Death Comes To The Torpedo Factory by Arno Zimmer

Author:Arno Zimmer [Zimmer, Arno]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-08-11T22:00:00+00:00

Willoughby went to Scatcherd’s apartment building the next morning and knocked on the door marked “Manager”. A grizzled old man with strands of flailing white hair and wearing a faded sleeveless tee shirt cracked the door and looked warily at the detective. Willoughby flashed his badge and the old timer suddenly looked pleasantly surprised, throwing open the door like he was greeting the prize team from Publishers Clearing House.

“I suspect you’re here about that Scatcherd fellow?” he said, more like a statement of fact than a question. There was a twang to his voice and Willoughby guessed that he was from a small town in the Deep South. The manager’s lips hardly moved as he spoke. It was if his jaws had been almost wired shut and it was difficult for him to speak.

“That’s right. Are you the manager?” Willoughby asked. “Yep, and the owner, too. It was my Ma’s afore she passed and I inherited the place some years back. It was a boarding house for drifters and lay-abouts in those days. My Ma was a tough old bird but squeezing rents from that collection of blackguards was no picnic. As you can see, the place is respectable now. Yep, we’re one big happy family here. Hell, even got a highly-educated Limey living here. But not much longer, I’m a feared.” The Manager saw the puzzled look on Willoughby’s face and explained, “Real sickly Englishman. Just hope he don’t die in there,” the manager said, pointing across the hall as he spoke.

“I need to look around Scatcherd’s apartment,” Willoughby said. The Manager stared at the detective for a moment and then slapped his leg like he had just solved a complicated riddle and said, “Of course, you’re wanting the key. Just a second, detective.”

Scatcherd’s apartment was sparsely furnished and attested to a grim, barren existence for the deceased clerk. Besides the television, the only thing of value that Willoughby saw was a Polaroid camera sitting on the kitchen table. Otherwise, his search revealed nothing.

Willoughby went downstairs to return the key and quickly deflected the manager’s inquiry as to what he had found. “Next of kin?” asked Willoughby. “Not a clue, detective. He didn’t talk much, at least to me, and rarely got mail.” The City would be stuck with funeral costs if a family member or even a friend didn’t step up and Willoughby knew that the bosses would ask if he had made an effort. “Friends?” Willoughby asked, but the manager just scoffed. “Seeing how you’re all ‘family’ here, maybe you’d be willing to claim the body,” Willoughby suggested. All he got back was a dark glare.

As Willoughby started to leave, the manager smirked and said, “That other guy, detective, maybe he found what you’re looking for?” Willoughby turned back and his stare made the manager’s grin disappear. “About a week ago, some guy was in here and walked right up to Scatcherd’s apartment and let himself in. I figured he was a friend, him having a key and all.

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