Chapter 39 #4
Even when Franklin tried to call the police with the telephone on his nightstand and found that it, like the house lighting, had been sabotaged, he said only, “Of course,” and returned the handset to the cradle.
He and Loretta agreed that it was impossible to be certain whether this threat might be Captain’s attempt to intimidate them into paying up or in fact an expression of bitter vengeance and a plot to commit murder by proxy.
In either case, the wisest course was to stay together, stay put, and stay alert.
Each of them kept a pistol at bedside, and Harry was armed as well.
Whatever Midwest Jack might be, whether mere human oddity or true monster, he could bleed and die.
If we waited here until dawn, morning sun would light the Bram better than four Evereadys.
At seven o’clock, the entire staff would arrive, and there would be safety in numbers.
We had much to ponder and discuss, and there was no need to confer in darkness.
If our strategically placed flashlights failed, a full box of spare batteries was stored in a bottom bureau drawer.
Enough chairs were provided when we brought two from the bedroom retreat and the bench from the vanity.
Rafael fairly divided his attention during the next two hours, lying asleep on one person’s feet for a while and then moving on to the next of us for an ear scratching.
Even in these circumstances—or perhaps I should say especially in these circumstances—I was very proud of Franklin and Loretta.
He was handsome, and she was beautiful, and they were both as self-possessed as if we were gathered here for no reason other than the pleasure of one another’s company.
From time to time, one or both of them would pace as they listened to us or contributed their own insights to the discussion, not as if they were pacing worriedly but as if movement lubricated their thoughts.
Wearing silk robes over pajamas, they were casually elegant, and because they had not lost their sense of humor even now, I was reminded of William Powell and Myrna Loy as Nick and Nora Charles in The Thin Man.
I thought that if I had been born as well formed as they were in body and mind, I would almost certainly have led a less admirable life than they had.
The thousands of books that I carry in my memory reveal a nearly infinite number of ways even well-meaning souls can go wrong.
From that collection of mistakes, I have no difficulty identifying scores of grievous errors I might have made if given the opportunity of a normal life.
The limitations and humiliations a freak endures might well have saved me from being more like Captain than I dared to consider.
The biggest question occupying our discussion-by-flashlights was how Midwest Jack could have moved through the Bram for eight hours, monitoring every act of the Pinkerton agents without being seen or heard.
Even at this moment, he must have been listening to us, amused by our speculations, for suddenly he solved the puzzle by letting us know where he was.
With one instrument or other, he pounded so hard on the ceiling of the room below us that the floor vibrated underfoot.
“The service mezzanine,” said Franklin. The explanation was not as supernatural as we might have been imagining.
In a house as immense as the Bram, architects often included a five- or six-foot-high level between main floors.
Ventilation ductwork, electrical wiring, phone lines, and plumbing were run through this space, which also housed the gas furnaces, air conditioners, and other equipment that maintained the residence.
This interim level, with its own plywood floor and work lighting but no windows, was accessed through a large trapdoor in the ceiling of a storage room on the ground level; ugly mechanical systems were tucked out of sight, and repairmen could easily service them.
The estate manager—first Mr. Symington, now Lynette Rollins—dealt with all contracted services and was thus kept aware of the mezzanine.
Franklin and Loretta visited that space once, during construction, and had no further business with it.
They had put it out of mind just as owners of standard-size homes soon forgot where the clean-out traps were located and which wall concealed the chase for a specific water-supply pipe.
Captain must have learned of this interim floor by visiting the building department to review the architect’s plans, which were in the public records.
Now we knew how Midwest Jack had spied on the Pinkerton men—and the family.
Every grille-covered heating-cooling vent in every room had brought their voices to him.
It was creepy to realize that he must be at that moment staring up toward us.
But he couldn’t get at us through the floor, which was the mezzanine ceiling.
Why had he revealed his whereabouts? What would happen next?
The bedside lamps came on. Franklin went at once to the phone, but our nemesis had not flipped a switch to restore that service.
A knock on the door startled everyone and focused our attention.
“My dear friends,” Captain said, “since you screwed me, I can’t resist telling you how I’ve screwed you in turn.
You might feel that my delight in this reveals a shortcoming in my character, but I would say that people like you have no damn character at all.
Only grifters make a deal with the intention of reneging on it as soon as the mark turns his back on them.
I’m no damn mark. I’m no damn rube. The architect plans on this joint don’t show a vault, but knowing your view of banks, I was sure there must be one.
I never did find one on those damn plans, but I saw what I thought must be a hidden room.
Once my boy, my special boy, heard you were hiring Pinkerton for their door-and-window service, his job became getting from the mezzanine into that hidden room.
Not so goddamn hard. There’s a three-foot-square air-exchange grille in the ceiling. ”
Captain was so high on himself that he salted his language with other words far worse than “damn,” but I will not repeat them here.
I quoted as much as I did only to give you the flavor of his rant, so you could see that, even as bad a man as he had always been, he had gotten worse.
To save time and avoid further offense, I will condense his abusive tirade to its salient points.
Lynette Rollins had left a set of the new house keys in a vanity drawer in Isadora’s room for when she visited home at the end of her tour with the Bob Crosby Orchestra.
Midwest Jack had retrieved those keys and used them to let Captain into the Bram once everyone had gone to bed except for me, as I was in the kitchen with a slab of pie.
The murderous boy was excited by the prospect of being the star and a partner in the new ten-in-one that was to be set up with Fairchild money.
He had shown Captain how to operate the hidden door to the secret room that served as a vault and then went off to monitor the family and be sure they didn’t interrupt the looting.
As insurance against future bank collapses, the vault contained $225,000 in hundreds and twenties.
Captain scooped that fortune into a laundry bag he’d brought with him.
Thereafter, he spent time conducting an inspection of a few rooms by flashlight, looking for small items of value that he could add to his haul—a Tiffany vase and the like.
His bag was full. His car was parked along the highway less than half a mile from the Bram.
According to plan, the boy would remain in the house to ensure we “dumb damn rubes” didn’t try to alert authorities.
Captain would drive straight back here to pick up his special boy, and anyone who tried to follow Midwest Jack would have his face torn off.
Through the door, he said, “You thought you were so smart that Einstein should kiss your ass. Now you can kiss mine.”