Sunday, August 07, 2005

Merchandise part 1, revision 1

"Did you come in here to sell me a suit?" I say.
"No," says the man in my office. "I was just asking out of interest. What would you expect to have to pay for a suit of this quality?"
"Is that your case?" I say. "Is this why you need a private dick, to investigate what I’ll pay for a suit?"
"I was just a curious."
"Everyone’s curious. Everyone who comes through that door. And you know what I do about that? I charge them. Twenty a day plus expenses is what it costs you to be curious in my office. Are you paying twenty base to find out what I think about your crummy suit?"
"Why, no."
"Good, now here through the door comes somebody else who’s curious. It’s Myrtle, my assistant."
"Coffee, Mr Fitzgerald?"
"No Myrtle, thank you," I say and she leaves. "Now that’s how I like curious people to behave. I like them to come out with it straight. Do you think you can do that sir?"
The man takes a breath before speaking.
"I want you to find my wife."
He lays a photo on my desk, a blackjack croupier dealing a queen. I look at the photo and it looks back, she looks back, looks me straight in the eyes. Then she speaks, she says one word: trouble.
"I’m sure you do, Mr ?"
"Broughton. John Broughton."
I write "Mrs Broughton" on an empty file and slip the photo inside. Putting her out of sight doesn’t make me feel any more comfortable. Some people you want to stay where you can see them.
"Last known location?" I open my notebook.
"She was staying up at the old Lakeside Hotel."
"I’ve know it," I tell him as I write. I’d never been there but I’d heard that a beer in the bar cost ten bucks and that if you ask how come it’s so much they’ll tell you it’s to keep out the riffraff. He must have sold a lot of those suits.
"And when were you last in contact with your wife?"
"That’d be before she went up there. A few weeks ago, maybe longer."
"You haven’t been up to see her?"
"No, no I haven’t. She’s on a rest cure. She has to be by herself, not seeing people she knows."
That sure doesn’t sound like any rest cure a doctor would prescribe. Unless that doctor wanted to get the woman in the picture away from her husband. I don’t say anything about that.
If he can afford a room at the Lakeside for a few weeks maybe longer then he’s made it. And a man who’s made it doesn’t like to be told that his wife is having an affair. I sure won’t be telling him, not just like that anyway. Not before I have evidence. Even then I won’t tell him. The evidence will tell him. I might tell him what I’d pay for the suit, to cheer him up a bit.
Something occurs to me.
"How do you know she’s not up at Lakeside now?"
"I called and they told me she’d checked out," he says. "But you should know that I only called because her car went missing."
"Her car?"
"Yes. I bought her a runabout, a Draeger. She left it at home when she went on her rest cure. When I got in yesterday evening I noticed it was gone so I called the hotel. They didn’t want to tell me anything at first, they’re like that up there. I told them my name and told them to look at who was paying the room bills. That’s when they told me she’d checked out."
"When?"
"Yesterday evening. I said."
"No, when did she check out?"
"They weren’t specific." He looked me in the eye when he said it.
Years as a detective gives you skills, like knowing a liar’s look. What he’d said could not be true but in his face there was nothing but sincerity. That must be how he made it.
A liar like that might even be a match for the woman in the picture. Might be.
"You’re some kind of salesman, right?" I say.
"I prefer merchant."
"What’s the difference?"
"A salesman only sells, hence the name. I buy as well as sell. Like I bought this suit and a few dozen like it. What does this have to do with finding my wife?"
"You bought your wife a car, being as you’re a merchant," I say. "Maybe she’s decided to be a salesman and sell it?"
"She can’t. It’s my car, although she did have the keys with her."
"But not the papers?"
"Right. I keep them in my office."
"I’m not taking the job, Mr Broughton."
"What? Why not?"
"Report your car stolen, sir. That costs you nothing. The cops’ll find it, your wife’ll be nearby."
"I don’t understand," he says. "I’ll pay your rate, twenty per day plus, right? Why wouldn’t you take on the job?"
"Because you’re not telling me everything." Because of the eyes in the photo.
"I’ve told you everything you need to know." He stands up and draws his wallet quicker than an old west gunslinger. The wallet’s one of those that opens like a book. He starts leafing through and talking.
"How long should this take? Three days? Four? Here’s enough for ten." He holds up the notes. "Or I can pay you with a suit? I have black and navy."
"The green’ll do fine," I say. "It’ll go with my best tie."
He’s already gone and I’m wondering how I went from not doing the job to having ten days cash in hand in less than a minute. I guess that’s when you know you’ve met a salesman, or should I say merchant.
I take the money and my hat to the outer office.
"Myrtle, here’s a down payment from Mr Broughton."
"I’ll enter it Mr Fitzgerald."
"Did he leave his details?"
"Just his office."
"OK. Call them and ask them to send over the papers for Mrs Broughton’s runabout then get the number for the Lakeside Hotel."
"Yes Mr Fitzgerald."
"I’ll call in later. Right now I’m going to see my old buddy Sergeant Delaney at the precinct."

The morning after, Delaney’s driving me up to the Lakeside Hotel.
"What’s the deal Fitzy?" he says.
"There’s no deal."
"Come on, there’s a deal. You turn up to report your client’s car stolen, then tell me where it’ll be, and it’s a fancy hotel."
"What’d they say when you called?"
"Not much helpful until I told them to think about what their guests would think of a squad car siren going off outside the front door and wouldn’t it be much better if they had a look themselves to see if a stolen car was in their car park. They said they’d call me back after that."
"And did they?"
"Oh yeah. They said the car was there and they said discreet a whole lot. How’d you know it would be there?"
"A hunch," I said.
We drove past the hotel and up to a spot with a view, an overlook they call it. Then we waited, taking turns with Delaney’s binoculars. We didn’t have to wait long.
"Here he comes," Delaney said at about eight. "He’s heading straight for the car."
"Sure it’s a man?"
"Oh yeah. Big shoulders on this one. A real ox. Take a look."
I did. The big man was folding himself into the little red Draeger.
"He’s going, let’s move."
We got back in the unmarked car, Delaney driving.
"What do you want to do?" said Delaney as he turned the ignition. "Pull him over?"
"Why not."
It was done in a matter of minutes. Delaney had me fix the detachable flashing light up on the roof as soon as we started but I only switched it on once we were at a discreet distance from the hotel. The big ox pulled over straight away.
Delaney stopped behind him and we both got out.
"Get him out of the car and I’ll do the talking," I said.
Delaney nodded.
"Step out of the car please sir." He showed his badge.
"I didn’t do anything wrong," said the big man, getting out.
"Could I see your driving license please, sir," I say.
He has it in his pocket. I hand it back after reading his name.
"Mr Seymour, where did you last get this car serviced?"
"I never had it serviced, it’s new."
"New? Oh. Where’d you buy it?"
"Huh?"
"Which dealer?"
"I didn’t buy it, somebody … hey, what’s this about?"
"Somebody gave it to you, is that what you were going to say?"
Seymour shrugged his huge shoulders.
"Was it a Mrs. Catherine Broughton, gave you the car?"
Nothing.
"Look, friend, look at what I got here." I took out the papers for the Draeger.
"See where it says owner, it says Mr John Broughton? See that?"
"Sure. You think I can’t read?"
"So you can read that it doesn’t say Seymour? You know it’s not your car?"
"I told you -"
"You didn’t tell me anything, buddy," I shout in his face.
He pushes me back and tries to run but Delaney’s quick and gets one arm. I get the other and Delaney cuffs him.
"She gave me the keys," he says as we push him into the back of the unmarked car.
"She?" I say.
"No – I mean somebody."
I take a few breaths and pretend to calm down from my pretend anger.
"Listen buddy, we all know what’s happened. There’s you and Cathy. She gives you the car keys and tells you it’s yours. Trouble is, it isn’t her car, it’s her husband’s. You weren’t to know that but now he’s made a complaint and you’re caught in the middle. With a stolen car."
"It’s not stolen, she gave me the keys."
As the big chump gives himself away I catch Delaney’s eye. He’s trying not to laugh.
"She gave them, or did you take them?"
"What?"
"You get rough with her, pal?"
"No."
"Big man like you and a little woman like her."
"I said no. I never been rough with a woman, not me."
"You blackmailing her?"
"Blackmail?"
"You’re having an affair and you threatened to tell her husband. That’s it isn’t it?"
"You are way off, copper. I never blackmailed nobody."
There he goes again. Denies blackmailing, says nothing about the affair.
"Then why’d she give you the keys, smart guy?"
"I ain’t saying."
He ain’t and I straighten up to talk to Delaney.
"Nice work," he says.
"Except I haven’t got what I’m looking for."
"You got a wife who had an affair and gave her husband’s car away. Pretty standard stuff for a private dick, isn’t it?"
"I’m not looking for Broughton’s car, I’m looking for his wife. Why he wants her back I don’t know. She’s a piece of work."
"Got a picture?"
I show him and he whistles.
"But I didn’t mean that, I meant because of her getting him to pay for her room at the Lakeside."
"How’d she do that?"
"Said it was rest cure."
"Well, they say it’s good for what ails you."
"Hey coppers," Seymour shouts from the car. "This is a waste of time. I got it all figured out."
"What you got figured?" says Delaney.
"All you got’s me stealing Broughton’s car, right?"
"Maybe."
"Well he ain’t gonna press charges."
"You think he ain’t?" I say. "I think he will. Once we tell him you were shtupping his wife in a hotel room he paid for."
"Nope. No way Broughton’s gonna let you charge me."
"Putz," Delaney mutters. "I’ll drive him back, you bring that girl’s car."
I stroll over to the Draeger. No way Broughton’s gonna let you charge me. He just couldn’t help himself.

Myrtle gets me an appointment at Mr Broughton’s office. It’s in his warehouse. There’s merchandise being wheeled about all over, coming in, going out. Broughton’s office is up a metal spiral staircase, from there he can see everything. I guess that’s a position he likes to be in.
"Mr Fitzgerald, how are you?" he says, glad-handing me.
"I’m doing OK, Mr Broughton. I got some news. You might want to hear it alone."
Broughton pokes his head out of the door and tells somebody "hold them".
I put the Mrs Broughton folder on his desk.
"Straight or gentle, Mr Broughton?"
"I’m a busy man."
"Your wife’s having an affair with a Greg Seymour."
Broughton takes a few paces around his office.
"Do you play?" he says.
I notice he’s standing by a chess board on a little table.
People take this type of news in different ways. It’s generally best to stay with them.
"I never learned," I say.
"My dad always liked to have a chess set around. He used to say to me ‘It’s just like life, son.’"
"He sounds like a wise man, sir."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, like I say I don’t play but I understand you’ve got to have strategy and planning and intelligence to win at chess. I guess you’ve got to have those to win at life too."
Broughton snorted.
"He used to say to me ‘It’s just like life, son. You’re either a piece or a player.’ Do you understand that?"
"I guess that make as much sense as what I said."
"That’s how he dealt with people, he divided them into pieces and players. Mostly pieces, things to be moved around. He was in politics."
"Is that right?"
"Politics doesn’t interest me. I have my own version, that I’d like to pass on to my own son someday. Shall I tell you?"
"If it’ll help, I mean, if you want."
"Be a merchant or be merchandise."
"That … that’s pretty profound, Mr Broughton."
"Mm," he says and sits down at his desk. "Have you met Greg?"
I was hoping he wouldn’t ask anything direct. I don’t want to lie to him, but I am going to mislead him some. Since he has been direct, I’ll have to be careful.
"Yes, I met him."
"So, merchant or merchandise?"
"How do you mean?"
"Greg Seymour, merchant or merchandise?"
"I’m still not with you." I continue to play dumb, it’s best when you’re trying to trick somebody.
"Look, you’re a merchant. I’m buying your time from you. Greg, he’s merchandise. I bought my wife a car, I bought her a new wardrobe, I bought her … Greg. That’s how it is."
"That’s how it is?"
"So you see, I know about Greg. Did he mention where my wife is?"
"No he didn’t." True. "You want me to go on looking?"
"Of course."
"OK, Mr Broughton. You’re calling the shots here." I get up to leave and pick up the file. "Oh, there’s one other thing."
He looks up.
"You know I said if the police found your car they’d find your wife? Turns out I was wrong. Your car turned up but your wife was nowhere to be seen. The police found it and have the man who took it in custody."
"So that was just a coincidence."
"Looks that way doesn’t it? Anyway, I took the liberty of bringing the paperwork over. Sign here to press charges."
I slide a form across the desk.
"I most certainly will. But what are you going to do about my wife? Wasn’t the car your only lead?"
"I’ve got one or two more." I smile and leave.

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