The Corpse in My Office
© 2024 by Walter Reimer

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Seven.


I pause when I’m a block away from the brownstone and take a look at the key I found. First National Bank, safety deposit box number 2651. Hm. I’m not Catholic, but I think that priests aren’t really supposed to have stuff like money or personal possessions.

So what was Ferguson doing with this?

My stomach was starting to cramp. I could go look for the local bank branch or find somewhere to eat and maybe get a drink or three. The neighborhood’s a bit off my usual track, but beggars, choosers, and so on, right?

Lunch it is, then. Besides, it looks like it’ll start raining again.

The sign over the door reads The Open Tap, and the inside’s all dark wood paneling with an actual brass rail around the bar. Place looks like it’s been here fifty years.

I hang my overcoat and hat up before I take a seat at a table, taking care to swing my tail out of the way. A waitress, cute mouse, comes up to me. “Good afternoon,” she says.

“Hi,” I say with a smile. “What’s the special today?”

She matches my smile. “Hamburger sandwich and French fried potatoes.”

“That sounds good,” I tell her. “And a beer, please.”

“Sure thing,” and after a few minutes she comes back with my beer. I take a long pull at it and smack my lips. Good beer. I needed it too; it’s not Scotch or anything like that, but it’ll do.

“Defendant is admonished to avoid inebriation,” the Judge says.

“Shaddap,” I mumble.

I’m just about ready for a second beer when my meal arrives. The burger’s been fried, and served on good toasted rye bread. It tastes good, and I enjoy it with the second beer.

By the time I’m done with my third beer, the rain’s stopped.

The key’s burning a hole in my pocket, so I flag down the waitress. While I’m settling my bill, I ask her, “Do you know where the nearest First National Bank branch is?”

She grins at the tip I give her, and she points. “That way, about four blocks, next to Saint Agatha’s. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

Her grin gets just a little wider. “Anytime, Sugar.”

I smile back at her, with a slight trace of a wink, before I collect my hat and coat and head on out of the place.

Yeah, after drinking three beers. I’m not that much of a lightweight. See? I’m not even weaving around as I walk.

Saint Agatha’s turns out to be a church, with the school attached to it. With the weather being as it is, I don’t see any of the kids, and the bank branch –

Huh. The place almost looks like a church by itself, or maybe some rich guy’s house for when he’s in town to consort with us low common types. Nice granite columns, Christmas lights and wreaths in the windows, and you can tell that First National took this place over from another bank that failed.

“How?” the Defense Attorney asks.

You have to look hard, but there’s faded letters on the stone under the new sign. Hibernia State Bank.

“How is this important?” the Prosecutor asks.

“It’s not.” I shrug a couple times to make myself look presentable before I walk on in. I wipe my feet on the mat, too.

Swanky place. Mirror polish on the floor, uniformed guard just inside the door, Christmas tree lurking in a corner. The dog, a big hound who doesn’t miss many meals, gives me the eye as I walk up to him. “Afternoon, Officer,” I say.

He looks me up and down. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

Polite. “Is this Branch Number Twenty-six?” I ask.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Good. Is the bank manager in? I need to speak to him.” He points me to a side office. “Thanks,” and my shoes click against the floor.

The polished brass sign next to the door reads Assistant Vice President A. T. Holmgren. I tap a few times on the door with a knuckle. There’s a pause, some sounds, and the door opens to show me a thin short-tailed weasel in a dark suit with a wing collar. “Yes?” he asks. “May I help you?”

“I hope so,” I say. “Can we talk in private?”

“Hm? Oh! Oh yes, of course. Come in, come in,” and he opens the door wider and shows me to a chair across from his desk. I take a seat and he sits down. “Now, what can I do for you?”

I reach into my jacket and take out my badge. No, not my cop badge; I had to turn that in when I retired. Private detectives get their own badges; they’re not as flashy, but they’re better-looking than, say, ‘Chicken Inspector’ buzzers. “Found a safe deposit box key,” I say, “that maybe belongs to Father George Ferguson – pardon me, the late Father George Ferguson.”

Holmgren looks startled and starts twitching a little. “Um, you’re here from the Archdiocese?”

I nod. “Yes, and we’re trying to keep it on the quiet, if you take my meaning,” and I tap the side of my nose. I pulled the key out of my pocket and showed him the tag.

Holmgren gets a little twitchier. He picks up his phone and gets ready to dial, hesitates, and puts the pawset down a little harder than normal. The weasel looks flustered at the sound, as if he hadn’t meant to do that. He looks at me nervously for a moment before getting to his feet. “C-Come with me, please.”

He leads me out of the office and to the vault. We stop in front of Box #51, and he takes the key I found and sticks it into one of the two keyholes. He pulls out his own key, sticks it into the other hole, and twists both at the same time. There’s a click, and he pulls the door open and draws out the safe deposit box. Holmgren gives the box to me. “The v-viewing room is out the door, t-to the right.”

“Thanks.” I make it a point to take Ferguson’s key with me and I go to the viewing room.

I flip up the latch and open it. Huh. Piece of folded paper and a small cheap-looking notebook.

“Are you going to take the contents?” the Prosecutor asks. “That could be unlawful.”

“Don’t I know it,” I mutter as I get my notebook and pencil from my pockets.

I start with the folded paper. It has an address on it, and I copy it down. I don’t recognize the street name right off; might be outside the city, nearby town maybe. I open the little book, hold it spine up, and fan the pages.

A small scrap of paper, with torn edges, falls out of the book and into the box.

The notebook’s paydirt, listing dates and amounts of money. I copy it all down and do a quick sum.

Holy crap.

The book lists a total of six hundred dollars.

And the scrap of torn paper is from the phone book.

“How do you know?” the Defense Attorney asked.

Because it’s an ad for Dawson Detective Agency. In other words, me. I’ve had that thing in the phone book for years, and I’d recognize it anywhere.

Hmm.

I finish copying everything down before I recheck the safe deposit box to make sure I didn’t miss anything. All clear, so I put all three items in the box, close it, and take it back to the vault.

Holmgren must have been waiting around, as he caught up with me as I was sliding the box back into its cubby. "Y-y-you didn't take anything?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Nope. No need."

He looks relieved, and we lock the box up. “Um, before you g-go, sir,” Holmgren says. “W-Will you still b-be needing the k-key?”

I shake my head. “I have to give it to the police. It’ll be evidence.” I pocket the key, and flash him a twenty. “It’s probably for the best that I wasn't here."

Holmgren dithers before nodding and taking the money, and looks relieved as he shows me out.

“Why didn’t you take the items?” the Prosecutor asks.

“Do I look stupid?” I ask back. “If I take anything, the cops will toss me in the clink for tampering with evidence. This way, I can bring them the key and they can see for themselves.”

“So why copy everything down?” the Judge asks.

“So I can be a step or two ahead of them,” I say.

I did feel a little bad for Holmgren, but just a little. See, I didn’t sign in before taking the box out, and he didn’t ask me. But nothing was taken, so the worst he’ll get is a chewing-out if his bosses figure out what happened.




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