Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

Pudge gave Willoughby a soft punch on the upper arm as a show of gratitude and Woody grabbed the detective’s hand and shook it vigorously. Outside, Pudge said, “You can’t sleep here tonight, kid. I’ve got an extra bed. C’mon, I’ll go with you while you file your report.”

Willoughby walked off in the opposite direction, mulling the possibilities of what had happened at Woody’s apartment. There was no evidence of damage to either the front door or the lock and none of the windows showed signs of being jimmied. That meant that the lock had most likely been picked by a professional. But then why trash the place if you are so meticulous about getting in? Willoughby concluded that whatever the perpetrators were looking for was not found quickly and so, perhaps out of frustration or just to leave their calling card, they decided to rip the place apart.

Willoughby liked Pudge McFadden and he would make inquiries about this guy with the limp because of their friendship. Still, the cynic within him made him wonder about Woody Meacham, a newcomer to Old Town who had somehow already made enemies that disliked him enough to turn his apartment upside down.

WOODY GOT PERFUNCTORY treatment from the police, as Det. Willoughby had anticipated, but at least a report had been filed. Since Woody could not identify a single object that had been stolen, Pudge told him that his case would likely receive short shrift. The sergeant had even smirked and asked Woody if he had a disgruntled girlfriend.

Pudge helped Woody clean up the apartment and sent over an elderly woman who spoke little English to patch up his sofa and mattress. “She owes me a favor,” Pudge casually explained. Woody was starting to think that more than a few people in town were beholden to Pudge McFadden and while he did not imagine anything sinister, he did wonder what the Irishman had done to ingratiate himself with so many people.

Woody had to wait a few days for the telephone company to come by, so he went to a pay phone the next evening to call Nellie. Liz answered and explained that Nellie was back in Parlor Harbor for the funeral of her grandmother.

“She had no way to reach you, Woody. However, she did make me promise to tell you that she would be back in three days and looked forward to seeing you,” Liz said, before adding with a laugh, “she made me promise twice, in case you’re interested.” Woody was disappointed, hoping to see Nellie that evening, but heartened by the roommate’s message. As if he would forget to call, he laughed to himself.

AFTER HIS UNSUCCESSFUL plea to Woody Meacham, Leonard Scatcherd was on the verge of panic. He thought about going into DC himself, as he had urged Meacham to do. He could deliver the Polaroid along with the article from the Alexandria Observer to one of the major newspapers with a note hinting at a Dumont family scandal of monumental proportions. Surely, some crack investigative reporter would be assigned to delve deeper. But, of course, that would all take time even if he were able to pique the paper’s interest and Scatcherd was getting more anxious by the hour. He was being watched closely at work even when he limped down to the men’s room. The security guard strolled by periodically and seemed to be peering directly at him. Even Bellows had stopped by to glare at him.

The following day, Scatcherd wandered down by the river after work, intent on avoiding the confines of his apartment for as long as possible. The prospect of warming up last night’s leftover dinner on his hot plate and sitting in front of his temperamental black and white television for the rest of the evening was depressing but caution ruled and Scatcherd soon trudged home.

He looked ahead and saw two large-framed men in dark suits walking toward him. They were tall, solidly built and both were sporting blonde crew cuts. Scatcherd tensed up as they approached but they walked briskly past him without looking over. Scatcherd turned and saw them take a left on King Street. When they were out of sight, he let out an audible sigh.

It was only when he got to his apartment door that Scatcherd’s head cleared and his legs went wobbly, as he suddenly remembered that he had caught a glimpse of those two dark suits side by side at the bar in Pudge McFadden’s – at the moment when he was walking away from Woody Meacham.

DET. WILLOUGHBY HAD informants all over town and it wasn’t long before he found one who suggested that he might want to check out a Leonard Scatcherd who worked at the Torpedo Factory.

Willoughby knew the chief of security there, Duane Snavely, a former cop very near retirement and on the verge of collecting a second pension. After all the records in the facility were moved to the new site in Maryland, Snavely volunteered that he would move to a retirement village near Pompano Beach and work diligently to lower his 30+ golf handicap.

Snavely was a decent sort, honest and open unless you crossed him. He played everything according to the rules and went home at night with a clear conscience. He didn’t like it that Addison Bellows had gone around him and commandeered one of his underlings to watch some clerk. In truth, he was more upset with the archivist than with the rookie guard for his breach of protocol. Snavely had no use for dilettantes like Bellows and, upon reflection, decided not to reprimand the guard who had clearly been intimidated.

Snavely told Willoughby all he knew about Leonard Scatcherd. “It’s not much, Hank. Old-timers around here will tell you that he injured himself to get out of the big war and he’s been lugging his dishonor around ever since. Not exactly a “red badge of courage.” Anyway, the latest scuttlebutt is that Scatcherd may have taken some documents from a file that he was delivering to an archivist by the name of Addison Bellows and heat is being put on the clerk to return them. The funny thing is, though, that there’s no official investigation or I would have known about it. Apparently, Bellows is pressuring this guy Scatcherd on the hush hush, presumably with the approval of higher-ups. The word is that the big boys don’t want any bad press before the move across the river. But what’s your interest?”

“Strictly off the record, Duane, and I’d like to keep it that way. I can tell you it’s unrelated to the incident you just described,” Willoughby said, stretching the truth as far as he could allow himself to do.

“What do you need?” said Snavely. “A picture of Scatcherd would be nice. If he hasn’t been in trouble since the war, we’ll have nothing on him down at headquarters. Oh, and 24-hour surveillance and daily reports on his movements. Yeah, that should do it,” Willoughby said, straight-faced.

Snavely chuckled. “Come by the main desk after 4:00. I’ll leave a photo for you. No need to get tongues wagging around here by meeting in my office. Some of my boys watch “Cannon” and might think I’m meeting with the TV detective.” Willoughby frowned but said nothing. He was a reluctant celebrity but getting used to the light-hearted banter when it came from a friend.

SCATCHERD SAT IN his apartment consumed by fear after what he now considered as a close encounter with the dark-suited men. Had Bellows or even the Dumonts sicced them on him? Every time the main door of his building slammed shut, he trembled, envisioning two hulking figures rapidly ascending the stairs with their heavy, menacing steps. He got up frequently and peaked through the drawn shutters, but the street was empty.