Double Cross

Detective Frankie Samms is on the case, whatever case that may be!

Double Cross

 

      It was a night that I will never forget.  The air was as thick as pea soup and the mood as solemn as a funeral procession.  I was working the graveyard shift at my office on 7^th Avenue when it happened.  I was wading through a pile of paperwork as deep as the Grand Canyon when I heard gun shots in the street below.  Immediately I jumped up and looked out my large window.  The street light illuminated a mere patch of pavement, leaving the rest of the wet street shrouded in a web of shadows that I could not brush away from my eyes.  I saw no one and not a shred of evidence of anything unusual.  Had it been all in my imagination?  Or was someone waiting, looming behind an unseen corner to waste me?  I knew what I heard.  My ears had not lied to me.  I kept looking, searching for answers.

       A shrill ring of my phone startled me.  Reluctantly, it drew me from my view to answer it.  I picked up the heavy black receiver and put it to my ear.  Not sure who would be on the other line, I said, “Hello.”

      “I…I’ve been shot,” a shaken and frightened voice said over the line.

      “Just now on 7^th Avenue?” I asked.

      There was a labored breath, “Yes.”

      “Who shot you? Where are you now?” I asked quickly.  My mind raced over the possibilities. 

      “I am at a phone booth around the corner.”

      “Why didn’t you call the police?”

      “I couldn’t.”

      “Where were you shot at?”

      “The shoulder.”

      “Is it bad?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      “If it isn’t too bad then we can talk up here in my office, but if you are going to bleed out or something, we should get you to a hospital right away.”

      “No! No hospitals!”

      “Why in God’s name not?”

      “He’s coming.  I’ve got to go.”

      “Stay close to the phone booth so I can find you.”

      The phone went dead.  “Hello!” I cried helplessly.  “Are you there?”

      Hurriedly, I dropped the phone back in its cradle and grabbed my coat and hat from the back of my door.  I put them on and flew out of my office like a bat out of hell.  Someone’s life was at stake!

       I dashed down the stairs and out the front door of the four-story brick building and into the shadows.  Fog engulfed me as I fled down the street and around the corner.  The cold wind hit me in the face like a stinging slap from woman scorned.  My eyes watered, but I ignored it.  The street was as empty as Hitler’s heart when I came to the phone booth.

       There, the phone dangled at the end of its cord and the booth stood empty.  A light seemed to shine spotlighting its emptiness. I took a closer look and noticed blood on the glass and on the receiver.  Silence rang in my ears as loud as any alarm. Something was definitely wrong.  Where had the woman gone? Was she kidnapped or hiding somewhere safely?  I looked down at the sidewalk.  The only noticeable thing was a cross on a chain lying by the curb.  It had nearly dropped into the sewage drain. 

        I picked up the cross and turned it over in my hand. It was pure silver and the thin chain had been broken.  It must have fallen from around the woman’s neck when she ran or perhaps when she put up a struggle.  I looked on it for an engraving, but found nothing.  I decided to take it my friend the jeweler in the morning. 

        Hoping I’d find the woman hiding somewhere, I shoved the cross into my coat pocked and began walking around.  My footsteps echoed strangely.  That and my breath were the only sounds. I thought of how busy the city was during the day�"just shaking with restless energy.  A pair of headlights made my heart skip a beat.  I was expecting anything and everything. The car rumbled by undisturbed.  I let out a breath, which turned white in the damp, chilly air and disappeared. 

        I rounded the corner and came to the local newspaper building and the local drug store, both closed this time of night.  Next to those buildings was the bank.  There were no lights on anywhere.  Then I saw a light flicker on in apartment above one of the stores.  A figure moved in front of the lit window.  I stood still and watched for a few moments.  When nothing happened, I moved on.  As I walked I wondered why the woman called me instead of someone else.  Did she look up my name in the phone book or did she know me personally?  I certainly didn’t recognize her voice. 

        After a short time I arrived back at my office.  I climbed the stairs sad that I hadn’t been able to help her.  More than anything, a curiosity had been aroused as to what exactly had transpierced.  I simply had to know what had happened and if she was all right.

        I closed up my office for the night and went home, reminding myself to check out the cross before I went back to work the next morning.  I had not idea if it was even a lead, but it was something at least.

 

        Morning came and I pulled myself out of bed and got dressed.  My apartment was messy, but there was no one there to yell at me about it.  I had moved out at eight to go to college, something not very common in this day and age.  There wasn’t much money to be had.  Dough was about as scarce as a snow storm in the Sahara.   I pulled a few strings and worked my butt off in order to get two years in and drop out.  After grabbing a bit to eat, I dashed out my door to the pay a visit to my favorite jeweler.

        Emerson’s Jewelry Store was located on Main Street.  It was a small, unassuming building, but full of dazzling rings and things. Emerson wasn’t there, but I left the cross for him to study and get back to me about.  Then I headed on down to 7^th Avenue.

        When I came into the office my assistant Ruth greeted me.  “Morning Frankie.”

       “Morning Ruth,” I said casually taking the paper from under my arm and setting it on her desk.

       “There is a man here waiting for you.”

       “Did he give his name?”

       “Mr. McAllister.”

       “Never heard of him.”

       She shrugged as she put in a piece of typing paper into the typewriter and began to compose a letter.  I saw her fingers begin to fly sure and steady as a surgeon’s fingers across the keys.  I didn’t know how I’d survive without her.

      Curiously, I went to my door with the black letters across the window.  It said, “Frankie Samms, Private Eye.”  I turned the knob and stepped inside.

      “Mr. Samms?” a man asked as he turned.  He stood and held out his hand.

      “Yes,” I said shaking his hand.  He had a firm grip. In an instant, I took him in.  He was short and had dark hair, but was going bald.  The man was dressed in a nice black suit, but forgotten to clean the eggs from breakfast off of his tie.  His he was confident in his demeanor, but there was something in his tone or manor that made think he was bluffing.  I sense his nervousness a mile away.

      “Sit down,” I said letting go of his hand moving around to my seat on the other side of the desk.  I loved my big comfy swivel chair with the high back. 

       He sat down in the chair across from me.  “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”

      “No problem,” I shrugged.  I only had to finish my stack of papers from last night.  I had probably half left from what I’d originally started with.  I wanted to hear about his urgent reason for seeking me out though.  It might be worth my time, it might not.  “How can I help you Mister…”

      “Jenkins.”

      “Yes, Mr. Jenkins.”

      “I hope you can help me.”

      “What happened?”

      “My wife disappeared yesterday afternoon.  I want to hire you to find her.”

      “Is there a possibility that she just got tired of you and left?” I asked.  This was more often not the case.

      “I don’t appreciate what you are insinuating Mr. Samms.  But I will ignore it for now.”

      “Tell me about her.”

      “Her name is Betty Jenkins and she is a tall woman wit a nice figure, pleasant smile and beautiful green eyes.”

      “No hint or note about why she might have left?”

      “No, that isn’t like her at all.  That is why I think she must have been kidnapped or something.”

      “Do know of anyone who would have reason to kidnap her?”

      “No idea,” he said beginning to break a sweat.  He was hiding something, I could tell. But what was it?  The location of his wife’s body? The presence of mistress? A theft?

      “Where was she last seen?” I asked taking up a pencil and preparing to write down his answers.

      “I saw her yesterday morning before I left for work.”

      “How do you know she wasn’t gone in the morning?” I asked remembering that he’d said she disappeared later in the day.

      “I called the house at lunch and she was there then.”

      “Did you noticed anything different or off then? Something she said or did that was out of the ordinary?”

      “Nope, nothing.”

      I sighed.

     “Wait a minute,” he said after a moment.  “Just before we hung up she said there was a knock at the door and that is why the conversation ended.  She had to go.”

     “Is that abnormal?”

      “Yeah, nobody usually visits our house during the day.”

      “Could have been a coincidence.”

      “Why do you keep acting like I am suspect here? Don’t you believe me? Who’s side are you on anyway man?”

      “Your, of course.  I just have to make sure you actually have a case here.”

      “I assure you, I do.”

      “Fine.  I will take your case then.”

      “How much?”

      “Fifty now and a hundred if I find her.”

      “Steep, but I am willing to pay whatever I can to get her back.”

      “Deal?”

      “Yes,” Jenkins said reaching over to shake my hand again.  I took down his address and phone number, among other things, and bid him good day.  He left my office and I was finally able to address the paperwork that was calling to me.  There were contracts to be signed, cases that needed followed up and forms that needed to be filled out.  Legally, detective work was a huge headache.  I sure as hell didn’t go into this line of work thinking I’d spend most of time pushing papers, but that is exactly what I do.

        It was around eleven thirty when I emerged from cave of files and told Ruth that I was going to lunch.  “I’m heading to the Whistle Diner and then I will be out checking on a few things, “ I informed her.

       “What time should I expect you back?”

       “Two maybe,” I decided.

       “Great,” she said taking a sip of her black coffee.  Her green eyes peer over the mug at me as her blond shoulder length hair fell around her face.  She was a doll�"quite a doll indeed.

       “Later,” I muttered exiting the office quickly and quietly.

        I wondered out of the building in the same coat and hat I’d arrived in hours earlier.  It was another chilly, wet day.  The rain had stopped for a while at least.  I strolled across the street and down the road some until I came to a silver trailer.  It was a homey diner.  Very stylish and inviting I must say.  A sign hung above the door that said Whistle Diner.  Through its large front windows I could see waitresses moving from table to table and person to person.  People chattered like chipmunks inside.  It was like watching a silent movie and trying to figure out what they were saying before the dialogue cards popped up.  Slowly, I made my way inside and sat down at booth.  As I glanced at the menu all I could think of was the gun shot, the phone call from the frantic woman and the silver cross.  Was the woman Jenkins’s wife? Was there any connection?