Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

“It’s weird, Woody,” Nellie said, shaking her head and frowning. “We both get our apartments broken into and trashed in the same week.” She had given him his opening and Woody felt that he had no choice but to reveal everything.

Nellie listened intently as every detail, both proven and speculative, related to the Dumont photographs spilled out in rapid fire. When Woody finished, she asked pleadingly, “Tell me the truth, Woody. Are Liz and I in any kind of danger? Are they coming back? You realize that I have made her vulnerable because of you, right?”

Woody was dumbstruck. He had told her everything and he had anticipated a sympathetic reaction. Instead, he was harshly rebuked. Consequences are often pitiless, and Woody now experienced the full-force of that reality as Nellie stared at him with cold, unyielding eyes. Woody had known Nellie Birdsong only briefly back in Parlor Harbor in the summer of 1967 and now, four years later, for only a few days. He looked for some softening in her demeanor but her gaze was impenetrable. If she had been an innocent ingenue back then, she was certainly not one any more. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry for all this, Nellie. So sorry. I can’t imagine you will put much faith in my advice right now but I’ll give it anyway. Stay away from your apartment until these bastards are caught.”

Nellie’s face had softened but Woody had turned away too quickly to see it. He drove back to Old Town in a rage, as if he had absorbed and now owned all of the venom that had consumed Leonard Scatcherd.

WOODY’S MOOD SWUNG wildly on the ride back to Old Town. He had seen a side of Nellie, a cynical edge beneath her soft, angelic veneer which he did not want to acknowledge was possible. After the murder of her cousin back in Parlor Harbor while she was still a college student on summer break, maybe she had changed forever. And how was he to know what had occurred in the intervening years when he was in the Army and had no contact with her? He was delusional if he thought she was still the naïve teenage schoolgirl who had made him think of the pop singer Jackie DeShannon the first time he laid eyes on her.

Woody realized that he had created this image of Nellie Birdsong based on a fantasy, all from a few fleeting moments in Parlor Harbor back in the summer of 1967. Something made him think of the Beach Boys song “Caroline No”, that plaintive tune of innocence lost or corrupted – or perhaps it was both. He remembered the line “where did your long hair go” and knew it meant much more than a mere change of style. He was certain that the physical attraction was mutual but what else was there of any substance between them now after a chance meeting at a bar in Georgetown and a single night out at a café? And now, whatever fragile basis there was for a relationship had probably been shattered.

Even if there was only a scant possibility that something enduring might develop between them in the future, Woody still felt a sense of duty to Nellie in the midst of his self-pity. He had exposed her to the Scatcherd intrigue and quite possibly put her life in danger. Now, he had to do something to protect her. He thought back to that brief encounter with Scatcherd at Pudge McFadden’s. Scatcherd had made an accusation against someone at the Torpedo Factory who he insisted was out to get him. At the time, Woody was only half listening and assumed that the clerk was paranoid. Now, it didn’t seem like the rantings of a mad man.

Woody racked his brain for the rest of the ride, trying to conjure up the name of Scatcherd’s nemesis who he, by proxy, also despised. As he pulled into the alley behind his apartment, Woody slapped the steering wheel when the name Bellows popped into his head.

There were three Bellows in the local telephone book, two of which were female. Before he dialed the number for an A. Bellows, he had decided exactly what he would say.

“Who is this?” Bellows demanded when he heard Woody’s voice asking him to identify himself as the individual who worked at the Torpedo Factory.

Woody took his evasion as confirmation and said, “I know who has the originals of the Dumont photographs and can get them for you. That’s all you need to know about me for the present. Meet me at the diner just north of the Torpedo Factory at 8:00 tomorrow morning. This is your one and only chance to recover the photographs.”

“What do you want in return? Name your price.” Bellows’ tone was now soft and accommodating. If there was going to be a negotiation, he didn’t want to throw away the opportunity to once more be of service to Helga Dumont.

“You’ll find out in the morning, Mr. Bellows. I’ll be sitting at the counter wearing a navy-blue baseball cap with a red B. I repeat, this is your only chance – don’t blow it.” Woody quickly hung up the phone before Bellows could respond. The archivist thought Meacham would be extorting money, just as he had guessed wrong about the motives of Leonard Scatcherd. For Woody, it was all about Nellie Birdsong and redemption.

ADDISON BELLOWS HAD been sitting up in bed during the conversation with Woody but slid down after he realized that he was holding a dead phone. It was not too late to call Helga but he decided to wait. Of course, he would be at the diner. If he could negotiate the return of the original photographs – plus any copies – the Dumonts would be indebted to him for life. It might even, with encouragement from the mother, convince a certain lovely debutante to look favorably on him.

WILLOUGHBY ALMOST GOT past his lieutenant’s door the next morning before he heard the roar of “Cannon” and was forced to stop. Lt. “Bud” Thorne, former Marine drill sergeant and inveterate blowhard, liked to ride Willoughby with allusions to the TV detective whenever he had the opportunity. Willoughby stood silently at the door and watched Thorne’s malicious grin turned into a frown when he observed the annoyed look on the detective’s face. “Damn good episode last night. Did you watch it? I don’t know how that guy moves so well. Has to be pushing 250–275 easily,” he laughed, his own potbelly hidden behind the desk. Willoughby nodded slightly but otherwise remained stone-faced, causing Thorne to frown again.

“Did you find a relative to claim Scatcherd’s body or are we going to be stuck with the cost? The Chief wants to know. It would be a shame to stiff the taxpayers.” Thorne was now posing as the dutiful public servant, concerned about saving money for the town and when Willoughby looked skeptical, he realized how foolish he sounded.

“No luck so far, boss, but I’m working on it. I heard he might have a cousin in Sheboygan Falls but we’d have to ship the body there at our expense. Should I pursue it?” “Hell no,” barked Thorne. “That’d be more expensive than if we handled it ourselves. Damn it, Willoughby, can’t you find someone local?”

Willoughby shrugged and Thorne busied himself rearranging some folders on his desk. He didn’t even ask where Sheboygan Falls was and Willoughby didn’t offer that it was in Wisconsin. It didn’t matter, though. If Scatcherd had any relatives in Wisconsin or elsewhere, Willoughby wasn’t going to chase them down at the behest of Lt. Thorne.

Willoughby was still bothered by the ruling of the medical examiner’s office on Scatcherd’s “accidental” death and the pressuring phone call Caldigate had received from someone in Richmond. He lingered at Thorne’s door until the lieutenant looked up and said, “Now listen, Willoughby, I want a final report on the Scatcherd investigation on my desk by tomorrow – relative or not. We’ve got more important cases to pursue. The Chief is pressing for some arrests on the check-kiting ring working the area. Rumor is that Bargani is pulling the strings. We need some notches on our belt.” Thorne drew in his stomach and grabbed his belt with both hands to show the detective he meant business.