Then something occurred to me that I should have thought about hours earlier. “But wait a minute! I thought Cullen O’Hara was bashed over the head by the same hoodlum who barged into the kitchen and crippled Featherstone. Why would he suddenly kidnap Aunt Vi?”
A bunch of befuddled glances scuttled around the room.
Sam, gazing at me with something approaching approval, said, “Excellent question, Daisy. Maybe he was kidnapped, too.”
“Who’d want to kidnap a chauffeur?” I asked.
With a shrug, Sam said, “Who’d want to kidnap a cook?”
My juju shot a stab of heat at my chest, and I jumped a little. Miss Betsy Powell? Good grief, Daisy Gumm Majesty, get a grip on your senses! Miss Betsy Powell might choose rotten men with whom to fall in love, but she’d never kidnap anyone. Therefore, rather than bring her into the conversation, I ventured, “I wouldn’t put anything past your despicable nephew.”
“Nor would I,” said Sam.
Ma raised her hand as if we were in a classroom. Sam nodded at her.
“Did you say something about someone crippling Mr. Featherstone? That’s terrible! What happened?”
Harold and I exchanged a couple of quick looks and I nodded for him to take the stage. So he did, explaining what had occurred at his mother’s house a few hours before we discovered both Vi and Cullen O’Hara gone.
Silence pervaded the room like the evil German gas must have pervaded the troops’ trenches in France and Flanders.
Then Ma said, “Do you think perhaps Mr. Featherstone might be able to describe the person who hurt his knee?”
I smiled at my wonderful mother. “You’re brilliant, Ma!”
She blushed. Modest woman, my mother, and always practical.
“Excellent idea, Mrs. Gumm,” said Sam.
“I should have thought of it myself,” said Harold.
Nobody disagreed with him, but nobody said so aloud. I was glad of their restraint, since I was also at fault for not thinking about a possible villain-identification by Featherstone.
“Should we go there now?” I asked Sam eagerly.
Frowning at me, he said, “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll visit with Featherstone tomorrow.”
“Darn you, Sam, you’re not being fair! Vi’s my aunt, after all!”
“That’s neither here nor there. You’re not a policeman,” Sam growled back at me.
“They both got a point,” Mr. Prophet said, grinning.
The telephone rang. I swear, if you’d been looking at all of us, you’d have seen about fifty million startled glances rocketing through the air. Finally, Harold stood again. “I’ll get it. It might be my mother again.” He snarled the last sentence.
“Thanks, Harold,” I said, relieved. I didn’t want to talk to Mrs. Pinkerton even more than I usually didn’t want to talk to her
The living room’s inhabitants sat in tense silence as Harold walked through the dining room, into the kitchen, up to the ’phone, and lifted the receiver. “Gumm-Majesty residence. No family members are available to take your call, but you may leave a message with me if you wish.”
Because I think his mother would have interrupted him before he got his entire greeting out, I deduced the caller to be someone other than Mrs. Pinkerton. This was probably a good thing, although I didn’t know who else might be calling, unless…
“Oh, my! Do you think the police have found Vi, Sam?” I even jumped up from the piano bench, nearly ripping my shoulder from its socket, since Sam still held my hand. I sat down promptly and said, “Ow.”
“Be careful, Daisy,” Sam said, scowling at me. “You don’t want to dislocate your shoulder again, do you?”
“No. But do you think the police might have found—” I stopped talking when Harold entered the living room.
“Daisy, it’s Mrs. Bissel on the wire. She wants to talk to you. She thinks she might know something about your aunt’s disappearance.”
“Mrs. Bissel?” I asked, my astonishment unfeigned. Mrs. Bissel, the dachshund breeder who gave us Spike in return for me ridding her basement of a ghost—a long story I won’t go in to now—wasn’t anyone I expected to be telephoning me at this unusual hour of the day. Night. Whatever it was.
“Yes. She asked to speak to you.”
I made sure I let go of Sam’s hand before rising to go to the telephone. I heard everyone rising in their turn to follow Harold and me into the kitchen.
As soon as I picked up the receiver, I said, “Will all of our party-line neighbors please hang up. This call is for my family.”
Click, click, click. A fourth click didn’t click.
“Mrs. Barrow?” I asked, and sweetly too, as she’d been helpful so far.
“I told that friend of yours about that Irish club. I think I deserve to hear how this case turns out,” said she in her perfectly hideous Brooklyn accent.
“The police thank you for your help, but we don’t want everyone else in the world to know what’s going on, for fear someone will tip off the villains, Mrs. Barrow.”
“That’s not fair! I gave you—”
Sam took the receiver from me. “Hang up your telephone, Mrs. Barrow. This is Detective Rotondo of the Pasadena Police Department, and if you don’t hang up your receiver, I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”
He didn’t say obstruction of what, and I guess Mrs. Barrow didn’t think to ask.
“And do not tell anyone else Mrs. Viola Gumm is missing. That’s an order from the Pasadena Police Department.”
“Well!” I heard her blurt into the receiver as Sam handed it back to me. Her annoyed click followed instantly.
“You’re getting a private line tomorrow, Daisy,” Sam told me, growling slightly.
“Fine with me,” I said. “Should have done it before.”
“That’s for damned sure,” Harold griped at my back.
I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before saying in my low, soft, soothing spiritualist’s voice, “Mrs. Bissel? Harold told me you’d like to speak to me.”
“Oh, Daisy? Is that you?” Mrs. Bissel sounded rattled. Being rattled was pretty much Mrs. Pinkerton’s métier, and I was surprised to hear Mrs. Bissel in a similar condition.
“Yes, Mrs. Bissel. It is I, Daisy Gumm Majesty.” We spiritualists have to use good grammar most of the time, as well as speak softly and waft.
“Oh, Daisy, this is Griselda Bissel. Madeline just telephoned me. Is it true about your aunt?”
Drat Mrs. Pinkerton!
“That’s she’s missing? Yes. Unfortunately, it’s true.” I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“I’m so sorry, dear. Madeline”—Madeline is Mrs. Pinkerton’s first name—“told me about your aunt having gone missing. Then she told me she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone and hung up on me.” I could almost hear her roll her eyes. “But I wondered if something that happened at Dennis and Patsy’s house might have anything to do with her disappearance.”
Drawing my head back slightly, I screwed up my mouth in a “What the blazes is she talking about?” grimace. Because I knew upon which side of my bread the butter spread itself, I didn’t let on, but merely said, “Oh?” still softly and sweetly.
By the way, Dennis is Mrs. Bissel’s son, and Patsy is Dennis’s wife.
“It sounds crazy,” Mrs. B said. She sounded unsure of herself. As I was unsure of her, too, I didn’t say anything. “But Dennis recently hired a new chauffeur. You know Patsy had her baby two weeks ago, didn’t you? The sweetest little girl you can imagine.”
“Yes, I recall. A joyful event for your family.” So why was she calling to croon at me about her granddaughter now, when my own family had just been dumped in the middle of what might well turn out to be a tragedy? I didn’t ask.
“It was so sweet of you to send that darling card and the baby blanket,” Mrs. Bissel said.
I wanted to reach through the telephone wire, grasp her by the throat and shake her until she told me what had happened at her son’s house and what it might have to do with Vi’s missing status. “It was nothing, Mrs. Bissel.”
“Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
Thank God. “Oh?”
“Yes. You see, Dennis hired a new chauffeur because he doesn’t want Patsy driving with the baby—too many distractions and all—and this chauffeur’s last name is O’Hara.”
From wanting to murder her, I metamorphosed into a panting puppy, begging at Mrs. B’s feet for a treat. “O’Hara, you say? Do you know his first name?”
I heard everyone in the kitchen with me stiffen with anticipation. It’s true. They did, and I heard them.
“Brian. His name is Brian O’Hara.”
“Brian O’Hara.” I turned and gestured wildly for someone to get some paper and a writing implement. Sam withdrew his notebook and pen from a policemanly pocket. “And do you believe Mr. O’Hara is any relation of Mrs. Pinkerton’s missing chauffeur, Cullen O’Hara?”
“I’m not sure, dear, but Dennis said he—Brian O’Hara, I mean—was in a terrible taking this evening. He ’phoned me a few minutes before Madeline called.”
A “terrible taking”? What the heck was that? “Um…How so, Mrs. Bissel?”
“Dennis said he—Brian O’Hara, I mean—was upset because his brother had joined some radical organization, and Brian feared he—Cullen, Brian’s brother—was getting involved with…” She hesitated as if she were afraid to say what she aimed to say next. Eventually, she said it anyway. “…gangsters!”
“Gangsters? Do you mean like those crime families in Chicago and New York? The Italian ones? Capone and so forth?”
From the tail of my eye, I saw Sam wince. I knew he hated that Italian gangsters existed, but heck, Italian gangsters weren’t his fault.
“Yes, only now, according to Dennis, who got the information from Mr. O’Hara, Irish gangs are forming. So are Jewish gangs. I can’t imagine such a thing as a Jewish gang, but Dennis knows more about such things than I, and he said the Irish and Jewish gangs are moving in on the Italian gangs’ territory.” She hesitated for a second. Before I could say anything else, she added, “Dennis reads all the newspapers, you see, so he knows about such things.”
“I see. So Dennis’s chauffeur, whose name is Brian O’Hara, is afraid his brother, Cullen O’Hara, is becoming involved in gang activity. Golly, you don’t hear much about gangsters here on the West Coast, do you?”
“No, but I expect anything is possible. Oh, Daisy, I do so hope your aunt will be found alive and well. And soon.”
“I do, too. Thank you, Mrs. Bissel. By the way,” I said, having just thought of something pertinent, “do you have a fellow working for you by the name of Barrow?”
“Yes, indeed. He’s worked for my late husband’s legal firm forever. He’s in charge of keeping track of personnel and so forth.”
“Personnel?” I don’t know about your family, but mine didn’t have “personnel.”
“Yes. You know. He found Mrs. Cummings for me, and he has people in to do heavy housework twice a year and things like that. I don’t expect Mrs. Cummings and Ginger and Keiji to do more than they ought, you know.”
“I see. That’s…really kind of you, Mrs. Bissel.”
“Well, honestly, Daisy, I can’t expect my everyday staff to paint rooms and clean the outside of the house and so forth. They have their own duties to do.”
Yes, they did. Mrs. Bissel’s house wasn’t a palace on the order of Mrs. Pinkerton’s, but it was definitely big enough to give Mrs. Bissel’s few servants plenty to do every day. “That makes sense,” I said eventually.
“Yes. And if there’s anything I can do for you and your family, please let me know. Perhaps a séance? Do you think a séance could help locate your aunt?”
“A séance?” I said faintly. I didn’t want Vi to be dead! “I’m not sure. I…um, hope not.”
“Oh, no! I didn’t mean I thought she was…deceased. I just thought maybe your Rolly could look around on the Other Side and see anything that might help.”
“I see,” I said, still faintly. “Let me talk to Harold Kincaid and Detective Rotondo, and I’ll get back to you about a séance. Thank you very much for your telephone call, Mrs. Bissel. We really appreciate it. I’ll let you know what happens. In the meantime, please don’t tell anyone else about Vi’s disappearance. The Pasadena Police Department is trying to keep her kidnapping under wraps.” Even though it seemed to me as if pretty much every rich person in Pasadena and a few not-rich ones, like Mrs. Barrow, already knew about it.
“I won’t tell a soul, and I’ll tell Dennis not to, too.”
“We appreciate your discretion, Mrs. Bissel.”
“Thank you, dear. And remember I’m always here to help in any way I can.”
“Thank you.” My voice had begun to clog slightly, and again I had to swallow a lump.
“But before I hang up, how is dear Spike getting along?”
So much for lumps. “Spike is wonderful. I’m so glad you gave him to us, Mrs. Bissel. He’s been…just the best thing anyone’s ever given us.”
“You’re sweet to say so, dear, but you have been through so many travails in your young life. A dozen Spikes couldn’t make up for what you’ve gone through.”
Sure enough, at her cue, I had to swallow yet another lump of emotion.
Anyway, eventually both Mrs. Bissel and I hung up our receivers. After sighing heavily, I turned around and faced the gang in the kitchen.
Harold said, “A séance?”
Pa said, “The Irish, Jewish and Italian folks all have gangs? Well, I guess you told us that already, Sam.”
Sam said, “Yes. They do. Kincaid, I’m surprised you haven’t been bothered by some of the mobsters—I hate to say it, but probably the Italian ones—trying to horn in on the motion-picture industry.”
Both Ma and I gasped. Not sure about anyone else.
I cried, “You’re kidding! Oh, Sam, no!”
“He’s right, Daisy. I haven’t been bothered because I’m a lowly costume guy, but I know some of the gangs are putting pressure on a few of the moguls to let them in on their businesses.”
“Good heavens,” I said faintly. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “I really hate it, but the Italians have already formed political gangs in Sicily and other Italian cities. Now they’re moving to America to take over the bootleg business, drugs, and anything else they can get their hands on. The motion-picture people have lots of money, so I expect the gangs will want in on their money, too.”
“And so will the Irish and Jewish gangs,” I muttered, feeling disconsolate. Why can’t people just be nice to each other?
Silly question, Daisy Gumm Majesty. History paints a dismal picture of the human animal. Plainly we human animals have always been greedy, grasping, covetous old sinners. And here I offer a sincere apology to Charles Dickens, from one of whose books I mangled that last line.
But oh, dear. I really wanted Vi back!