Mrs Hauptmans Box

As Randy Stone, the guy who covered The Night Beat for the Chicago Star, used to say: stories start in many different ways. This one began with a wrong number. That's right: a dame who couldn't dial straight. (Not to be confused with the gang that couldn't shoot straight.) And it ended... well, I'll leave it to you to decide. Maybe it never really ended. Maybe it just kept on going.

But back to the beginning...

It was a rare sunny morning in early March and I was out on the fire escape, dragging on a gasper, when I heard the phone ringing. I kept expecting that Doris would answer it. Then I remembered that Doris had gone down to the stationers. For some more paperclips. So I hurried back inside. But I couldn't find the damned phone. I could hear it, but I couldn't see it. And then I realised that the ringing was coming from one of the desk drawers. Why Doris would put the phone into one of the desk drawers, I had no idea.

'Hello,' I said, when I eventually located the phone.

'Oh. You

are

there,' a dame's voice said. 'Thank goodness for that. I was just about to hang up. I thought that you might have been out. You know, working a case. Or casing a joint. Or doing one of the other things that you PI guys get up to.'

'I sort of was,' I told her. 'I was out on the fire escape. Thinking. But now I'm back.'

'Good. Because it's happened again,' the dame said.

'What has?' I asked.

'The same thing as before.'

I nodded. Not that she would have known that. She was at the other end of a phone line. 'And what happened before?' I asked.

'The same thing. A box of nothing. All wrapped up. Brown paper. String. The whole enchilada. But nothing inside. Nothing. Just empty.'

'Empty. I see. And what was supposed to be inside? Inside this empty box? What were you

expecting

would be inside this empty box?'

'I don't know. I wasn't really expecting anything. And I certainly wasn't expecting nothing.'

I was used to people getting a bit muddled when they first call to tell me stuff. Especially when they are a bit upset. But this dame was making no sense whatsoever. 'Whoa! Let's back up a bit there,' I said. 'You have an empty box, all wrapped up with brown paper and tied up with string, but there's nothing inside. Is that right?'

'It's an empty box. Of course there's nothing inside,' she said. 'If there was something inside, it wouldn't be empty, would it?'

'Probably not,' I said. 'So, where did you find this empty box?'

'I didn't

find

it. It was

delivered

. The mailman dropped it off. Just now. Well... maybe five minutes ago. That's why I'm calling.'

'OK. Now we're getting somewhere. And what should be inside this empty box?'

'I don't know. That's the problem. It's not as if I ordered anything. And now I have six boxes. All empty. All with my name and address on them.'

'Six?'

'Yeah. Six.'

'Well, why didn't you say?'

'I did. I said that there were five. And now there's another one. Five plus one makes six. I thought you'd realise that. What am I supposed to do, Mr Drakon? I need you to tell me what to do.'

'Drakon? Who's Drakon?'

'You are.'

'Me? No. I ain't Drakon.'

'Oh?'

'I'm Figglemore. Jake Figglemore. You've called The Figglemore Agency.'

'Oh. Damn. Have I dialled the wrong number?'

'It would seem you might have,' I said.

'Right. You probably should have said so before. Sorry. I'll... umm... I'll try again. It's all these boxes. I'm afraid they're getting to me. They're doing my head in. I'll dial again.'

'Yeah. You do that. Try again. Maybe slow it down a bit. Take a deep breath. And, umm, good luck with the boxes.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'Yeah. I'll try again.'

'Six boxes,' I said to Doris when she returned with the paperclips. 'Each one wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. But empty. Nothing inside. What does that suggest?'

'A song lyric?'

'Song lyric?'

'Yeah. Brown paper packages tied up with string.'

'But empty,' I said. 'And six of them. Also, I'm not sure that Rogers and Hammerstein have written that one yet. I think it's still a couple of years away. Summer of fifty-nine, unless I'm mistaken.'

Doris nodded. 'Why do you need to know?'

'A dame phoned. Said that she had five empty boxes and now she's just received another one. Five plus one makes six.'

'Usually, it's five 'll get you ten,' Doris said. 'The return of your stake money and then the same again for the win. You put down five bucks and, all going well, you collect ten.'

'Good point,' I said. 'Maybe there are more boxes to come.'

About half an hour later, I was just about to head down to The Brown Cow Diner for corned beef on rye with sliced tomato and hot mustard -- the English way -- when the phone rang again. Doris opened the drawer, took the phone out, and answered it.

'Yeah. Well... sort of,' she said. 'But it's Figglemore. Not Frigginmore. Although who knows what he does in his own time? It's his own time. What business is it of mine?' And she laughed. Then she listened and nodded before saying: 'Let me just see if he's in.' And she put her hand over the phone. 'Mrs Hauptman,' Doris said. 'Your lady with the box. Well, I guess they pretty much all got boxes, don't they? But you know what I mean.'

I nodded.

'Mrs Hauptman,' I said, when Doris handed me the phone. 'What a pleasant surprise. How's Mr Drakon?'

'Driving south,' Mrs Hauptman said. 'Headed for Mexico. He says that the weather's better down there. Even better than Florida.'

'I've heard similar rumours,' I told her. 'And your box?'

'My box?'

'Your box.'

'Oh. Yes. That's why I'm calling, Mr Frigginmore. There's now another one. Wrapped and tied.'

'Empty?'

'I assume so.'

'You assume so? You mean you haven't looked? Maybe you should take a shufti.'

'It says NOT TO BE OPENED, Mr Frigginmore. All in capital letters.'

'Capital letters? Hmm... interesting. Capital letters. That suggests that someone thinks it's important. Maybe even

very

important. It suggests that someone's not taking any risks.'

'What sort of risks?'

'Well, without getting my baby-blues onto the box in question, it's kinda difficult to say, Mrs Hauptman. But it doesn't sound good. Perhaps you should bring it over.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm right here. Next to Doris's desk.'

'No. I mean where's your office?'

'Oh... Number 10 Fourth Street. Or is it Number 4 10th Street? I can never remember. Just look for the red door.'

'The red door. I shall be there in half an hour, Mr Frigginmore.'

'We're going to have company,' I told Doris. 'Mrs Hauptman is coming over. She's bringing her box. Her latest box. She has another one.'

'Empty?'

'Hard to say. She hasn't looked. It says in no uncertain terms that it's not to be opened.'

'What does that make it?' Doris said. 'Seven?'

'Well five, then another one, and now another one again. So, yes, seven.'

'Then maybe five will get you ten after all.'

'And maybe Rogers and Hammerstein have already written their Favourite Things. You know... snowflakes, mittens, whiskers on kittens. Maybe they have the whole thing. Maybe they're just sitting on it, just waiting for the right time to let it loose on Broadway.'

Doris nodded and took a swig from her hip flask. (I didn't really approve of Doris drinking on the job but, technically, she was on her lunchbreak.)

Delphinium Hauptman was certainly a looker. Had she been a five-storey building, her legs would have gone all the way up to the sixth floor.

'I see you've brought your box,' I said, as she lowered herself into the chair opposite me.

'Oh? Can you see it? Perhaps I should have worn a longer skirt.'

'No, no. The skirt's fine,' I told her. 'I'm talking about the box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Whiskers on kittens.'

'Yes. A bit of hair on the pussy,' she said. 'I prefer it that way. I'm not a fan of the bald look.' And she smiled. 'Also, I get the impression that you, too, may prefer things that way, Mr Frigginmore. Am I right?'

'Hair there and everywhere, Mrs Hauptman. Well... perhaps not everywhere.'

'But I get your drift, Mr Frigginmore.'

'So... Mrs Hauptman, what can you tell me?'

'I can tell you that in fourteen hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.'

'Interesting,' I said. 'But I was thinking specifically about your box. The one tied up with string,' I added hastily.

'I'm running out of space in my apartment, Mr Frigginmore. Who knows where all this will end?'

'Indeed. Or even

if

it will end,' I told her.

Mrs Hauptman suddenly looked very concerned. 'Oh? You think it might not end?'

'Stories start in many different ways, Mrs Hauptman.'

'Funny you should say that,' she said. 'Randy Stone, the guy who covers the night beat for The Chicago Star, said something similar.'

'Oh? You know Randy Stone?'

'Not in the biblical sense. No. But let's just say that we are acquainted. He drops by my radio at seven-thirty every Monday and Thursday.'

'Yeah, he certainly gets around,' I said. 'And what about this Columbus guy? The one you say sailed the ocean blue. Did anyone actually see him at the scene?'

'Isabella said that she saw him leaving Lisbon. But what happened after that...,' and Mrs Hauptman made a gesture as if she was ready to catch whatever I threw her way.

'Tell me, Mrs Hauptman, is there a Mr Hauptman?'

'Mr Hauptman? Sadly he died.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

'It's OK. I wasn't sad. Just him. At least I assume he was sad. He definitely didn't look too happy.'

I nodded. 'And do you mind me asking how he died, Mrs Hauptman?'

'Lead poisoning. A slug from a 45.'

'A slug from a 45.'

'And another from a 38.'

I nodded again. 'The old double trouble, eh? One fist of iron, the other of steel.'

'If the left one don't get you, the right one will,' Mrs Hauptman said. 'Tennessee Ernie Ford.'

'And what about you, Mrs Hauptman? Is there anyone who might want to do you harm? Do you have any enemies?'

'Hard to say, Mr Frigginmore. But you don't get to be where I am without stepping on a few toes.'

'And where exactly are you?'

'Right at this moment? I'm at Number 10, Fourth Street. Or is it Number 4, 10th Street? I don't know. You tell me, Mr Frigginmore. I just told the cabbie to look for the red door.' (This dame was one smart cookie.)

'Now... your box. Mrs Hauptman. The one that is not to be opened.'

'The one that is not to be opened,' she confirmed, and she uncrossed and re-crossed her long legs, pausing for a moment midway through the manoeuvre.

'Whiskers on kittens,' I said.

Mrs Hauptman smiled. 'Yeah. As I said: I prefer it that way.'

'But... to return to the matter at hand,' I said, 'did the mailman bring you anything else?'

'Just cake.'

'Cake?'

'Angel cake.'

'Angel cake.

From The Mayfair Bakery.'

'The Mayfair Bakery in Mayfair?'

'The Mayfair Bakery in Queens.'

'Interesting,' I said.

'Oh? You think these matters could be connected?'

'Well... queens gets you kings. Cabbages and kings. Cabbage Patch Dolls. Guys and Dolls. Ibsen.'

'Ibsen?'

'A Doll's House.'

'La Cage aux Folles?'

'I could be wrong, but I think that La Cage aux Folles is a birdcage rather than a dolls' house,' I said.

'OK. Birdcage. Flipping the bird. Flying the coop. Running the numbers.'

'Counting the angels on the head of a pin,' I suggested.

'Which brings us back to whiskers on kittens,' Mrs Hauptman said. And she once again uncrossed and re-crossed her legs that went all the way up to the sixth floor. 'So... what now?'

What now indeed? My mind was racing. 'I think I'm going to need to take a closer look at your box, Mrs Hauptman.'

She nodded. 'I like the way you think, Mr Frigginmore,' she said. 'But do you perhaps have somewhere where the lighting is a bit more seductive? At such times, a girl likes to think there's at least a hint of romance in the air.'

'I think we can find somewhere,' I told her.

As I say... stories start in many different ways. This one began with a dame who couldn't dial straight. And it ended -- if indeed it did end -- with whiskers on a kitten. Somewhere up near the sixth floor. If you get my drift.