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      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2009 by J. K. Maxwell

      Copyright © 2010 by S. T. Joshi

      [First published under the pseudonym, J. K. Maxwell]

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      CHAPTER ONE

      “...This is pre-eminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So first of all let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance....”

      I was listening, in rapt attention, to that booming, faintly nasal voice on the radio—the voice that in the last year or so had become so familiar, the voice of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. And now, after what seemed an eternity after his election, it was now official. I glanced quickly at the calendar on my desk: March 4, 1933. The inauguration of FDR as our thirty-second president was finally taking place, and Let ’Em Starve Hoover and his ineffectual minions were out on their ears. Their shameful treatment of the Bonus Army last summer still left a bad taste in everyone’s mouth, but now you could feel the sense of relief, even of optimism, that here at last was a man who might actually do something about the Depression.

      There was a knock on the door—shy, hesitant, and fearful, as they all are. I did not welcome the interruption.

      “Come in,” I almost barked.

      The door opened. I was looking up at a tall, stocky man, extremely—almost excessively—well dressed in top coat and silk hat. A young-old face—young in years, but old in the haggard circles under the eyes. He was carrying a briefcase.

      “Mr. Scintilla?” he asked timidly.

      “Yeah.”

      He looked quickly behind him at the empty lobby.

      “You...er, your receptionist isn’t there.”

      I looked up at his eyes, coldly. “She isn’t there because I don’t have one. Not any more.” The Depression had hit private detectives as hard as it had hit others.

      He shambled into the room, almost sliding into the chair in front of my desk.

      “You come highly recommended....”

      I thought he was going to say more. When he didn’t, I said: “Glad to hear it.”

      I guess I wasn’t being very helpful, but I really did want to listen to that inauguration speech. I also didn’t feel much like working today.

      But my customer was not to be deterred. Gaining courage, he opened his briefcase with a crisp snap and proceeded to lay a succession of articles on my nearly empty desk:

      A small business card, well printed, with only three words and a telephone number on it.

      A photograph of a young woman.

      A newspaper clipping—evidently a marriage announcement.

      A notebook or diary—much written in.

      After he had finished his work, he looked expectantly at me, as if he thought I could divine his purpose and intent from the mere act of laying objects on my desk. I looked blandly back at him, saying: “Yes?”

      He picked up the business card and handed it to me. “Does that mean anything to you?”

      I took it. This is what it read:

      THE REMOVAL COMPANY

      MUrray Hill 4-3802

      I put it down. “No.”

      “It must be near here, don’t you think?”—eagerly.

      I looked down at the number again. “I guess so. This is obviously a Murray Hill phone number, and that sure is where we are now. What do you want me to do—call it?”

      His eyes opened wide. “Good God, no!” The prospect actually appeared to horrify him. “I mean...not yet. Perhaps you will want to later....”

      I was getting tired of this.

      “Mister, maybe you’d better explain just what you want. Your name would be a good start.”

      He looked abashed. “Sorry...it’s just—I mean.... The whole thing is so strange.” He took a deep breath and expelled it. “My name is Arthur Vance. I’m from Los Angeles, but I’m currently staying with my uncle at 144 East 62nd Street. Maybe you’ve heard of my father, Henry Vance....”

      “The Steamship King?”

      He winced quickly. “You can call him that if you want. But he’s a good man. He treats his people fairly....”

      That may be, but everyone knew how he had gained control of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company after Collis P. Huntington’s death in 1900. You had to admire his fancy footwork in snatching up that huge operation. Assuming you find rapacity of that sort admirable.

      “We’re not here to talk about your father,” I said. “What is it that you want me to do?”

      Vance ran well-manicured hands through his well-barbered hair. “You see, it’s like this....” He picked up the notebook, then put it back down again. “No, that can come later,” he said, more to himself than to me. Then he picked up the photograph:

      “That’s my wife, Katharine.”

      I took the picture. It had probably been done with an old Brownie, but the young woman in it was stylishly dressed and well posed. The snap had clearly been taken by a professional. The woman herself seemed a bit on the morose side, but lovely in flowing blonde hair and a white gown of what seemed to be taffeta.

      “Very nice,” I said, handing the photo back to Vance.

      “That was taken five years ago, a month before we were married.”

      He put the photo back down on the desk, then picked up the newspaper clipping and handed it to me.

      “Please read it,” he said.

      I read it:

      MISS CAVALIERI TO WED

      Miss Elena Cavalieri, of Cattolica, Italy, will be married on Wednesday, October 26, at 5 o’clock, at the Church of the Transfiguration to Mr. Harry Greenway, son of Mr. and Mrs. Stanford Greenway of 25 West Tenth Street. The ceremony will be performed by the Rev. Dr. Charles X. Feeney.

      Miss Margaret Chandler of New Haven, Conn., will be the bridesmaid, and Mr. William Samford, of this city, will be the best man. The ceremony will be followed by a dinner at the Plaza given by the groom’s parents.

      Mr. Greenway and his bride will make their home in New York.

      I put it back down. “Okay, what about it?”

      He looked right in my eyes, wetting his lips before he said: “That woman is also my wife. It’s her—it’s Katharine.” He seemed to be defying me to disbelieve him.

      I picked up the clipping and looked at it again. There was a kind of resemblance, but not so strong as to be noticeable at first glance. “Are you sure?” I said.

      “Oh, I know, the hair style is different, and maybe even the expression of the face. But it’s her, I tell you! It is!”

      Vance was getting agitated.

      “All right, all right, it’s her,” I said. “What happened? Did you divorce her?”

      “No.” Vance’s mouth worked some more. “That clipping was sent to me by—well, that doesn’t matter.... Anyway, it’s from the New York Herald-Tribune about six months ago.... You can see the date in the corner—October 21, 1932.”

      I saw it. “So what?”

      Vance took another deep breath. “My wife committed suicide

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