I’ve always loved Mrs. Bissel’s upstairs sitting room, a sunny, bright, airy room. Windows opened out to her rolling lawn on the south side and overlooked Maiden Lane on the east side. Her bedroom led from it, but that door was closed at the moment. About as large as the Gumm-Majesty living room, Mrs. B’s sitting room also contained a fireplace—not in use on this warm spring day—and a sofa and several comfortable chairs set here and there. Built-in bookshelves couldn’t hold all the books she owned. A book or two sat on most of the side tables in the room. Unlike the palaces owned by many of my other clients, Mrs. Bissel’s home didn’t feel uncomfortably ritzy. Mrs. Bissel preferred comfort to fashion. And she read a lot.
And on top of all that, she bred dachshunds! This alone made her a queen among women.
“I’m awfully glad you could visit, Daisy and Detective Rotondo,” said Dennis Bissel, coming to the doorway to lead us into the room. Sam and I had met Dennis and his sweet wife, Patsy, when we all sang roles in The Mikado a couple of years back. Since then, Dennis and Patsy had become parents and seemed blissfully happy.
After we greeted each other and handshakes were shared, Dennis continued. “Please let me introduce you to my chauffeur, Brian O’Hara. Brian has some information you might find useful.”
More handshakes and greetings.
“Please sit anywhere,” said Mrs. Bissel, waving her hand at the assorted chairs and sofas in the room. She herself sat on a sofa with Dennis. Mr. O’Hara sat on a chair near the sofa.
“Thank you,” said Sam. He held a prettily patterned chair for me and took the matching one next to it, where we faced the two Bissels and Mr. O’Hara. Sam got right to the point. “I understand you might know something about your brother’s activities, Mr. O’Hara.”
Brian O’Hara, a freckle-faced young man with light red hair, said, “Pshaw.”
I think I’ve only heard one other person say “pshaw” in my entire life, although I can’t remember who it was. People say it all the time in books.
He elaborated, “My brother, Cullen, is a pure fool. He’s got it into his head that we Irish folks here in the United States need to make money to buy arms and send them to Ireland. The Irish Free State isn’t enough for him. He wants the whole country to be free from British control.”
“I see,” said Sam, frowning slightly. “You don’t agree with him?”
“I came here to America because I was sick of all the fighting in Ireland. Anyhow, we’re not even Catholics! What does he want to be sending guns to Catholics to kill Protestants for, I’d like to know!” He sounded irate.
“Beats me,” said Sam. “But you’re pretty sure that’s what he’s doing?”
“I’m more than pretty sure,” said O’Hara. “I know that’s what he’s doing, because he told me so. He always was an idgit.”
The last word he spoke took me a minute, but then I realized he’d just called his brother an idiot.
Deciding to stick my oar in, I said, “When someone entered the Pinkerton kitchen, your brother was conked on the head, wasn’t he? That’s what Featherstone, the butler, told me.”
“Aye, he was. And do you know why?” asked O’Hara, still so angry his face had turned red. “Because he wanted to steal some things from the house! But he wasn’t supposed to do anything of the sort, according to him. He was supposed to grab the cook and go. The arse— er, the blamed fool couldn’t even get that right. So the fellow with him bashed him on the head and took off. Should have hit him harder, if you ask me.”
“But eventually Cullen did what his cronies told him to do?”
“No. He got himself injured, and some of his buddies came back, grabbed the cook, and ran.”
“Grabbed the cook and ran? That cook is my aunt!”
Mr. O’Hara’s face paled from a vivid crimson to a softer rose color. “Ah, aye. I’m sorry, Mrs. Majesty. I didn’t mean to downplay your loss. I’m just…” Evidently, he ran out of proper words to say, because his mouth worked for a second or two before he spat out, “I’m just so bleeding angry at the clod!”
“I am, too,” I said. “Do you know why he was supposed to kidnap the cook?”
“Daisy, I can interrogate the fellow,” Sam said under his breath.
His comment seemed to amuse O’Hara, because his high color faded entirely and he said, “She’s doin’ all right, Detective. Got to the point, she did.”
“Very well. Why did his cronies kidnap Mrs. Gumm?” Sam asked in a rush, as if to get the question in before I could continue my own interrogation.
“Because the boss”—he placed scornful emphasis on the word boss—“wanted himself a good cook. Guess he decided cabbage and tatties are all right for us common folk, but he wanted good food.” Then he uttered a sound I can’t spell, although maybe acchhhh comes close.
“So you don’t think his boss’s motives are pure? All this running around, kidnapping people and stomping on butlers’ knees isn’t entirely about freeing Ireland from the British?” asked Sam.
“Hell— I beg your pardon, ladies,” said O’Hara, turning red again. “No. His motives aren’t pure. In fact, half the people in the gang Cullen joined are Eye-tyes. They ain’t even Irish!”
Eye-tyes? What in the world— Oh!
“Do you mean Italians?” I said. Even I noticed the dangerous edge to my voice.
Sam put a hand on my arm. “It’s all right, Daisy. The Irish and Italians aren’t noted for getting along with each other. In New York City, the rival gangs kill each other off regularly.”
O’Hara nodded vigorously. “Aye. That’s the truth! That’s why I brought Cullen out here to California was to get him away from them gangsters. And what did he do? He joined a bunch of other gangsters on this coast! I tell you, the boy’s a lost cause.”
“Do you know the names of any of his colleagues?”
For a second there, I thought Mr. O’Hara aimed to spit on Mrs. Bissel’s gorgeous and no-doubt wildly expensive Oriental carpet, but he evidently recalled his surroundings before he could commit such a desecration. After taking a deep breath and letting it out, as though he were releasing demons, he said, “Aye. I know a few names. One of ‘em’s a bas— er, a buzzard called Costello, and—”
“Costello?” I cried. Then I slapped a hand over my mouth and murmured, “I beg your pardon.”
“‘Tis all right, Mrs. Majesty. I know you’re upset,” said O’Hara. “I’d be upset if a blood— er, a blooming crook kidnapped my auntie, too.”
Since he still had his hand on my arm, Sam squeezed it a bit, from which I knew he wanted to conduct the interview from this point on, and I was to shut up and stay shut up. I pinched my lips together and swore—silently—I wouldn’t utter another word.
“Do you know if this fellow your brother knows, Costello, is a policeman?”
“Aye, he was. Expect he isn’t no more, because he helped an Eye— er, he helped an Italian lad escape from the work crew he was heading.”
“That’s something else I’m interested in,” said Sam, ignoring the Eye-tye thing. “Did your brother tell you about any other gang members who might be associated with the Pasadena Police Department? And if he did, can you remember any names?”
“Aye. I think so,” said O’Hara uncertainly. “Let me think if I can remember ‘em.”
“Take your time. Thank you for doing this,” said Sam, at his calmest and most polite.
During the ensuing interlude, Mrs. Bissel said, “I’m so sorry about your aunt, Daisy. Mrs. Pinkerton is beside herself, but I understand you and her son convinced her to take a week or two and go up the coast to the Miramar. That should calm her considerably.”
Because Mrs. Bissel had given me a knowing smile as she spoke, I gave her one back and said, “Yes. Harold and I both thought it would be for the best. I’m worried enough about Vi without Mrs. Pinkerton—whom I appreciate greatly, you understand—calling me every ten minutes.”
“In a tizzy,” Mrs. Bissel said, probably because I hadn’t.
I sighed. “Yes. She tends to lose her composure rather often.” I hastened to add, “And it’s no wonder, considering what she’s been through. I mean, her husband tried to ruin his own bank, and then her daughter…well, I don’t even want to think about Stacy Kincaid.”
The jerk Mr. O’Hara gave in his seat made me turn and gape. It evidently had the same effect on everyone else, because we all stared at him.
“Did you say Stacy?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Bissel before I could. “Stacy Kincaid is the daughter of the woman whose cook your brother’s friends kidnapped. Stacy’s a wicked girl, and she’s been in the jail housed in the Pasadena Police Department building for some months now, awaiting trial for several misdeeds.”
“Aye. That must be the one,” muttered O’Hara.
“The one what?” I asked, my tone sharp.
Again Sam squeezed my arm, and I recalled my vow of silence. “What does Stacy Kincaid have to do with any of this?” he asked.
“According to Cullen, Costello cozied up to her, and she gave him names of people who can help with the ‘cause.’”
“The Irish cause?” said Sam.
“Aye. But that’s not why Costello wants to know the crooks she knows, in spite of what he told Cullen. I’m sure he’s wanting to get into the bootleg and drug business here in California. He wants to join the gang trying to get into the mo’om pictures. You know, the Eye— er, the Italian gangs are nosing their way into the pictures and feeding all them picture people drugs, and I think Costello wants a piece of the action. I don’t think he gives a bleeding rip about Ireland. Why’d he spring that Wop, if he’s so involved in freeing Ireland, is what I want to know?”
Sam didn’t bat an eye when O’Hara said “Wop” in that belittling way. Guess he was used to insulting appellations being flung at people of his background. Human beings can be so mean to each for such illogical reasons, can’t they?
“Interesting,” said Sam musingly. “Can you think of any other names your brother might have mentioned?”
“I’ve been thinkin’,” said O’Hara. “Cullen thought it was funny Costello’s such a ladies’ man. He’s got another couple of women on his string, but I can’t remember…Let me think for a second or two more.”
He sat still, cogitating for a few seconds before bursting out, “But I forgot! There’s two Costellos. Albert and Donald, and they’re both in the gang.”
“Interesting,” said Sam, writing down both names on his pad. “Donald Costello isn’t a policeman, right?”
“Right. It’s Albert who’s the copper. But let me think some more.”
“Gladly,” said Sam. He glanced at each of us in turn, telling us with his expression we were to keep quiet so as not disturb Mr. O’Hara’s thinking processes. We all complied with his unspoken command.
After several tense seconds, O’Hara shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t think of the ladies he named. I think one of them was Bridey, but I’m not sure.” Again he shook his head. “Nah. It wasn’t Bridey. It was…Betty?”
“Betty?” I said, garnering myself a frown from Sam. “Could the name be Betsy, by any chance?” Sam stopped frowning at me and turned his attention back to Mr. O’Hara.
O’Hara stared at me for a second, his brow furrowed in thought—which seemed to be difficult for him. I apologize. That was mean of me. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Majesty. I can’t remember the names. Might not be a Betty or a Betsy among them, but there were three of four others besides the Stacy character.”
“Do you think you know who the Betty person is, Daisy?” asked Dennis, interested.
“I’m not sure. But Miss Betsy Powell asked me if I knew a cook her latest love interest might be able to hire to be his boss’s cook. I told her to ask Vi, since—” I stopped speaking, horrified. “Good Lord, do you think I’m the one who’s responsible for Vi being kidnapped?”
“No,” said Sam. “The people who took her are the ones responsible.”
“But—”
“Stop it, Daisy. If the Powell woman is one of Costello’s harem, she knew about Vi before you mentioned her name.”
“I guess that’s true enough.” I didn’t like it, though. I patted my juju, but it just hung on its chain against my chest and didn’t heat up, cool down, dance a jig or turn pointy and stab me. Perhaps Miss Betsy Powell wasn’t the conductor of evil into Vi’s life. I aimed to question her closely during tomorrow’s exercise class, though.
Which reminded me I still needed to telephone Regina and find my gym bloomers. Nertz.
But Sam had begun speaking again, so I stopped thinking. Holding his notebook in one hand and his pencil in another, he asked Mr. O’Hara, “Can you recall any other names of people in Costello’s gang your brother might have mentioned?”
“Let me think for a minute here,” said O’Hara.
Although I had begun to despair of the man’s intellect, I allowed him to think and didn’t butt into his thought processes.
At last, after a decade or two, O’Hara said slowly, “I think one of the fellers in the gang is a McCarthy. Maybe it’s McGinty.” He shook his head hard. “Damn— I mean, darn it, I wish I’d paid more attention to Cullen’s blather.”
I did, too.
“Just take your time,” Sam said, astounding me with his patience.
“Remembered one,” said O’Hara, brightening. “A lad named Pagano! Aye, that’s one of ‘em.”
Big help.
“That’s the one he sprang from the work crew,” said Sam.
“Ah. Aye. Well, let me think some more. Cullen said somethin’ about Pagano—which is a funny name, bein’ sort o’ pagan and all.”
No one who wasn’t Mr. O’Hara said a word.
“Ah, yeah. Thought the name was funny. Couldn’t figure out if the fellow was Irish or Eye-tye, but there’s some other guy Cullen called Lucky. That’s all I remember was the name Lucky.”
Sam jerked up straight in his chair. We all stared at him. “If he’s the Lucky I’m thinking of, he’s Italian.” His tone was grim.
“Oh, aye?” said O’Hara.
“Yes,” said Sam. “Go on, please. Keep thinking.” He sounded terribly serious all of a sudden. Not that he hadn’t been serious before, but at the name “Lucky,” he seemed to become downright dour.
I’d ask him later.
After what seemed like another century had passed, Mr. O’Hara had come up with two more names: Stella and Finney. “Might be a lass called Stella Finney,” he said, “but I think they’re two different people.”
“Do you know if they’re both women?”
Shaking his head, O’Hara said, “Naw. I was wrong. Two different people. A lass and a fellow, I think. I got the feeling Cullen was nutty about Stella.” He closed his eyes for a second, then said, “Aye. That’s it. He’s fond of Stella, and Stella is already stepping out with Finney. That’s it.”
Wonderful. We not only had a kidnapped Vi, but a gangster named Lucky of whom Sam appeared to know a lot and didn’t like, and now we had a love triangle clogging up the mix.
Finally, after silence had prevailed for three or four centuries, Mr. O’Hara said, “I’m sorry. I can’t think of another thing to tell you. My brother’s a fool, and he’s running with some dangerous blokes.”
“Yes,” said Sam. “It sounds as if he is.”
A knock sounded on the door frame just then, and I got up to see who had dared interrupt our solemn circle, although there wasn’t much of substance left to tell, I guess. There stood Keiji with a tray loaded with tea and coffee things, along with Ginger, Mrs. B’s housemaid, following up with another tray loaded with foodstuffs. I gladly ushered them into the room.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bissel, rubbing her hands together, “now we’ve finished with the business of the day, let’s have a little snack, shall we?”
We did.