Depth of Deception (A Titanic Murder Mystery) (19 page)

She was smartly dressed so it was obvious that she wasn’t a vagrant, but her demeanor showed that she still had to be handled with care.

"
Ma’am…
"
said Willowby soothingly.
"
I need you to settle down.
"

The woman whirled around at the sound of his voice, her deep blue eyes blazing like a caged animal. Then those eyes focused on his uniform, and she became quiet. Unnervingly so.

It couldn’t be this easy,
Willowby thought cautiously
.
"
Ma’am you need to take a ride with us.
"

She nodded quietly, still gripping the newspaper. Willowby noticed that she did not display any signs of intoxication, nor were there any of the familiar signs of narcotics present. Strange. He would remember this one for a long time to come.

April 5, 1982

Chapter
XXII

"
I didn’t kill her. How many ways can I say it?
"
Callum yelled, exasperated. It was very late at night and he was sleep deprived, but that’s how they wanted it.

"
Yet, her blood i
s on your clothes,
"
said Detective Chief Inspector (DCI) Donald de Kirkhaugh,
"
You fired on my men. Do you have an FAC?
"

"
Yes, my Fire Arms Certificate is in my wallet. You have that.
"

DCI de Kirkhaugh picked up the wallet from the small plastic tray on the table and began to rummage through it. He pulled out Callum’s business card.

"
So, you’re a freelance insurance investigator?
"
read de Kirkhaugh.

"
Yes.
"

"
Is business so slow that you turned to burglary?
"

"
I didn’t burgl…!
"

"
Do you have a key?
"
interruped de Kirkhaugh.

"
No,
"
replied Callum.

"
Then how did you get in?
"

Callum knew there was no way he could answer that without incriminating himself. Under the eyes of English law, even if the door is unlocked, if not invited in, ‘A person is guilty of burglary if, having entered a building or part of a building as a trespasser with the intent to steal or cause bodily harm.’

"
She paged me several times,
"
said Callum finally.
"
She said it was urgent. I flew in from London just to get there as fast as I could.
"

"
Where’s your flight ticket?
"
replied de Kirkhaugh.
"
We didn’t see that with your personal belongings.
"

"
I don’t know,
"
replied Callum.
"
It’s probably in my satchel case. I left that either in Ruthies… Miss McArthur’s flat or
in
the taxi I took from the airport.
"

"
What taxi was it?
"

"
How the hell do I know? It was a taxi at the ground floor of the main terminal,
"
sneered Callum. He was getting nowhere. They had been asking him the same questions for hours, ever since he had been brought to the interrogation room of the new Maryhill Office of the Strathclyde Police. Years ago, Callum had wanted to join the force when it was still the Glasgow Police, but around five or six years earlier, Glasgow amalgamated with almost a dozen neighbouring police districts to form the Strathclyde Police. Now he certainly had no wish to be a part of this group. He took this moment to really observe his interrogator. This fair-haired upstart looked too young to have earned the rank of DCI; his face even looked too boyish to be imposing.
Doesn’t even look like he can grow facial hair,
Callum thought to himself. He supposed that’s why the husky partner, who identified himself as Detective Sergeant Milton was standing close by —
to make up for de Kirkhaugh’s unimpos
ing features.

Callum remembered,
"
The taxi was a Black Morris Oxford, ‘bout 10 years old. White numbers painted on the doors.
"

"
That narrows it down,
"
de Kirkhaugh said sarcastically.
"
You still haven’t answered why Miss McArthur wanted to see you so urgently.
"

Callum bit his tongue. He couldn’t say he was investigating a 70-year-old murder case. Aside from it sounding absurd, it was the Glasgow police who had once threatened Ruthie’s father and possibly ruined his own grandfather’s reputation.

"
Am I being charged?
"
Callum asked.

"
Not yet,
"
huffed de Kirkhaugh.
"
But you are under arrest.
"

"
Then you can’t detain me, without an arrest warrant.
"

"
Nice try,
"
replied de Kirkhaugh.
"
We have the power to arrest if one is
seen running away from the scene of a crime pursued by others.
And we can hold you in custody until we bring you before the district court. Don’t worry tomorrow is Monday, we’ll have you in front of the magistrate soon enough.
"

"
Then if I’m officially under arrest,
"
replied Callum.
"
I won’t answer any further questions until I speak to a solicitor.
"

. . .

"
Excuse me, Miss…?
"
stammered Willowby as he looked down at the paper where she had written her name in a style of penmanship so neat and precise that he hadn't seen in years. She did not have any identification to verify.
"
Myra, am I pronouncing that properly? Is there someone we can call?
"

Willowby tried to smile as he placed a glass of water on the table of the interrogation room of the 27th Precinct in Manhattan. Myra delicately reached for the glass. Greenwyn’s pen was poised above paper, waiting to take her statement.

"
I tried to call...
"
said Myra, taking a moment to sip the water. As she carefully placed the glass back on the table, she quietly continued,
"
I finally found a telephone booth. I remember when they were introduced to New York in 1910.
"

Willowby and Greenwyn exchanged glances. Willowby glowered as Greenwyn shrugged.

Myra cleared her throat,
"
I picked up the receiver and dialed ‘0’ for the operator and I asked for the number for Edward Hoffman... that’s my son.
"

Greenwyn scrawled as she spoke and circled the word ‘son’. Willowby squinted, as he tried to recall why that name was familiar to him. He asked,
"
You don’t have your son’s phone number?
"

She paused,
"
It’s complicated to explain.
"

The two officers exchanged knowing glances.

Myra continued,
"
The operator insisted that she had no listing for Edward Hoffman. Likewise, she had no listing for our residence on Bloomingdale Square...
"

Willowby interrupted,
"
Where is Bloomingdale Square?
"

Myra opened her mouth but a mere whisper came out.

"
Where was that?
"
asked Greenwyn.

"
Manhattan.
"

A look of confusion fell across Greenwyn’s face as he jotted down her words. Willowby was equally perplexed. There was no such place as Bloomingdale Square. He asked,
"
As in the giant store Bloomingdale’s?
"

"
Giant? Er..yes... named after the Bloomingdale Brothers. Bloomingdale Square used to be Schuyler Square.
"

"
How do you spell that?
"
asked Greenwyn.

"
Look ma’am,
"
interjected Willowby.
"
I’ve lived in Manhattan all my life and walked most of the streets at some point and I’ve never heard of Bloomingdale Square or Shuler Square.
"

"
Schuyler Square,
"
corrected Myra.

"
Whatever.
"

"
Yes. The operator said the same as you. I understand why now, but didn’t when I made the call.
"

"
Okay, I don’t follow.
"

"
I’m getting ahead of myself,
"
Myra continued.
"
The operator rudely disconnected the line and I made my way westward to Longacre Square… er… Times Square... you see, I had been… away... for some time but nothing could have prepared me for how much had changed."

"Changed?"

"The buildings are different, taller, colder. Photographs of women wearing hardly any clothes. Everyone is dressed so differently now... no one wears hats anymore.
"

Willowby opened his mouth to comment but then decided to let her ramble. Greenwyn tried desperately to take legible notes but she began to babble more quickly by the minute.

"
I was in shock to see what had become of Times Square. You see, I remember when it was called Longacre Square...
"

This caught Willowby off-guard. What kind of nut was she? It had always been Times Square. He found himself asking,
"
When was it called ‘Longacre Square?’
"

"
Since the 1800's I believe. It was renamed ‘Times Square’ in 1905...
"

"
Nineteen-oh-five?
"
exclaimed Willowby.
"
But you said, ‘I remember when it was Longacre Square
.
’ Lady, that was long before any of us were born.
"

Myra looked at him for a moment. She seemed too much in control
to
be crazy. She had to be working some angle. He decided to play along to see if he could figure her out, and said,
"
Okay, for argument’s sake, tell me more about these ‘changes’.
"

"
Well, The New York Times building was the tallest building in New York. It used to be the second tallest building in all the world, now it is overshadowed by buildings stretched to the heavens, and it's façade is covered with towers of giant square boxes and flashing adverts.
"
She lowered her voice and spoke in confidence;
"
The word ‘S…E…X’ surrounded me on signs and storefronts.
"

Willowby nodded. He had seen firsthand how the sex shops had sprung up all over Times Square during the 70’s, making the area cheap and a breeding ground for deviants.

"
Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. I thought when they started showing Mutoscope "peepshow" flickers at the New York Theater it would be the end of Broadway."

"
Sorry,
"
interrupted Willowby.
"
Which New York theatre do you mean? There are tons of them.
"

"
The
New York Theatre,
"
Myra replied incredulously.
"
That's it
s name. Just down from the Cadillac Hotel…
"

Willowby was going to ask about where the hell the Cadillac Hotel was but the woman continued, "The glorious George M. Cohen shows...
"

Who?
wondered Willowby. But as he glanced down at Greenwyn’s notes he knew he had seen the name written before.

"
Then I saw him,
"
Myra continued.

"
Saw who?
"
asked Willowby.

"
Georgie... George Cohen,
"
she replied, her eyes focused a million miles away.
"
I knew his face instantly... But it was bronzed.... He’s a statue, now. With the inscription,
Give My Regards to Broadway.
Oh, I remember how proud he was of that song. Just last summer I was at a soiree... I guess it wasn't last summer... It was to me. The inscription listed Georgie's passing in 1942. They're all gone. All my friends are gone. What happened to them? What happened to my mother?
"