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Great Writing - Home > Extended > The Case of the Missing Husband ch4
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Extended Work
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| The Case of the Missing Husband ch4 | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||
| 15 April 2007 | ||||||
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Yes, I know I've spelled 'licence' the English way. So sue me. “Ok. My name is Kitty Malone, but you already know that, and I work at the Herald, but you already know that too. “Well, anyway, I received a tip from a very reliable source that Mr Debray had had a contract taken out on him, because of his smuggling operation, and so I said to myself, ‘Kitty,’ I said…” I held up my hand to cut her off. Jeez, if they paid her by the word she was going to be rich before her next birthday. “Wait wait wait, babydoll.” I caught her look, and amended it. “Kitty. What reliable source?” She sat back primly. “A journalist never reveals her source. I’d have thought you’d know that, Mister Littlejohn.” “Just ‘Littlejohn’ will do. Journalists don’t squeal to the cops, but we’re full partners, remember? Full disclosure? Now, remind me, who was it that insisted on that?” “Well, when I said that, I didn’t mean… I mean, I can tell you about the story, but…” “I swear, cross my heart, that I will never tell another soul, not even my sainted mother. But I need to know how much I can trust your source. And no,” I said, as she opened her mouth to protest, “I’m afraid I can’t take it on your word.” She stared at me dubiously for a moment or two, then said reluctantly, looking around at the disinterested café patrons, “Well, Ok. But you must never, ever repeat this. I mean, not to anyone, but I have a Deep Throat.” I raised my eyebrows. “Gee, and you seemed such a nice girl.” She looked confused for a second. “It’s what we call an insider in the news biz,” she explained. “Well, my roomie, she dates this boy, well, I say date but really it’s a whole lot more casual than that, anyway, he has a friend that we sort of double dated once, and he, the friend that is, not the boyfriend, anyway, he works at the Debray house. And he told me about it.” “And how does he know about the contract?” “He saw it!” She sat back triumphantly. I was confused. I suspected anyone who talked to Miss Malone for long ended up the same way. “He saw the contract?” She laughed. “No, silly. He saw the death threat. Mr Debray had thrown it in the bin, and of course he, my friend’s friend, that is, he took it to put it into the recycling bin, and it was a death threat!” “You’re right, of course, I’m silly. But bear with me, because, old as I am, I get confused. The criminal underworld take out a contract hit on Debray, and then send him a letter?” She nodded. “A letter that tells him he’s going to be killed?” She nodded again. “Because killing him without warning would be… what? Unsporting?” She looked unsure. “But there was a death threat letter. He saw it.” “Ok. Say there was. Generally speaking, professional hits are not widely advertised. Death threats are normally sent by seventy-year-old women with nothing better to do than stir up trouble with their neighbours.” She looked crestfallen, the way a puppy does after you rub its nose in the mess it just made. “Still, a death threat. That may be relevant. Good girl. “Now, what’s this about Debray being a smuggler?” “They eat meat! No, really, my friend told me. They must be smuggling it in from Canada, because they’re allowed to eat meat there.” “Or, and just bear with me again here, because I’m just going to throw an off-the-wall idea in here, maybe they got to the local store, slip the owner a huge tip and he wraps up a steak in a tofu box. What do you think?” “But they couldn’t do that! Meat’s been illegal for, like, ever.” I sighed. Just how many times could you kick a puppy and have it come back with those eyes looking at you. “They’re rich, Kitty. Rich folks can do anything. They can buy whatever they want. That’s why they want to be rich in the first place. There’s not a house in Oakhills that doesn’t have meat at least once a month. I bet the judge that sends meat smugglers down the river has a nice juicy steak every now and then. Just because he enjoys a dead animal every now and then does not make him a smuggler, otherwise every citizen Westside would be getting death threats.” “But, that’s just so… wrong!” “Welcome to the real world, sweetcheeks. It was ever thus. You never heard of Al Capone?” She shook her head. “Well, he was a bad man long ago, made his money giving rich people what they wanted. It never changes. Doesn’t make Debray a bad man, just a rich one. “So, is that the whole story?” She shook her head. “This all happened at the weekend, so Monday morning I called him up.” “Debray?” She nodded. “Yep. They didn’t want to put me through, but I insisted, and eventually he came to the vid. I confronted him about the death threats, and he agreed to see me, Tuesday evening, only he never turned up. If it wasn’t all true, he wouldn’t have agreed to be interviewed by me, now would he?” “You talked to him on the vid?” She nodded. “Ok, I’m going to offer you another theory, and I don’t want the puppy act, Ok?” She looked confused. “I don’t understand.” I sighed. This was hard work. I felt like the man that goes around telling kids Santa was beaten to death by a mugger. “Debray enjoyed… well, his wife described it as a hobby. An extra-marital hobby, if you get my drift.” She looked blank. “Debray liked to spend time away from his wife in the company of young women who were generous with their affections. Oh for Christ sake, he was a serial adulterer.” Realisation dawned on her face. “You mean… his wife sent the death threats?” I looked at the ceiling. “Oh God in a spaceship, help me. No, I don’t mean his wife sent the notes. She knew about the affairs. She allowed them. She told me about them. I meant, six weeks after his last affair, he’s getting the itch, then this pretty young gullible girl appears on his vid desperate to see him, she’d do anything for a story. Wait. You didn’t tell him you had a deep throat, did you?” She looked at me fit to explode, then without warning slapped me across the face. “How dare you?” she cried, then in the sudden silence that filled the café a snicker from somewhere drifted our way. “How dare you?” she continued in a hoarse, angry whisper. “You think I’m some… some… floozy?” Jeez. Who used terms like ‘floozy’ anymore? “From the very bottom of my heart, if I was to think of a word for you, ‘floozy’ would never have crossed my mind. I’m just saying, Debray’s reason for meeting you at night might not have been as innocent as it may have seemed to you.” She nodded, thinking it through. “And I am sick of being Maced and slapped by you. I swear, by all that’s holy, you lay a hand on me again and I will put you across my knee.” She bridled again, opened her mouth to make a withering retort, closed it again, then thought a moment. “Mrs Debray told you this? You know her?” “I don’t work for free. She’s hired me to find her husband.” And I told her about the earlier visit. “Now, I’m betting a good journalist always corroborates a story, right?” She nodded, as though it was a fact so simple even children knew it. “Ok. Just be quiet for a minute, then.” I took out my pocketbook and hit Mrs Debray’s number. “Yes?” “Mrs Debray? It’s Littlejohn.” “You’ve found him?” “Not yet, Mrs Debray, but I just wanted to talk to you about the death threats you told me about.” “I didn’t mention any death threats, Mr Littlejohn.” “Well now, Mrs Debray, that’s the nub of the matter, isn’t it?” There was a pause. The sort of pause someone makes while they are trying to think up a believable lie on the spur of the moment. “You are correct, Mr Littlejohn. There have been some death threats, but they’re not relevant.” “Your husband has mysteriously gone missing, and you don’t think receiving death threats is relevant?” “Oh for pity’s sake, Mr Littlejohn. He has had these poison letters for over a year now. They’re nothing. We ignore them. But you are correct, I suppose. I shall forward one over to your fax this evening, if you wish. But they are anonymous, sent via some computer in India, I believe. Anthony had them investigated, but they couldn’t trace them. I really don’t think they will help you in the slightest.” “Thank you. One more thing. How solvent is your husband?” “He is not in debt, if that’s what you mean. He deals in stocks and shares. He makes enough to make it worthwhile, but not enough to keep him in the style that he has become accustomed to. Certainly not enough to run away. Is that relevant enough for you?” “Thank you, Mrs Debray. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something new.” As soon as I hung up Kitty leant forward. “I want an interview with her.” “Hahaha. Not in a million years, sister.” “But Mr Debray has gone missing. This is news! The public has a right to know. And you have an inside track into the family. You have to get me that interview.” I shook my head. “Some rich guy has gone on a week’s retreat. Whoopy do. That’s not news. And I am not going to screw over a paying client, one that can get my licence revoked at that.” “But he hasn’t gone away on a retreat.” “Can you prove it?” She reluctantly shook her head. “Well, there you go, then. Patience my little cupcake, and we shall see what we can find out. “
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