Chapter One: A New Client

“Rick, you’re very silent today.” I looked up as Martha made her way along the bar towards where I sat reading the newspaper. She smiled seeing me look at her and went on, “Bad day? It’s early for you to be drinking. No case to be working on?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit dry on the work front at the moment,” I told her before changing the subject by picking up the paper I was reading. “Did you see the Times is full of that new Zeppelin the Nazis sent over here. There’s a big picture of it on the front page.” I read out aloud to her the leading article headline. “ ‘Super Airship Gross Deutschland breaks cross-Atlantic speed record.’ ” I folded up the paper. “I saw it when it was docked to the Rockefeller Building. Ugly brute.”

“You still hold it against them, don’t you?” Martha observed as she pulled a bottle of bourbon from the rack behind her and held it up in a silent motion that asked if I wanted another drop. I nodded and she gave me a generous draft. It smelled strongly of old wood and alcohol. “It’s been twenty years since the Armistice,” she added, “Can’t you drop it?”

I laughed bitterly. “Is business so slow you have to make conversation?” I looked around the dimly lit bar. The Aviator wasn’t big. There were six booths and a number of tables but the booths were all empty. At one of the tables, a couple of shift workers sat smoking and drinking beer. Otherwise the place was empty. I sniffed in their direction. Yeah, I thought, he’s smoking a Camel. I also recognised the beer, the cheap stuff that Martha kept on tap. “Yep,” I went on, “It’s lonely in here, Martha.”

“It’s probably because you drive everyone away,” she mockingly retorted.

I looked up at the clock positioned below a large wooden propeller that hung on the wall above the drinks cabinets. It said four twenty two. I answered her. “Or you’ve opened too early today.”

She laughed at that. Then picking up a cloth and a whiskey tumbler she started polishing the glass. “Business is just not very good at the moment—not for you and not for me,” she opined sagely as she worked. She put the glass on a shelf behind her before selecting another for the same treatment. I liked it when she ignored my barbs. As usual, she smelled of the cheap perfume she used and stale beer.

“We’re alike, you and I,” I said playfully having overcome my initial irritation at her distracting me from my paper.

“Yes,” Martha snapped back breezily, “we’re both broke.” She then laughed but I was unsure whether she was joking or was being totally serious. I’d few greenbacks to my name; she seemed to manage. I tilted my head quizzically. She only smiled and continued to work on the glass she held in her hand. Eventually she beamed at me and added in a sombre tone, “I’m kidding, Rick, just kidding.”

“I can never understand you,” I admitted, baffled by her behaviour. I reflected that being broke—and at this point in time, I was certainly that—was nothing to laugh about. I took a sip of the bourbon, which burned as it trickled down the back of my throat. It left a warm glow. I unfolded the paper again and looked at the picture of the Nazi airship once more. I tried to imagine why they’d sent it to America. The article said it was also visiting South America. I wondered whether the Nazis were trying to send us a message about their air power. But any further thoughts were interrupted by a face at the door. This was quickly followed by the rest of the youth, whom I immediately recognised as the eldest son of the janitor of the building where I had my office. The kid looked worried as he crept into the bar. I could smell his anxiety. Seeing him, Martha immediately called him over. The boy looked at both of us in turn before stammering, “Me Dad sent me to say there’s a lady waiting in your office, Mr Horton.” His eyes quickly scanned the joint before he went on. “Said I’d find you here.”

“And so you did,” I answered kindly. “You did well coming to tell me.” I found a nickel in my waistcoat pocket and held it out in my hand. He snatched it and looked at it as if he had never seen its’ like before. “Go back to you dad and tell him I’m on my way.” The boy scarpered. I stood up and went over to the stand to retrieve my fedora and jacket. I’d not seen fit to wear a coat since the weather had been mild for the time of year. Anyway, it was just a two block short walk to the office. I nodded to Martha and made to leave but as I got to the door, the glass cabinet on the wall caught my eye. Inside were several medals but my gaze was drawn to the dark, sombre Croix de Guerre. Next to it was the citation. Someone had hand written a translation of the French text. “Who did this?” I asked her.

“That was Andre,” she replied. “He told me what it said. You never told me how you earned it, Rick. Why?”

“It’s of little importance,” I assured her.

She left the bar and came over and peered at the handwriting. “It says, you shot down three enemy fighters on your own after the other members of your flight had been hit.” She looked at me as if I was a stranger. “That was brave.”

“I was young and foolish,” I told her bitterly regretting my decision to allow her to display my medals in her bar. I almost asked her for them back but bit my tongue before I could speak my displeasure. Removing them would simply be petty and, besides, I’d nowhere to store them.

She patted my shoulder. “You were not the only one.” I looked at her but said nothing. I’d known she had been part of the American Expeditionary Force but she’d never spoken of her role. I wanted to ask her but feared being delayed.

I placed my hand over hers and said, “Tell me about it next time.”

I slipped out the door into the gathering darkness of a November night. Above me the last of the blue sky was just visible between dark grey clouds, edged in deep orange by the light of the setting sun. Across the street, lights were already on in the two or three shops that fronted the building and in the windows of the floors above. A car sped past, its headlights briefly blinding me. Turning away I hastened down the pavement towards my office. All around me, the aromas of the city assailed me. What I picked up most was the stink of exhaust fumes, rotting detritus and body sweat. But behind these were subtler odours.

A few moments later, I was there. My bureau was in a nondescript building which had seen better days. The landlord should have but hadn’t bothered to repaint the woodwork and repair the crumbling window ledges. The fire escape that went down the side looked as if it was made of rust. So I was somewhat surprised to see parked outside a shiny new Cadillac. The chauffeur stood next to it, looking up and down the street as if searching for someone. Seeing me look his way, he gave me the once over, clearly not much liking what he saw. Dismissing him, I entered the main door only to be accosted by the janitor. “There’s a lady waiting to see you upstairs. She was disappointed when she found you were not here. I did right to fetch you, didn’t I?”

“Yes of course you did, Joe,” I told him. “Thank you.” Extricating myself from his attention I headed up the two flights of stairs and along the corridor to my office. There were big frosted glass windows to each side of the door, which also had a large pane of glass so I could see the room was dark. But the door was slightly open. As I pushed it wide, I noticed the sign on the door: “Richard Horton, Private Investigator” in black lettering. It was like coming home. Besides the familiar aromas was that of a very unusual perfume. Presumably belonging to my visitor. I made a mental note of finding out its name. Entering, I put my hat on the stand, walked over to the desk and switched on the table lamp. As I did so, behind me a woman’s voice asked, “Are you the private eye?” I turned and nearly whistled but stopped just in time. Sitting in the corner was some dame. You know, you recognise class when you see it and she certainly fitted the score. She had shoulder length auburn hair that clearly had received a lot of recent attention. She wore a dark red shell jacket, with matching beret, and a below the knee cream-coloured pleated skirt. If I’d seen her in Vogue magazine, she wouldn’t have been out of place.

“Are you Richard Horton?” she enquired, looking me up and down somewhat dubiously.

“Yes,” I answered. “Thank you for waiting. The janitor was able to let me know you were here.” I moved around my desk and sat down in the captain’s chair facing her. “May I know why you wish to hire me?”

“I never said I’d hire you,” she countered, somewhat flustered by my manner. Inwardly, I was slightly pleased I’d been able to puncture that picture-perfect image she projected. At that moment, I also realised she’d most probably come here in the Caddy. I was suddenly interested in what she had to say as she radiated money. And at present, I needed money.

“No, of course not,” I said soothingly, “But you are here in my office and I don’t get many visitors and those who come are seeking my services. So I drew the obvious conclusion.”

“As it is,” she admitted, “I do need your services.” She paused as if summoning up the courage to tell me about her husband’s infidelity. Though, given she was top class—a real beauty, I could not readily imagine why a man should want to cheat on her. She went on. “You see…Well, it’s my brother.” She paused as if unsure whether she should continue or not. “Well,” she eventually said, “he’s disappeared and I’m worried about him.”

I did not immediately reply as I was somewhat taken aback by her request. The work I did addressed the less savoury aspects of people’s married lives. I’d never been asked to find a missing brother. I wondered why she’d sought me out. “It would seem,” I suggested, “that this is a matter for the police. I am usually asked to deal with more…” I paused briefly, “…intimate matters.”

She got up and came over to the desk. Watching her walk sent me into a minor tremor. The girl just oozed sex appeal. “I did,” she said as she stood in front of me. “As he has been only gone two days, they said it was too early to put out a missing person’s alert.”

“Two days and you’re worried?” I blurted out before I could think to stop myself.

“You don’t understand,” she reposted angrily, “Just like the police.”

Realising my mistake and thinking of those dollars she would give me, I spoke up. “Sorry, Mrs…” I then realised I’d not even asked her name.

She looked at me disdainfully. “The name’s Armstrong; and it is Miss. Miss Armstrong.”

I could see a precipice in front of me and me falling into it, so quickly said, “Miss Armstrong, I’ll be pleased to take your case. But I’ll need details and background information so I can narrow down the search.”

Immediately, she looked relieved. “Mr Horton, my brother’s disappearance is very much out of character.”

“How come?”

“Oh, you don’t understand!” she wailed, sensing my lack of concern. “He follows a set routine every day. Disappearing like he has is just not like him.”

“Tell me about your brother,” I suggested, worried she would simply walk out.

“Herbert,” she explained, “He’s professor of chemical engineering at Columbia University.” She paused as if to try and explain her anxiety as to his whereabouts. “We’re very close; always have been. I talk to him almost every day. It is three days now since I heard from him. It is not like him to remain silent so long, even when he’s working on one of his experiments. Not having heard from him, I tried getting in touch. I rang his apartment several times but got no answer. I called the building manager but they said they hadn’t seen him either. I also phoned his lab at Cornell but no one has seen him recently and couldn’t tell me where he was.”

“Perhaps he went out of town,” I said trying to figure out whether there was a genuine case here or I was missing something.

“Well, he would have told me if he was going away,” she answered as if I were a child and needed the simplest things explained. “Then there’s the fact he missed giving his class today. That’s when I started to think something had happened to him. Naturally, I’m worried he has got into trouble of some kind.”

“I see,” I told her, though my thoughts turned to the fact he’d probably turn up in a day or two with an explanation as to why he’d disappeared. “It is not my usual line of work, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find him. I’ll need to know where he lives, so I can make enquiries.”

“He has an apartment on the Upper West Side, just off Columbus Avenue. One-five-eight, West eighty-seventh street,” she said. Then as if remembering something, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a set of keys. “Here,” she handed them over to me, “you can check it out. I went there but nothing seems out of place.”

I took the keys off her. “I’ll start there,” I informed her, pocketing the keys in my jacket. “I guess we have a deal, then. My fee is twenty five dollars per day, plus expenses. Two days’ pay to start with, if that’s OK?” She nodded in agreement. “I’ll also need a way of getting in touch with you to let you know how I’m getting on.”

“Here,” she said, pulling out of her handbag a visiting card and handing it to me. I read the card, it said, “Miss Anna Armstrong, Flat 63, 1050 5th Avenue, New York, MU 5 – 2655”. I gasped inwardly. Not only was the dame something to behold, her visiting card told me she was loaded. You did not live on Fifth opposite Central Park unless you had serious money. I realised then I should have raised my finder’s fee. But then quickly reflected, finding her brother was just like falling off a log—just too, too, easy.

“Thank you, Miss Armstrong,” I said. “I’ll get on the case right away.”

“You may call me Anna,” she said.

I shook hands with her as she went out the door. Then I had an inspiration. “I’ll see you out to your car,” I announced, as we walked along the corridors to the elevator. I studied her as we waited and then she looked up at me and our eyes met. I hadn’t noticed them before but she had bright blue eyes that were like deep pools of crystal clear water. I had to look away from her gaze.

Then she asked, “Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so,” I stammered, “I’d have remembered you; I have a good memory for faces.” I was also not going to forget her perfume.

“Well you do look familiar,” she went on. She was silent as we descended the elevator and out into the lobby. Then she stopped. She hesitated before reaching into her handbag and pulling out a brown envelope. “I nearly forgot,” she smiled, “this is for you.” I took it not really knowing what she was handing to me. We continued out to the street where, seeing us emerge, the chauffeur immediately opened the rear door of the Cadillac to let her get in. I watched as he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s seat. In the meantime, Anna had wound down the window and leaning out she said in a concerned voice, “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear anything, won’t you.”

“Of course,” I replied soothingly, “I’ll be in touch just as soon as I know anything.”

“It doesn’t matter what time of day or night it is,” she added as the engine started and the Caddy began to pull away. I watched its rear tail lights until it had turned the corner. I then retraced my steps to my office, but taking the stairs rather than the elevator.

Back in the office, I sat down at my desk, throwing the envelope on it as I did so. I put my feet up and tried to figure out the best way of tracking down the missing Herbert. Eventually, I picked up and opened the envelope figuring it might give me some insight. I was surprised to find a quantity of money. Taking out the bills, I added them up. Two hundred dollars, she’d given me; presumably as an advance. With that kind of dough, I could get chauffeured around on this case, but it did mean I didn’t need to worry about money for a while. Keeping a Jackson and a sawbuck, I put the rest back in the envelope and getting up I went over to the filing cabinet. Opening it, I took out a small safe deposit box and then stopped. I sighed; this was a neighbourhood where robberies were all too frequent. If anyone had got wind I was the object of the Cadillac out front, I might get an unwelcome nocturnal visitor. If anyone wanted to burgle me, this was the first place they’d look. Putting the box back and closing the cabinet, I turned around to find somewhere a bit less obvious and then had an idea. I went over to the desk and, taking some tape, I slipped out the top drawer and was able to attach the envelope to the underside of the surface. Unless a thief pulled the desk apart, they were unlikely to spot it. Satisfied, I went over to the hat stand and found my hat. This time I also took my mac, as I wouldn’t be just making a quick trip to the bar.