.”

“I know.”

“So let’s take a chance. If she doesn’t work out, I’ll absorb the loss, okay?”

“No, we’re in this together.”

“Thank you, but…”

“No buts.”

“We’ll argue it later, okay? Meanwhile, I’m hoping she’ll be all right. She worked with Otto when he broke that tax-shelter scam Gabel and Ward were running, do you remember that one?”

“No.”

“Three, four years ago. Otto’s client was a guy named Louis Horwitch…”

“Oh, yeah. A cattle thing, wasn’t it?”

“Close. It was oil wells.”

“Right.”

“Anyway, Otto and Toots worked that case together.”

“What’s her real name?”

“That’s it. Toots.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Warren shrugged. “So let’s see what happens, okay? As for the Brechtmann family,” he said, and reached into his jacket pocket just as the buzzer on Matthew’s desk sounded. He pressed a toggle.

“Yes?”

“Deli man’s here.”

“Send him in, Cynthia.”

The man from the deli came in with a paper bag containing two plastic cups of coffee, two cheese Danish, four packets of sugar, two plastic spoons, two plastic knives, and three paper napkins. Matthew paid and tipped him. The man said, “Thanks,” and went out.

“We shouldn’t be eating cheese,” Warren said, biting into the Danish. “Very high cholesterol level.”

“What’d you get on the Brechtmanns?” Matthew asked.

“Not much. Have you ever noticed what a Mickey Mouse library we have here in Calusa?” He wiped his hands on one of the paper napkins, reached into his jacket pocket again, and took out several folded lined yellow pages. He handed the top page to Matthew. “That’s the family tree,” he said. “For reference. I’ve only taken it back four generations. And I’ve only followed the branch that ended up here in Calusa.”

Matthew took the lined sheet of paper. He bit into his Danish. He sipped at his coffee. He looked at the handwritten page:

“Gottfried Brechtmann was a brewer in Munich,” Warren said. “He married Elise Meuhler, daughter of a local banker, and had two children by her — Anna and Jacob. Jacob’s the one who interests us. He’s the one who came to America.”

“When?”

“Turn of the century. 1901, to be exact. Came here with his wife, Charlotte — alleged to be a great beauty and something of a man-eater. Started the American branch of the Brechtmann Brewing Company.”

“Here in Calusa?”

“No, no. Brooklyn, New York. That was the first one. There are nine of them now, including the one here. I’ll get into that later, Matthew. Let’s concentrate on the family right now.”

“Okay.”

“In the year 1905, Jacob and Charlotte came to Calusa for a winter vacation. They both fell in love with the place and built a house here the following year, when their son Franz was born. The house is still here, Matthew, on Fatback Key.”

“I’ve been there.”

“It must be a beauty.”

“It is.”

“Okay, this is now 1906. The Brechtmanns move into their new house and Jacob begins construction on a second brewery. Here in Calusa. Twenty-seven years later, there are four breweries and Brechtmann is the twelfth largest brewer in America. At a swank party in Palm Beach, handsome young Franz meets an eighteen-year-old beauty newly arrived from Nazi Germany. Her name is Sophie Witte… are you following me, Matthew?”