Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

ON THE TRAIN home from New York, Helga, oblivious to Siegfried’s carnal pursuits of the previous evening, was able to regain some of the self-esteem she had lost in the presence of her old lover. She compartmentalized her feeling toward him, angry that he had not only fended off her subtle advances but also hurt that he had deflected them so easily, seemingly without emotion. In the end, she confessed that she had committed a silly, schoolgirl faux pas . She was ashamed at being exposed but quick to forgive herself.

The train rumbled south toward Baltimore and Helga felt almost serene as she gazed out the window at the point where the Susquehanna River, ending its labyrinthine journey from remote Upstate New York, dumped its fresh water into the Chesapeake Bay. Not far beyond this soothing, watery expanse was the Dumont’s summer retreat on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, another symbol of the dynasty she was determined to protect against the encroachments of any interloper, least of all the likes of Leonard Scatcherd. What would she have thought to learn that the Dumont’s luxurious retreat was not far from where the Scatcherds held sway a century earlier?

She thought back to that look in Siegfried’s eyes when he studied the newspaper photographs of Barrington. He might find it easy to reject her but she was certain that he would do whatever was necessary to protect his son.

THAT SAME EVENING, Scatcherd left a diner a few blocks north of the Torpedo Factory and noticed a car in the parking lot with two men that looked like the ones that brushed past him on the street a few days earlier. Were they the same ones he had caught a fleeting glimpse of at Pudge McFadden’s? As he walked home, the meatloaf special sat uneasy in his stomach. He looked back and let out a heavy sigh when the car pull away in the opposite direction.

When he neared his apartment, Scatcherd gulped hard when he saw the same car parked across the street with the two men standing next to it. His pace quickened and he kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, but he could see peripherally that they were closing in on him when he abruptly bumped into a heavy-set man standing at his front door.

The two men in the dark suits retreated to their car as Scatcherd looked up into the face of Det. Hank Willoughby.

HELGA ARRIVED HOME after dinner and knew that Augustus would be in his library. She had decided on the train that it was time to tell him about Scatcherd and the photographs, knowing it would dredge up the past and all the old suspicions. If that low-life bastard demanded money – and what else would be his motivation – Augustus would have to be consulted. She might as well start to prepare him now.

When she retrieved her mail, the second note from Scatcherd was there and, after reading it, she wondered if it was now time to involve her son. She quickly dismissed that idea when she realized that Barrington, although not quick-witted, might be inquisitive enough to probe into the family history. And if Barrington saw the photograph of his mother with the dashing German officer, the striking similarity would be too obvious to explain away.

Before going to her husband, Helga received a telephone call on her private line. “Back off Scatcherd for now,” she barked, after listening for a few minutes. After a second pause, she said, “Yes, follow him for the next few days – and try not to be conspicuous.”

Helga replaced the receiver but did not let go of it immediately as she contemplated what she had just learned. So, someone else was tailing Scatcherd or, perhaps, it was another accomplice working in cahoots with this Meacham guy. Bertram had assured her that the writer of the puff piece on Barrington was a harmless sort but was that true? He had shown up in Old Town recently and nobody seemed to know anything about him except that he had recently been discharged from the military. Politics was a dirty business and Barrington’s opponents could very well be pulling strings behind the scenes. Maybe Scatcherd was just a patsy, a front man, and some powerful political operative was using Meacham as the middle man. She didn’t like all these complications but was relieved that Siegfried was now involved. He would sort everything out, take decisive action and then tidy up any ensuing messes.

WILLOUGHBY HAD NOT intended to confront Scatcherd that evening but felt he had to intervene as the two strangers closed in on the clerk. After they saw Willoughby and retreated to their car, he flashed his badge and smiled, trying to put Scatcherd at ease. “We’ve had complaints of a prowler in the neighborhood. Even had a break-in reported. I assume you can prove that you live here?” Willoughby asked almost casually, a mildly quizzical look on his face. He had decided to act as if he hadn’t noticed the impending confrontation.

Scatcherd nodded yes and produced his license in response to Willoughby’s request. The detective studied it and said, “Okay, Mr. Scatcherd. You take care but if you see anything suspicious, please call the station.”

Scatcherd lingered in the hallway, wondering if the detective was still lurking outside his building. He questioned whether his story about a recent break-in was even legitimate. Had Bellows contacted the police – or had the Dumonts? It didn’t make sense that either of them would go public and risk exposure of the photographs. Events were closing in on Scatcherd and he had no one to turn to for advice. He hesitated and then pulled an envelope from his jacket, scribbled “Please hold for me, L.S.” on the outside and slid it under the door of the apartment just below his own.

Willoughby stood in front of Scatcherd’s two-story building and looked up. Windows ran the length of the staircase. He waited a few minutes and watched as the clerk ascended the steps, dragging one leg behind the other.

It was obvious that Scatcherd was being followed and Willoughby surmised that the pressure on him was being intensified. He didn’t recognize the two men that were about to confront Scatcherd but was almost certain they were not thugs or wise guys. With their matching, close-cropped crew cuts, they had that burly, ex-military look about them. He would ask around to see if any federal boys were investigating the disappearance of the Torpedo Factory documents.

HELGA FOUND AUGUSTUS sitting alone in his library. He smiled weakly when she entered the room but there was no warmth in his look. He was reading a tome on Civil War skirmishes and sipping cognac from a snifter emblazoned with the Dumont logo. She hovered over him, blocking his light, and he reluctantly put down his book.

“How was your shopping trip?” he asked, determined to let her know that he was suspicious of any visit to New York City when she didn’t take Lucy with her. Augustus was timid and he abhorred confrontations but he was no fool. He had been checking telephone records for some time and discovered, among those to several high-end shops in the City, several calls to an answering service that fielded messages for numerous individuals. Without a name to investigate, Augustus was check-mated.

Helga was troubled by the telephone call she had just received and ignored the bait. “We have a family problem, Augustus, and you need to know the details,” she said sternly, as if Augustus was somehow not being cooperative.