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.]