Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

In the years after the war, there was a wave of migration to the Belgian Congo, almost doubling the white population of the African colony. A Belgium government in exile had been set up in the Congo during the war even though the country had surrendered to the Germans. The Colony supplied the allies with gold, uranium, rubber and other precious raw materials. Congolese troops even fought alongside allied forces in various campaigns.

Siegfried Fuettener, now Andre’ Mathieu, joined the exodus to the Belgian Congo in 1950 and settled in Leopoldville, its capital. He found work with one of the mining companies and his innate talents and intelligence helped him prosper. However, as he observed the rioting and growing unrest among the native Congolese, he knew that the days of Belgian colonialism were numbered. It was time to either head to South America or take his chances in the United States.

AS WOODY AND Pudge were getting educated about German war commandos, Willoughby steeled himself for his second confrontation with Lt. Thorne in one day. While the man was unpredictable, Willoughby felt confident that he could frame his argument in a way to appeal to his boss’ ego.

“Bud, I’m going to give you that notch you asked for this morning. In fact, it might be worth two or even three notches if we handle this opportunity the right way.” Willoughby paused and could see that he had Thorne where he wanted him. If the lieutenant had been a bulldog staring at a Porterhouse steak, drool would be forming in the corners of his flabby jaws.

Willoughby took out the old Dumont photographs and plopped them on Thorne’s desk. It would take some time and repetition to make everything intelligible to Bud Thorne and Willoughby would be patient. It reminded the detective of something a wise old cop had told him years ago when he was trying to explain a basic fact to an obstinate, thick-headed contrarian. “I told him, Hank”, said the wise man, “Listen Joe, I can explain it to you but I can’t make you understand it.” As Willoughby looked at Thorne, he had to wonder if this was one of those moments.

“So, what am I looking at again, Hank? Help me out here.” Thorne was annoyed by his own confusion, still thinking about those notches that Willoughby had promised him. The detective methodically walked through the story of the stolen photographs a second time, and how they had eventually ended up in the hands of the bartender. He then explained how they would pretend to auction them off to the archivist that very evening.

When Thorne’s face finally brightened, Willoughby decided it was time to show him the newspaper with the pictures of Barrington Dumont. Thorne’s brow darkened and Willoughby knew he wasn’t being obtuse, just slow. Gradually, he folded the newspaper over to one of the pictures of Barrington and put it on Thorne’s desk next to the photograph of Helga with the German soldier. He then ran his index finger back and forth between the photographs until Thorne’s face lit up. “Lord love a duck!” Thorne exploded, quickly putting his hand over his mouth in a rare moment of embarrassment.

“But Scatcherd’s death – what’s the connection?” asked Thorne, almost pleading for more. “As I said, Bud. Tonight should be revealing. This Bellows guy, the archivist, will most likely make an offer for the photographs. What he says will help clarify what happened to Scatcherd. Maybe his death was an accident but, if not, wouldn’t you like your team to be the one that sought and discovered the truth if, by chance, it was murder? We need to record the conversation and then, if I’m right, you’ll have your notches before long.”

Thorne hesitated. “Maybe I should –” but Willoughby quickly interrupted. “Bud, this is your moment to step up. Powerful people want these photographs to disappear. They want Scatcherd buried and forgotten. Don’t let them steal your day in the sun, Bud. You know that Virginia has a one-party consent rule for recording telephone conversations and I already have the bartender’s permission. I just need the help of a few technical boys to execute our plan.” It pained Willoughby to keep referring to Thorne by his puerile nickname but the detective knew it was for a worthy cause.

Willoughby stared at Thorne, daring him to say no. “Okay, Willoughby. It’s a go. But if this damn thing blows up, you proceeded without my knowledge and it all comes back on you.”

As Willoughby was leaving, Thorne said, “Hey, why didn’t those Torpedo Factory guys contact us for help when those damn photographs went missing in the first place?” Willoughby smiled and said “CYA, boss. They didn’t want their secrets and their incompetence aired in public.”

Thorne nodded his head in agreement, missing the irony in Willoughby’s parting comment.

BELLOWS WAS APPREHENSIVE as he drove to the Dumont estate. Helga’s tone on the telephone had been especially imperious of late even though they were closer than ever to recovering the photographs. He yearned to upbraid her for the disrespectful way in which she had been treating him. He was a blueblood, for god’s sake, whose family could trace its roots back to the House of Lords in 15th Century England. He was not some backroom, scheming plotter used to dealing with seedy characters like Leonard Scatcherd. He had shown consistent loyalty to the Dumont family throughout the affair, at least with respect to the photographs. He consoled himself with the thought that everything would be harmonious between them as early as tomorrow if Augustus came through with the money. He even allowed himself to dream that Lucy Dumont would soon see him in a more favorable, even heroic, light once she understood what he had done to preserve the family name. He had heard that she was in Europe and he would make a concerted effort to woo her upon her return. For Lucy, he could even tolerate as his mother-in-law this commonplace, overbearing Kraut who had somehow inveigled herself into the Dumont family.

Helga was waiting for Bellows in the sitting room and looked stern when he walked in. There would be no honeymoon tonight, he said resignedly to himself. Well, he was determined to stay positive and upbeat no matter what Helga might say or imply.

“What time will he be calling?” Helga asked. “He didn’t say but I will, of course, head home directly from here and will stay there the entire night. You wanted to give me instructions?” Bellows asked in the most deferential tone he could muster.

Helga fought off a scowl and said, “We’re prepared to offer $250,000 for the originals plus any copies. It’s abominable but must be done. With his partner dead, that ought to be enough to satisfy some dim-witted bartender.”

Bellows didn’t think it prudent to challenge her superficial analysis or remind her that others might be involved. And Meacham could balk – or might have demands other than pecuniary, like having Barrington drop out of the Congressional race – so he simply said, “And if he demands more?” Ignoring her husband’s instructions, she said, “Then tell him that greed may be his undoing and such a request will have to be brought back to us and could needlessly delay or even jeopardize the deal.”

Helga couldn’t help being tyrannical even when it worked against her self-interest. The thought of some bartender enriching himself at the expense of her family grated on and inflamed Helga Dumont. If Siegfried had heard her complaining, he would have enjoyed the rich irony based on the Brunner family’s turpitude during the war and her own self-aggrandizement afterwards.