Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

Thorne was referring to Moe “The Nose” Bargani, a Miami mobster who used his supper club as a front for various illicit enterprises. The feds were still trying to nail him for his role in a con involving old German war bonds back in 1957 but he continued to elude them.

Thorne frequently invoked the Chief’s name or fell back on the cowboy analogy – sometimes both – when he felt stymied. Everyone knew he was feckless and it was just his cowardly way of making a demand. A middle-aged man who wasn’t a major league baseball player still calling himself “Bud”, with a thinning flat top left over from the 50s, starched into an upright position so you could see right through to the scalp. Every little thing about the man made it difficult to take the lieutenant seriously.

Willoughby had concluded some time ago that Thorne was never obtuse; that would be giving him too much credit. Rather, he was vacuous, an empty vessel available to be filled with whatever theory or opinion came down from a captain, commander, chief or other potentate. It usually depended on whom he had talked to most recently.

He looked at Thorne and tried to imagine him as a stalwart, steely young Marine but he could not conjure up the image. He was now a shell of that young man. When his body went soft, his head had been filled with porridge at the same time, turning him into a groveling, bootlicking sycophant who believed that the chain of command wasn’t just the cardinal rule but the only rule. If anyone could worm his way up the ranks, “Bud” Thorne had proven that it was possible. Willoughby was no picture of health himself. He had never been the Ron Ely-type who could swing from trees in the Tarzan movies but he did pride himself in being his own man. Around the station, it was a reputation which he had earned.

“Anything else, Sheriff?” Willoughby asked sardonically, trying to remember if Thorne had put any notches on his belt in his long career. Thorne had a pained expression on his face, trying to think of a comeback, when his face brightened and he almost looked joyful. “Yeah, there’s a VD epidemic in town, according to the health department. A team is being assembled to go around to the schools to warn the kids about the dangers of gonorrhea. They want a cop to accompany each nurse. I could get you assigned.” Thorne waited for Willoughby to plead for mercy but the detective gave him no satisfaction. After a brief stare down, the lieutenant caved and barked in exasperation. “Get the hell out of here, Willoughby, I have work to do.”

As he walked away from his vainglorious boss, Willoughby was more determined than ever to continue looking into Scatcherd’s death, starting with another visit to Addison Bellows and one last stop at the medical examiner’s office. He had planned, albeit reluctantly, to turn in the Dumont photographs that morning and explain how they had come into his possession. But now, he was so disgusted with Thorne that he decided to hold out a bit longer.

WOODY WAS SITTING at the counter sipping coffee when someone sat down two seats away. Bellows recognized the baseball cap and motioned Woody over to a booth by the window.

Woody looked Bellows over and wondered who this dandy was sitting across from him. Tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, button-down blue shirt garnished with a brightly-colored bowtie, blonde hair neatly coifed and fluffed up. Woody was tempted to ask him what kind of spray he used and how long it took him to primp in the morning. Bellows appeared soft and effeminate, reminding Woody of a few of the teaching assistants and assistant professors back at Thorndyke College who had never set foot outside the cloistered world of academia. He was determined to dislike everything about Scatcherd’s antagonist.

“So, what’s your price?” asked Bellows. He sounded almost blasé, as if a deal for the photographs was a fait accompli and he had a pocket full of cash ready to be handed over.

“I’m assuming you know the value of the originals to the Dumonts and you are here on their behalf. So, make an offer,” said Woody. “I need to see them, to verify their authenticity,” Bellows said, trying to sound authoritative. Woody laughed and then turned serious, flashing the Polaroid copy of the two photographs side by side in front of Bellows’ face. “There’s your authentication, so let’s not play games,” Woody said, as he put the photograph back in his pocket.

Bellows recognized the Polaroid that had been sent to Helga Dumont along with the threatening note. So, he said to himself, there are at least two copies, damn it. Instead of remaining calm, his anger boiled up. “So, you were in cahoots with that low-life Scatcherd all along. Tell me, are you the middle-man reporting to someone else? Some political operative out to destroy Barrington Dumont’s career?” Bellows sneered. Woody was not bending to his will and his plan to be polite, if not deferential, had not lasted long. The archivist simply couldn’t hide his petulance.

“If you’re trying to make me angry, it won’t work. Your suppositions are all wrong but it doesn’t really matter, does it? If you’re not prepared to negotiate, I’ll go straight to the Dumonts,” Woody said with a calmness that startled Bellows.

“That would be unproductive. I am a confidante of the family and they have asked me to deal with you on their behalf. Do you have the originals on you?” Bellows now realized that Woody would be no pushover, that perhaps he was the one and only partner of Scatcherd in this whole scheme. He decided to change tactics and appear to treat Woody as his equal. He lied about representing the Dumonts but that small prevarication would be forgiven if he recovered the photographs.

“They’re in a safe place,” Woody said, thinking that nothing was more secure than the pocket of Det. Hank Willoughby. Then he lied when adding, “But I can get them on short notice.”

“I’ll be in touch. Where can I reach you?” Bellows asked. Woody shook his head so decisively that Bellows knew that it would be futile to challenge him. “I’ll call you tonight at home. Be ready with an offer,” Woody said as he abruptly stood up.

When Bellows rose from the booth, Woody grabbed both of his lapels tightly and the archivist was unable to pull away. “One more thing. Call off the thugs that have been trailing me and wrecking apartments looking for the photographs. If anything happens to my friends downtown, any arrangements we make are off and copies of the photographs will be given to one of those hotshot investigative journalists downtown. I’ll make sure they know your role as the Dumonts’ patsy. You can be sure they won’t be writing any puff pieces on the Dumonts or you.”

AS THEY WALKED down the front steps of the diner. Bellows was still ruffled but decided to make a grand, conciliatory gesture and stuck out his hand. Reflexively, Woody shook it and quickly turned away in disgust.

BELLOWS WALKED SLOWLY back to the Torpedo Factory, sorting through all the things that Woody had said. He had blundered in initially sizing up his adversary and had to admit that, unlike Scatcherd, he was certainly no weak-kneed punk. He felt confident that the bartender had the originals but what did he mean about being followed, friends downtown and apartments being wrecked? He had searched Scatcherd’s apartment but hadn’t trashed it. Was this Helga’s way of putting heat on Meacham?