Alan Petrillo - Asylum Lane

Goodwin raised his glass again. “You always did know your clients,” he said, taking another swallow. “Indeed, what could possibly go wrong?”

Fletcher dodged off the pathway behind a large elm and shifted the long blanket-wrapped parcel under his arm so it hung lengthwise along his body. He peered around the tree trunk at a passing horse and carriage, noting the near-sleeping driver nodding over the reins, his hat pulled low over his eyes. The man would never notice him, Fletcher concluded. But yet, it was best to be sure and stay out of sight until he finished his business with the vicar.

At the head of the driveway, Fletcher checked the road again, and seeing no one, trudged down the dirt track, fondling the hard metal under the fabric. Once he reached the covered portico of the vicarage, he stepped to the side of the house and laid the bundle on the ground. Throwing back the edges of the blanket, Fletcher unrolled the covering and plucked the butt stock and action of a double barrel shotgun from its folds. He raised the butt to his shoulder and sighted down the plane where the barrels would be, then mouthed a “boom.” A smile broke out over his face. The shotgun was one of the spoils of the burglary he had done at the First Presbyterian Church, a truly great surprise to find in a house of God, he thought.

Taking the barrels, Fletcher engaged the locking lugs and snapped the action closed, and then clipped the splinter fore stock into its spring-loaded recess. Hefting the gun in his hands, he looked toward the house. “Let’s see the old vicar deny me now,” he said aloud.

The housekeeper was the same timid woman whom he had seen the last time he visited the vicarage.

“But the reverend is not to be disturbed,” she said, eyeing the shotgun that Fletcher held at his side.

“Well then just tell the vicar that I’ll be awaiting his arrival in the sitting room, once he’s not so busy.” Fletcher pushed past the woman and bolted the door behind him. “Now run along and tell him.”

The housekeeper hurried down the hall toward the back of the house.

Within minutes, Fletcher heard the sound of leather boots slapping on the polished oak floors. Reverend Elsworth, his face red as a newly-blossoming blood rose, stalked into the room. “What’s the meaning of this . . . ” he began, then came to a standstill when he saw the shotgun muzzles rise toward him.

“And a good morning to you, vicar.”

“Fletcher, are you mad?”

“Nay, just looking for a friendly face.” Fletcher motioned with the gun. “Close the door.”

After the vicar did so, Fletcher sat back in the chair, still training the gun on the reverend.

“You’re going to have a house guest for awhile, vicar. Now tell your housekeeper to prepare a room for me. And,” Fletcher raised a finger to his lips, “mum’s the word about our arrangement, eh? But I do need a place to hide out for a spell. You see, the police are looking for me now. How do you suppose they came to know my name?” Fletcher poked the gun toward the reverend as if he were spearing a fish.

The vicar took a step back. “I have no idea.”

“Hmmm. I imagine you do, but might be a wee bit reluctant to talk about it. Now let’s talk to that housekeeper of yours and then you and me can have a nice chat here in the privacy of your sitting room.”

Lund approached the police station from the north, slowing often to look over his shoulder at the pedestrian traffic on the pavement behind him. He didn’t trust the Dealer, especially after his outrageous demand of half the proceeds of Lund’s investment funds. Well, Lund mused, perhaps it was inaccurate to call them investment funds when the source of the money actually was other people’s accounts — Miss Waddington’s to be precise.

Lund shook off the thought, yet still had the feeling someone on the street was watching him. He knew the Dealer was crafty enough to keep his movements under scrutiny and assumed he was being followed. Lund stopped at the entrance to Miss Isabel Wood’s confectioner’s shop and tea room, and gazed through the large window at the selection of cakes and biscuits arranged behind the glass. A swirl of wind blew down the street and Lund flinched when a large man in a brown suit and dirty derby brushed past him, bumping his elbow in the process. Lund held his breath, only releasing it a half-minute later when he realized the man had continued down the street.

Lund brushed his sleeve several times, then pulled the hem of his jacket down tightly to straight the fabric. He then hustled along the pavement and stepped through the police department’s oak doorway as a thin constable emerged and wished him a good day.

Inside the station house he asked for Round Freddy and sat on a scarred pine bench in a corner to wait. Ten minutes later a constable with a fringe of white hair ringing his otherwise bald head ushered him through the room, past desks of working policeman, to an office set into the back of the room.

“Mr. Lund, please come in and take a seat,” Round Freddy said, indicating a chair laden with newspapers, reports and wadded up papers. “Just put that rubbish on the floor. It will be fine there.”

Lund did as instructed and sat fidgeting in front of the policeman.

Round Freddy arched his eyebrows and cocked his head toward Lund. “Well, sir, what may I do for you? As you might imagine, I have quite a bit on my plate right now.”

“Yes, I realize you are extremely busy, detective, but I have something to talk about concerning the Miss Waddington case. That is, it sort of is related to the case, at least I think it is.”

“Perhaps you should come to the point instead of, as our American friends say, ‘beating around the bush.’”

“Ah, I hadn’t heard that,” Lund said, twisting his hands in his lap.

Round Freddy sat with his hands steepled on the desk as if he were praying for a resolution to the conversation.

“And this information about the Waddington case — if it does relate to the case — is delicate?”

Lund slapped the desktop, making a loud pop. “You have a knack for putting situations in the perfect light, detective. Delicate it certainly is, I must say. The question I have for you is this. If I were to give you information about the case and that information reflected badly on me, then what might happen?”

Round Freddy leaned back and a smile creased his face. “Is that what the difficulty is, Mr. Lund? A worry that you may be sucked up into the investigation?”

Lund looked down at the floor and nodded.

“You can set you mind at ease, sir. Anything else you can tell me about this case that further implicates you can be no worse than where you already stand with the embezzling, stealing funds and falsifying records charges. If you are able to help us in putting the rest of the puzzle pieces together, perhaps some of those existing charges can be, how shall I say, lightened.”

Lund searched Round Freddy’s face for any trace of insincerity, but could see nothing beyond the detective’s smile.

“Even if the behavior in question involved a great sum of money?”

“Especially if it involved a sum of money. In that way, the money inappropriately diverted might be returned to its original owner.”

Lund nodded again, but said nothing.

“Might I ask if the money to which we are referring is somehow connected to Miss Waddington.”

Lund nodded again in the affirmative.

“Then I think you should tell me what you know because it could very well help your own cause in this instance.”

Lund brightened and squirmed in the chair.

“You see, I had to find a safe place to put the money, so I asked discreet questions of an associate and was given the name of an individual who places funds in secure investments for a fee.”