In my new book, The Book Club Murders, the protagonist reads a hard-boiled detective novel, which causes her to dream she is the detective in the story. Here is the chapter recounting her first of several dreams. Jessica looked around the dingy office.
Everything, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling, appeared dull and lacked
color. The air was stuffy with a slight trace of mold and age. She sat behind
an old wooden desk with a few drawers on both sides. On the desktop was a cheap
desk set with a blotter, a letter opener, a double pen stand, a letter tray,
and a business card holder. She looked at the writing on the card.
Harry Call
Private Investigations
Also on the
desk was a tarnished brass tray where a cigarette burned. Two wooden chairs on
the opposite side of the desk sat on a threadbare carpet. Against one wall was
a four-drawer vertical filing cabinet, and a calendar turned to June 1938 on
the opposite wall. The calendar featured the Dionne quintuplets, dressed in
matching outfits and lying side-by-side. The ceiling had two water stains,
probably the source of the moldy odor. A dirty light fixture containing a
few dead bugs hung from the middle of the ceiling. The single window in the
office was opened, and street sounds drifted in; car horns honked, brakes
squealed, and a traffic cop blew his whistle. Cooking smells from the diner on
the corner drifted in the window and reached her nose, making her hungry and
nauseous at the same time.
Jessica saw that she was dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, a white
shirt, and a dark tie. Behind the desk, a coat rack stood to one side
holding a grey fedora with a dark band.
The door
opposite the desk had pebbled glass on the upper half. On the other side of the
door was an outer office. Jessica heard muffled voices and saw movement through
the pebbled glass. The door opened, and Jessica’s secretary entered and closed
the door behind her. The secretary looked a lot like Brittany from the book
club. She was dressed quite plainly in a tan dress that reached past her knees.
The secretary displayed very little jewelry or makeup and wore horn-rimmed
glasses, lending her a studious look.
“What is it,
Ruthie?” Jessica asked.
“A client,”
Ruthie said, trying not to smirk.
“Let’s have
her.”
“How do you
know it’s a woman, Harry?”
“From that grin
on your puss. Come on, let’s have her.”
“Prepare
yourself.” Ruthie turned, opened the door, and ushered in the woman.
The woman who
entered the office was tall, sleek, and angular. Her appearance was a welcome contrast to the drab office. She wore a fitted burgundy pencil dress with
peplum, and upon her head, she sported a matching velvet turban beret with a
veil. Her pale skin was sharply contrasted by the red lipstick she wore. The
woman smelled terrific, and her perfume fought against the room’s stale air.
She had class, with enough money that it showed, but not so much that she cared
about it.
“Mrs. Van
Pelt,” Ruthie announced in her most professional tone.
Mrs. Van Pelt
closely resembled Emily Hudson, the librarian.
Jessica stood
from behind the desk, nodded, and motioned the woman to one of the chairs
facing the desk. Mrs. Van Pelt sat, and Jessica wondered how the woman could
sit in such a tight dress.
“I’m Harry
Call,” Jessica said. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Van Pelt?”
Mrs. Van Pelt
gave Jessica and the surroundings a cursory glance. She appeared unimpressed by
both.
“I would like
to employ you, Mr. Call,” she said with a deep and sultry voice.
“Hire me to do
what?”
She donned a somewhat
forlorn look, and her eyes moved slightly upward.
“You must
understand, Mr. Call, this is very difficult for me,” she said with a quiver in
her throat. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Now that I am
here, and must relate my dilemma to another person… I… I don’t know…. It is all
so upsetting.” She brought a lace handkerchief to her mouth and stifled a
whimper.
Jessica could
see the woman was upset. “May I offer you something to steady your nerves? A
drink, perhaps?” Jessica knew there was a bottle in the bottom desk drawer. She
did not know how she knew. “Perhaps just a small one,” Jessica said.
“I really
shouldn’t, but…” Mrs. Van Pelt said. Then, she gave a brief nod and crossed her
legs. She had nice legs.
Jessica opened
the drawer and took out a bottle of Canadian Club and a glass. She checked to
see if the glass was clean. It was, so she poured a small amount of liquor into
it. Jessica rose from her chair and approached Mrs. Van Pelt. She handed the
woman the glass, who took it. Mrs. Van Pelt did not sip the drink demurely but
threw it back like a seasoned pro.
“Thank you, Mr.
Call,” she said. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”
Jessica reached
into her pocket and took out a soft pack of Camels. She offered Mrs. Van Pelt a
cigarette. Holding it between the two fingers of her gloved hand, she waited for
a light. Jessica took out her Ronson lighter, flicked it, and lit the
cigarette.
Mrs. Van Pelt
drew almost sensually on the cigarette and released smoke into the air through
pursed lips. Jessica pushed the ashtray across the desk.
“Now, Mrs. Van
Pelt, tell me what I can do for you.”
“I came to you,
Mr. Call, because I do not know what else to do,” she said, with desperation in
her voice. “I did not know who to turn to. It is all so upsetting, and I must
admit, somewhat embarrassing.”
“It may be
easier, Mrs. Van Pelt, if you start with something less embarrassing. Tell me
about yourself. What’s your background?”
The woman saw
the practicality in this and began her narrative.
“My late
husband, Rufus Van Pelt, died two years ago and left me fairly well-off, plus a
lovely manor upstate. I soon found that after my husband passed away, my life
grew quite lonely. I discovered that many of the friends I thought I had were,
in fact, friends of my late husband. Once he was gone, they all but abandoned
me. Just recently, a new man came into my life—Walter Henderson. He was new to
the area, but I found him quite handsome and charming. I confess I was lonely
and moved too quickly. Walter nearly swept me off my feet. I began inviting him
to the manor house on weekends. Everything was kept above board, let me assure
you.”
She wanted the detective to know that she had not allowed herself to be
compromised in any way. For some reason, she must have believed it was
important, as if she were preserving her integrity as a woman. Mrs. Van Pelt
looked away, took a deep breath, and continued.
“Little by
little, Walter grew more familiar with the house, my car, and the servants. I,
rather foolishly, allowed this. I convinced myself we were in love, and I was
blind to wherever Walter was concerned. Sometimes, his behavior caused me much
distress, but unfortunately, there was no one in whom I could confide. I have
no brothers or sisters, and I lost my parents when the SS Morro sank in 1934 on
its journey from Havana to New York. When they died, my inheritance was
considerable.
“I believed
Walter loved me, and we often spoke of marriage. Two days ago, Walter left my
house rather abruptly without saying anything to me. I soon learned the reason
for his hasty departure. Missing from my jewel case was a diamond necklace my
husband had given me several years ago. The necklace is worth over ten thousand
dollars.
Jessica pursed
her lips and blew a silent whistle.
“I was able to
follow Walter’s trail here,” Mrs. Van Pelt continued. “I believe he plans on
selling my necklace for cash.”
“And you do not
want to involve the police,” Jessica said.
“No, I do not.
Walter may be a thief, but I do not wish to see him end up in jail. Despite
everything he has done, I am afraid I still have feelings for him.”
“So, you want
me to find him and return the necklace to you.”
“Precisely so,
Mr. Call.”
“What if
Henderson has already hocked… I mean, sold the necklace?”
“Oh, dear,” she
said, bringing two fingers against her cheek. “Well, I suppose if you could
recover the money, I might be able to buy back the necklace. It is quite
precious to me.”
“Do you happen
to have a photograph of Walter Henderson?”
She reached into her
small handbag, removed a photograph, and handed it to Jessica. The photograph
showed Mrs. Van Pelt and Henderson posing for a picture at what appeared to be
a nightclub. She had an enigmatic smile while he looked a little worse for drink. They posed close together, practically cheek to cheek. Henderson had
dark features with a pencil-thin mustache.
“It might take
some effort getting the necklace away from him. Is Henderson prone to
violence?”
Mrs. Van Pelt
thought about this. “I never considered him dangerous, though I more than once
saw him carrying a handgun. I asked him about it, and he said he carried it for
protection. I am not so naive, Mr. Call, to believe Walter is completely
upstanding, especially considering that he stole my necklace. I can only
caution you that if you encounter him, be extremely careful. I would not like
to see you hurt on my account.”
Jessica
considered this. “And you are certain Walter Henderson is in the city.”
“They told me
at the train station that he bought a ticket, and this was his destination.”
“It might be
difficult to find him in a city this size.”
She gave a
brief start as if now only remembering something. Reaching back into her
handbag, she extracted a small piece of paper. She handed it to Jessica, saying,
“I found this in Walter’s room.”
It was a page
torn from a small notebook. The writing on the paper was in block letters. It
simply read: HELEN S DELECOURT STREET HOTEL.
“I was going to
go there myself,” she said. “Then I reconsidered and decided to hire you. I
hope I did the right thing, Mr. Call.”
“I am sure you
did. Now, Mrs. Van Pelt, the only other thing we have to discuss is my fee.”
Harry Call gave his client one last assessment. “My services go for twenty
dollars a day plus expenses.” It was his ‘rich client rate’.
Mrs. Van Pelt
stared across the desk for several seconds. She reached into her handbag again
and this time took out some money. She placed it on the desk.
“Here is one
hundred dollars. I trust that is sufficient for the time being.”
Jessica stood,
picked up the money, and pocketed it.
“And where can I contact you, Mrs. Van Pelt?”
“I am staying
at the Bentley. Room 101.”
“All right,
Mrs. Van Pelt. You will be hearing from me in a day or two,” Jessica said,
standing.
Mrs. Van Pelt
rose as well and extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Call. I feel already that
some of this weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I will be anxious to
hear from you.”
Jessica shook
her hand affirmingly. She opened the office door and showed Mrs. Van Pelt out.
The woman passed by closely. Her perfume was intoxicating.
After Mrs. Van
Pelt had left, Jessica turned to Ruthie and asked, “Well, what do you think of
her?”
Ruthie raised
her eyebrows and appeared wide-eyed. “She’s a piece of work and no mistake. You
better watch your step around her, Harry.”
Jessica grinned,
entered her office, and grabbed her hat. She told Ruthie that she would be
going out and that Ruthie was to hold down the fort.
“I will, Harry.
You be careful.”
Harry Call pointed at his secretary with the gunman’s salute and made a clicking
sound between clenched teeth.
The private
detective walked down the three flights instead of taking the elevator. Harry
Call passed through the small atrium where a compass design decorated the floor
and ceiling. He passed through the door and out onto the pavement. It was
mid-afternoon and sunny, though the tall buildings were beginning to shade the
west side of the street.
Instead of
hailing a cab, Harry walked the four blocks to Bleeker and Porter, hoping to
find Shakes, one of Harry’s more reliable snitches. Shakes was standing outside
a bar on Bleeker Street, smoking a cigarette. Shakes looked a lot like Taylor
Pinsky. He was short and quick in his ways, like a ferret, and dressed in a
tweed jacket with a matching cap. Harry approached Shakes, who looked up and
down the street to see if anyone was watching. The small man raised his
cigarette to his mouth with fingers that trembled. Without a word of greeting,
Shakes went into the bar. Harry waited a half a moment and followed. They sat
in a booth at the back where they could talk privately. They sat in silence
until the bartender came to their table.
“Two whiskey
sours,” Harry said.
Wordlessly, the
bartender left but soon returned and placed their drinks on the table. Behind the bar, he stood polishing glasses.
Harry and
Shakes raised their drinks.
“Health,” said
Harry.
“L’chaim!”
Shakes said.
They drank.
Shakes’s hand trembled so much that he almost spilled his drink. While they
spoke, they kept their voices low. Shakes rarely made eye contact with Harry as
his gaze bounced around the room. He was anxious about being overheard or even
seen talking to Harry.
Harry leaned
across the table and said, “I need you to find out if anyone is trying to
unload a diamond necklace. Check only the best fences, no small time. Also,
find out anything you can on Walter Henderson. And one last thing, I need the
background on Mrs. Rufus Van Pelt from somewhere Upstate.”
Shakes nodded.
“A sawbuck.”
“Ten? Don’t you
know we’re in a depression? A fin,” Harry countered.
Shakes shook
his head. “Ten bucks.”
“I’ll give you
a fin now and another five when you give me all the information.”
Shakes nodded,
and Harry handed over a five-dollar bill.”
Shakes snatched
up the money and put it in his breast pocket. He downed his drink and
left.
There was a payphone on the wall in the bar. The telephone started to
ring. Harry looked at the phone and then at the bartender standing behind the
bar, polishing a glass. The two men looked at one another. The telephone
continued to ring.
Harry addressed the bartender, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
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