The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

“DAMN THOSE WEATHERMEN! Slight chance of rain, my rear!”

The precipitation had been light when I left Prospero House, a pacific patter on the roof. I’d slid behind the wheel of my Saturn, started the engine, and once again negotiated the twisting turns of Roderick Road.

By the time I reached the highway, however, the skies opened up. Sheets of rain transformed my windshield into a mini Niagra. The road was awash in water, and I half expected to see men with beards and yellow slickers trolling for cod.

Don’t get excited, baby. Eyes on the road.

“No jokes?” I thought. “No jibes?”

That’s when I realized Jack was as worried for me as I was. I tried to calm down and concentrate on the driving, but it wasn’t easy. My mind was still racing with the revelation that Nelson Spinner had been working with Peter Chesley and he hadn’t bothered to mention it. In fact, it seemed to me, he’d gone out of his way to hide it.

And then there was Raymond Chesley. So hostile to his biological father that it made me want to cry. The guy looked pretty hardy. Was he capable of murder and assault?

What’s wrong, baby? I know it’s not the weather.

I shook my head. “Peter Chesley must have been a real bastard at one time. Certainly, his own son seems to think so. I found him sweet and eccentric…but then, I only spent an hour or so with him.”

What’s your auntie’s take?

“She’s struggling with a lot of regrets about what happened between them. She says their squabbles all seem petty in retrospect, but I know my aunt. She’s made of pretty stern stuff and she’s got a lot of fight. The man must have been a real jerk for her to have wanted the relationship to end.”

I had a dame tell me something one time. It seems to apply.

“What’s that?”

If a guy’s not happy, it doesn’t take long before he makes a girl miserable.

“Sounds like my marriage.”

Well, we know your husband wasn’t happy, that’s for sure.

“What gave you your first clue? The swan dive?”

And how about your old friend Claymore?

“What do you mean?”

I mean the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“There’s a thought. If Peter was anything like Claymore at the same age, then I can see why his relationships went south.”

Maybe that’s why the yegg left his sweet gig in sunny California. In the end, Claymore may not be such a great son, running home to help out Ma and Pa Chesley. Maybe he’d already burned his bridges and was looking to start over anyway.

The highway was slick, and there were very few cars behind me. When the single car ahead of me turned onto an exit, I flipped on my high beams for better visibility. A minute later, I saw the illuminated road sign for the Comfy-Time Motel rest stop, and I exhaled with relief. Quindicott was just around the next dark corner.

“Jack, that ‘dame’ you quoted a minute ago, why do those words sound so familiar to me?”

You tell me, baby.

“Wait! That was Mindy Corbett who said that. I dreamed she said it to you the night before she was murdered—”

I was slowing the car down, anticipating my exit’s tricky off-ramp when I felt a violent bump.

“Whoa! What the heck?!”

I checked the rearview and saw bright headlights bearing down from behind. The car was big and black—an SUV, for sure—but I couldn’t see anything more than the dark silhouette of a man in the driver’s seat.

“What the hell does this jerk think he’s doing?!”

I never got an answer.

The impact came just as I’d turned onto the exit ramp. The SUV slammed me from behind but not full on. He hit me at an angle, driving me off the road and into a shallow ditch. The front end bounced down then up, and smashed into the massive trunk of a very old tree.

Like a ragdoll, my body had been thrown forward, then back, then forward again. With an exploding hiss, my airbag deployed, and I felt the painful impact of the bag’s cold inflated material smacking my face.

Dazed, close to passing out, I heard the sound of a car door slamming somewhere nearby. The jerk, I realized. The jerk is coming to pull me out.

But he didn’t.

I heard a car door opening and realized the man had entered my car through the back door. He was searching the back seat for something. Then he opened my door and felt around the floorboard for the trunk release. I was strapped in and nearly unconscious, but I willed my head to turn out of the bag. The night was so dark, the rain still falling. All I could see was the silhouette of a man in black, a ball cap shoved low on his head, a dark scarf tied around his face.

“Who are you?” I murmured, the words jumbled gibberish to my own ears.

The sound of the trunk popping open was the only reply. Then the man’s dark image was gone; the cold rain continued to pelt the windshield, and my eyes fell heavily closed.

New York City

October 22, 1946

My eyes opened.

I stood in a dim alley between two run-down tenements. Dingy brick walls rose five stories on either side of me; rusted black fire escapes clung like dead vines to their dirty sides. Laundry hung from frayed ropes between the buildings. The faded clothes fluttered over my head like dejected flags—patched and repatched, the sort of threadbare garments I’d seen people wearing in histories of the Great Depression.

I heard shouts and followed the sound out of the dim tunnel until I reached the sidewalk. Like a period movie, I watched the street action play out in the day’s waning light.

Kids with grimy faces in dirty pants, fraying sweaters, and flat newsboy caps were playing some sort of dice game on a stone stoop, next to a passed-out man clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag. A taxicab driver and a bicycle messenger were shouting their heads off at each other. And impossibly huge cars, not boxy like SUVs, but antique Packards and DeSotos, long and wide and heavy, rumbled down the one-way street.

The smell in the air was a combination of putrid garbage overflowing from cans lined up at the curb and a strong, stinging smell that I guessed was unleaded gasoline.

I started down the block and noticed the cross-street signs. “Tenth Avenue and Forty-Fourth Street?” I recognized the address, but nothing else.

In my time, this Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood wasn’t notorious or scary—just an extension of Times Square’s flashy theater and restaurant district. The residential housing consisted of a mix of renovated brownstones and yuppie high-rises, the occasional quaint little bistro tucked just below street level.

But this wasn’t my time.

And these, I realized, weren’t my clothes. A pencil-thin wool skirt clung to my hips and tight-fitting sweater hugged my padded bra. The nylons on my legs felt scratchy and uncomfortable. I felt my thigh and realized I was wearing a garter belt.

“Hey, there, girly, you lost?” A pasty-faced man approached in a soiled suit and battered fedora. He reeked of cheap alcohol. “Or maybe you’re lookin’ for a date?”

“No,” I said, stepping backward. “Not interested.”

“How do you know, if you don’t try a sample?” He moved quickly, backing me against the dirty wall before I knew what was happening.

“Back off or I’ll scream!” I warned.

“Scream away. Nobody’s gonna care about our little business.”

“I will.”

The voice was deep and clipped and familiar. I looked up to find Jack Shepard in fedora and slate gray suit, looming behind the man who’d accosted me.

“Feel that, shitbird?” he growled. “It’s the business end of my .45, jammed between your third and fourth rib. You still interested in doing business here?”

“No, mister. I don’t want no trouble. Pretty girl here smiled at me and I guess I misunderstood—”

When the drunk was gone, stumbling quickly up the sidewalk, I straightened my sweater. “Yuck. I did not smile at him.”

“I know.”

“So why are you scowling at me then?”

“Because”—Jack flicked the safety on his weapon, then slipped it back into the shoulder holster hidden beneath his double-breasted suit jacket—“you shouldn’t have left the alley, that’s why. I put you there for safekeeping until I came back.”

“Back? Where did you go?”

“Come on.”

As Jack took my elbow and hustled me down the sidewalk, I realized why I was here. It was Jack’s ongoing missing persons case. He was close to solving it now, and he wanted me with him—presumably to clue me in on something important in my current case. What, I had no clue.

“I hate this neighborhood,” Jack groused as we strode swiftly along. “One of the worst slums in the city and the Men’s Night Court ten blocks away.”

“Men’s Night Court?”

“Eight in the evening till one in the morning, the Seventh-District Magistrate sees an unending column of drunks, panhandlers, pickpockets, wife beaters, and brawlers. Every petty offender arrested in Manhattan and the Bronx is brought to this neighborhood for a hearing—but, of course, you know all about hearings, don’t you, sister?”

“What’s that supposed to imply? You know I wasn’t guilty.”

Jack’s gunmetal gray eyes flashed with amusement. “Just trying to keep your fight up, baby. You’re going to need it tonight, remember that.”

“Fine. Now how about enlightening me where we’re going and why?”

“Just follow my lead.”

We dodged traffic on Tenth and continued heading west, toward the freight yards, garages, and docks. At the very end of the street, the island of Manhattan dropped off into the Hudson River—and I was hoping Jack would slow his bullet pace before we hit water. The sun was sinking just below the horizon line now. It looked like a big orange ball, threatening to smash New Jersey under its fiery weight.

Jack pulled me up short between two buildings and silently pointed into the shadowy tunnel between them.

“Not another alley!”

“Let’s go.”

In the dim light, I heard a noise like a man whispering, “Pssst.”

Jack grabbed my arm and pulled me behind him. He moved carefully forward, dipping his hand into his double breasted jacket and once again drawing his .45.

“Put your gat away, it’s just me,” rasped a young man. He was skinny with short raven hair, dark eyes, and a prominent nose.

Jack holstered his gun again and made a quick deal with the young man he called “Beak,” handing him a five-dollar bill and receiving two folded brown garments and matching hats.

“It’s grand theft what you’re charging me,” Jack complained.

“So call the cops,” said the young man with a highpitched cackle. Then he disappeared, seemingly melting back into the alleyway’s shadows.

“Here,” Jack said, handing me one of the folded garments.

I unfurled it. “Overalls?” I saw a logo on the pocket. “SWIFTY DELIVERY.”

“Put them on.”

Jack gave me his back as he walked to a fire escape’s ladder, peeled off his jacket, and hung it over a low rung. His muscled shoulders and chest were nicely outlined by the tight-fitting leather holster. He slipped it off and began to strip down to his undershirt. When he went for his belt, I protested.

“You’re changing? Right in front of me?”

Jack glanced around, raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one looking. And didn’t I tell you to change, too?”

“Right here? In the alley?”

“Stop bucking for the Miss Priss award, will you? It’s dark enough back here to develop crime-scene photos.” He turned around and continued disrobing. “Now move. We don’t have much time.”

I frantically searched for some sort of private Idaho, found a discarded fridge, and put it between me and Jack. Then I unzipped the skirt, pulled off the sweater, stepped into the overalls, and zipped them up. They were too big so I folded the cuffs at the bottom of the legs and the edges of the sleeves.

When I stepped out, I found Jack waiting, arms crossed, his back to me to make sure I got my privacy, his front to the alley entrance to make sure no one surprised us.

“Okay,” I said.

He turned and took me in, couldn’t stop a small smile from lightening his usual granite profile. “You look cute as a button. Here.”

I stuffed my hair into the hat and followed him out of the alley.

“Jack?” I asked nervously. “Do you still have your gat—er, uh, gun?”

“Baby, I don’t take a piss—excuse me, visit the facility, without my rod. I transferred everything I had in my pockets to the pockets of these overalls. If a hobo finds my clothes they can have them, but not the stuff inside. You follow?”

We reached a warehouse and Jack pulled me into yet another alley.

“This alley thing of yours is becoming a real obsession.”

“Quiet, baby. We’re going in.”

“Don’t you want to brief me?” I whispered.

He glanced at his watch. “It’s time for the shift change. Follow my lead.”

Again with the lead! I thought, but kept my lips zipped. Jack never looked more serious. He’d unzipped the top half of his overalls, and I knew why. He wanted easy access to the gun strapped under his arm. This, of course, meant that we were heading into life-threatening danger.

“Put your hands in your pockets and keep your head down.”

I looked down at my hands and realized someone had given me a manicure with bright-red nail enamel. I shoved my painted fingers into the overall’s pockets.

“Keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Got it?”

“Gee, Jack,” I couldn’t resist whispering, “you really know how to show a girl a good time.”

“You want a good time, baby, my offer’s a standing one. Let me take you on the town, get us a room at a nice hotel.”

“I told you before, Jack. I’m a married woman.”

“In your dreams, baby.”

The back door stood open and Jack sauntered in as if he owned the place. Some men stood around a desk, smoking and talking. They all wore the same Swifty Delivery overalls that we were wearing.

Jack partially averted his face, tipped his hat, and grunted at one of the men who glanced his way. The man returned Jack’s gesture with a short nod. I kept my head down and followed Jack like a loyal puppy, happy to stay cowed because these men looked like pretty rough trade—tattoos and scars, faces lined with the track marks of hard living.

Jack led me through a door and into a deserted stairwell. He bent down to tie his shoe, pulled me close, whispered hot and low against my ear. “I’ve cased the place and paid off a pigeon. The records are on the third floor. Let’s go.”

We minded our business and the few people we passed—more rough-looking men—minded theirs. Unfortunately, the records room was locked. Jack pulled a small kit out of his deep overalls pocket, opened it to reveal a set of thin silver instruments.

Jack looked tense. I thought a joke might help.

“What’s this,” I whispered, “you have a sudden urge to practice dentistry?”

Jack scowled. “Go to the end of the hall and light up a cig. Act like you’re on a break. See someone coming, cough loudly.”

“But I don’t smoke. So I don’t have any cigarettes.”

“Cripes.” Jack fished for a pack of cigarettes and lit me up.

I coughed. He grimaced.

“Uh-oh,” I said, coughing again, “the signal might not work.”

“Don’t smoke it then, just look like you’re smoking it.”

“Oh, right.”

Feeling like one of Jack’s “rubes,” I did as he asked. No one came, thank heavens. Jack picked the records room door, and I quickly stamped out the foul, unfiltered cancer stick.

We closed the door behind us and relocked it. The room was dark but Jack didn’t turn on the lights. He went to the single small window and cursed. “No shade, no curtains, nothing.”

“What’s the matter?”

“We turn on the lights, someone might notice from outside.”

“But how are we going to read the files otherwise? We don’t have flashlights.”

“We’ll have to chance it.”

Jack flipped a switch and two bare bulbs came to life, bathing the room in cheap yellowish glow. A gray row of battered metal file cabinets lined one wall. A wooden desk and chair sat against the other.

“Let’s get to it,” he whispered, quickly scanning the labeling system on the drawers. It wasn’t alphabetical—but rather, set up by calendar. Each cabinet was a year, each drawer a few months of the year.

“What are we looking for?”

“Any files you can find under the names Dorothy Kerns, Vincent Tattershawe, Ogden Heating and Cooling, or even…Mindy…Mindy Corbett.”

Jack had a little trouble saying her name. I knew why.

We searched for ten minutes and found nothing. Then, finally, I hit pay dirt. “Tattershawe. I’ve got one.”

“Pull it.”

We took it to the desk and examined the contents. There were carbons of forms he’d made outlining deals. “No Dorothy Kerns,” muttered Jack. “No Ogden Heating and Cooling. But what’s this?”

Jack’s finger stopped on a name: Grant Barneby. A short typewritten note scrawled next to it read, Contact through the Madeleine.

Jack rubbed his lantern jaw, rough with the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. Without a word, he went to a cabinet at random and pulled out a stack of files. He riflled through them. Every few pages or so, he’d find a client with the words: Contact through the Madeleine scrawled beside the name.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What is it?”

“Mindy said her investment firm was setting up legit clients, but suckers, too. They were being brought in by silent partners. She said Tattershawe didn’t like it much. I think Vincent Tattershawe realized how dangerous these scum are and skipped town to get out of the business without losing his life—and it’s looking like he used Dorothy Kerns’s inheritance to fund his getaway. Dorothy, being a sucker for romance, still thinks Tattershawe’s her knight in shining armor, so she insisted a PI be hired to track him down. She had no idea he was tangled up in some dark deals. I think that’s why her brother stepped in to hire me. He needed to be in control of any investigation. He has too much to lose if Dorothy or the police find Vincent before he does.”

“But I thought he was trying to recover his sister’s money?”

“I don’t think Baxter Kerns cares a fig about his sister’s money. He probably never expected her to fall for a guy working at the very firm he’s using to scam cliff-dwellers and war widows. Now he’s just trying to protect his nut.”

“Wait, back up. You’re saying you think Baxter Kerns is involved with this corrupt investment company? Why?”

“The Madeleine. It’s one of those private clubs on Forty-fourth. Baxter’s a member. Had me meet him there. And that’s obviously where he’s pulling in some of his suckers, probably highly recommending Carter & Thompson as ‘smart bets’ for investing—you know how it goes. Seems to me the only reason he wants me to find Tattershawe is to give him lead poisoning before he can spill to his sister or anybody else.”

“But, Jack, a lot of men belong to that club. Why do you think Baxter is one of the silent partners?”

“My gut, baby. This stack of coincidences is just too high to be random. Think it through. If Baxter were as innocent as a spring lamb, and he suspected Tattershawe of taking a powder with his sister’s money, then why didn’t he go to police with his tale? Why wasn’t he looking for an all-out investigation of Carter & Thompson? Why did he hire me to find Tattershawe but reveal his whereabouts to no one but Baxter himself? I’ll tell you why—because Baxter Kerns is dirty too.”

“But there still might be other explanations. To accuse him, you’ll need proof—”

Just then, we heard voices in the hall.

“Hey, what is that?” (A smooth male voice.)

“What’s what?” (A much gruffer male voice.)

“There’s a light under the records room door.”

Jack didn’t say a thing; in about two seconds, he stacked up the files on the desk, picked them up, and grabbed my arm. Before I could utter a word, he pulled me into the far corner and shoved me down.

We were tucked between the outside wall and the file cabinets—well hidden unless anyone walked all the way to the end of the room; then they’d see us crouched here, for sure. Jack maneuvered me behind him and pulled his weapon. He didn’t have to tell me not to make a sound.

The knob rattled as the men unlocked then opened the door.

Smooth voice said, “Who left these lights on?”

“Dunno.” (Gruff was a real genius.)

“Well, we’re going to find out.”

“Whatsa matter, you worried ’bout the electric bill?”

“I’m worried about a fire, you idiot. This place is a fleapit and the last thing we need is an electrical fire.” We heard the men come into the room. A file drawer opened and shut, then another, then a third.

“Turn the lights off and let’s go,” said the smooth voice. “I’ve got a meeting with Baxter Kerns across town in less than an hour.”

Before the door shut, Jack carefully peeked around the file cabinet—to get a good look at the men talking, I assumed. When they shut and relocked the door, I heard him exhale a long, furious breath. His left hand was balled into an angry fist, and his right was clutching the gun so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.

“For what they did to Mindy,” he bit out low, “this whole operation is going down. And if I get my hands on Baxter Kerns, even his sister’s not going to recognize him when I’m through.”

Jack put the gun back in his holster, then we carefully left the room. I thought we were in the clear; the hallway looked empty, but the two men who’d just left were doubling back, complaining about grabbing the wrong file.

“Hey! You there!” The smooth guy, in a dapper suit, two-toned shoes, and sharp fedora turned to the swarthy giant by his side. “Get them!”

Jack went for his gun again, but by the time he cleared it out of his overalls, the gruff thug lunged at him. Jack wasn’t a small man and when the two crashed together, it was like a pair of freight trains colliding.

The two men grappled then went down hard. I heard Jack cry out on the floor. The gun had flown down the hall and I ran off to get it, but I didn’t know how to remove the safety or properly aim and fire it. I held it, feeling helpless, trying at least to keep the gun ready for Jack when he could get clear of the big man.

The giant tried to kick Jack, but he rolled and got back on his feet. The big man rose too. Fists flew and blows were exchanged. Finally, Jack got the upper hand. He used some evasive maneuvers that looked like rudimentary martial arts. He’d said something about learning jujitsu in the service, and it sure looked effective to me. The guy was bigger and he’d gotten the drop on Jack, but now he couldn’t touch the PI.

In a few swift moves, the giant was down, holding his head and moaning. The smooth, dapper gent had disappeared, and I assumed he’d run off to sound the alarm and get more help.

“Let’s go,” Jack barked, taking my arm.

“How do we get out? Back stairs again?”

“No, honey. When you break in the back, and they catch you, you might as well go out the front.”

And that’s exactly what we did.

We ran all the way back to our alleyway. Amazingly, no one had disturbed our clothes, although a few fat rats were sniffing around the old fridge where I’d left mine.

“Shoo!” I cried. They weren’t impressed. So I changed with an audience.

“What the hell…” Jack muttered.

I looked up, as I zipped my skirt. “Jack, what is it? Are you okay?”

He was still half undressed, standing in his undershirt and boxers, but the blood made me forget all modesty. I rushed over to find him bleeding from the thigh. The cut wasn’t too bad, but I was puzzled how it happened.

“The oval frame broke,” he informed me. “I transferred everything I was carrying into the overalls, including that picture of Vincent Tattershawe. So when the big guy sent me down, the glass must have broken and cut me.”

I lifted my wool skirt and pulled down my slip, used it to clean the wound, then pressed it to see that it properly clotted.

“Thanks, baby. You make a pretty good nurse, you know?”

“What is it with this nurse obsession?” I smiled. He smiled back. Then he finished dressing and transferred his personal items from the overalls back into his suit pockets. He tossed the broken glass and the oval frame into a nearby trash can, keeping only the photo.

“What’s this?” he murmured, removing the photo from the frame backing.

“What’s what?”

He showed me a small key. It had been taped to the backing of the frame, hidden between the photo and the glass. There was a tiny slip of paper wrapped around the key—like the ticker tape used to update stockbrokers on the market. My hands were smaller so I unrolled it.

“It’s a Sixth Avenue address in midtown,” I said.

“Looks like we got ourselves another clue.”

“What do you think this key will open?”

Jack examined it. Three very tiny letters were engraved on the side. “SDB,” he murmured, puzzled for a moment, then lifted an eyebrow. “Safety-deposit box.”