Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

“Yes,” said Bellows, “the Dumonts have decided to make an offer.” Bellows was choking on the dollar amount and hesitated. “Well, what is it?” Woody demanded, warming to his role and sounding annoyed.

“$250,000, take it or leave it,” said Bellows. “It can be delivered in a few days.”

Willoughby had anticipated that a sizeable amount would be offered and had prepared Woody with instructions on how to respond. Woody glanced at Willoughby who pointed at the paper and clenched his fist, a signal to sound resolute.

“Listen, Bellows, I want the money in tens and twenties, unmarked, with no sequential serial numbers. Any suspicion that the bills have been tampered with and the money can be traced means the deal’s off. Am I clear?”

“I understand. Can I contact you at the bar to arrange the exchange?” Bellows asked, now resigned not to argue any details. “Stay away from Pudge McFadden’s if you value your health, Bellows. I’ll call you at home in two days – same time – with final instructions,” Woody said fiercely.

“Okay, no need to threaten me. Sounds like we have a suitable resolution. I’ll –” Bellows started to talk but Woody interrupted him. “I am curious, Bellows, so indulge me for a few minutes longer. Was Scatcherd’s death really an accident? When he came to me at the bar, he was like a frightened child. Do you know what it’s like when customers get a few drinks in them? They open up to their bartender, sort of like they would to a priest or a lawyer. Talk among the regulars was that Scatcherd wasn’t just disliked but that people had it in for him and might do him bodily harm.”

There was silence on the other end as Bellows tried to decide if he should respond or say nothing at all. He was exhausted by the whole affair of the photographs and couldn’t resist the opportunity to vent his frustration. “Scatcherd was a clumsy oaf and bitter about life. He was a lousy shake-down artist, if that was his objective. Yes, I think he tripped and fell down the stairs. If he hadn’t, he would probably have eventually given the photographs back and I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. But what does it matter? Is that all?”

Willoughby was rapidly twirling his hand in a circle as a signal for Woody to end the conversation. “No, that’s it, Bellows. As I said, just curious and, for the record, I don’t give a damn either. Now, just be prepared for our next call.”

Everyone waited to hang up until they heard Bellows click off. Pudge was the first to speak. “Nice touch at the end, kid. Bellows has to believe now, if he didn’t earlier, that you are a cold, mercenary son of a bitch.” Pudge wondered why Willoughby had urged Woody to provoke, even bait the archivist. He didn’t say anything, assuming that the detective had his reasons.

Willoughby nodded and said, “Yeah, you did good, son. Clearly, the Dumonts are desperate to get their hands on the photographs and it sounds like Bellows, even if he doesn’t like it, has accepted his role as messenger boy. Now, you will be staying here at Pudge’s for the next few days so don’t argue with me. It’s precautionary, that’s all. You can go back to your apartment tomorrow during the day with Pudge to grab some things. I think we’re all set for tonight.”

After Willoughby left, Pudge looked at his temporary roommate with a quizzical expression. “Hey, is your stomach feeling funny?” Woody nodded yes, and Pudge said, “I’ll get the Pepto Bismol.”

SIEGFRIED SAT OUTSIDE Woody’s darkened apartment for a few hours, almost certain that he would not find him there. No lights were on and he saw nothing move past the windows. He was convinced that the photographs were not inside, or they would probably have been found when Helga’s henchmen rampaged through the place. Smart kid to stay away until he has the money, he said to himself. It would be foolish to underestimate him as the end game drew near.

BELLOWS’ CALL TO Helga was brief. The money needed to be assembled as instructed and they had a deal. After she hung up with Bellows, she left a message for Siegfried at the New York number.

WILLOUGHBY’S STOMACH WAS bubbling like an erupting volcano on the ride home. He would get no sympathy from his wife if he told her about the Little Tavern and wondered what home-cooked meal he had missed. Despite his gastronomical discomfort, Willoughby was feeling good about his “non-investigation” into Scatcherd’s death. With the Bellows recording in hand, he would make his ultimate move in the morning.

AS THE DAY for the move to the new Maryland warehouse was fast approaching, everyone in the archives office was summoned to work on Saturday. Before Viola Finch left for work, she rushed about the apartment to ensure that her invalid mother had all the day’s necessities within reach.

Theda Finch had worked on the assembly line at the Torpedo Factory during the war, a real-life “Rosie The Riveter”, proud to be doing her part for the country after her husband left to fight and die in Europe, making the ultimate sacrifice thousands of miles from his native West Virginia. On the outskirts of Saint-Avold in Eastern France, Brady Finch had a cross bearing his name at the Lorraine American Cemetery, one of over 10,000 U.S. soldiers buried there.

Theda romanticized those years helping to assemble torpedoes to support the war effort, never imagining the horrors experienced by her husband and his fellow doughboys. Her walls were decorated with pictures of co-workers, memorializing the camaraderie that she remembered. The Finches had moved from West Virginia when the Torpedo Factory re-opened at the start of World War II. They were ecstatic when they won the lottery for one of the tiny duplexes at the “whites-only” Chinquapin Village set off on the edge of town. Built by the Navy to house the families of some 300 factory employees, Chinquapin was almost the equivalent of a company town with sports teams, a theater group and even Saturday night dances.

Some locals resented these interlopers from the hills of West Virginia and treated them like lepers. While they were not downtrodden, illiterate Okies, like the outcasts so poignantly described in The Grapes of Wrath , they were often disparaged and ridiculed. If they had to be here, let them be contained in their little village on the edge of town, it was argued. Theda was almost oblivious to their contempt and dutifully made the 3-mile ride each day to work on the factory bus while neighbors took care of the new-born Viola.

Theda was a thrifty sort, a habit borne of those days of deprivation back home. She put money in a jar every week and eventually saved enough to send Viola to secretarial school after her graduation from high school. While the Finches were poor but now respectable, it would never be enough for Viola to get more than polite notice, if even that, from the likes of Addison Bellows.

Theda had kept copies of the Torp , the employee newsletter that covered talent shows, bowling league results, war bond parties and other morale-building activities for the workers who labored in three shifts around the clock to make their deadly weapons, those “tin fish” as the torpedoes were euphemistically called. Now in her dotage, she never tired of poring over those old newsletters during the day and gazing up at the gallery of her fellow workers on the wall, waiting for Viola’s return from work.