Chapter 1: The Desperate Detective
It was a bright and sunny morning. If you were a morning-person, you’d have loved it. But if you’re a morning-person, I should warn you that this isn’t a bright and sunny kind of story.
As for myself, I pulled the shade down on my office window to keep out the cheer of the sunshine. Unfortunately it didn’t keep out the blathering of the early morning drinkers, spilling out the back door of the pub across the street. But it did hide the sign on the glass, taunting me: Charles Browne, Private Investigator.
The sign was beautifully hand painted, not that it had done my business a lot of good. I haven’t been hired to investigate much of anything lately and everyone in Galway seems to know my business. This city may be one of the largest cities in the new Irish Free State, but it’s still just a small town, little more than a village.
I was having myself a private little pity-party that morning as I sat alone in my inner office. The outer office was empty, even the receptionist desk. My wife, Peg, played secretary the first month or two I was in business. That was back when we were still newlyweds. But Peg stayed home when she got in the family way and never came back.
I looked around my inner office and took stock of what was left of my little kingdom. On the other side of my desk are two simple chairs for my hypothetical clients, dusty from disuse. My chair behind the desk is a bit fancier. It’s great for afternoon naps with my feet up on the desk, which is fairly standard itself: pen set, desk calendar with phony appointments to impress potential clients, a phone with a bell that may or may not work anymore, and a lamp that works well enough with cheap bulbs.
But what really held my attention that morning was the scale model of a Sopwith Camel that I’ve been building. There’s just the propeller and one set of bi-wings left to attach. Maybe I’m afraid if I finish, it’ll fly away and leave me as well.
My day dreams of open skies and dancing clouds came to a crashing halt when she sauntered in.
I hadn’t heard her come into the outer office door. Maybe it was the squeaking of my desk chair as I sat and swiveled, contemplating finally finishing the plane. Or maybe it was because I was just lost in my own thoughts. Either way, she entered my office as silent as a church mouse who spent a lot of time in the confessional. Her boutique clothing said she could afford anything she wanted, but her hour-glass figure said she hadn’t paid for anything since puberty. And yet it was the hair beneath the black veiled hat that set off warning bells.
Every stupid childhood and adolescent crush came at me in a flood of memories. Nothing made Peg more jealous than a red-head. I tried not to give her cause, but I guess we all have our weaknesses. Even still, if I hadn’t been so hungry and desperate for work, I might’ve jumped out the window to avoid the trouble I knew had just walked into my office. Somehow I sensed it, but who was I trying to fool? I was tangled up in those locks the instant my peepers saw red.
Neither of us spoke at first. The mysterious ginger-haired woman walked over to the window and seemed to study some of the items on the narrow bookshelf. It’s more of a knick-knack-shelf as I’m not exactly what you’d call “a reader.”
With her back to me and silhouetted by the light of the window, she took her time glancing at a couple of old pictures of family and friends. She inspected my medal and put it back next to a few other war souvenirs. Ignoring an old hurley and a worn-out rugby ball from my athletic youth, my visitor spun slowly, starting with her head, then her shoulders, and ever so slowly with her hips. Now that she knew she had my full attention, she finally walked over to my desk. She sat down in a way that made me glad I had forgotten my manners and hadn’t stood up when she entered the room.
I was so busy trying to see the face behind the veil that I hardly heard what she was saying. Maybe it was the caffeine withdrawal or my empty stomach, but I was having trouble listening. Her thick German accent came across like a muted Jazz trombone: full of mystery and sex appeal.
“Come again,” I said, clearing my throat and straightening my loosened tie.
“Mine name is Fraulein Schrödinger und mine brutter iz missing. Pleaze to help me?”
“The Guards are better equipped to . . .” I began, but stopped when she reached into her purse and dropped a stack of lettuce on my desk so big that I considered becoming a vegetarian.
I tried not to stare at the cash and drool as my newest client filled me in on some of the details. Her missing brother, Herr Ludwig Schrödinger, was a down on his luck pianist who’d come to Ireland looking for work. She said he preferred playing in churches, but most often found work in pubs. She hadn’t heard from him in over a fortnight. When his weekly letters stopped coming, she grew concerned. His last letter had been sent from Galway City and so she came from Vienna to look for him. Only, she hadn’t had any luck on her own.
“Why didn’t you bring this matter to the Guards?”
“I did. But they vould not help. One Guard, as you say, he zend me to you.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Nein,” she dismissed the question with a wave of her gloved hand. The perfume that wafted my way smelled expensive. “He vas ugly man, very mean.”
‘Ugly and mean’ hardly narrowed down who in the Guards I had to thank for my client, but I didn’t push for details.
“Do you have your brother’s last address? The address he sent the letter from?”
“Nein. Just ze stampe from Galway Zity.”
“Do you at least have a picture of . . .”
“Nein,” she said and promptly broke down into tears.
I dashed around the desk so quickly to offer my handkerchief that I banged my hip on the corner of the desk. She ignored my pain like she ignored my handkerchief.
I tried not to limp back to my chair and thought about the lack of information she had to give me to get started. Maybe that’s why she was willing to pay me so much upfront. But something didn’t seem right. Maybe I was just being a sucker again for another beautiful red-head. Fraulein Schrödinger seemed a resourceful woman who men aimed to please. And it looked like I was going to be one of those men.
“I’ll do what I can, but . . .”
“Danke, Herr Browne,” she said, wiping away a tear. “I stay at ze Great Southern Hotel. You can calls on me there vhen you find mine brutter.”
Before I could ask another question, Fraulein Schrödinger stood up and sashayed back through the door. I guess I was hired. Her story didn’t add up, but the cash on my desk added up to more than enough for that not to matter.