When Harold and I entered my parents’ bungalow that evening, it was to find a gray-faced Pa and a frightened-looking Ma sitting on the living room sofa, holding hands. Spike, who didn’t seem to know what was going on, appeared worried, too, although he sat on Pa’s lap. I considered it significant that he didn’t instantly leap from Pa’s lap and rush over to greet Harold and me.
Leaving Harold at the front door, I hurried to my parents. “It’s all right!” I said a little too brightly. “Sam’s on the job! He’ll find Aunt Vi in no time.”
“What happened?” Ma asked. She appeared bewildered—justifiably so. “When I came home, Joe said you’d called from Mrs. Pinkerton’s house to ask if Vi was here. And then Sam called and told us not to be upset because Vi can’t be found. What in the world is going on?”
“Oh, dear.” I sank onto the piano bench and faced my parents. I couldn’t think of how to break the news without making things worse for them.
Harold walked over to me and put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Mrs. Gumm—Mrs. Vi Gumm, I mean—seems to have disappeared from my mother’s house, Mr. and Mrs. Gumm.”
Ma gasped. So did Pa.
“Disappeared!” cried Ma.
I nodded. “I’m sorry. Harold and I couldn’t find her. Mrs. Pinkerton’s chauffeur has gone missing, too.”
I saw Pa reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a small envelope. I knew the envelope contained nitroglycerine tablets, and my own heart sank down to my toes.
“Try not to worry too much,” Harold went on. “As Daisy said, my mother’s new chauffeur seems to have vanished, too. He left some expensive items behind, and I’m sure Detective Rotondo and his policemen will be able to trace where he went. And, as strange as it sounds, if Mrs. Gumm is with him. And why.”
Sensing Harold was losing control of his thoughts, I said, “Do you know where Mr. Prophet is? Do you know if he’s home? I mean, is he across the street? Do you know?”
Both of my parents shook their heads. Pa said, “I never even thought about Lou.” He made as if to stand up, but I held out a hand to stop him.
“Don’t get up, Pa. Stick a couple of those tablets under your tongue, and I’ll see if I can find Mr. Prophet. Sam wants him here.”
The wretched telephone rang. I glanced up at Harold. “If it’s your mother calling, Harold—”
“If it’s my mother, I’ll tell her you’re unavailable and won’t be available until you call her.”
And darned if he didn’t take off and march across the living room, through the dining room and into the kitchen, where dwelt the telephone. Harold could be quite decisive when he chose to be.
Following slowly at his heels, I saw him reach for the receiver, put it to his ear and speak into the mouthpiece. “Gumm-Majesty residence. Neither Mr. and Mrs. Gumm nor Mrs. Majesty is available to speak right now.”
Wow. Was Harold a true pal, or was he not?
Harold drew his head back from the earpiece slightly. Then he said, “Mr. Prophet?”
I heard a roared, “Yes!” clear across the kitchen.
“Well, you don’t have to shout at me,” said Harold grumpily. “Have you heard about Vi disappearing? We fear she’s been kidnapped.”
Evidently Mr. Prophet had calmed down some, because I could no longer hear his side of the conversation. Therefore, I walked over to stand beside Harold.
Nodding, Harold said, “Yes, Sam’s nephew has disappeared from a work crew and escaped from jail.”
Mr. Prophet’s voice rose when he bellowed, “That sumbitch shouldn’t’ve been on a work crew!”
“Yes, that’s exactly what Sam said. I think he’s checking into the matter right now. Will you come over to the Gumms’ house, Mr. Prophet? Sam seems to want you here.”
I heard a snarly, “Yeah,” and then Harold looked at the earpiece and replaced it in its cradle.
“He hung up on me,” said he.
“I don’t think he’s accustomed to using modern conveniences,” I said, attempting to explain away Mr. Prophet’s rude behavior.
The stupid telephone rang again. After exchanging a glance with Harold, he shook his head and again lifted the receiver. He gave the same greeting he’d used before, then rolled his eyes. I heard a wail issue from the earpiece, so I knew who the caller was.
“Mother, Daisy isn’t available to speak to you right now, and she’s definitely not able to give you aid and comfort from Rolly. She needs someone to give her aid and comfort.”
This time, Mrs. Pinkerton’s wail could probably have been heard by my parents in the living room, although I never asked if it had been.
Harold said, “Stop screeching right now, Mother!”
Darned if the earpiece didn’t go silent.
After a second or two, Harold continued, “Now. Control yourself. Where did you find your new chauffeur? Cullen O’Hara.”
Muttering from the earpiece and Harold shook his head in disgust.
“I mean from whence or whom did you hire him? Where did he come from?”
After rolling his eyes again and sighing heavily, Harold said, “I meant exactly what I said. Did you advertise for a chauffeur in a newspaper? Did you call an employment agency? How did you come to employ Cullen O’Hara? He’s gone, too, and when Daisy and I looked through his room, we discovered he has some awfully expensive stuff in there. I doubt he could afford to purchase it on the wages you pay him.”
Quite a long space of silence followed Harold’s speech to his mother. I’d forgotten all about our party-line snoops. Blast! I had to get us a private line.
“So, you don’t know,” said Harold after maybe a minute. It might not have been so long. Time seemed skewed that day. “Would Algie know?”
A murmur from the telephone earpiece.
“Well, will you ask him and get back to me? I’ll be at Daisy’s place for a while. I need to telephone the Castleton and arrange for them to bring some dinner to this house. Do you want me to get them to cater your own dinner?” Pause. “Very well, I will.” Longer pause and a hideous grimace from Harold. “Yes, Mother. I’ll see if they have those choices on their list of dishes that can be catered on short notice. If they don’t have them, you’ll just have to eat what they bring you.”
I’m pretty sure I heard a miserable sob come from Harold’s mother.
“Mother, stop crying this instant. And tomorrow, I want you and Algie to pack for a trip up the coast. You like Santa Barbara, and this would be a spectacular time to visit the beach.”
A more cheerful mutter issued from the telephone.
“Yes, it is a good idea. And don’t tell anyone about Mrs. Gumm’s disappearance, Mother. You are forbidden to talk about it to anyone except Algie. Do you understand me? You’ll be obstructing the police in carrying out their duty if you gossip, and you could well end up in a cell next to Stacy.”
A shocked, “Oh!” shot from the earpiece.
“I mean it, Mother.”
Silence on the end of the wire.
“And pack for Santa Barbara.”
I think his mother must have hung up the receiver on her end, because Harold was about to do likewise on our end when a different sound came from the earpiece. Harold appeared puzzled for a moment before he said, “I beg your pardon? What? Who are you?”
I knew who it was, because the noise came through the wire with a ghastly Brooklyn accent. Therefore the interrupting party must be Mrs. Barrow. Oh, Lord, save us all from snoops.
But apparently I’d wronged the woman. Harold tilted his head and said, “Really? Interesting. Do you have any other information that might be of help to us, Mrs. Barrow?”
Told you so.
“Hold the wire for a moment, please.” Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, Harold said, “Daisy, please get me a pencil and paper.”
“Yes, sir.” I ran to my bedroom, which was directly off the kitchen, and returned with the requested implements.
Distractedly, Harold said, “Thanks, Daisy.” Speaking into the receiver once more, he said, “All right, Mrs. Barrow. What’s the name of the place again?” He wrote, bracing the paper against the wall with the hand holding the earpiece and writing with the other one. “You don’t happen to have a telephone number, do you?”
Evidently she did, because Harold wrote some more.
A burst of New York-ese came from the earpiece, and Harold winced. This burst lasted for quite a while. After what seemed like three years, Harold said, and politely, too, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Barrow. This might be vital information.” Pause. “Yes, I’ll be sure to tell the detective. Thank you.” Pause. “I’m a friend of the family.” Pause. “No! Daisy and I are not an item. Daisy and Detective Sam Rotondo are engaged to be married.” Pause. “Soon.” Pause. “Yes. Thank you.” Another pause and another, “Thank you,” and Harold finally hung the receiver on the hook. He looked at me. “Whew. That woman babbles as much as my mother, only in a horrible accent.”
“Brooklyn,” I told him.
“Yeah. I could tell. But look at this. Mrs. Barrow, your party-line neighbor—and why you don’t get a private line, I’ll never know—said she’s heard of Cullen O’Hara.”
“She has?” This news surprised me a good deal.
“Yes. It seems her husband works with a fellow named O’Hara who said his brother is getting himself involved with a bunch of so-called Irish patriots, and he doesn’t like it one little bit. The brother, I mean. About his brother.” Harold shook his head after he finished speaking. But I’d understood.
“Goodness!”
“Goodness has nothing to do with it, actually. This O’Hara character—the brother, I mean, whose name is Brian—said his brother has got himself involved in Irish politics and is trying to raise money to buy and send arms—guns and ammunition—to the Irish rebels.”
“What? But I thought Ireland’s rebels already had their own country. Isn’t it called the Irish Free State?”
“How the hell should I know? I’m not Irish! But Brian O’Hara’s brother, whose name may or may not be Cullen, is trying to arm more Irishmen. In Ireland. From here.”
“Good Lord.”
“Something of the sort.” He peered at the paper upon which he’d written what Mrs. Barrow had told him. “There’s a club here in Pasadena where these young would-be Irish saviors gather. I guess they drink bootleg booze, get drunk and sing maudlin songs about how wonderful and green Ireland is, and how they all want to be free.”
“If they live here, they are free.” Thinking about some aspects of life in the USA, I amended my statement. “Well, more or less free, anyway. Most of us.”
“More or less,” said Harold wryly. He was one of the aspects about which I’d thought.
“At least the Irish are white,” I said. “They’re probably freer here than black people are, which isn’t fair.”
“Probably,” said Harold.
A thundering knock came at the front door. It was thundery enough to rouse Spike, who must have jumped off Pa’s lap and barreled to the front door because he set up an uproarious spate of barking. By the way, we’d begun locking all the doors in the house since the first of the year. Therefore, as I didn’t want Ma or Pa to be bothered, I also raced to the front door. Remembering all too well incidents of the past few months, I peeked through the peephole before I opened it.
Lou Prophet. Thank God!
Boy, I never thought I’d be thanking God for Lou Prophet!
I flung the door open. “Mr. Prophet! I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Yeah, yeah,” said the raggedy old bounty hunter. “What’s this crap Sam told me about some rich woman’s coachman kidnapping your aunt? Who the hell’s gonna cook the food around this house if she ain’t here to do it?”
I stood still for a moment, suppressing my impulse to sock him in the jaw. He’s old, I told myself. He’s had a hard life, I told myself. We’d care about Vi whether she cooked for us or not, I told myself. He can’t help being a— My temper snapped.
“We don’t know if Cullen O’Hara kidnapped Vi, you blasted horse’s ass! Vi’s missing, and we’re going to find her. And we don’t care if she cooks for us or not.”
I heard my mother’s repressive, “Daisy” issue from the direction of the sofa. I paid it and her no mind.
“I swear to goodness, I don’t know why Sam wanted you to help him! All you care about is booze, women and…and…and nothing else, I guess!”
To my surprise, as I hollered at Mr. Prophet, I saw a grin spread across his wrinkled old face. Had he been baiting me?
The cunning old buzzard. I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Good job, Miss Daisy. Sam said you’d been bawling all over him at the police station. But if you can call a man a horse’s ass, you must be feelin’ better.”
I stamped my foot. “Damn you!”
This time his grin might have been produced by Old Scratch himself.
My mother’s shocked “Daisy!” carried more weight this time.
I spun around and walked to the sofa. “Oh, stop Daisy-ing me, Ma. Mr. Prophet provoked me on purpose.”
“True enough,” said Mr. Prophet.
When I whirled back to spew more vituperation upon him, I saw him calmly hanging his coat and hat on the coat tree next to the front door, so I decided not to. He was rubbing his hands together when he walked over to join us, Spike frolicking at his heels. Soon he was joined by Harold, who hadn’t run to the front door with Spike and me but had arrived using a more decorous pace.
“Kincaid. Good to see you,” said Mr. Prophet, holding out his hand.
Harold shook it. “Good to see you. I’m glad Sam found you.”
“I was just bein’ neighborly with Miss Li down the street.”
“Ha!” I grumbled. “I thought she was going to move back to the house in the orange grove.”
“Not for a while yet,” said Mr. Prophet with a smile that pretty much revealed the neighborliness of his visit with Miss Li.
He and Harold arrived at the sofa together, a little behind Spike, who’d resumed his perch on Pa’s lap.
“Thanks for coming, Lou,” said Pa.
“Yes, thank you,” said Ma. “Pay no attention to Daisy. She’s upset.”
“Don’t blame her. I’m upset, too,” said Mr. Prophet. “But let’s wait until Sam gets here. He shouldn’t be too much longer. I talked to him about ten minutes ago.”
“Do you know why somebody allowed his horrid nephew to get on to a work crew?” I asked.
“Let’s wait for Sam,” said Mr. Prophet.
I wanted to shriek at him that I didn’t want to wait because I was worried to death about Vi, but Harold stalled me before I could.
“I have some information Sam might find interesting,” said he. “But right now I think I’ll return to the kitchen and put a call through to the Castleton.” He shared a calming smile with the whole bunch of us. It’s a singular talent he has, and one I envy. “Any special requests?”
“The Castleton?” Ma asked, gazing at Harold blankly.
“Harold said he’ll get the Castleton to bring us dinner,” I said.
“Oh, but that’s…um…wildly expensive, isn’t it?” said Ma. Now she appeared embarrassed.
“Please, Mrs. Gumm. Don’t fret about the expense. It’s nothing to me.”
“Or Sam, probably,” muttered Mr. Prophet under his breath.
“He’s not all that rich,” I snarled at him under my own breath.
He gave me another cheeky grin. I gave up on him.
“Order whatever you want, Harold. Thank you very much,” I said in my kindest tone.
“Will do. It will probably depend on what they have ready,” said Harold as he took off for the kitchen and the telephone.
A knock came at the front door. I hoped like anything this knock belonged to Sam.