Arno Zimmer - Death Comes to the Torpedo Factory

Bellows had looked into the future and feared that with the return of the photographs announced publicly, an investigation was inevitable and it would cast suspicion on his conduct. He imagined that the incident of the duplicate key would be exposed as well and it would be evident that Viola had acted on his behalf. And then, he would be compelled to explain why he would want Scatcherd’s key except to break into his apartment. Of course, Bellows had done much worse to tarnish his reputation as a professional archivist and government employee. If his other activities were exposed, his career would be over and he might even face prosecution.

These thoughts passed through Bellows’ mind as the buzz of Helga’s voice droned on until he eventually said good-bye and hung up the phone.

THE AFTERNOON AND evening newscasts were blanketed with stories about Viola Finch and Leonard Scatcherd while the other villain, Addison Bellows, got a pass. Among her co-workers in the clerical section, only Amanda Silverbridge spoke up in defense of the diminutive lady, saying that it was a despicable lie that she had any sort of a relationship with the likes of Leonard Scatcherd, let alone an intimate one. She had her theory on Viola’s motive and Det. Willoughby would not have been surprised to learn that it coincided with his own.

There was another news item that day which was understandably overshadowed by the Viola Finch story. Classified documents stolen from the Torpedo Factory over a week ago had been recovered by the police and would be returned to top archive officials.

WITH THE ARREST of Viola Finch, it was a very good day for Lt. “Bud” Thorne and his team. Accolades poured in from the Commissioner, the Mayor and even an unwitting Congressional candidate by the name of Barrington Dumont. The lieutenant now had the notches on his belt that he so desperately coveted and almost immediately rumors started swirling that he was destined to be made a captain soon. It was inevitable and came as no surprise to those who knew him best, that Thorne would forget to single out Hank Willoughby for his splendid detective work.

WHEN SIEGFRIED FINALLY called Helga the evening of Viola Finch’s arrest, she was certain that he had heard the news and that she would not see her old lover again before he left town. For the old Commando, there was a more disheartening concern. He had attended one of Barrington’s campaign rallies, had watched him emote on television in rehearsed ads and had read all the area newspapers to get a sense of his true character. Siegfried was not pleased with what he learned about this pampered young man whose formative years he had not been able to mold. Helga had doted on him, forgiven his failures, pumped up and embellished every small achievement. He was a caricature of the foppish British dandy that Siegfried despised. What she had produced without his guiding hand was a coddled weakling. It was almost more than he could bear to witness.

His disappointment was palpable but he said nothing about it to Helga. He would never forgive her and yet he promised – and he meant it – that he would always be there to protect their son in any future exigency. As for that face to face meeting that he had so much looked forward to, he would take a pass for now.

The Brandenburg Commando had one more assignment to complete, after which he would quietly slip out of town.

THE TELEVISION OVER the bar at Pudge McFadden’s provided continued news coverage of the Viola Finch story and the “happy hour” crowd was glued to it. The gossip reached a level of inanity which even surprised Pudge. Over the hum of the crowd, one could occasionally pick up comments like “stabbed him in the chest” and “they got caught in the basement doing it” and even “it was that guy Bellows’ baby not Scatcherd’s.”

Woody and Pudge had not heard from Willoughby but were not at all surprised. They were able to read between the lines and marveled at the skillful way in which the detective had used the stolen photographs to pursue an improbable murder investigation to a successful conclusion. They didn’t resent being kept in the dark as Willoughby performed his magic but couldn’t wait to congratulate him and, to the extent he could reveal, learn how he had pieced together the case.

When Willoughby finally came into the bar, Pudge and Woody thought it supremely ironic that the customers continued to spew absurd theories about the case while the real hero of the day, the possessor of the holy grail, walked past them with nary a glance. His family, of course, understood and appreciated the character of this portly, non-descript detective who never sought the limelight or craved accolades, content to do his work in the shadows.

There was a sad but admirable quality about Willoughby, a refusal to be triumphant that evening that impressed Pudge about his friend most of all, and which he strained to explain to Woody after the detective went home. But Woody surprised Pudge when he described his stepfather and how he comported himself similarly after a murder investigation. Willoughby did tell them that his discovery of a duplicate key to Scatcherd’s apartment was the break he needed to keep investigating. He didn’t explain why and swore them both to secrecy for having revealed even this tidbit, reminding them that the trial of Viola Finch might still take place, notwithstanding her confession.

He had done his job and nailed a murderess but there was no joy in it for the detective. When Pudge asked what she was like, Willoughby said, “Any man would be fortunate to have a woman so devoted that she would give everything to protect him. Unfortunately, she bestowed it on a scoundrel.”

ON THE MONDAY after Viola’s arrest and confession, Addison Bellows went to work with stomach pains and a tingling sensation in his feet, both of which he attributed to his overwrought constitution finally revolting against several tense-filled days. There was a note on his desk advising him that his presence at that afternoon’s archivist meeting was not required. Bellows called down to his boss but Armbruster was unavailable. He sensed that something was afoot, that he was being frozen out, but he didn’t have the spirit or the energy to fight back. He left a message that he was taking a sick day and went home.

Over the next few days, the tingling in his feet grew more intense and extended to his fingers. It was as if a thousand hot needles were repeatedly poked into his extremities. Soon, the stomach pains were accompanied by excruciating episodes of vomiting, leaving him weak and almost delirious.

Before driving himself to the hospital, Bellows struggled to take a shower and noticed that his already thinning hair was falling out in clumps. He looked in the mirror and saw the image of a sickly, middle-aged man staring back at him.

Doctors were baffled by Bellows’ condition and watched helplessly as he deteriorated rapidly and fell into a coma. Within a week, the archivist was dead, never regaining consciousness long enough to tell the doctors what he had been doing in the days leading up to his death.

Could the doctors or the coroner be blamed for not running a test to detect Thallium in Bellows’ system? After all, it was odorless, colorless and tasteless. No one had the least suspicion, certainly not Addison Bellows, when he poured ice tea containing less than a gram of the water-soluble drug from the pitcher in his refrigerator.