Seventy-five

The news about Ethan Humphrey surprised me.

“If you don’t mind, Detective, what else can you tell me about Mr. Humphrey?”

“Not much. He teaches part-time at NYU. Told my guys he gets a rent break for doing the side hustle of managing the building.”

Wow, I thought, Ethan must have some great connections to get that job. It was either that or the building’s owner had shockingly low standards, given the man’s penchant for drug-induced disorderly conduct.

Just then, Detective Russell’s phone dinged. He checked the text and apologized. “I’ve got to run. There’s a break on another case. If you find out anything more from Van Dyne, please pass it on.”

I’d just watched the detective scramble for the elevator when Esther reappeared. She tried to speak, but when her chin quivered and she broke down in tears, I took her in my arms.

After a few moments, Esther pulled away and looked around. “Where is Detective Russell?”

“He had to leave on another case.”

“Then we should call him,” Esther said. “Mr. Scrib woke up after you guys left. He told me where to find the manuscript.”

“What? Where?”

“He said he hid it ‘behind the duck where no one can find it.’ Those were his exact words. He repeated it three times.”

“Behind the duck?” I was baffled. “What could that mean?”

“No clue, and there’s one more thing. He said he also told Joan Gibson where the notebook was hidden. He claims she visited him this morning.”

Esther took off her glasses and swiped at her eyes. “Behind the duck must mean something. I found Wacker in Mr. Scrib’s bathroom. Maybe there’s a hidden compartment in there. Or maybe he hid it behind a heating grille or something. You can’t literally hide something behind a duck; it would be dripping with guano—oh, no. No!”

“Esther, what’s wrong?”

“What if the manuscript was thrown away? That bathroom was a real mess. If someone thoroughly cleaned the place, then they might have found it.”

“Someone like the building manager?” I thought of Ethan Humphrey, who also happened to be Addy’s nephew. “Esther, do you have the keys to Mr. Scrib’s apartment?”

“No. They were stolen last night, remember? When that bicycle thief grabbed my bag, the jerk got the notebook with the keys inside.”

“Okay, don’t panic. All is not lost. I know the building manager personally. He likely has the keys to all the apartments, and he owes me…”

We flagged a taxi for a speedy trip back to the Gold Coast of Greenwich Village. As soon as we arrived, we entered the small lobby and hit the buzzer marked Building Manager multiple times. Ethan Humphrey did not respond. Fortunately, an Instacart delivery woman exited through the interior security door, and we slipped in.

The elevator was waiting, but we had no clue how to get inside Mr. Scrib’s apartment without keys. The question turned out to be moot when we found his front door ajar.

Esther and I exchanged uneasy glances and pushed through anyway.

Entering the living room, we both instantly realized that the unpleasant odor that had permeated the air on our first visit was gone, replaced with the strong smell of lemony soap. Someone had cleaned up. But the new smell was not the only thing we noticed.

“Look at those brown spots on the floor,” Esther said.

The spots left a trail through the living room, right up to the front door.

“Whoever cleaned this place should have sealed the trash bags before dragging wet guano to the dumpster,” Esther said.

Though it was possibly unfair, I thought that was just the sort of shoddy work Ethan might have done if he’d cleaned the place under the influence of whatever drug he decided to indulge in that day.

“Is there no respect?” Esther cried. “That’s a parquet floor!”

She was about to check the bathroom when I called her back. “Esther, look at that picture. Do you remember it from the last time we were here?”

Hanging on the wall was a print copy of the classic Lynn Bogue Hunt painting of ducks flying over a pond.

“Behind the duck,” I said. “Maybe he was talking about that framed duck print.”

I took off my shoes and stood on the French Provincial sofa to examine the print. I noticed scrapes on the wall paint around the bottom left side of the frame. Holding out hope, I slipped one hand behind the painting to probe around and felt something sticky.

“I’m going to pass this picture down to you, okay?”

Though not heavy, the print was large. Esther carefully set the picture face down on the floor, and that’s when we knew.

Attached to the cardboard backing were four strips of double-sided tape. They formed a rectangle the size of a notebook. If we had any doubts that this tape was used to hide a spiral-bound notebook, the bits of white paper chaff clinging to the adhesive convinced us.

“It looks like Mr. Scrib’s notebook was here,” Esther said, “but now it’s gone!”

To get so close, only to have our hopes dashed, made me want to scream. Esther couldn’t hide her disappointment, either.

“Do you think Joan Gibson got here first?” she asked.

“Probably. And the door was unlocked, which tells me she had a key. I doubt Ethan would have helped Joan get into this apartment since he’s Addy’s nephew. Blair knew all about the animosity between Addy and Joan. No doubt Ethan did, too.”

“But where would Joan Gibson get a key to Mr. Scrib’s apartment?”

Even as she asked the question, Esther’s eyes narrowed, and I knew what she was thinking.

“If you’re wondering whether Ms. Gibson had something to do with your mugging last night, I can’t argue.”

“But what can we do?!”

“Not much, Esther. If Mr. Scrib’s editor found his manuscript, then she’s holding all the cards. She can argue that it’s hers by contract. Or even lie and say she doesn’t have it. The most we can do is inform Detective Russell what we discovered here.”

“Well, I’m going to check the bathroom anyway!” Turning on her Doc Martens, Esther moved to explore her desperate last hope of a secret compartment.

I stayed behind to rehang the nature print. That’s when I noticed something shiny on the floor. As I bent down to examine it, I realized it was a high-end lighter with a quotation inscribed on its surface.

Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal

This lighter belonged to Ethan Humphrey. I remembered it from the night I’d helped him out of trouble at the Grand Maison.

But what was it doing here?

I was about to pick it up when I heard Esther’s horrified scream.