Chapter 4

Doing the work, I dogged around all morning talking to friends of Florence Randolph. Speaking with mechanics, hairdressers, and the florist she used. Finding out little from my efforts, they either knew nothing or were unwilling to tell me anything. I determined to protect the woman. Letting each person realize I wanted to find her and protect her. Not mentioning her husband at all, I waited for them to give me a clue.

Thick and saturated like the humidity of August, silence hung in the air. All the while, I interrogated family friends, associates of her or her husband, finding nada. A nothingness returned, filling my mind with a smokescreen, which further clouded the issue.

Growing used to the blank stares, I began to wonder if Florence Randolph existed, a’tall. She might be, I suppose, a figment of someone’s imagination. Pressing home, the notion I wanted to help her bought me nothing. It was as if the woman didn’t matter to them. No one told me anything. Well, no one until I interviewed her personal maid.

First I spoke to her on the phone, we arranged a meeting. The Park, near the roadway, where it goes under one of the arched bridges. The one near a large pond. Arriving early, I parked the Stutz, sat on the bumper, breathing cigarette smoke while I waited.

After a bit, I heard a car stop, a door opened and closed. Focusing on the arch, I saw a paisley sleeve and arm protruding at the far end. In a moment, red curly hair and an eye followed the arm. Stepping out, she strolled toward me. In short order, she stopped and stood next to my Bearcat.

A tall, flexible, and slender young woman stared at me, without angularity about her body, standing erect, as one expects of a servant. The lady wore two shades of green, with one shade matching her eyes. The woman’s dark red hair curled in ringlets about her long, thin face, and her full lips were a glistening, ruby red. Despite her bright lipstick, she appeared an attractive but timid soul.

“So, you’re a woman P.I,” she said. “Didn’t know private eye’s really existed, and not women in the game at all. Thought if they were real, they were slippery, little men sticking their noses in where they don’t belong.”

“I’m a real, live private eye,” I said.

She put her hand on the hood of my car, flashed a sheepish smile, and moved one long, red curl from in front of her eye.

“How did you like Mr. Randolph?”

“Not much,” I said.

“He’s not, so, bad, maybe a bad day when you met him.”

“If you say so,” I said.

“You gonna turn her over to her husband or the cops?” the young woman asked me.

“What? Why would I turn her over to the cops?” I said.

“Her husband, then?”

“Not my plan. No, I don’t think I will,” I said, gazing into the woman’s eyes with a harsh intensity, hoping to reveal some detail in her meaning.

“What’s best to say? Let me say, this much and no more. The woman’s safe where she is and doesn’t want to be found. Figuring, you ought to worry about Mr. Alistair Randolph more and her less. As for me, I’m leaving this bloody city.” The trembling in her voice was unmistakable. “I have to find a place where I won’t be found by either of them. The thing is, you don’t realize what darkness is till someone turns out the lights.”

What a curious thing for her to say.

“I want to help her and protect her. Why does Mr. Randolph want her? Other than because she is his wife, why is finding her so important to him? Why does he think she needs to be found fast?”

“Cause the truth is dangerous. And God’s word, he appreciates the truth won’t set him free. I realize the truth, too, and this truth will kill me if I don’t get away from their reach. You don’t understand what you think you understand. Lady, best leave things alone because you don’t want to find her.”

“What truth?” I asked and still comprehended she would say nothing to help.

“I’ll give you one more thing; God help me, She with Tommy Antonio. In the old days, he was her lover.”

All at once, fortune favored me, and I discovered something vital. Well, how interesting, the runaway wife had a previous lover. A former lover of hers might be the key. Did I catch sight of light at the end of the tunnel? If luck held, the lover had some knowledge or hid her himself. Lovers, they’re your best friends and worst enemies, providing you strength and weakness. No one is more vulnerable than when they have another person to worry about.

The woman turned and strode away, clambering into a car with her husband. The couple sped away. I couldn’t help but speculate what they were running from. How was I going to find Florence Randolph, with everyone so tight-lipped?

What in the Sam-hill frightened everyone, and what dark secret of Mr. Randolph’s did they keep? How might Randolph hold such sway over so many innocent people? Neither my promise to protect Florence Randolph nor the lure of money would extract anything from any of them.

What I found out today; wouldn’t be a sip from a soda bottle. Florence Randolph ran from the Randolph mansion four days before with only the clothes on her back and her roadster. Her husband and his “Henchmen” searched for her for days before contacting me. They broke into the homes of her friends. All their efforts bought them nothing.

I sought her. The lack of fruit for my efforts told me she tried hard to stay lost. Her husband endeavored so hard to find her spoke to his desperation. Their upsetting, too, many people before I entered the case didn’t help me either. I needed to talk to one specific person who might have information and not be, too, afraid to share. Without a hint of who the person was.

Like a goldfish swimming round and round in a fishbowl, I went round and round looking for a clue. The word pointless comes to mind. Sometimes in life, everything is meaningless. In my life, I reached the point where I questioned my life choice. As I ambled back to my car, the thought of futility vanished, surprising how my car could remind me who I was. After all, I’m J.J. Drummond’s daughter.

My cream-colored, 1927 Stutz Bearcat belonged to my father. Neither of us ever gave up on anything worthwhile.

Uncle Frank would help. Dropping a nickel, “Operator, connect me circle- 4811.”

“That’s a police department, ma’am.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Sixth Precinct,” a man said.

“Homicide, please,” I said.

“One moment.”

“Homicide division, how may I assist,” the friendly woman’s voice appeared to promise help.

“Detective Sgt. Frank Lang, please.”

“I’m sorry, Detective Sgt. Lang is out of the office at this time. Tell me, are you Theodora Drummond?”

“Yes.”

“You will find him at Hudson Park Pier, fishing in the east river,” the voice said, “and not the fun kind, according to the report, Miss Drummond.”

“Thanks, another one so fast?”

“Yes.”

Let’s be clear on this, Frank was unmistakable, his massive, burly body hulking over those around him. When I laid eyes on him, Uncle Frank stood over something on the dock. Ignoring the warnings, I walked toward him as someone yelled.

“Theodora’s here.”

Twisting, he turned to me, mustard stained his tie from the dog he was stuffing into his mouth. Chewing the remnants of his hot dog, he spoke as his mouth sprayed bits of food.

“Baby girl, you don’t wanna see this.”

“This won’t upset my stomach, Uncle,” I told him, sauntering to him. The scene shocked me far more than I expected. For the victim was the young hooker from the diner. With her clothes gone, the call girl flat on her back, naked as the day of her birth. A wound gaped from her pubic mound to her breast. With her throat cut from one side to the other. As if she accused me of failing her, the woman’s dead eyes gawked at me.

“He gutted her. The other four, cut up the same, like a cow at a butcher shop. Nothing left inside her. Chunks of muscles filleted from her legs, arms, and back. I can’t help but wonder what the Beelzebub he does with the parts and guts.” Frank Lang appeared angrier than ever I saw him.

“Took a massive fillet from her right buttock,” the coroner added.

“Despite her being a whore, they were all whores, and yet, they’re still people. Nobody much cares when these women are being killed like pigs at the market. No, they read about the killings as entertainment to amuse themselves, the thoughtless assholes.” Shaking his fist at the river.

“I met this woman this morning. I spotted her getting in a yellow roadster. Happened around 7:30 or 8:00am, I guess.” I said, shocked out of my mind.

“Baby girl, a car might be a lead. What brings you here, not my disgusting case?”

“No, not this,” my knees weakened, I flushed, and nausea turned my belly queasy.

In a twinkling, Uncle Frank put one bear paw hand on my shoulder and the other under my arm.

“You okay, baby girl?” He asked, guiding me to a seating position on some old wooden boxes.

The rough wood under my butt settled me, supported me. I raised a hand to my face for a moment, collected my thoughts, and stood.

“Uncle, I ... I never thought of seeing someone dead who I met face to face a few hours before.”

Regaining my composure, I went through everything with Frank. Frank wasn’t my real uncle. While father lived, Frank had been his partner and best friend. Taken in by Frank and his wife when I became an orphan, they raised me as their own.

We drew closer together as the years went on, became a real family. When I was a teen, I recall how the size of Uncle Frank frightened boys coming to date me. No wonder I never dated much! The boys feared him as though he was Frankenstein’s Monster, while I viewed him as a lovable and comforting, giant teddy bear.

Frank listened to me as his men and the coroner did their jobs. Gazing into my eyes, he listened, shaking his head “no” from time to time. Disheveled clothing was almost a trademark for Frank Lang. Anything Uncle Frank wore needed a pressing. Stains always graced his clothing, marking what he ate since the last cleaning. I often thought more food found its way to his clothing than into his mouth. The cause of his unsightliness, eating while he worked as he was doing as we talked.

“Now, you listen to me. The man is, danged, dangerous.” Frank cautioned me as I used his handkerchief to clean mustard from his face. “His wife can take care of herself; Baby girl, you drop this thing and be happy you did.”

“I can’t,” I told him.

“You don’t owe this rich bastard or his absent wife anything.” Uncle Frank stared at me with fear and concern in his eyes.

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The Case of the Rich Man’s Wife

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