The Case of the Rich Man's Wife

Changing my attention to my newspaper, the headlines proclaimed how MacArthur vowed to keep Japan a single entity. What happened in Germany wouldn't happen in Japan. I figured the general turned on the campaign motor for his run for president. The world needed a bastard like MacArthur or Patton from time to time, but I liked Harry and hoped he would continue to give the world hell.

On the second page, the story of a woman's body found, gutted like a fish. Dumped in the river like garbage, her throat slit. Holy crap, a fourth woman in as many weeks. This old island's past came to life. In the back of my mind, I remembered reading about Jack the Ripper. The same thing happened here around the turn of the century. New Jersey hanged a Ripper in the '20s. My mind began to drift as my imagination went wild.

You know, some people are evil. Pure unadulterated evil cloaked as humans.

After I had finished my meal, I left the money on the meal check. Making my way to the lady's room, I touched up my lipstick. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman. Dressed in a manner which showed off her body, clothing far, too, tight, revealing, much, wearing, too, much makeup, she struck me as every bit a streetwalker.

Pulling her hands over her legs, one at a time, she adjusted her stockings. I pitied the woman, and yet, anger with her hit the tipping spot. All to plain, to me, how she made her living. A sister should have more pride than to whore herself out. However, I didn't walk the path she strolled. I have no idea what drove women into such a life.

Her painted face was haggard and worn. No amount of cosmetics hid how tired and pale she was. While still young, the strain of her vocation lined her face. If not so sad, her situation would be a comfort seeing someone more worn than I. In fact, I suppose, I stared a little, too, much. The gape wasn't intentional. Still, she noticed me staring at her, and her countenance changed. The fire of anger flashed in her eyes.

"What the hell are you looking at, sister?" she said. The anger in her voice blasted at me with righteous indignation.

"Sorry, I did not mean to stare at you," I told her as I washed my hands.

"Didn't mean to glare at me. What did you mean? What's your beef, bitch? I'm not as cute as you? Listen here, my clothes aren't spiffy and expensive like yours? Hang on, you crummy tomato, I don't receive pennies from heaven. No, sir, ree, I earn my bread. What the ‘beat all' are you looking at? You want a knuckle-sandwich, right in your kisser, bitch?" She assumed a stance as though she wanted to fight.

Rotating toward the young woman, I wiped my eyes with a paper towel. I had the hint of a smile on my face.

"All right, don't blow a fuse, and I'll tell you what I am thinking. I'm eyeballing you, sister. The sight of you saddened me, understanding how reduced you are. You're better than what you do, better than whoever makes you do this biz." I told her as I dropped the used paper towel in the wastebasket.

"The, fuck, you say, baby doll! No one makes me do anything," she pulled the door open to leave. "You have some, glitterati, sugar daddy, you Goddamn," she spat the foulest word, "CUNT!"

The word burned me! Grating on my nerves, I hate the word. In a moment, the woman disappeared, gone like steam rising out of coffee. I hadn't said at all what I wanted to say. Pausing for a moment, I decided to follow her out.

Determination took hold, and I needed to try harder to make her comprehend. Going out of the restroom to find her, I was aware she left. Not yet, 7:30 in the morning, the woman must've hooked all night. I marched to the door, only to catch her bending to stare into a passing car. The woman leaned into the window of the bright yellow roadster. The exchange of conversation was short.

Clambering into the car, she caught sight of me. Holding her right hand out the window with her middle finger extended, displaying her disgust at me.

The thought pestered, I might deserve her anger. In certitude, I wished to do something for her. Somewhere between nineteen and twenty-two years old, going on fifty-five, the woman's situation disturbed me. The life wore on her. The blonde hair, which she primped until the whole thing turned ratty. Oh, her young eyes, durned old by the dark circles under them.

The woman would kill herself working on her back. Destroying her plumbing to put money in some pimp's pocket. I wondered at what point sex stopped being fun and became slavery. In addition to the pimp, she might fight a forty-five-dollar-a-day habit. The girl was on something. Black tar heroin would be my guess.

The world turned cock-eyed in the ‘40s, and I haven't an inkling what money is like, where or when, you are. But, brother, in 1945, America, $45 bucks a day, amounts to a whole lot of breed, for a cookie to find, for her daily requirement of smack. Considering all the fat-heads, geezers, lulus, and cold-fishes she screwed herself raw to earn a wad, I didn't desire to walk in her stompers. No, sir, ree, not one step.

With my mind's eye, I pictured the doll in the backseat, legs high and parted, and mister roadster between them, pounding the five-dollar a toss-off, devil out of her. With dolly lay, lay screaming, "What a stud," while faking an orgasm. If she needed to move him along faster, the woman would shove a thumb up his asshole. With his jollies spent, he dumped her out and headed to work. The cat would be standing on the sidewalk, cum leaking from her pussy, and contemplating how to score more cabbage.

To be open and sincere, I couldn't blame the broad for resenting me. From her point of view, I had everything while she had nothing. With some effort, I shook the thoughts from my mind. Toddling down the street toward my office building. The sidewalk bustled with people going in both directions. Bumping shoulders often, the din of human traffic brimmed in the air. All these people, like me, rushing to their jobs. So many lemmings heading for a cliff.

Making my way through the concrete, asphalt, and brick jungle, I took a left turn, followed by a right. The buildings were tall. The granite, brick, cement, and glass constructs stood, too, tall, with far, too, many to ignore. All the skyscrapers and less lofty buildings shouted how important Manhattan was.

Screaming pain stabbed me in my back, running down my leg. The wound stopped me in my tracks. Doubling over, I put my hands on my knees. My fingers shudder, and my hold on my clutch becomes tenuous. As best I might, I moved closer to the buildings to be out of the way of foot traffic.

A few passersby gawked at me. But none offered any help. In this city, most people stuck to their own business as much as possible. Leaning against the building, I waited for the excruciating spasm to pass. The stones of the edifice heated from the hot August morning sun. Pressing my side to the brickwork, I hoped the warmth would ease my pain.

"Are you alright, Miss?" The friendly voice chimed out. Opening my eyes, I locked my eyes, an elderly man in a three-piece suit looking at me. The old gentleman had a warm smile on his face, but a concern showed in his gaze as well. He was familiar to me somehow.

"Yeah, things are swell. Honest-Injun, I'll be fine in a second," I said, with, somewhat, straightforwardness.

"Pardon me, I'm a doctor miss, what can I do for you?"

"No, an old injury," recognition came over both of us, and we spoke each other's names at the same time.

"Miss Drummond!"

"Oh, my word, Dr. Banks!"

We laughed together for a moment, exchanging smiles. My lighthearted laughter died out as the smarting worsened. Clutching my bag, I gritted my teeth and let out a hushed hiss.

"Is the pain worse for you?"

Shaking my head, no, I explained the same stabbing pain, which came on me, were rare occasions. I told him the spasms only lasted thirty seconds to two minutes but never longer. I couldn't, quite, bring myself to be frank on the matter.

"For the record, I think I have a doctor who can remove the bullet. Best for you, I believe, is to allow him to remove the slug," he told me. For sometimes, the ants crawled inside my skin for hours.

"Will I be able to walk afterward?" I asked him, concerned. At the end of the day, what use is a detective in a wheelchair? I imagined myself selling newspapers. Thinking of Joey, how I'd been the bigwig and tossed him a dollar, letting me off the hook for not being kissed off, like him.

"Let me think," he said, after a moment, "let's say better than a ninety percent chance to walk after the surgery."

"And if I don't have it removed?"

"Someday, the pangs and tingling will all go away, and never will you walk again." The old doctor spoke with a friendly voice, casual. Sounding much as if he told me how today would be hotter than yesterday.

"Things are hectic at the moment. So, I promise, I'll contact you when business settles down."

The doctor smiled at me shaking his head. As if I'm clairvoyant, I perceived his thoughts, "No, you won't." For he understood me, far, too, well.

"Sure, you will," he said, nothing more, and with no conviction. Dr. Banks scrawled out something on a notepad. Extending his hand to me, I took the slip of paper.

"Contact this doctor, for I'm confident he can help you." The old doctor walked away from me, mumbling. After the shock subsided, I moved on, no worse for the experience.

As I approached my building, a car horn tooted five quick blasts, followed by two more after a short pause. Without looking to see, I knew who it was. Again, the car honked, shave, and a haircut, two bits. Glancing to the side, I saw Jason, my former lover, smiling like the jackal he was.

"How you doing," he shouted to me through the open window of his car.

"Buzz off," I said. Marching to the door, I hurried through.

Memories flooded my mind, rose-colored thoughts of sweet, torrid lovemaking. In quick order, followed by a terrible angry recounting of Jason's jealous outburst and accusations. Oh, but the lovemaking, the rolling in bed, screwing our brains out lovemaking. If only Jason hadn't turned into a basket of bananas. Jason's crazy allegations kept me behind the 8 ball and off-balance.

Fearing he'd follow me in, I waited for the confrontation. A fight that didn't happen. Shrugging the thought of him away, I moved on toward my destination.

Chapter Three

"Hey, Miss Drummond," the elevator operator leaned out from the door, ogling me as I walked away.

Swiveling, I faced him.

The operator imparted his appreciation with a wink and a vulgar clicking sound in the back of his mouth.

"Hubba-Hubba, keen as always, Miss Drummond. No fooling, you're stacked to the ceiling."

Winking at me again, he returned to the inside of the cage, closing the doors of the packed car. Every few days, the elevator boy would make a comment on how appealing my appearance was. Don't take me wrong, for I didn't need the attention. Still, have to admit, his interest comforted me.

Opening the door to the outer office, I pondered if Aaron beat me to work. We were still an hour from opening as my wristwatch pointed straight up 8:00am. Sniffing the coffee perking, I listen to the familiar plop, plop. The reception area was immaculate. The doors to my two associate's offices stood open, but the lights were off in their offices. At first, I didn't perceive Aaron's presence as I locked the door behind me. Without warning, Aaron burst out of my office.

"Top of the morning," Aaron's manner bristled with a perkiness similar to the coffee brewing near him, "Miss Drummond, the coffee is brewing. Also, I have put the information about Mr. Randolph on your desk. Slats' is out digging up what he can on the Crawford case. Miller is working on a personal injury lawsuit for the Dawson and Rutherford law firm. The last item for your consideration, Mr. Randolph, is scheduled to appear, on a red carpet, at 9:30."

Aaron continued to talk as he made his way around the room. "I took the liberty of calling bookworm yesterday, I mean, Mr. Bookend, and asked him to research everything he can find out on Mr. Randolph. Must've worked all day Sunday, as he couriered over the information a few minutes ago. Taking liberty, I put the report on your desk. Old money from railroads and goldmines, which he managed to increase, some folks have all the fortune." In a flurry of nervous energy, Aaron fussed about straightening a pillow on the couch or picking up an old magazine, expending his anxiousness.

"Slow down, baby boy," I said. Glancing at my wristwatch, "We're ahead of schedule. Where is Effie Patrick?" asking if Slats O'Hare's, Tyson Miller's, and my secretary had made her way to the office. As a rule, Effie was the first person in the office.

"She caught a bug, according to what she told me when she called in. Jazz played in the background while some man sang. His voice, at best, rather off-key. If you ask me, and I recognize you didn't, I think she is having a romantic interlude today," Aaron told me, with a sly smile on his face.

Oh, sweet Effie and a man, what a lovely thought. My mind dwelled on her body. The woman was stare-worthy. A tall, leggy, ebony beauty with an angelic face and curves befitting of a mountain road. What a tongue, oh my sweet lord, with her tongue, she'd trace the alphabet where it counted the most. I was jealous of her manfriend, the blessed bugger. The thought of Effie made me randy.

"Come here, love," I said, my arms spread apart.

In a few quick steps, Aaron strode to me, and we hugged. Our lips met as we locked in a passionate kiss. His body, taut, trim, and fit, in his three-piece suit, which I bought him the week before, suited him. Oh, how lovely. The desire built in me as my mind calculated time. This self-consciousness swept over me, wondering if Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph might arrive early. Still, a brief romantic encounter of our own would be ... oh, so, incredible.

Aaron responded, our interest engaged us equally while our bodies molded together. I pushed away with reluctance, lowering my head, my breathing raw and ragged.

"No, dumpling, we better cool off for now," I told him. Patting his chest, I turned, moved from him. Going to my office, I stepped through the door, closing it behind me. I fell against the old wood and frosted glass door. Putting my hand on my chest, I shook my head, must control my lust.

Pushing away from the door, I let out a small sigh of disappointment. Allowing my thoughts a moment of a pleasant retrospection, me in my bed, on Aaron, my hands on his chest, his dick buried in me, and we undulated together.

"Turn a hose on yourself, sister!" I said.

Moving to my desk, sat in my swivel chair, and glanced at the door. For the first time ever, I spotted the light shining through the window cast a shadow of the painted window logo on the wall. ‘Theodora Drummond Private Eye' stared me in the face. How had this escaped me for so many years? In the light from the window, the shadow had to be visible at some point every morning. Moving to the floor later and gone by midday.

Pulling my cigarette case out, I took one, tapped my unfiltered, stuck the cig in my mouth, and lit up. The smoke caressed my lungs, spreading into my bloodstream, the nicotine calmed me. Making myself comfortable, I put my feet up on my desk, grabbed the file, and began to read about the third richest man in the world.

Not much in the file to read, he graduated from Yale, inherited a fortune from his railroad & mining baron father, which he tripled. I read many dates and acquisitions, business stats, a list of his houses and properties in a dozen cities, and not one word told anyone, anything, about the man.

"For crying out loud. Is this all we have?" I said in a hushed voice.

In reflection, I had ominous sentiments about this case. Brother, let me tell you, I don't understand what kind of man hires a P.I. to search for his wife but does not go to the police? What sort of gentleman pays out $10,000 with the promise of a substantial bonus if I find her, jackrabbit, fast? Why is she gone? Why does he want to locate her quick and yet, refuses to have the police help? All valid questions and none of which he would answer.

In my mind, Uncle Frank's voice echoed, "The rich didn't become wealthy by worrying about other people. For most of these bastards, they must win. Now others must not fail, so much, as to be crushed and ground under their feet."

"The whole deal reeks like sour pussy or old fish," voicing my gut-feeling to no one. My two best senses, olfactory, and my sixth sense, my gut, told me something nasty lingered in his words. Neither one liked the deal, for nothing made any sense at all. Feeding my habit, I sucked in hard on my Camel. My gut tied in knots over this case.

Picking up the phone, I dialed a number. Waiting for the third ring, knowing the answer would be on the third ring, or not at all. A young woman's voice, "Hello, this is Judson-0408, Mrs. Estelle Parsons Clark-Smith's office."

Estelle Parsons Clark-Smith was the most famous gossip columnist in the country. If she printed something, the story was no longer a rumor. Estelle had far more dirt than she put in print.

"Yes, this is Theodora Drummond for Estelle," I called her by her first name. Which, for me, was fortunate. The woman had too long a handle to string the complete name together every time I called her.

"Miss Drummond, how are you?"

"Fine," I told the young woman.

"Hold for a moment, please. Mrs. Clark-Smith instructed me any time you call to put you straight through." She had a bright, cheery voice to match her vivacious personality. The weight was short, owing to Estelle's and my friendship.

"Theo, glad to hear from you," Estelle bubbled. As always, her lyrical voice proved a delight.

"I need to talk to you about someone but don't want to do this over the phone. I have a meeting with Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph in about an hour and a half. I need a better fix on him, and I figure you are the woman who can give me the most information." Only the sound of silence for some time.

"Why? Is he hiring you, dear?" Estelle's tone changed. Something mysterious entered the tenor, which sounded ... concerned.

"Estelle, you get the idea this is in the strictest confidence, and you can't share, so we're off the record. He wants me to find his wife." I said as I stubbed out the butt of my smoke.

"So, she left him at last?" Estelle asks me.

"Not sure. The lady's missing, and he wants to find her. However, he isn't going to the cops on her disappearance," I told her. Glancing around my office, I grasped this room was as clean as the outer office. I speculated how early Aaron arrived to clean the place so thoroughly.

"No, he wouldn't go to the authorities. Do not be alone with him under any circumstance. Theodora, you realize how fond I am of you. When is a convenient hour for us to meet?" Estelle's concern touched me, but I didn't understand why she was so concerned.

"Time is tight as I have a packed day in front of me, hunting her. I have at least a dozen people to talk to, and I have to stop by and talk to Uncle Frank at police headquarters. Estelle, how about we meet at 8:00pm here at my office?" Again, silence with only the sound of her thumbing pages in a book.

"Fine by me, I'm writing down the time. Dear, there are, swirling rumors about Randolph everywhere he goes. Anyhow, 8:00 tonight, we will go through this in detail, and I'll tell you all about Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph. I'll bring my Girl Friday with me. I should say secretary, not Girl, but she is so darling. Again, dear friend, do not be alone with him!"

Estelle's "girls" were always more than secretaries. Estelle and her husband made sure to please the young women. In my mind, I pictured their threesomes, all packed together, tussling above the sheets. Never having tried a threesome, my curiosity peeked an ugly head out and said, "What if?"