Chapter 48 - Honor Among Thieves

 "You, the aspiring Vaudeville actress, go in and turn on the light," Murphy motioned with his head in Vera's direction.  Vera, happy to put her arms down, complied as cheerfully as she could given the circumstances.  Murphy gestured for the other three to stand to the side of the door at a safe distance, so he could peer in at the inventory and keep an eye on his hostages.  

When the door opened, it swung inward into the storage space and to the left.  "Ok," he snapped at Vera, who answered his bark with a scowl, "go stand behind the door." She did as commanded.

"Now what?" her muffled voice retorted.

"Now come back so I can see you again."

"What was the point of that?"

"I just needed to be sure that no one was behind the door to ambush me." Murphy glanced over at Tannehill.  "I'm willing to bet you have more figured out than I'm giving you credit for, even though your clearance rate as a detective was pitiful, CH."  Tannehill creased his mouth and shrugged in an indication of lackadaisical acknowledgment.

"So, what's actually in the room?" Murphy addressed his question to the audience at large, causing everyone to remain quiet for an extended beat.

Vera broke the silence. "Several dozen priceless artifacts, German bonds, and a fairly sizeable chunk of US change."

"How much in cash and bonds?"

"About 2 million dollars, US currency," Emily responded curtly.  Murphy whistled, impressed with the haul.  "But," she continued, "we're willing to share, of course."

"You're willing to share?" A note of amused confusion crept into his voice.

"Certainly."

"And," he smacked his lips, "what makes you think I'm willing to share?" He swung the machine gun to face her directly.

Emily paused in shock at his response.  "Because," she stammered, "because you can't gun down four people and claim it was in self-defense."

Murphy cocked his eyes upward in a dramatic imitation of deep thought.  "You, know, you're right.  I can't gun down four people in self-defense, but," he let this last contraction linger in the air, "A reckless pair like yourself and Otto would certainly gun down two innocent people and then disappear with the most expedient goods, like a bundle of cash worth two million dollars.  When they don't find you, they'll just assume you've dashed away to some exotic local."

"So," Tannehill interjected, "has it always been your intention to gun down all of your associates, or was that just happenstance?"

Murphy jerked back in an exaggerated pantomime of shock, "I have a fairly strong sense of honor, CH.  I didn't plan to kill Snell.  He brought me into," he waved the gun in dramatic fashion toward the storage room, "this! And I was certainly grateful."

"He brought you in for protection?" It came out as a question but Tannehill intended it as a rhetorical one rather than an interrogative one.

"Of course," Murphy's tone matched Tannehill's in his own rhetorical response.  "It's easier to move this much merchandise knowing you've got someone to help handle the logistics.  He was going to give me a fairly substantial cut, even at the expense," he glanced over at Emily and Otto, "of our other partners."

"So why did you shoot him?"

"Because he decided to play me for a fool!"  Murphy's demeanor flashed to irritation immediately, recalling the night's events.

Tannehill was confused. "What do you mean?  What did he do to exacerbate any situation that would lead to his death?"

Murphy whined, irritation peaking.  "When I came to see him about visiting this room, he wouldn't respond to any of my questions in a coherent fashion.  He simply stopped cooperating and didn't have the decency to tell me why.  He simply played the role of an idiot and made me look foolish as a result."

"So you grew angry and shot him?"

"Yes!  He wasn't going to put one over on me in such a juvenile fashion.  He could've simply told me he had a change of heart and we could've negotiated.  Instead, he decided to act like a simpleton and pretend that he no idea what I was talking about."

Tannehill snorted derisively at this comment and glanced toward Otto, who was still trying to grasp the context around the confession.  He regained his composure and continued.  "Bellucci?"

"Well, Bellucci," Murphy grew pensive, "Bellucci just got a little too nervous.  He did the honorable thing and took the fall for Snell.  I promised him that I could arrange a lighter sentence for Snell's death - something along the lines of an accidental discharge of a firearm - and a larger cut of the goods for taking the fall, but he just got anxious.  He started worrying that others would ask too many questions and piece everything together and that we'd both end up at the end of a hangman's noose.  This after being an informant for the Capital City police department since prohibition.  When have we ever been unable to adjust a crime to fit the civic good?"

"Not too often," Tannehill mumbled in reply.

"And yet," Murphy continued without breaking stride, "he still wondered aloud - aloud and in direct conversation with me - if it were better to come clean and take whatever retribution was due.  So," he shrugged awkwardly, machine gun still in hand, in a what-can-you-do-but-strangle-someone-in-their-cell-and-blame-it-on-suicide type of gesture.

"That's the second time you've mentioned 'honor' and, in both cases, your confederates came away dead.  Seems like there's not a whole lot of pay-off in an honorable agreement with you."

"Frankly, CH, I'm a bit insulted at such a slight, but I can't argue that you have point." He stepped back leveling the gun.  Tannehill, who was in front of the others, including Vera, who'd exited the room to gather with the other hostages, stepped back a foot and motioned for those behind him to follow suit.

"A foot here or there isn't going to make a bit of difference, Tannehill.  Hell, even your noble efforts to shield the others won't do much either.  But, at least, we can both agree that, for once in your life, even if it's at the very end of it, you're doing something honorable."

"Oh, I agree nothing I'm doing will make much difference to your tommy gun," Tannehill continued backing his hapless group away from their would-be assassin inch by inch, "but it will give the sniper a much cleaner shot."

[Author's Note: Well, well, it looks like we may not be too far from wrapping this case up, in one blood-soaked fashion or another.  Today's chapter is 1074 words.  The novel continues to chug along at 51781 words.]

Chapter 47 - Say Hello To My Little Friend

 "I'm still unclear why we needed to wait until morning to show up at Loving's." Vera's voice was hoarse with three martinis and a shot of whisky.  The unaccommodating bumps in the road made her misery that much more acute.

"I'll explain it all in a bit."  Tannehill, aware that his plan could easily fall apart if he'd consumed too many martinis over the course of the night, prudently stopped at one.  Otto, who was driving, and Emily, seated next to him in the passenger's seat, hadn't and seemed to feel the bumps as viscerally as Vera.

"I also don't understand why Spinoza left this morning."

"I'll explain..."

"...it all in a bit.  Yeah, I've memorized that line already," Vera hiccupped.

Before leaving Emily's apartment, Tannehill had phoned ahead to the precinct, telling Lieutenant Murphy to bring a squad to the bakery to inventory and secure the stolen goods and arrest Snell's and Bellucci's murderers.

At 9 AM, the disheveled and groggy group arrived improbably, but exactly, on time, coming to rest in one of the many shallow potholes filled with the previous day's rainwater that dotted the building's crushed gravel driveway.

20 yards ahead, just in front of the entrance was a single, dark, unmarked government vehicle.  Lieutenant Murphy's head peering over the roof from behind the car at the approaching party in keen interest.

Tannehill watched carefully as Emily, Otto, and Vera exited in succession from their own vehicle and then followed slowly.  He'd drawn his revolver - which had been holstered for most of the trip over - before closing the door.  Upon seeing the lieutenant, he prominently indicated that he was securing his own weapon in his shoulder holster and posed no threat.  

"Mornin' Murph."

"Mornin' CH."

Tannehill glanced around in dramatic fashion at the lack of a police presence.  "Your back up's a little light.   Been paying too much overtime to the crew lately?"

Murphy chuckled mirthlessly and reached through the driver's side window before moving over to the hood of the car.  He leveled a Thompson submachine gun at the four hapless pedestrians.  "I think I can handle this on my own.  "If you don't mind, CH, stop where you're at and raise your hands and keep them where I can see them.  You've gone far enough."

Though the response was directed at CH, everyone stopped suddenly and did as commanded.  That is, with the exception of Emily, who doubled over briefly and, with a deftness and violence that surprised her, vomited. The act was due less to the shock of what was unfolding in front of them than from the gin heavy martinis she'd been guzzling since the previous afternoon and the sudden change in equilibrium from exiting the moving vehicle.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.  "Excuse me," she belched quietly before staring back at the weapon pointed at her and raising her arms belatedly.

"I agree, Murph," Tannehill continued, ignoring Emily's act of social transgression, "don't want to go too far."

Vera looked down at the splattered expectorant on the crushed gravel and then back at the tall man pointing a machine gun at them, "if this is a performance art piece, I don't get it."

"You don't look too surprised at this turn of events that we're facing on this fine morning, CH."

Tannehill shrugged, "I suppose it's not out of the question that someone on the force decides to participate in extracurricular activities.  In my experience, it's better to follow orders and keep your head down in hopes of getting out alive.  But, no, I didn't expect you'd be pointing a machine gun at me."

Due to the distance between the two men, they had to shout in order to make themselves heard, but there was no danger of anyone hearing their conversation.  The area was equally as deserted at the start of the workday as it had been on the previous visits.  Only the rats were aware of the ignominious acts now occurring.

Murphy clucked his tongue and yelled back, "that's good advice to follow, CH." 

"Yup," Tannehill drawled.

"Then I suggest we don't waste time and get started.  You'll have to excuse me.  While I'm aware of what we're looking for, I'm not quite sure where it is, so you'll have to lead the way."

"We're headed to the storage rooms behind the building."

"Fine by me," Murphy motioned with the weapon for everyone to walk in front of him.  "Though I don't believe that it bears a reminder, I'll say it anyway - no sudden moves, or I fear that the last meal Miss Brunner ejected will have been her - and your - last."

Vera briefly considered pointing out that the group of them hadn't previously dined on Emily's vomit collectively, but thought better of it, given the serious expression on everyone's faces.

"Who is this man and how does he know Miss Brunner's name?" Otto whispered over the crunching gravel beneath their feet.

"He's your silent partner." Tannehill made no effort to lower his volume in response.

Murphy chuckled when he overheard Tannehill's quip, aware of what the German had likely asked and why he was also confused by the situation.  He decided to play along.

"You see, Otto...  It's Otto, right?" 

Otto stopped and turned, answering slowly in a steady state of confusion, "Yes." 

Murphy motioned with the Thompson to keep moving.  Otto complied.  "You see Otto, when you move the amount of, umm, merchandise," Murphy grinned widely though none of them could see it with their backs facing him, "that you have through our fair city here without notifying the proper authorities of its value, we tend to get a little agitated."

Murphy's sarcasm was lost on Otto.  "Why would I notify the police about stolen goods from Germany?"

Murphy continued without breaking character.  "The police department in Capital City functions a little differently than what you'd expect." He stopped and stood thoughtfully before resuming.  "Then again, where you're from, it shouldn't be all that unexpected," and guffawed at his own joke.

When they reached the storage lockers, Tannehill asked Vera which of the lockers was the one they were seeking.  She paused briefly, debating whether or not she should indicate the literal rats' nest as a decoy in hopes of finding a seam for bursting their current execrable situation open.  Tannehill caught the deliberation behind her pause and shook his head slowly and subtly to dissuade her from any heroics.  She stuck her arm out hesitantly and pointed toward the locked treasure trove she and Spinoza had uncovered days before.  The group shuffled across the rain-soaked courtyard, climbed the stairs to the entrance, and stopped.

"I'm going to reach slowly into my pants pocket and pull out the key, Murph.  I don't intend any funny business, but I can let you perform the honors if you'd prefer."

"It seems to me, CH, it'd be funnier business if I reached my own hand into your pants pocket rather than let you handle it." Feeling relaxed at reaching his goal, Murphy chortled again at his own unintended double entendre.  "Just make sure everything moves nice and slow."

Tannehill did as instructed and pulled the key from his pocket.  He inserted it and slowly turned the knob to open the door.

As the door began to swing open, Murphy continued, "See, the problem is CH, that you've been friendless for so long that, when given the opportunity to choose new friends, you chose poorly."  He paused for effect.  "With different choices, you could've been a very rich man."

Tannehill muttered lugubriously over the creaking door, "don't I know it."

[Author's Note: Today's post brings us across the finish line for the original goal. So, I'll pause for a few musings.  I never actually thought that I'd get very far, given my previous history of maintaining a blog for any consistent amount of time.  Although, to be honest with blogs, it's always a matter of wavering between a consistent topic and simply writing about what I fancy.  The former has a higher probability of making me money, whereas the latter is my desired state, so I tend to waffle and then neglect my writing.  But not in this case!  Currently, in standard font, this novel would come in at about 200 pages - short by novel standards, but certainly the longest-running piece - personal, academic, professional - that I've ever written.  And, I'm still not finished!  Not only am I amazed that I've hit my goal, I'm amazed that I did it in nearly the time allotted (1 year).  Technically, it's about 50% over estimate at 1 year and 5 months, but that's no different (and far better) than any major software project estimate.  I had no expectations to go back and edit the work in its entirety, but as I come closer to wrapping up, it seems like turning this into a polished work begins to make more sense, now that I've seen the characters take on their arcs.  But, first I've got to finish the rest of it.  Today's edition is 1274 words.  The running total is...50,707 words!]

Chapter 46 - The End

 All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack

[Author's Note: Kidding!  Though this gets me to 50000 words.  There are at least another 3 chapters to go (one of which I just finished the first draft of and will publish after my usual editing pass).]

Chapter 45 - We Didn't Have Enough Room for A Wrestling Ring

 "Are you OK, Vera?"  Tannehill could see his friend standing a few feet behind Emily Brunner, Vera's hands casually draped at her sides.  Behind her, Otto was stooped, dusting his suit off over what looked like a pile of broken furniture.  Though the composition of the picture in front of him was perfectly framed - each subject occupied a vertical third of his vision - the subject matter of what he was seeing bordered on the surreal or the chaotic.

"Well, did you bring any dry vermouth?"

"No." He was hesitant, as though the question was a previously agreed code phrase to indicate that real danger was still present but had not yet made itself known.

"Then I've been better." She shoved Emily abruptly, causing the latter woman to lose her balance and stumble to her right.  Vera took advantage of the opening to move past her and stop in front of Tannehill.  "Hi," she exhaled in a friendly, familiar grin.

He pointed the revolver toward the ground, still eminently confused.  Was she expecting a hug?  A grand, sweeping gesture?  "Hi."

She stuck her hand out toward him and flicked it swiftly to the right twice. After a brief pause, recognition filled his eyes and he moved aside, ready to act as a human shield on her behalf from her two attackers.  She exited the door and looked right, exclaiming "Hiya Phil!" to the figure obscured by the exterior wall of the apartment.  With the exception of Vera, all of the other players in the afternoon's drama remained motionless. The two outside the apartment were frozen in confusion.  The two inside, with a mild exception to be made in Otto's case - who continued to bat at the dust on his suit, were frozen in exasperation.

She moved to the next unit down the hall and knocked discreetly on the door.  After a brief exchange with a figure in the doorway, she returned to Emily's unit and squeezed politely past Tannehill again to move into the kitchen.  She was holding a bottle of dry vermouth.

"Who wants a martini?" She held up the bottle in triumph.  Otto looked up at her from his suit and raised a finger in eager acknowledgment.   Emily smirked in resigned disgust but signaled with her own weary digit.

"Are you drunk?" Tannehill stepped through the doorway into the apartment.  Spinoza followed, holstering his pistol in the process after determining there was no longer any immediate threat. 

"Not yet," Vera reached for the gin on the counter and began pulling cabinets open to find martini glasses.  Once she located them, she set them down neatly at equal spacing on the cramped kitchen counter.

Spinoza looked around at the wreckage of the room and quipped in Tannehill's direction, "you still concerned that she can't take care of herself?"  Tannehill looked askance back at his friend with equal parts confusion, amazement, and annoyance.  "What happened here?" Spinoza continued.

"We were trying to clear room for the bandstand, but things got out of hand," Vera had commandeered an ice pick and was chipping shards into a silver cocktail shaker.  Otto and Emily did nothing to confirm or deny her account.  They simply looked in Vera's direction in anticipation of a drink they each felt they deserved.

Following Spinoza's lead, Tannehill secured his own weapon in a shoulder holster, cocked his fedora back and wiped the remaining sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.  For a brief moment, only the sound of the shaker in Vera's hands was audible.  "You made a poor choice in abducting my friend.  Whatever bargaining power you have is now gone, and I'd just as soon as see you arrested for kidnapping as for murder, grand theft, and whatever charges accompany moving stolen goods across international boundaries."

"We didn't kidnap her.  It was simply a mix-up among well-meaning individuals.  She's obviously fine.  She's making martinis!" Emily sniffed indignantly as if to prove her case.

Vera briefly stopped shaking and glared at her.  "You're getting the martini with the bruised gin."  She resumed.

"Just because you botched the effort, doesn't mean it wasn't a kidnapping," Tannehill continued.  "The crime is in the intent not in the effectiveness.  Otherwise, the two of you wouldn't have to be concerned about serving a day of jail time."

"We'll share the proceeds of the Jewish items in the storage locker if you're willing to forget this little," Emily gestured around the room, the folds of her skirt following behind assertively, "incident."

Tannehill was silent again - as his plan was quickly becoming extraneous - and he had to adjust to absorb the information he was receiving.  Much of the plan had involved bargaining with Emily and Otto to keep Vera safe and convincing them that he and Spinoza could be bought with a cut of the proceeds from their allegedly stolen treasure.  Once they admitted they'd stolen the items, it was a matter - not necessarily foolproof - for them to admit that they'd murdered their two other accomplices.  With Emily admitting that she knew of the stolen items and attempting to bribe him them, and with the two of them caught in the act of kidnapping Vera, he decided to go for broke on the final crime.  "Why did you kill Snell and Bellucci?"

Otto's face reddened instantly to the same degree Emily's went pale.  He was about to unleash his pent up indignation in the form of a vehement denial before Vera interrupted - "They're not murderers." She strained her cloudy, chilled concoction of booze into each of the glasses.

Tannehill whipped around to face her, "how are you so sure?"  He didn't mean to sound accusatory, but the shock of her statement and his still heightened stress levels removed any sense of decorum from his thought.

Vera was unflappable as she moved between the three glasses, pouring equal measures into each.  Finally, she took a large chip of ice and plunked it into the middle glass, spilling a quarter of its contents onto the counter.  "That's yours." She glanced at Emily.  Then she turned toward Tannehill.  "Look at how this delightful," she paused, "afternoon has turned out.  I'm an ostensible kidnap victim making martinis for my abductors.  The only weapon I've seen them use is a novelty lighter.  Its greatest danger is that its flame may burn a little too impure.  As you just mentioned, these two seem to be incapable of carrying out anything more than a botched stick-up of a child's lemonade stand."

Both Otto and Emily nodded eagerly, attempting to confirm that yes, in fact, they were too incompetent to carry out such a nefarious plot.

"Besides," Otto chimed in helpfully, "it would have been impossible to have murdered Bellucci when he was in police custody.  He was their friend.  A - what is it - an irritant."

"Informant," Emily muttered out of the side of her mouth.

"Informant," Otto continued.  

Tannehill drew back, startled.  "Bellucci was an informant?"

"Yes.  Snell believed those connections with the police would prove useful during our little...adventure."  Otto capped his statement with a wry smile, proud of imparting new information that Tannehill hadn't been aware of previously.

Tannehill scratched his chin in thought and motioned Spinoza over toward the door.  The two of them whispered excitedly before realizing they could continue the conversation in the hallway without endangering Vera's safety or their plan to entrap their Nazi suspects.  As they moved toward the hallway, Vera pushed the martinis across the breakfast bar to her once-and-would-be captors, "Cheers!" She hoisted her glass, as they did the same.

A handful of minutes later, Tannehill re-entered the apartment without Spinoza.

"Where's Phil?" Vera took another swig of her martini.

"On an errand.  He'll be back in an hour or two."

"In an hour or two?  How long are we planning on staying here?"

"All night.  We'll be heading to Loving's tomorrow at 9 AM.  For now though, we'll need to sit tight and make sure no one's," he glanced over at Emily and Otto, "up to any funny business.  Spinoza will come back to help make sure no one gets any ideas about leaving before then.  So we can all settle in for one long, slumber party."

Vera accepted the abrupt and unannounced plan with good cheer.  She had suddenly moved from captive to captor.  "Well then.  Martini?"

Tannehill nodded in acceptance.

[Author's Note: Hopefully the characters won't be too drunk for the denouement.  Today's edition is 1394 words.  The running total is 49433 (so close!).]

Chapter 44 - The Roller Coaster That Is Capital City

 30 minutes earlier...

"Can you drive a little faster?"  The constant drizzle so prevalent in Capital City had turned into a mid-afternoon downpour, thickening Spinoza's windshield with rain as his car plowed through flooded streets, parting water from the macadam and depositing on the sidewalks.

Spinoza squinted through the windshield as the rain beat angrily on the car's roof and thought he heard thunder (Thunder! - a sound not common in precipitation events west of the Rockies) in the distance.  "If you don't like my driving, you can always take the bus."

"Can you at least drive like there's some urgency attached to our task?"

"Why are you anxious all of a sudden?  Fifteen minutes ago, you seemed unflappable in your confidence."

"Maybe it's the sense of motion, however retarded that may be.  Or the realization that an innocent bystander's been kidnapped by murderers."

"If it's the sense of motion, going faster will only heighten your sense of anxiety, so I'm doing you a favor by slowing down."

"I'm worried about Vera."

"Me too, but getting us killed won't improve her situation any.  Besides, she's resourceful enough as long as neither one of her kidnappers turns into a giant rat."

"Otto can be unpredictable."

"Yes, but, like you pointed out, not very bright.  Without having met him or Emily Brunner, I'd still place my bets on Vera in a battle of wits."

"She can be a bit acerbic, and I'm worried how they'll react if she goes too far."

"Look at the facts.  If she comes to any harm, they lose any bargaining chip they have, and they've exposed themselves as murderers and will have no treasure to show for it.  Stupid or not; impulsive or not; I'm sure that scenario's occurred to them."

"True."  The torrent stopped as suddenly as it started.  Or, rather, it reverted from being a cumbersome downpour to its usual steady trickle that caused the men of the city to fret about their suits puckering and the women to complain about the uselessness of spending any hard-earned money at a hair salon.  

With the change in road conditions, Spinoza's automobile climbed the city's hills at an accelerating rate and then descended cautiously while its operator pumped the brakes.  At the nadir of each urban cliff, both men began to feel nausea overtake them due to the constant stop and start motion.

"Why don't you just coast down the hill like a normal driver?" Tannehill burped in discomfort.

"The shocks on this car aren't exactly in the best shape.  One errant bump at high speed, and you and I will be sliding along the ground, steering wheel in hand, while the rest of the chassis rumbles behind us." 

As the car approached downtown, the terrain flattened a bit, and their nausea eased, the two men began to refine their plan to rescue Vera, force a confession of murder from the would-be international entrepreneurs and find a way to repatriate the stolen items.  Given that they had approximately five minutes before they sped through the central business district and reached Emily Brunner's waterfront apartment, much of that plan involved storming the lobby of the building, menacing any uncooperative doorman, and rushing up the elevator in order to negotiate with Otto and Emily at the point of a gun.

"What it lacks in Shakespearean complexity it makes up for in expediency," Spinoza noted.

"Do you have a firearm?" Tannehill asked, unphased by Spinoza's retort.

"In the glove compartment." Tannehill was more than a little surprised that not only was the answer "Yes," but also "and it's within easy reach of where you're sitting now."  Spinoza sensed this surprise and continued, "It's Capital City.  And I'm a crime reporter.  Who works mostly at night."  He emphasized the end of each sentence to accentuate the obviousness of his statement.  Satisfied with that logic, Tannehill pulled the pistol from its resting place and briefly inspected it before replacing it.

"Why are you concerned if I have a firearm?  We stopped by your office to pick up your own service revolver."

"It's Capital City.  We're chasing murderers.  You can't be too careful," Tannehill mirrored in Spinoza's previous tone.

Fortune - or the still dwindling number of serviceable cars, even on the plush streets of downtown, that could be attributed to the depression's slowly weakening grip - allowed them to park across from the building.  Spinoza reached across Tannehill to open the glove compartment and grab his pistol, performing his own cursory inspection before exiting the vehicle. They dodged a couple of hasty drivers on the waterfront highway who showed their support for the men's mission by saluting them with high-pitched wails from their horns and muffled insults from behind their windows as they sped precariously by.

Once inside the lobby, they encountered the same obstinate doorman who'd hindered Tannehill during his first visit to the building in the week prior.

Tannehill darted past him and the doorman's voice followed him with a resounding "HEY!".  Tannehill slid to a stop in front of the elevator bank and turned to face the doorman and Spinoza, who'd lagged a few steps behind.  "Keep him here," he said, addressing Spinoza.  "I don't want him to call up to Brunner's apartment and tip them off."  Spinoza turned to the doorman, who was now facing him in a mixture of confusion and indignation, and shrugged.

Tannehill hastened into the elevator bank and mashed the up arrow repeatedly.  After an excrutiating 15 seconds, the ding of the elevator alighting in the lobby became audible.  He rushed into the car and promptly forgot what floor Emily Brunner's apartment was located on.  He then sprinted to the mailroom across the way, swearing briefly in resignation as the door closed and the elevator began to climb ever higher.  Scanning the mailroom, he found her - Brunner, 802 - and ran back to the elevator bank, pressing the up arrow with even more impatience than his first attempt.  As he climbed in, he could hear the soft murmur of voices from the lobby and a chuckle as the doors closed around him.

Once, he reached the eighth floor, he stepped in the hallway and stopped, breathless.  He gulped down the stale air of the floor's entrance foyer and wiped the sweat from his brow in an effort to compose himself before confronting Vera's assailants.  A loud ding boomed behind him and he turned, watching Spinoza step breezily into the foyer behind him.

"I thought I told you to watch the doorman!," Tannehill barked.

"He's not going to do anything," Spinoza answered in a measured tone.

"How are you so sure?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press, and, if he helps us out on our little errand, I can get a prominent spot in any resulting story."

"And if he decides that's too thin of a promise to keep him from changing his mind before we reach the door?"

Spinoza rubbed his nose.  "I thought of that."

"And?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press and, if he doesn't help, I can find enough dirt on him to bury him in any resulting story."

Tannehill smiled and drew in one more deep breath before heading toward Emily Brunner's apartment and exhaling.  He motioned for Spinoza to stay a few steps behind and out of sight as he drew his revolver.  They reached the front door of apartment 802, and Tannehill knocked nonchalantly, but with purpose, leveling the revolver at waist height.

From his vantage point a few steps down the hallway, Spinoza watched the door open and heard a familiar voice from the interior of the unit, "Oh, thank God!  Tannehill.  Did you bring any dry vermouth?"

[Author's Note: Well, unless I get extremely ambitious in the next four days, I'm not likely to finish the novel by the end of November - which was a long shot anyway.  But there's a good chance the first draft will be done in conjunction with the long, strange year that 2020 has been. This chapter is 1285 words.  The grand total is 48039 words.]

Chapter 43 - Thanks, But It Just Isn't the Same Without an Olive

 "I'd like a martini," Vera studied her nails and repeated her request before adding "please" along with a toothy but insincere grin.

"We're out of dry vermouth," Otto countered, no hint of irony in his voice, as though he were taking the order seriously.  

The abduction had not gone the way Emily planned.  She had flashed a small, silver firearm in Vera's direction while instructing Otto to leave a note for Tannehill and escorted her captive out of the diner.  She expected that Vera hadn't made a peep while leaving, because she was too frightened by the shock of the events.  She assumed that Vera's facade would crack, once the three of them were barrelling down the city streets toward downtown - a mix of screams, hysterics, tears, and pleading in a snot covered blur of a face begging for her life.

Instead, Vera rested her hands in her lap and her head against the back window and hummed.  She took advantage of staring down from the summit every time they climbed one of the city's famous hills.  She remained in this state of serene meditation the entire ride.  The. Entire. Ride.  Now, back at Emily's flat, she sat calmly in one of the high-backed, armless dining chairs at the head of the table, her white smile matching the impeccable leather of the chair and somehow accentuating the hideous lime green uniform she wore, asking for a martini.

"A manhattan, then."

"Actually," Otto pursed his lips thoughtfully, "we're out of vermouth, full stop."

"Bourbon, neat, please, with just a couple of drops of water."

Otto rounded the breakfast bar, pulled a bottle of bourbon from the counter, and began opening cabinet drawers searching for a tumbler.  "Glass?"

"Drawer to the right of the sink," Emily responded.

Otto finished the order and returned to the dining area.  He motioned for Vera to slide away from the table and she obliged, re-orienting herself in the chair after backing up.  Otto placed the drink on the table, out of her reach.  He sat on the edge of the dining room table and faced Vera.  Emily, disappointed in the cavalier use of her furniture - much of what she had was rented, while she still waited to settle in, but her dining set was brand new - bit her lip and grimaced. "Now, tell me what the notebook says, and you can have your drink," Otto continued.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he hissed.

"Have you seen the notebook?  The notes in it are incomprehensible."

"Yes, but" he began to blubber, "but it's your notebook!"

"What gives you that assumption?  That it was in my possession?  That I'm a woman and must be a secretary?"

"Yes," he exhaled, as if the answer to all three of those questions were self-evident.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to give me the notebook for safe-keeping?  Isn't it more likely that you'd go after Tannehill to get the information you needed?"

"No. Well, yes, but, you have the notebook."

"Otto," Emily interjected, worried that Otto may start an argument with himself.  His face, wide-eyed in confusion, turned toward her.  "Even if she doesn't know what's in the notebook, it's highly likely that she has at least some of the information we seek."

This seemed to inspire a swift change of demeanor in Otto, who swiftly walked over to Vera.  Red-faced with eyes blazing flecks of gold he grabbed her by her hair, yanking her head back over the chair.  She winced with pain.  "WHERE ARE OUR ITEMS?"  He waited briefly for a response before throwing her head unceremoniously against her chest.  He began to turn back toward his previous position at the table to further cement his menace and wait for Vera to come to her senses.

Before doing so, Vera grabbed him by the wrist gently and stood up to face him.  Eyes brimming lightly with tears from such a violent jolt to her sinuses, she smiled thin-lipped and meekly at him.  He smiled back.  Then she slugged him in the solar plexus.

He doubled over, emitting a combination cough and noiseless howl before staggering over to the table and pressing all of his weight on another chair, causing one of its legs to snap.

Emily, more enraged by the demolition of her dining room set than by the assault on her partner, moved across the room and slapped Vera.  Vera, undeterred, kicked Emily in the shin.  This caused Emily to tumble backward and trip over Otto.  Otto, Emily, and the newly wounded chair collapsed to the floor in concert.

There was a slight shifting of forms audible through the wall and a quick muffled exchange of concerned voices.  A few seconds later there was a click of an exterior door and then a polite knock on Emily's own.  While Otto, Emily, and the chair were still tangled together, Vera took the opportunity to answer the door.  She opened it wide to a diminutive man with thinning brown hair dressed in an oversized cerulian cardigan.  

"Excuse me, Miss...," he paused in surprise, "oh, you're not Miss Brunner."

"No," Vera paused as though realizing she was not, in fact, Miss Brunner, "I'm a guest of hers."

"Oh, sorry!" the diminutive man exclaimed, "I'm Mr. Sugarbaker from next door," he paused to gather himself.  "My wife and I heard a commotion.  Is everything alright?"

"Yes, certainly.  We were just a little excited at the realization that we're unable to make martinis for our soiree."

From behind, Emily began to stand apart from what appeared to have been the world's most uncoordinated spider.  "That's correct," she smoothed her skirt as Otto groaned below her, "we have no dry vermouth."

"Oh," another brief pause, "oh," Sugarbaker glanced toward his unit and hitchhiked a thumb in its direction, "it's no problem.  I can..." he stammered.

Vera waved him off.  "No need." She walked over to the table and swallowed two fingers of bourbon in a single gulp.  She coughed, pounded her chest, and continued hoarsely, "we were able to improvise."

"Yes, improvise," Emily affirmed.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, please close the door on your way out, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," and he did, as the two women watched the door seal the view of the exterior hallway.

When Vera turned to face her would-be abductors, she noticed that Otto had closed the distance between the two of them and had Emily's small, silver revolver pointed in her direction.  "What are you going to do with that?" She puffed out her cheeks and blew exasperatedly.  

"If you don't sit down and behave, I intend to kill you."

"No," she glanced at the barrel of the gun and back at Otto, "you don't."

"Yes," he stopped to match her previous pause, "I do."

"No," she kept the cadence up, "you don't."

"And how do you know this to be true?"

"Well, for starters, that pistol barrel isn't bored, so it would be exceedingly difficult to fire a projectile at me.  And, to cap it off, I saw that pistol lying on the end table of the sofa earlier once Emily dropped it there, after our road trip.  It's a cigarette lighter.  So, unless you intend to set me on fire, I don't believe you intend to kill me."

With that explanation, Otto let the gun swing around his finger by the trigger guard and replaced it on the end table in a demonstrable 'what can you do?' manner.

Another knock sounded at the door, sterner than the first.

Emily elbowed Vera out of the way in her haste to open it before Vera decided to play hostess again.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, I told you, we don't need any..." the door swung wide and Tannehill was plainly visible holding a revolver leveled at Emily Brunner.  A real one.

[Author's Note: I've been thinking about this chapter since at least the middle of the book.  What happens to Vera when she's kidnapped?  Does she wilt?  Does she face a couple of psychopaths and barely make it out alive.  Then I remembered that in addition to film noir, another popular genre of the 30s was the screwball comedy, and I was able to pick a scene that matched the current tone of the book.  I didn't want to waste her character development as a damsel in distress, but I needed her to get kidnapped to move the "plot" along.  Today's edition is 1303 words.  The novel's total is 46754 words.]

Chapter 42 - Is It Accusative or Nominative Case?

The trio decided to rest for a day and contemplate the best way to willingly get two suspects to admit to murder.  Tannehill and Spinoza walked into The Happy Hour the following afternoon at the beginning of Vera's shift, eager to swap theories on the best way to catch a criminal.  Seeing that she hadn't arrived yet, they glanced around for a comfortable booth to commandeer, as their usual one was occupied.  They stood frozen briefly in the no man's land between the counter and the booths, heads moving mechanically to assess other possibilities - that booth had a jagged spring that didn't quite protrude from the seat leather; another one had a table that looked sticky with a spray of spilled salt jutting across its landscape; another hadn't been cleared at all.  They considered sitting at the counter, but the round swivel stools seemed to be placed too close too one another, and they felt that they'd be knocking knees over the duration of their discourse.

"Bill, hey Bill!" A raspy voice croaked behind them from the counter, breaking into the rhythm of their seating despair.  They paid no mind, looking for either Vera or a clean booth.  "Bill!" It insisted with more urgency.  They turned to look toward the voice and saw Flo, The Happy Hour's second-best server, staring directly at Spinoza.

A confused minute passed before he could respond.  "Me?" He mouthed at her.  She nodded enthusiastically with a hint of frustration that, of course she was referring to him.  He adjusted his volume.  "I'm sorry you must have me mixed up with someone else.  My name's not Bill."

Now it was Flo's turn to look confused.  "I says to Vera," she started as though already minutes deep into a particular juicy anecdote, "I says 'Who are those two fellas you been hanging out with lately?'  She says to me 'The one who looks like William Powell and the other one?' I says 'Yeah.'  She says, "Funny enough, that one's name is Bill, which is short for William, and the other is Claude Mulvihill."  She paused and pointed a finger at Spinoza, "So, you must be Bill."

The two men grinned at each other in the realization of Flo's likely mischaracterization of her conversation with Vera.  They also decided that correcting her would be a wasted afternoon for all, so Bill, for the time being, he was.

"Is Vera late?  We wanted to chat with her before her shift got too busy."  Aside from their normal booth near the door, which was currently inhabited by two gentlemen arguing vehemently in Russian, one other booth and a stool at the counter had occupants.  The counter occupant coughed briefly as if to signal that his occupancy was equally as important as his boothmates.

"Vera's not here," Flo stated, confirming their observation with a sober obviousness.  "But a little fella stopped by with a note about an hour ago.  He said to give it to Vera's friends when they stopped by."

Tannehill cocked an eyebrow in interest.  "Do you have the note?"

"I do."  Though Flo answered in the affirmative, she made no move to follow up on remediary actions.

"I think, as you've vividly described in your fascinating conversations, that it's safe to assume that we're the friends of Vera that the gentleman was referring to, correct?"

"Right!" Flo still made no indication of movement.

"Would you mind giving us the letter then, as we are the aforementioned friends?" Tannehill's tone was cloyed to avoid betraying the acidness he wanted to direct toward this daft woman.

Flo reached slowly in a large patch pocket of her uniform, her face initially a blank mask, morphing into one of confusion with a protruding tongue as she rummaged through a pocket so deep its very inward boundaries appeared to defy the laws of physics that its outward boundaries hinted at.  Eventually, she pulled a 3x3 white envelope from its maw and handed it to Tannehill.  He had to tug gently to remove it from her grip.

"Thank you," he responded in the same cloying tone.  She abruptly turned and left with her previous blank stair re-affixed.  While curiosity may have a deadly influence over the cat, it had little pull with Flo.

"Nothing addressed on the outside," Spinoza remarked.  It seemed like a poorly mannered letter if it was meant to be an invitation.  No indication of an RSVP and no fancy calligraphy harkened them to a social event.

Tannehill opened the envelope with a stubby index finger and slid out the thick card stock inside.  Again, nothing on the front of the card to give its intentions away.  He flipped it open:

We have das Mädchen.

Call the number I gave you for next steps.

-O

"Huh," Tannehill clucked his tongue.  He casually handed the card to Spinoza.

"So what now?"

"Why do you think he used the German version of 'girl'?"

Spinoza's eyes bulged in mild disbelief and suspicion of Tannehill's reaction. "That's an unusual first question to ask when you've just learned that a friend of yours has been kidnapped by a pair of double murderers."

Tannehill continued undeterred, "I wonder if he did so to pepper the message with additional menace.  Do you know if das Mädchen is a nominative or accusative case?"

"What is wrong with you?!"

"I guess it doesn't matter.  We know it means girl, so the grammar's not important." He sucked his teeth briefly.  "To answer your question - much that we've discovered over time, but in this particular case, nothing.  We now have leverage on the them.  Before, we could only suppose that they'd committed a crime.  Now they're actually in the middle of that commission.  More importantly, he's telling me to call the number he gave me before."

"And what does that mean?" Spinoza was at a loss.

"Well, the number he gave me before was the number to Brunner's apartment.  Even if they're not keeping Vera there, someone has to be manning the phone.  That means, unless they're all camped across the street observing us, we can ambush or follow at least one of them to get the drop on Vera's location.  But I suspect she'll be at the apartment."

"Why do you suspect that?"

"Because Otto's not smart enough to come up with a better plan."

[Author's Note: This was one of those chapters that I expected was only going to be a few words - a note gets delivered and the men take action. Then I realized setting a scene for it sounded a bit more delightful and got to 860 words.  Then, on editing, I wanted to see if I could get to the usual thousand word mark, and, voilà, we're at 1056 for this chapter.  The running total is 45451 words.  With at least another four chapters planned, and only a scant 4549 words to cover, it looks like my July 2019 goal will be a reality soon.]

Chapter 41 - How Much Do You Charge to Break Fingers?

 "What do I do now?"  Tannehill nonchalantly pulled the string of cheddar connecting his mouth and cheeseburger from its bovine substrate and chewed thoughtfully on his rhetorical statement.  Spinoza, unaware that the question was rhetorical, shrugged.  They'd been meeting for lunch frequently in the weeks since Tannehill's disciplinary hearing and dismissal.  Though he claimed outwardly it was solely due to Tannehill's lack of an income, Spinoza could admit to himself that it was a slipshod attempt at atonement.

"I suppose I could return to engineering.  We're in a state that's seeing enormous growth potential and the opportunities should be plentiful."

"That seems regressive, since you've been out of practice for some time." Spinoza was still unaware that he was an audience to the conversation rather than a participant.

Tannehill's voice grew more distant in thought, "but I am a bit rusty." Belatedly, he realized he was being summoned from his haze by someone else.  "Sorry," he picked up a thick fry and munched on it purposefully, "what did you say?"

"I said that returning to engineering likely isn't your best alternative."

Tannehill continued to crunch down on his fry, caught halfway between his own thoughts and Spinoza's observation.  "Yeah, you're probably right."  He sighed less out of resignation or regret and more out of simple exasperation for his dearth of ideas.  To wit, he had thought of exactly one idea for a career change since his expulsion from the police force - returning to his engineering degree.

"You could be a private investigator.  It wouldn't require a drastic change in your career path."

Tannehill starting chewing again in contemplation.  "I'm not certain that would work out well.  My name's been plastered all over the paper -" Spinoza colored at this statement even though Tannehill was talking distractedly rather than taking aim, " - and I don't think people would appreciate the notoriety."

Spinoza scoffed and jerked back in mild disbelief.  "This is Capital City.  Voters don't trust politicians who are too clean.  They assume the candidates are either hiding something so insidious it can't come to light or they'll be eaten alive once they're in office.  I don't think that kind of citizenry is going to mind your type of publicity.  Besides, as a PI, you're expected to be a bit scummy."

With Spinoza's rousing encouragement ringing in his ears the following days, Tannehill decided to set up shop.  His application for a private investigator's license encompassed nothing more than an affirmative response to a follow-up question about his previous employment:

"So, says here you used to be a former cop."

"Yup, I was previously a detective.  Do you need to check any references?"

"No, we just need the filing fee of $10."

Tannehill fished a crumpled bill out of his pocket, smoothed it, and laid it on the counter, smiling for effect.  He wondered if, had he put down "former chief of police" or "former president of the United States," the interlocution would have been more rigorous.  He decided it wouldn't have.

His next order of business was to find office space.  He decided to stay near his old precinct, as he felt he knew the neighborhood better and would be able to operate with some degree of comfort in getting his business off the ground.  The realtor he talked to offered him a twenty-foot by twenty-foot office in a shared office corridor that had been damaged by water.  The realtor also swore that the water damage was due to a previously busted water main and not the notoriously fickle ocean located a convenient two blocks away.  Traces of salinity on the water damaged walls were slight and the office air smelled more of mildew than seafood, so Tannehill took the realtor at his word and put down a security deposit.

The artist who appeared to complete the signage on the office's frosted window had lenses that hinted at severe myopia.  His conversation with Tannehill about the contents of the signage was mumbled and mostly conducted in a foreign language.

"Tannehill - two 'n's two 'l's," Tannehill spoke slowly, suspicious of his commissioned artist's comprehension skills.  Upon completion, the sign read "CH Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigator."  Tannehill considered it a win, since the number of letters within his name remained consistent with his own preferred spelling.

Office space rented and PI license in hand, his final order of business was to drum up clients.  Spinoza's guilt played a big part here as well - his position as the lead crime reporter at The Daily Courier allowed him to offer Tannehill two weeks' worth of ad space in the classified section of the paper.  And, Spinoza wasn't entirely immune to the politics of Capital City either.  He was able to weave a few deft references to the up-and-coming PI businesses in the city - specifically near the city's South Docks neighborhood - for matters that the police were simply too overwhelmed or indifferent to handle. 

It took fewer than 24 hours for calls to begin flooding Tannehill's desk.  Many of the calls involved spouses' or lovers' inquests about potential infidelity.  Others about neighbors' suspected misdeeds.  A few requested help for misplaced or presumably stolen items.  Some hinted heavily about help with protection rackets - both in forming them and busting them up.  Spinoza had been correct about the citizenry's tolerance for notoriety.  Many of Tannehill's prospective clients shamelessly referenced his perceived vigilantism and the need for more people who were "willing to clean up the streets."  What his willingness to clean up the streets had to do with a glut of unfaithful paramours, Tannehill hadn't a clue, but he was fine playing the role in order to score a paycheck. 

After Tannehill's first full week of re-employment, Spinoza visited the office with a house warming offering.

"Thanks, but it wasn't necessary," he grasped the outstretched bottle of muddied brown liquid thrust in his direction.

"It's not really a gift, it's simply me trying to diminish my inventory.  Alcohol is still prohibited after all."

"So, it is," Tannehill muttered, turning the bottle over in his hands.  He stopped and squinted at the label.  "Was this produced prior to Prohibition?"

"Indeed it was."

"I didn't even know they made bourbon in Nebraska," he exclaimed, placing the bottle in his bottom drawer next to his former service revolver.  He reached for his coat, then the light.  "I'm hungry.  The usual?"

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1058 words.  I'm hoping to strike a nice coup de grâce and finish the first draft during Nation Novel Writing Month, since it was an exercise for NaNoWriMo that kicked off this whole venture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  The running total is 44395.]

Chapter 40 - The Four-Fingered Plot

 "So, you were knowing partners with a criminal?"

"Yes," Tannehill slid down into the booth and cocked an elbow to rest on the top of the backrest.  His two companions remained silent in non-response. "What?" He pulled his elbows from the rest.

"You were ok with that?" Vera continued.

"I'm surprised you're that naive.  Policemen have confidential informants and PIs aren't exactly hobnobbing with the cream of society.  If he'd have done something egregious, I would've turned him in."

"Like grand theft?"

"I didn't know that he was in a scheme that ultimately got him killed.  He ran low-level bunko scams, not international crime syndicates.  And, this is Capital City.  If you're part of a robbery ring that's bilking people 6,000 miles away, you're probably more likely to be beatified than arrested.  Plus, his extra-curricular activities led to enough capers that generated business, and, if you've been able to guess from my choice of attire and high-end dining selections, I can't afford to be picky."

"He's got a point," Spinoza chimed in helpfully.

Vera polished off her coffee, "I'm going to get more cream," and pushed purposefully away from the table.  She returned a minute later with cream and a chocolate chip cookie.

Nibbling one of the chocolate chips from its doughy resting place, she forged on.  "So, you suppose that Bellucci met Otto and Brunner through Snell?"

"In a roundabout way, yeah."

"They just show up at the port of entry to Capital City and there's Snell, holding a sign reading 'need help committing a felony, I'm your man!'?"

"Not so much a sign as a sandwich board.  I'm sure he didn't want to get lost in the shuffle."

"Was it scripted in Romanesque or Gothic?"

Tannehill paused when he couldn't retort.  "Look, Brunner's father is a diplomat, so he probably knows other Germans stationed throughout the world.  I'm assuming some of those Germans, especially under the current administration, aren't exactly following the letter of law in the lands of their diplomatic assignments.  I'd even be willing to assume that they'd double-cross their own goose-stepping masters if it meant a big payday."  He took a large swig of his now cooled coffee and continued.  "Snell would likely know the most morally dubious Nazis and would be able to use those connections to arrange the party we've been discussing forthwith."

"So, Bellucci, Snell, Brunner, and Otto are now all connected.  Otto and Brunner want to dump their stolen items, Snell has a safe place to store them, and Bellucci?  Bellucci does what?"

"He's probably the fence.  If he was a rumrunner, he would've had connections to gangs throughout the city and would've met people that can help dispose of items that were obtained via less than honorable means."

"And why the whole Beederman Bellucci conundrum?"

"Depravity."  Spinoza started into his coffee while speaking, stirring a non-existent creamer into a deep, bitter vortex with his spoon.

"It's depraved to assume another identity?" Tannehill asked.

"You said that Bellucci was short and darkly-complected with dark hair correct?"

"Yup."

"And, if you didn't know his name was Bellucci, would it have been much of a stretch for him to actually have been 'Harry Beederman'?"

"No."

"Beederman is a Jewish surname." Spinoza paused, collecting the points around his theory before putting it into further words.  "All of the artifacts we found," he swept his arm across the table in a grand gesture, "are of great import to Jewish heritage.  The dollar value of those items is likely extremely high based on historical value alone.  But add in the sentimental or cultural aspect and the dollar value skyrockets even more."

"So, you think he took on the persona of Harry Beederman to invoke a sense of collective guilt or tug at the heartstrings of Jews in the area in order to up the sale prices," Vera asked, head bowed and scribbling intently on her pad.

"I'd frame it a bit differently.  Given the precarious way in which these objects were vacated from their rightful owners, I'd be willing to bet that Jews in the area would be desperate to keep our history from being ripped away from us.  Harry Beederman would just make that desperation that much more poignant.  Especially if he's panicked that time is of the essence before the artifacts are confiscated and returned to the Germans or dispersed to the highest bidder by the state authorities at the conclusion of any criminal investigation."

"You're right," Tannehill sat up straight in the booth, "that is pretty depraved."

"No more depraved than stealing from an authoritarian group of thugs, who in turn, stole these artifacts from honest citizens and then committed two murders in the further continuance of that crime."

"So, let's pause again to sum up what we've surmised," Tannehill began to count the points on each finger.  "We know that two Germans absconded with treasure earmarked for Nazi coffers and shipped it to the west coast of the USA."

"Why the west coast and not the east coast?  The journey would've been much shorter," Vera asked.

Tannehill stopped briefly, holding on to point one of his index finger.  "I'd wager that they were trying to put some time and distance between themselves and their victims," - Spinoza scoffed at Tannehill's choice of vocabulary for the Nazis - "victims only in the purely technical sense, as their victims would likely resort to extra-legal coercion in order to recover their assets.  In addition, the Nazis, if they knew the treasure was headed for America, would likely look on the east coast first.  It's more heavily populated and, therefore, a better area to dispense of the goods. And, it's a much shorter journey as you pointed out."

Vera and Spinoza nodded in accordance with this theory.  Tannehill extended his middle finger to stand alongside its indexed brethren, "point two - they use their government connections to find Snell.  Snell, likely eager to assist, informs them of a place to store their goods and offers to assist them with finding someone who can offload them."

Vera and Spinoza remained silent in further tacit acknowledgment.  His ring finger appeared, "third, Snell opts not to tell them where the treasure is housed, and, when he's failed to be persuaded of revealing its location, he's killed for that failure - whether it's out of frustration or over-zealous techniques of persuasion."

The house continued to remain silent.  He bent his pinky finger back, "finally, for motives unknown, Bellucci/Beederman takes the fall for Snell's murder.  And, possibly because he's seen as a weak link in the whole scheme, he's murdered as well."  

Vera piped up after completing her final note, "ok, now what?"

"Now, we trade what they want - a storehouse full of stolen goods - for what we want - an acknowledgment that they murdered my partner.  Since this particular crime involves the transportation of goods across international boundaries, the Feds are likely to get involved if we can get anything to stick to them."

"Meaning?" 

Spinoza interjected, "meaning it's not left up to Capital City's finest to further justice, so justice has a better chance of being furthered."

"Can I see the notes you've taken so far?" Tannehill extended his hand toward Vera and her note pad.

She shrugged, "sure," and slid the notepad across the booth to him.

His brow furrowed in frustration and incomprehensibility after staring at the page for 30 seconds, "I can't read a word of this!"  He slid the pad to Spinoza, whose face affected the same countenance.

She shrugged again.  "It's my own shorthand.  I like to call it High Gothic Romanesque." While the two men sat with fixed looks of exasperation glued to their faces, she calmy reclaimed the notepad and exited the booth for a refill on cookies and a glass of milk.

[Author's Note: Today's part of the Whodunit weighs in at 1297 words.  It occurred to me while writing this chapter that, while I had a strong sketch of the crime and its particulars, the details and plan for catching the criminals were a little lacking.  Well, that's what you get when your primary goal is to write 50000 words come hell or high water.  I guess we'll figure it out along with the rest of the gang.  The grand total now stands at 43377 words.]

Chapter 39 - And...?

The next day they reconvened at the same booth, three piping-hot, buttery egg sandwiches and a full pot of coffee distributed equally among them.

Vera had, reluctantly, taken on the role of the scribe when the two men demurred.  Initially, they attempted to justify their laziness through flattery insisting that as a waitress and a student, she'd be best equipped to take quick, copious notes in the clearest hand.

"Aren't you a crime reporter?"

Spinoza mumbled back something in acquiescence that made it sound like it was more of an enthusiastic hobby than a full-time job.

"And aren't you a PI and former police detective?  I'd assume you'd need to take copious notes for both positions?"

Tannehill quietly trailed off about his frequent reliance on his camera and strong memory.

"So, I'm stuck with an amateur voyeur into the macabre and a pervert who goes around photographing or remembering every intimate detail he sees."

They both began to strenuously object in a rising tenor indicating how much note-taking they did during their working hours and how this would just be an extra burden on top of that.

"Aren't we both solving a crime and, ultimately, reporting on the details and outcome of that investigation?"

The tenor stopped.  There was an awkward detente.

She sighed, "fine I'll do it.  For two fellas that know an awful lot about the writing style of people who've been dead for seven centuries, your literacy skills seem to be lacking." The bitterness still rising she added, "I suppose you want egg sandwiches too?"

The men looked sheepishly at one another and then pleadingly at her.

The absurdity of the additional extravagant request and her own hunger made her cave.  15 minutes, and a therapeutic session involving the unnecessary clatter of multiple pots and pans, later they'd reconvened to focus on the investigation.

"So what did you find out after our meeting yesterday?"

Tannehill sipped the scalding coffee carefully and started, "I'm fortunate enough to retain a few friends in the department.  They weren't able to pull anything on Emily Brunner or anyone answering Otto's description, but they did find something on Harry Beederman.  Or rather they didn't find anything when they pulled the rap sheet for that name, but they did find a few hits for the last name Bellucci, and one of them - a Rico Bellucci - had a mugshot that matched our dearly departed friend."

Vera scribbled away, "go on."

"He's a petty criminal.  He assisted with some small-time operations during Prohibition and got picked up a few times for grifting, running numbers, and some penny-anty theft, but nothing to indicate he spearheaded a vast international conspiracy."

"I may have something there," Spinoza blew on his coffee, willing it to cool down.

Vera stopped scribbling, "a vast international conspiracy?"  She took advantage of the break in the conversation to dump cream and a generous spoonfall of sugar into her own coffee.  She stirred it briefly and then gulped down the first swallow.

"Not so much on the conspiracy part, but more so on the international part."

"And...?" Vera could never tell if the histrionics that surrounded these two men were part of an audition for an as yet unrevealed omniscient director or if they were simply trying to keep her interest piqued in the most dramatic fashion possible.

Spinoza sipped his coffee carefully.  "I got in touch with my newspaper friends in Europe and found a similar rap sheet for Otto Hoffman.  Nothing particularly garish, just a lot of petty crimes.  He did serve the role of resident thugs for local Nazi parties when the role occasioned it though, so anything that he could've conceivably served time for was dismissed.  He has gotten himself in a bit more hot water as of late though."

"How did you know to search for Otto Hoffman, if we only knew him as 'Otto'?"  Tannehill took equally delicate sips of his coffee.

Spinoza raised his finger and shook it gently while pursing his lips in a sign of drawn-out exposition.  Vera wondered silently if he was preparing to recite a soliloquy from Hamlet before illustrating his point.

"Well, I asked around about Emily Brunner.  Her father is a mid-level German government bureaucrat - important enough to have connections, but not important enough to warrant any particular name recognition.  Turns out that he had a driver assigned to him for diplomatic duties and that driver was - "

"Let me guess," Vera interrupted, "one Otto Hoffman answering to the description of our resident Otto."

"Yes," Spinoza took another infinitesimal sip.

"And this recent hot water he's found himself in?"

Spinoza paused and Vera sighed, "I was getting to that." 

Sip.

"C'mon Mary Pickford!  Enough with the dramatic pauses.  I've got a life to live here after we're done."

"Turns out," sip, "that he'd been in charge of routing certain government confiscated property to various warehouses around Berlin, and -"

"And that property never made it to its intended location?  Right, got it.  I think we can safely assume that Emily probably knew her father's chauffeur fairly well and was more than happy to participate in a scheme that would increase her personal wealth."

A sip of acknowledgment followed.

Vera scribbled a final note and put her pencil down. "So let's recap.  We have two petty criminals and a low-level diplomat's daughter embarking on some scheme to sell stolen Nazi treasure, which itself appears to be stolen from prominent Jewish households.  We can deduce, based on the information at hand, that two of them knew each other beforehand.  We can't yet deduce how they know," she paused and looked at her pad for confirmation, "Bellucci."

"Or Snell," Tannehill chipped in.

"Or Snell."

Tannehill and Spinoza sipped simultaneously to indicate agreement in her presentation of the facts so far.

She quaffed another gulp of her own sweet concoction, "you two are going to need to start drinking that joe faster if you want to fire up your brain cells and solve this thing anytime before the decade closes." 

Tannehill delicately stuck a pinkie into his cup and tested the temperature.  Determining that it was on the right side of scalding, he slurped loudly and cleared his throat.  "Well, I can imagine that introduction was likely made via Snell.  He may not have been much in the way of a detective, but he did have a comprehensive catalog of every two-bit con artist and small-time crook up and down the entire coast."

Vera began scribbling again as the session continued.

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1084 words.  The running total for the novel is 42080.  I have seven more chapters planned and at a rough average of 1000 words per chapter and a penchant for underestimating my number of chapters, it looks like I'll be able to coast to 50000 words without having to resort to some silly trope like the discovery of Snell's unfinished and unpublished fantasy novella.]

Chapter 38 - The Incredible, Edible Egg

 Justice was swift for Tannehill's career as a policeman, but not necessarily impartial.  Scores of jealous peers, tired of years of watching Tannehill rise in the department without participating in requisite corruption that should be needed to secure status were willing to swear witness to his malevolent deeds the night of the shooting.

Each subsequent witness told a more fantastic story than the last.  By the end of the hearing, a bystander in the room could hardly be faulted if they believed a Tannehill, formed of smoke and fire, appeared on the slick city streets that night, stretching incendiary arms 10 feet wide in order to consume any small child in the vicinity while the police present at the scene shivered cowering from such evil and could do nothing to prevent such insidiousness from occurring.

The enormity of the exaggeration worked in Tannehill's favor.

Without it, the department would've had the opportunity to condemn him as a loose cannon - someone who'd become too entitled with his own sense of power and was callously indifferent to lives of those he swore to serve and protect.  This narrative would've opened him up to prosecution or worse. The department, in turn, would have the opportunity to show that they'd reformed their previously (perceived) corrupt ways and were in the process of weeding out the ne'er do wells among them. 

With it, the department would need to admit that they sanctioned allowing the devil incarnate walk through the city streets on their behalf with a group of agitated policeman following him around and speaking up only when the pinnacle of tragedy demanded it.

Instead, the department issued a statement indicating, that while a decorated war hero, a valuable member of the force, and a generally upstanding citizen, Tannehill had exercised poor judgment the night of the raid and, given the circumstances around the event and the growing chorus of voices within and outside the department expressing displeasure with his behavior, it was untenable to keep him employed as a sworn officer.

Surprisingly, this statement wasn't far from the truth.  Tannehill himself believed he exhibited poor judgment and didn't feel he was fit to perform his duties to maintain law and order within Capital City anymore.  He realized that, even in a city that wasn't rotten to the core, the fact that he was simply fired rather than persecuted was a gift he shouldn't overlook.  

Of course, what went unsaid were the institutional decisions and events that led to both the night in question and his firing that shouldn't have occurred in the first place.  He shouldn't have been taken off desk duty while still suffering from the trauma of the war. The department shouldn't have escalated the war on alcohol to the violent level it reached, and shouldn't have allowed the criminal enterprises to grow so large through its own need to bolster corruption and graft to line the pockets of its leaders.  Spinoza shouldn't have let his own singular focus and jealousy of his friend shade his reporting.  The Volstead Act probably shouldn't have been passed in the first place.  However, like most things in life, the most proximate and simple causes were taken to be the root ones, while the underlying infrastructure continues to elude all of those but the most diligent investigators.  And even the diligent typically remain silent, aware that, in whispering their secrets to others, they are simply Cassandra in the land of the deaf.

Posthumously, Charles Peabody's legend grew past what most 9-year olds or their parents could expect.  His penchant for simple jokes was elevated into a precocious rapier wit.  His mischievous streak became an unquenchable curiosity.  His boundless energy became a budding graceful athleticism.  Contrary to other cases in which the city often elevated the reputation of the most base individuals humanity could produce, Charles was an average, or even an above-average, if misdirected, child.  However, his status after death elevated him to the level of a saint for the anguished city.

In memoriam for such a prodigy with unlimited potential, the city named the new park located in the tony Backbay neighborhood "The Charles Peabody Memorial Park" and installed a bronze statue of his quasi-likeness at the entrance.  The park's intent was to remind all citizens of the sacrifices made in the name of justice and the tragic acts that accompanied those pursuits.  Sadly, the seagull citizens of Capital City didn't comprehend the metaphorical intent and took to shitting on the statue with thoughtless abandon, causing the statue to begin to discolor almost immediately.

As is typical with most sweeping change, the mechanism for movement is completely divorced from the underlying causes that brought the problems to bear.  Tannehill, Peabody and the other innocents gunned down, and even the griping police officers caught up in the corrupt workings of their department with little attention paid to their own self-awareness were all simply tangents to the main forces at play.  

Still, Spinoza's screed against Tannehill and the department began to have effects.  Citizens who previously assumed the department would protect its own at all costs began to believe that, if the department could cast out its most favored son, the city stood a chance at actual justice, however erroneous their assumptions may have been about the department's actual motives.  As a result, though, the department recognized the futility of a law that few wanted on the books and were too shamed by recent events to continue to buy into the naked corruption of associating (explicitly) with bootleggers.  Surprisingly, one of the most violent cities at the outset of Prohibition quickly became one of the most reasonable.  Rather than worry about staunching the flow of illegal liquor, Capital City focused on keeping the violence around turf wars in-check in order to avoid naming another public park after someone other than a local politician.

Spinoza's exultation was short-lived.  He realized that the city and the department enacted reforms for the wrong reasons, and that the benefits of change would be short-lived and narrowly scoped.  While Tannehill wasn't completely blameless, Spinoza realized much of the ire directed at his former friend was a result of events neither of them had much control over and tried to make amends in a style typical of the male of the species and the time - 

Both men met, staring the ground beneath them.

"Sorry to hear about your job," Spinoza mumbled as an opening gambit.

"Yeah, well," Tannehill trailed off in response, sighing.

"Look, I think there are some things I could've done differently," Spinoza countered.

"I think there are all things we could've done differently," Tannehill retorted with a philosophical flourish.

Still staring down at the ground, Spinoza awkwardly swung a rigid right paw to awkwardly connect with Tannehill's shoulder.  "Can I offer you food, by way of condolence?"

Tannehill cocked a subtle eyebrow, "what were you thinking?"

"Egg sandwich."

"Egg sandwich?  Just plain egg?"

"You'd be surprised how good they are."

Tannehill shrugged, "ok, where?"

"There's a new diner near your former precinct.  Named The Happy Hour.  It just opened.  I figure it's worth a shot."

Tannehill shrugged again in acceptance as the two men made their way toward the waterfront, suddenly overcome by hunger.

[Author's Note: Hope I don't get sued!  1204 words today for a total of 40996 in the novel.]

Chapter 37 - In Europe It's Known As Rocket

 "A complete manuscript?"  Tannehill slowly stirred a small bit of cream into his coffee.  A piping hot egg sandwich sat next to it.

Spinoza nodded, "the parchment didn't show any defects, so it had to be made for someone of note."

Tannehill whistled and paused, "Miniscule script or gothic?"

Vera's gaze bounced between the two men, "Am I the only one who hasn't taken a course on ancient dark ages manuscripts?"

"Technically," Spinoza was eyeing Tannehill's egg sandwich, "the dark ages occurred a few centuries prior to the creation of the illuminated manuscripts.  Don't worry, kid," he emphasized the last word, "you're just not familiar with the books because you weren't around when they were created, like we were."  He gestured with his pointer finger between himself and Tannehill, eyes temporarily distracted from the egg sandwich.  "I, for one, remember when Constantine sanctioned Christianity as a state religion and had a feeling that would cause trouble for my people."

Vera's mouth was drawn into a shallow pout, but she remained silent.

Tannehill continued, unphased by the exchange between his companions, "So, you think this is some sort of robbery ring against Jewish households?"

"Not exactly.  I don't think anyone's being robbed of goods, at least in the traditional sense."

"Not in the traditional sense?  What do you mean?"  With this last statement, Tannehill stuffed a quarter of the egg sandwich into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Given the volume of treasure and the fact that it appears to be predominately - if not exclusively - artifacts originating from Jewish households, I think these are valuables confiscated by the German government."

"The Nazis? I know they're not the friendliest of political parties, but governments enrich themselves through graft, corruption, and, in virtuous cases, taxation.  They don't participate in outright theft."

"You live in Capital City and you can say that with a straight face?"

"Fine," Tannehill amended his statement, "they don't do it at such an egregious rate and in plain view of everyone watching."

"The German government isn't a normal government and who says anyone's actually watching?"

"It's not out of the bounds of reality," Vera chimed in.

"That a modern Western government simply confiscates the property of its citizens without due process?"

"Ah," Vera countered, "but that's just it.  Jews are no longer citizens in Germany."

Tannehill recalled the article he'd read traveling downtown the night of Snell's death.  "Maybe so, but they were just stripped of their citizenship recently.  The accumulated wealth in that room alone - which I can only assume to be a minuscule fraction of what's probably still left back in Germany - indicates that this started long before the laws were enacted."

"This is a government that murdered it's most ardent supporters last summer without trial for no discernible reason." Spinoza's voice was calm but a thread of exasperation was beginning to creep into his tone.

"Ok," Tannehill responded in a placating tone, but one still bordered with skepticism, "if the German government has confiscated these items there's still a more pressing question surrounding them."

"Which is?"

"What are all these artifacts doing in a warehouse storage room 6000 miles from where they were taken?"

The three of them sat in silent contemplation of an answer.  Tannehill took the opportunity to indulge in another bite of his egg sandwich.

"This sandwich is really good," Tannehill's statement was barely comprehensible through a mouthful of bread, egg, and butter.

"We make good egg sandwiches here," Vera responded.

"I've had egg sandwiches here dozens of times and they've never tasted like this."  He picked up the remaining sandwich and inspected it for visual clues to its culinary excellence.

"Most of the sandwiches here are made from fried eggs, so they're either too messy or too over-cooked.  It's tough to do a fried egg right."

"Oh, yeah," Tannehill turned the sandwich to face him, "they're scrambled."

"CH is may know medieval manuscripts, but epicurean he ain't," Spinoza added in defense of his friend's rather obvious statement.

"Ok." Vera said hesitantly, expecting that the fine line between epicurean and not was more nuanced than being able to identify how eggs were prepared.

"Anything else make the sandwich special?"

"It's got more butter than most.  And it's dressed with arugula."

"With what?" Spinoza asked.  Tannehill's look of confusion echoed Spinoza's tone.

"It's like mini-lettuce," Vera deadpanned, a dawning awareness that neither of her companions would likely qualify as epicurean.

Tannehill swallowed his final bite. "How do you know so much about the sandwich?"

"I made it."

Both Spinoza and Tannehill nodded in dawning understanding and appreciation at Vera's declaration.

"What news, ho," Vera quipped, changing the subject, worried that the men would soon begin waxing poetic on the virtues of iceberg lettuce.

"Hmm?"

"You said you had news as well when you arrived at the diner?"

"Oh yeah," Tannehill swallowed a remnant bit of mini-lettuce, "Bertucci's dead."

"Who?"

"Sorry, I mean Bellucci."

"Who?"

"Beederman."

"Who?"

"The john.  Brunner's john."

"Wait, Brunner's a prostitute?  That's new information.  It adds a new complication."

"No, wait.  That's not what I... It's just, well, I don't know what to call him."

"Lover?" She offered.

"It didn't look like love to me.  And I don't think they're married."

"I don't think love and marriage are necessary and sufficient conditions for being together."

"No, that's not what I meant either, I just..."

"Who's Brenner?" Spinoza interjected aware he was two paces behind Vera, who was apparently two paces behind Tannehill in the unfolding of the tale.

"Brunner." Tannehill exhaled.  "Brunner is the woman I caught having sex with Bellucci, Beederman - whatever! - the night Snell was murdered.  She and her goon of a partner," he slowed his speech deliberately unaware if he was annoyed with himself for not communicating clearly before or with his audience for asking too many questions, "Otto.  His name is Otto.  She and her goon of a partner had some connection with Snell and this treasure stash.  Otto admitted to roughing Snell up to find out the stash's location, but swears he didn't kill him."

"And now Otto Beederman is dead?" Spinoza murmured, eager to keep up.

Tannehill exhaled again, "No.  Otto and Beederman are two different people.  Beederman (or Bellucci) is dead.  Apparently strangled himself in his cell even though the laws of physics seem to prove otherwise.  Otto's still lurking around the city.  Probably looking to brain someone else for a good time."

"Looks like any working theory we've got needs a little more work first," Vera picked up Tannehill's empty plate and headed toward the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder and pointed a backward-facing index finger toward Spinoza, "you want an egg sandwich?"

Spinoza nodded vigorously.

"Good.  I'll add extra arugula.  I'll also put on a fresh pot of coffee, because it looks like we may be here a while."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1137 words for a running total of 39792.  It was relatively easy to confuse Beederman/Bellucci/Bertucci's name, since I constantly have to go back to previous chapters in order to remember his name].

Chapter 36 - Alliteration Sells

 CARELESS COP CAVALIERLY GUNS DOWN CURIOUS KID

DATELINE - CAPITAL CITY

In what's become an all too common occurrence within our city environs lately, the Capital City Police Department engaged in a pitched gun battle with suspected bootleggers last night, throwing caution to the wind and leading to the tragic death of 9-year-old Charles "Chuckie" Peabody.

During what was described as a "routine" raid by Superintendent William Buttons, the lead detective on the case, Detective Charles Tannehill, fired indiscriminately at what fellow officers on the raid assumed was an alleycat prior to the commencement of the raid.

"He gave no warning.  He just drew his weapon and fired into the alley with no apparent cause for provocation.  We all could have been killed," remarked Patrolman Liam "Whisky" O'Shaugnessy of the night's events.

"What made it worse is that he tipped off the bootleggers with his little 'William Tell' stunt," Patrolman John Sutton added.  "Some little kid's dead in the gutter, and the city has nothing to show for it. Those punks got away scot-free."

Unbeknownst to Sutton at the time of publication, the two operators of the establishment targeted for the raid were found dead a few blocks away.  Each had a single gunshot wound to the head.  Though identification has not been confirmed, neither operator is known to be one of the major crime figures inhabiting the city.  Though this is pure speculation, there are unconfirmed reports that the executions were carried out by the police department itself in a misguided attempt to frame the suspects for the child's murder and exact a "street justice" for revenge.

"Nah, it was definitely Tannehill who shot [him]," O'Shaugnessy confirmed.  "Laughed about it and said 'good' when told the kid was dead, too," O'Shaugnessy added.  "Guess these Golden Boy types think they can get away with anything if they have the backing of the [police] brass."

When questioned about his own reputation as a department enforcer and his current pending hearing on extortion charges, O'Shaugnessy demurred.  "There are a few dark corners a policeman needs to inhabit in order to keep the city safe," O'Shaughnessy said.  "Regarding the trumped-up extortion charge, my lawyer has advised me to keep quiet in case the penny-ante liar who brought the complaint finds another reason to use another innocent remark I've made out of context."

When reminded that his accuser currently has his jaw wired shut, O'Shaugnessy waived the claim away and continued.  "It takes a real low-life to shoot a kid in cold blood and brag about it afterward.  I guess the College Boy didn't get enough target practice growing up in Chicago and decided to live a Wild West fantasy once he moved out here."

Detective Tannehill is a native of Chicago, IL who joined the Capital City Police Department in 1913.  His ascendancy through the ranks to date has been rapid.  As some members of the force have speculated, this may have been due to a desire to burnish the department's image with a supposedly "honest" man, rather than based on merit.  Most notably he served as department spokesman for major crimes.  As is typical with many men his age, he served in the war.  Though the department notes that he served "with honorable distinction," the veracity of that claim has been called into question by several sources.

Recently, as a high-profile "war hero", Tannehill has taken over the raids in the enforcement of the Volstead Act with mixed results.  This latest raid is another black eye against the department's current policies of enabling politically connected personnel to lead their tactical operations without appropriate training. 

Charles Peabody could often be seen parading through the neighborhood, wearing a bedsheet as a cape, and chatting up the local policemen on the beat.  No question was too insignificant to ask in regard to their procedural duties and any chance he had to handle a piece of police memorabilia - a tin badge, the patrolman's cap, his manacles - resulted in a squeal of delight.  "If there weren't an age barrier for entry into the department, Chuckie probably would've made sergeant by this time," his father, Richard, reminisced, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"It breaks my heart to think that the very dream he was chasing was what killed him.  His ma and I know that the city is a dangerous place, but we always expected he'd be protected if he was in the presence of the 'Boys in Blue' as he and I and liked to call the force.  I guess we were wrong."

"It's a tragedy, certainly," Buttons maintained when being questioned on the next steps in the investigation.  "Unfortunately, this city has faced its share of hard times and is likely to face many more before our war against the criminal under element that's done nothing but laugh in the face of law and order is won.  Though Detective Tannehill acted with poor judgment, I feel that the other patrolmen on the scene may have misinterpreted the lens through which they perceived his actions."

"The department is competitive and Detective Tannehill is highly decorated.  It's not out of the question to assume that jealousy plays a subconscious part when giving their statements.  I have zero doubt at all that any officer on the Capital City police force behaves with anything but the pinnacle of professionalism that's expected of them."

"Rest assured that the department will spare no expense in determining the details behind this tragedy, nor in examining the vigilante justice that ensnared the two assailants whose very existence set this horrible night in motion.  Detective Tannehill will have a full and fair hearing in front of his superiors.  As always the Capital City Police Department is here to protect and serve its fine denizens and ensure that impartial, but swift, justice is served towards those who decide to run afoul of its laws and its law enforcers."

At the time of this posting, no hearing for Detective Tannehill has been scheduled.  Unknown suspects in connection to the deaths of the unnamed assailants remain at large.  Charles Peabody will be laid to rest at Our Lady of Eternal Mercy cemetery on Thursday.

- Phil Spinoza

Lead Crime Reporter

Capital City Daily Courier

[Author's Note: Sibilance sells superbly, but the headline didn't lend itself to multiple S's.  This chapter comes in at 1036 words.  The running total is 38655.]

Chapter 35 - Do You Think The Chandelier is AC or DC?

 Vera peered into the room at vague, static shapes filling the square space.  The room looked to be the same size as the other storage areas, but, even in the dim light, it was apparent that it had been cared for, unlike the rat hotel or the haphazard haberdashery.  

She peered further into the darkness before a cascade of light appeared above her.  A small crystal chandler illuminated the space, revealing a cache of treasure that would impress even Aladdin or Long John Silver.  Spinoza's hand crept around the wall to her left, affixed to a light switch.

Small shelves interspersed at regular intervals throughout the room held sundry glittering objects mingled with large cardboard boxes.  Even larger cardboard boxes stood as intermediaries between the shelves, containing even greater mysteries.

Spinoza whistled, "What a haul, huh? That chandelier isn't some cheap knock off.  It looks like it's something from pre-Edisonian times that's been wired for electricity.  Pretty deft touch by Snell to use it as the light fixture in here.  Gives the place some atmosphere."

On the shelves against the left wall, there was a greater inventory of crystal goblets - some lined in gold - alongside a stack of silver platters.  In the far corner, a thick stack of rolled carpeting occupied the niche between the shelves on the left and the shelves pressed against the back wall.

Spinoza walked over to the corner with Vera in pursuit.  He grabbed the first carpet, unrolled it slightly, and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.  "Silk.  These are real Turkish rugs."

Vera's eyes were wide, less in the recognition of the value of the items in the room than with Spinoza's ability to quickly estimate their value and sourcing.  "How do you know all of this?"

"I spent a few years in Europe after the war and took the opportunity to get more acquainted with the history of the continent."

They moved to the next corner of the storage area and observed a stack of paintings, some still housed in ornate frames, some rolled casually up in piled groupings, nestled between another set of shelves.

"What about these paintings?  Do you know anything about them?"

"Not too much.  Given the nature of their subject matter, their verisimilitude, and the attention to detail," he pointed to a dark shadow on one painting illuminated by the overhead chandelier, "I'd say they're likely paintings from Dutch masters.  See how even in the darkest spots on the painting, you can still make out a clear delineation of shapes? That was typical of Dutch renaissance style."

Vera peered closer, paused, moved her head for further adjustment, and then nodded in appreciation.

Finally, they turned toward the wall on the storage room's right.  There, on every shelf, were menorahs piled on top of one another.  Some were simple silver structures.  Others were embossed with ornate designs.  Still others were solid gold, while a select group was decorated with jewels.  

Spinoza grunted in growing comprehension of the room's purpose.  He pulled a box from the shelf housing the menorahs and opened it, unsurprised by its contents.  He lifted a garment from the box and, as with the carpet, rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.

"What is it?"

"It's called a tallit.  It's a Jewish prayer shawl.  This one's silk.  I expect the others folded up in these boxes are likely silk as well.  Or wool. Something higher end and well-made at any rate."  He paused and folded the shawl carefully before placing it back in the box.  "Let's check a few more boxes."

They moved back to the center wall and pulled one of the lower boxes from the shelf.  The weight of the box caused it to land with a muted thud on the floor.  Spinoza lifted one of the flaps back and stuck a hand inside.  A brief look of perplexity on his face caused temporary panic in Vera, who was still suspecting a literal rat at every turn.  Her fear abated as he calmly lifted the other flap, revealing the box's contents.

"Books?"

"I don't think they're just any books."  He lifted the top volume from its resting place and the two of them examined it.  It was bound in embossed leather with a golden clasp holding its pages secure.  Spinoza popped the clasp and the book sprung open slightly, but perceptibly with a small sigh and a creak.  He carefully turned page after page.

"Can you read Latin?" Vera asked, expecting after the other talents he'd revealed in the last couple of minutes that answer would be a resounding 'yes.'

"Nothing past the basic roots.  Can you?"

She shook her head but continued to stare, transfixed by the colors and gold leafing reflecting light from every page.  "It's beautiful."

They perused more pages, the light seemingly emanating from the manuscript rather than from the chandelier above them.  The images composed of vibrant primary colors.  "Do you think it was illustrated by monks?"

He shrugged, "most likely.  Monks were typically the literate ones for the time period.  But that's not what's most interesting about this edition."

She glanced at him, perplexed.

"All of the stories - they're Old Testament.  Not a picture of Jesus to be had in the book."

"Is that unusual?  Maybe it was a prelude to another edition containing scenes from the New Testament."

Spinoza shook his head slowly.  "During a time when an entire continent was adamant against professing - and waging war on behalf of - its faith?  Doubtful."  He paused in thought.  "There are instances of Jewish manuscripts that were often produced by Christian miniaturists.  Europe wasn't openly hostile to Judaism for every moment of the last millennium.  Just most of them."

Vera stared at Spinoza in astonishment.  "How..."

"This is actually pretty standard art history stuff, and I took a few classes in college.  I audited a few more when I was in Europe."

"So, why do you think the manuscript landed here?"

"Well, I've got a theory," he pointed to another shelf of boxed merchandise, "but let's open a few more just to be sure."

Vera scrambled to the next available box and eagerly pried it open, pulling out a thick sheaf of identical documents labeled in what looked like gothic font with government seals affixed to them.  

"German treasury bonds," Spinoza responded before Vera could formulate the question.  "Keep digging."

She did as asked and immediately pulled out another batch of documents nearly identical to one another, but this time with familiar lettering and the faces of Jackson, Grant, and Franklin rubber-banded together.  She looked straight at Spinoza.  "What's your theory?  Some sort of local burglary ring?"

"No," Spinoza shook his head mournfully.  "All of these artifacts are Jewish or likely to show up in wealthy European residences.  I think this is plunder from looted Jewish households in Germany.  Our friends are probably here to sell it to interested bidders."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1153 words for a running total of 37619.  I highly recommend Khan Academy's course on art history.  It helps provide details for describing luxurious scenes.]