The Removal Company

  THE REMOVAL COMPANY

  A JOE SCINTILLA MYSTERY

  S. T. JOSHI

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2009 by J. K. Maxwell

  Copyright © 2010 by S. T. Joshi

  [First published under the pseudonym, J. K. Maxwell]

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  “...This is pre-eminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So first of all let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance....”

  I was listening, in rapt attention, to that booming, faintly nasal voice on the radio—the voice that in the last year or so had become so familiar, the voice of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. And now, after what seemed an eternity after his election, it was now official. I glanced quickly at the calendar on my desk: March 4, 1933. The inauguration of FDR as our thirty-second president was finally taking place, and Let ’Em Starve Hoover and his ineffectual minions were out on their ears. Their shameful treatment of the Bonus Army last summer still left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, but now you could feel the sense of relief, even of optimism, that here at last was a man who might actually do something about the Depression.

  There was a knock on the door—shy, hesitant, and fearful, as they all are. I did not welcome the interruption.

  “Come in,” I almost barked.

  The door opened. I was looking up at a tall, stocky man, extremely—almost excessively—well dressed in top coat and silk hat. A young-old face—young in years, but old in the haggard circles under the eyes. He was carrying a briefcase.

  “Mr. Scintilla?” he asked timidly.

  “Yeah.”

  He looked quickly behind him at the empty lobby.

  “You...er, your receptionist isn’t there.”

  I looked up at his eyes, coldly. “She isn’t there because I don’t have one. Not any more.” The Depression had hit private detectives as hard as it had hit others.

  He shambled into the room, almost sliding into the chair in front of my desk.

  “You come highly recommended....”

  I thought he was going to say more. When he didn’t, I said: “Glad to hear it.”

  I guess I wasn’t being very helpful, but I really did want to listen to that inauguration speech. I also didn’t feel much like working today.

  But my customer was not to be deterred. Gaining courage, he opened his briefcase with a crisp snap and proceeded to lay a succession of articles on my nearly empty desk:

  A small business card, well printed, with only three words and a telephone number on it.

  A photograph of a young woman.

  A newspaper clipping—evidently a marriage announcement.

  A notebook or diary—much written in.

  After he had finished his work, he looked expectantly at me, as if he thought I could divine his purpose and intent from the mere act of laying objects on my desk. I looked blandly back at him, saying: “Yes?”

  He picked up the business card and handed it to me. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  I took it. This is what it read:

  THE REMOVAL COMPANY

  MUrray Hill 4-3802

  I put it down. “No.”

  “It must be near here, don’t you think?”—eagerly.

  I looked down at the number again. “I guess so. This is obviously a Murray Hill phone number, and that sure is where we are now. What do you want me to do—call it?”

  His eyes opened wide. “Good God, no!” The prospect actually appeared to horrify him. “I mean...not yet. Perhaps you will want to later....”

  I was getting tired of this.

  “Mister, maybe you’d better explain just what you want. Your name would be a good start.”

  He looked abashed. “Sorry...it’s just—I mean.... The whole thing is so strange.” He took a deep breath and expelled it. “My name is Arthur Vance. I’m from Los Angeles, but I’m currently staying with my uncle at 144 East 62nd Street. Maybe you’ve heard of my father, Henry Vance....”

  “The Steamship King?”

  He winced quickly. “You can call him that if you want. But he’s a good man. He treats his people fairly....”

  That may be, but everyone knew how he had gained control of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company after Collis P. Huntington’s death in 1900. You had to admire his fancy footwork in snatching up that huge operation. Assuming you find rapacity of that sort admirable.

  “We’re not here to talk about your father,” I said. “What is it that you want me to do?”

  Vance ran well-manicured hands through his well-barbered hair. “You see, it’s like this....” He picked up the notebook, then put it back down again. “No, that can come later,” he said, more to himself than to me. Then he picked up the photograph:

  “That’s my wife, Katharine.”

  I took the picture. It had probably been done with an old Brownie, but the young woman in it was stylishly dressed and well posed. The snap had clearly been taken by a professional. The woman herself seemed a bit on the morose side, but lovely in flowing blonde hair and a white gown of what seemed to be taffeta.

  “Very nice,” I said, handing the photo back to Vance.

  “That was taken five years ago, a month before we were married.”

  He put the photo back down on the desk, then picked up the newspaper clipping and handed it to me.

  “Please read it,” he said.

  I read it:

  MISS CAVALIERI TO WED

  Miss Elena Cavalieri, of Cattolica, Italy, will be married on Wednesday, October 26, at 5 o’clock, at the Church of the Transfiguration to Mr. Harry Greenway, son of Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Greenway of 25 West Tenth Street. The ceremony will be performed by the Rev. Dr. Charles X. Feeney.

  Miss Margaret Chandler of New Haven, Conn., will be the bridesmaid, and Mr. William Samford, of this city, will be the best man. The ceremony will be followed by a dinner at the Plaza given by the groom’s parents.

  Mr. Greenway and his bride will make their home in New York.

  I put it back down. “Okay, what about it?”

  He looked right in my eyes, wetting his lips before he said: “That woman is also my wife. It’s her—it’s Katharine.” He seemed to be defying me to disbelieve him.

  I picked up the clipping and looked at it again. There was a kind of resemblance, but not so strong as to be noticeable at first glance. “Are you sure?” I said.

  “Oh, I know, the hair style is different, and maybe even the expression of the face. But it’s her, I tell you! It is!”

  Vance was getting agitated.

  “All right, all right, it’s her,” I said. “What happened? Did you divorce her?”

  “No.” Vance’s mouth worked some more. “That clipping was sent to me by—well, that doesn’t matter.... Anyway, it’s from the New York Herald-Tribune about six months ago.... You can see the date in the corner—October 21, 1932.”

  I saw it. “So what?”

  Vance took another deep breath. “My wife committed suicide on September 15, 1931.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I don’t know how most people become private detectives; maybe from the police force, maybe because they can’t think of anything else to do. I came to it from a different direction.

  Imagine Joe Scintilla a college boy!—Johns Hopkins U., no less. I was just a bit too young for the initial draft registration of May 1917, and by the time I did regi
ster a few months later I was already neck deep in books. I browsed into everything—English, history, philosophy, science—specializing in nothing. But when I finished, I had no desire to be a cog in someone else’s machine: I had to strike out on my own.

  But why a detective? Who can say at this point? Maybe I saw an ad in the back of a pulp magazine—Black Mask, probably. But even here there were some obstacles: the Pinkertons were out of the question—I detested their readiness to be strikebreaking thugs in the hands of capitalists; and both the Baltimore and the New York offices of the Continental Detective Agency had no openings at the time.

  Maybe a detective is someone who needs to know a little bit about everything, but not a lot about anything. Sure, there are some technical matters—the new science of finger-printing, the art of wearing or placing a wire—but anyone can master these. The science of detection is the science of humanity: you have to be part psychologist, part researcher, part snoop. The Black Mask boys emphasize the gunplay, but that’s a myth: in my twelve years on the job I haven’t fired my gun more than twice in any given year.

  I also quickly learned that the private detective’s best weapon is his victim, his prey. My pal Henry Mencken told us often enough at meetings of the Saturday Night Club that no one ever came to grief by underestimating the stupidity of the average human being, and that rule has worked pretty well for me.

  In the dozen years I’d been at this game I had had my share of tedium—couldn’t remember how many spouses had wanted me to track down husbands or wives engaged in shenanigans of all kinds, but mostly of the sexual sort—but it always satisfied me when my quarry committed that fatal act of stupidity that sunk them. It was all pretty easy. It isn’t that I’m so bright myself: I don’t know everything, but I know where to find out what I didn’t know. That’s important.

  There was one instance where a wife had actually blown her husband’s brains out after I had told her of the mistress he had stashed in a studio apartment in Chelsea. What was that to me? I had done my job, been paid for my services, and that was the end of it. Did the guy have it coming? Maybe yes, maybe no. The woman herself would have plenty of time to reflect on her own folly behind bars. It sure is fortunate for most people that stupidity isn’t a capital offense.

  But if most of the cases I’d worked on were mundane, the matter that Arthur Vance had brought me was quite otherwise.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” he was saying, “but this whole business is crazy! That’s my wife! It is!”—shaking the newspaper clipping in front of my face as if that would convince me.

  It was obvious I was in the presence of a man not quite in control of his emotions, perhaps of his sanity. I wasn’t afraid of this thin, wiry fop, but I didn’t want to go through the bother of using physical force on him. Better to calm him down.

  “Okay, Mr. Vance, it’s your wife. It does look like her.... Now how do you explain how she can marry someone after she’s dead?”

  Vance suddenly got up from the chair and began pacing around the small office, his angular body moving jerkily, like a mechanism not properly oiled. “I don’t know, but it’s that...that Removal Company! I knew there was something strange with that operation....” Then, almost to himself: “What could he have done to her…?”

  “Do you want to tell me the story?”

  “All right.” He sat down heavily. “It’s a long story. A real long story.” When there was no change in my bland expression: “You needn’t worry about a fee. I’ll pay you well.”

  Without warning he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slapped down a neatly tied wad of bills on my desk.

  My first thought was that Vance was lucky to have been able to withdraw so large a wad of cash from a bank: FDR had declared a week-long national bank holiday beginning to-morrow, to prevent skittish depositors from taking out all their money and stuffing it in their mattresses. This thick stack of bills in front of me had clearly never been soiled by human hands.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “And that’s just for starters. You may need more.”

  I looked down at the money, then looked up at him. My expression was—I hope—still bland.

  “Mr. Vance, you haven’t told me what it is you want me to do. Or are you paying me just to sit and listen?”

  He took that as a little joke, and cracked a smile from one side of his mouth. He almost looked human at that point. “Well, believe it or not, listening is a big part of it. I’ve never told this to anybody, and just getting it off my chest will be something.”

  I reached in my drawer and handed him something I should have offered long before—a smoke.

  To my surprise, he waved his hand impatiently. “No, I don’t smoke.” Neither did I. Another point in his favor. Filthy habit, smoking. I put the cigarettes back in the drawer.

  “Okay, here’s how it is,” he began. He took a deep breath, as if about to plunge into some deep water for a long time, then said:

  “Katharine and I were married in 1930—January 17. It was kind of an arranged marriage, you might say, although we really did love each other...or so I thought. Our families had known each other for years—we both live in San Marino, California—and I’d been friends with her since she was a teenager. You know,” he said with a kind of rueful smirk, “it’s funny about the wealthy. Everybody thinks you can do whatever you like, but you can’t. I couldn’t think of marrying outside of my social circle—it would have been unimaginable. And as for Katharine—well, she was in an even more difficult bind.

  “You see, her father, Franklin Hawley, had been ruined in the stock market crash, and actually killed himself not long after. He was so ashamed—he knew that he would no longer be able to support his family in their accustomed style. Of course, they couldn’t collect any life insurance. They were really in a bad way, although they tried to put the best face on it. Had to let go all their servants except their butler....”

  “Must have been tough,” I couldn’t help interjecting.

  Vance flushed beet-red. “I know what you’re thinking: Idle rich! Only one butler left to run the estate! Well, it wasn’t like that—it wasn’t—”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. Please go on.”

  Vance glared at me a bit, but then softened. One more sweep of the hand through the hair.

  “Frankly, Katharine’s mother had to secure an advantageous marriage for her—it was the only thing to do. I guess she saw me as a good choice. And you know, we really were very fond of each other—did a lot of things together, always had a good time.... It made sense. So we started seeing a lot of each other, just to make sure we were really compatible—and we were. We really were.”

  Vance began to choke up a bit. Taking out a silk handkerchief, he mopped his brow, then rubbed his eyes a little.

  “It started off fine. She came to live with us, of course—my parents and me—and we made sure that her mother had enough to live comfortably. Everything seemed to be working. We led a quiet life—neither of us liked parties very much—and we were talking about starting a family in a year or two.

  “But Katharine had always been a bit glum—ever since I knew her as a kid. God knows why that was; maybe you’ll find out a bit more from this”—he tapped the notebook he had placed on my desk—“but I guess no one will really ever know.”

  “Probably not,” I said, just to say something. Vance had paused, not sure how to proceed.

  “Well, I tried everything to make her happy. We traveled, I gave her whatever she wanted, I even offered to have her mother come and live with us. She was always close to her mother, especially after her father....” His mouth worked, as if some ill-tasting substance had fallen on his tongue. “She’d been seeing one of those psychoanalysts—a man who specialized in depression—and that seemed to cheer her up a little, but only for a while. Only for a while....”

  He trailed off. I could tell what was coming—or so I thought. “And so she...?”

  Vance, wh
o had been looking down at my desk rather than at me, sprang to attention as if he had been slapped. “No! Not like that! It wasn’t what you think!” His face contorted, in a mixture of pain, remorse, and bewilderment. “There’s more to it than that....”

  And this is what he said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Arthur, please sit down here for a moment.” Katharine patted the space on the couch next to her.

  I knew what she was going to say before she said it; and yet, it was still a jolt—still something so incomprehensible that I could hardly believe my ears, hardly believe it was not a bad dream from which I’d awake if I tried hard enough.

  “I think....”—even she was having trouble saying it, although she had surely been thinking it for a long time—“I think I want to die.”

  If I had been less stunned by her words, I should have suspected something odd about the way she chose to make that statement. She didn’t say: “I want to kill myself”; she said, “I want to die.”

  What can you say when someone says a thing like that?—especially someone who is your wife, someone scarcely more than twenty-six years old, someone you thought you loved and who you thought loved you? I could not speak; but I felt beads of perspiration sprouting on my forehead, and I began shaking all over. Finally:

  “Katharine, darling, you can’t mean that....”

  I’m sure she had been preparing for a reaction like that, for she started speaking almost immediately, like a schoolgirl giving a rehearsed speech.

  “Oh, Arthur, I know what you must be thinking.... But please don’t think it has anything to do with you! I love you dearly, but it’s something I really have to do. It’s my only way of taking control of my life, don’t you see?”

  She looked at me almost pleadingly. Then, unable to suppress her nervous energy, she almost leaped up from the couch and began pacing about.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. It’s the only way! Oh, Arthur!”—as if she were exasperated by my stupidity—“I’m so useless! I have nothing to live for! I don’t serve any purpose!”