Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

“I hope you’ll bring that nice boy home for dinner one night, Viola. You keep promising me,” Theda said, her voice weak and pleading. Viola had not actually said that Bellows and she were engaged but had given her mother the distinct impression more than once that the archivist was her beau.

“He’s awfully busy with the move, Mother, but he told me just yesterday that he very much looks forward to meeting you,” Viola said reassuringly, as she put on her bright red coat. Of course, she would never dare invite him to their spare apartment with its threadbare furniture but Viola was determined to let Bellows know very soon how deeply devoted she was to him.

Perhaps today, I will summon the courage to do so, she said to herself as she sat on the bus for the short ride into Old Town.

LT. THORNE RARELY looked forward to seeing Det. Willoughby walk past his door. Despite all his false bravado, he was intimidated by the detective and was almost certain that Willoughby knew it. But today was going to be different and Thorne thought he might be adding that notch to his belt and puffing out his chest before long.

Normally reticent and cautious when confronted with a command decision, Thorne had acted boldly – for him – in approving the recording of the Bellows conversation and also allowing Willoughby to quietly pursue his inquiry regarding Scatcherd’s death.

Willoughby started the day repeatedly listening to the recording of Woody’s conversation with Bellows. He needed to convince himself that Bellows’ comments about Scatcherd’s death were spontaneous and believable, rather than practiced and contrived.

Thorne was getting antsy. He looked out and saw Willoughby at his desk and finally called out to him to come into his office. “So, what’s our plan, Hank?” Thorne asked, trying to make it sound as if whatever Willoughby pulled off, he was integral to its design and execution.

Willoughby scratched the back of his neck and manufactured a troubled look. When he saw Thorne’s nervous response, he smiled. He wouldn’t play with the lieutenant this morning with so much at stake.

“I’m heading over to the Torpedo Factory shortly, boss. I’d like to take a uniformed officer with me. If things go according to Hoyle, we should be bringing a murderer back to the station today.”

BEFORE WILLOUGHBY WALKED into Bellows’ office, he stationed the uniformed officer in the hallway, beyond the watchful eyes of Viola Finch. When she saw Willoughby, she immediately stood up, all five feet of her in a flutter, as she moved to guard her boss’ door. “Mr. Bellows is on the telephone, detective. Must you keep coming by here to bother him?”

“It shouldn’t take long today, Miss Finch,” Willoughby said gently, as he pushed open Bellows’ door and saw the archivist with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he looked out the window at the Potomac River as it continued its southeastern journey toward the Chesapeake Bay.

When he turned to face Willoughby, he had that look of a defeated man, resigned to his fate. The Dumonts had drained him of whatever self-possession he had and all he wanted now was to secure the photographs and put the drama and intrigue of this unwelcomed adventure behind him. He had not been looking forward to the move of the archives to a new facility in Maryland but now, notwithstanding his yearning to be near Lucy Dumont, he saw it as a means of escape.

Viola stood at the door only inches from the detective. “Not now,” he said firmly as he looked at her and closed the door. Willoughby pulled the tape recording from his pocket and waved it in front of Bellows. He was not surprised that the archivist did not understand.

“There’s not going to be any extortion payment to the bartender, Bellows, despite what you offered last night and what was duly recorded on this tape. We have the photographs and very soon they will be returned to top officials here at the Torpedo Factory. How much they learn about your involvement in this scheme depends entire on how cooperative you are today.

“Here’s how things can play out in your favor. Let’s say, hypothetically, that some concerned citizen found the photographs and gave them to the police. We wouldn’t have known what they were but this anonymous person left a note explaining that they had been stolen from the Torpedo Factory and were part of a classified file. Can you believe it? It’s possible that they have some historical significance but we’re not clever enough to figure it out so we return the photographs to the guardians of our secrets and leave it up to them to figure things out.” When Willoughby concluded his little speech, he saw that Bellows was looking down, stroking his forehead, his mind racing as he tried to fathom what had happened and how he could extricate himself.

Willoughby went to the door and motioned for Viola to join them before continuing. “There are still some loose ends with respect to the Scatcherd investigation that need to be cleared up, starting with the break-in to his apartment.” Willoughby paused and looked at Bellows, hoping it would prompt him to open up. Bellows regained his composure and said, “We’ve been through that already, detective, and you gave me reason to believe that it was no longer an issue. To repeat, I pressured Scatcherd for his key and he finally gave it to me. I still believe that he wanted me to search his apartment so he could say he was cooperating.”

“But he didn’t give you the key, did he?” Willoughby said, turning so he could see Bellows and Viola at the same time. “Scatcherd’s keys were stolen from his coat, conveniently hanging on a hook outside the clerical area. A duplicate was made of the front door key and the keychain was returned before he realized that it was missing. Now, the Lock & Load is only a few blocks from here and the owner is ready to identify the person who had the duplicate key made.”

Viola was crest-fallen and Bellows for the first time felt pity and sympathy for his loyal assistant. “What does it matter now, detective? Scatcherd was obstinate about the photographs and I was desperate to get them back. It was my decision and I used poor judgment in imposing on Miss Finch to assist me. Surely, you’re not going to file charges now. That would be cruel and vindictive.” Bellows was thinking about the tape recording and the fact that the police now had the photographs. He couldn’t understand why Willoughby was obsessed with the break-in of Scatcherd’s apartment.

Willoughby ignored Bellows’ plea, not certain if it was for Viola or himself, He pulled the naked photograph of Scatcherd from his pocket that had been given to him by the medical examiner. He held it up in front of Bellows and then Viola, both of them shrinking back from the stark image of death.

“It took me a while to figure out why Scatcherd had these bruises on his chest when he fell backwards down the stairs. And then it came to me yesterday but I didn’t want to believe it. He must have been kicked in the chest, caught by surprise by someone he did not expect to see lurking in the stairwell. He probably heard his name called out right before he started down the stairs, causing him to turn around and face his assailant. Just one swift, well-place kick to the chest was all it took, right Bellows?” Willoughby said with almost eerie calm.

Bellows was startled and started to flail his arms about. He got up from his chair and looked around frantically, finally managing to exclaim, “This is absurd. You have no proof. Miss Finch has already told you I was here at the time of the accident. You’re making a big mistake with this wild theory, detective, and will pay dearly for it.”