It continues
So here's another look into how my detective story is shaping up. Again, I refuse to grow too attached to it. I must admit though, it's good to be writing again.
(For anyone who cares, the first part is in the previous entry. This simply picks up where it left off)
I push past him, turning my key in the lock. The foyer is empty, but moonlight seeps through the glass doors, illuminating the elevator as it greets us on the ground floor. I gesture for him to proceed; he steps in hesitantly, already forgetful of chivalry.
The elevator groans as it brings us to the third floor. I ignore it, but the sound seems to put him on edge. I’m tempted to reach out in comfort, to pat him patronizingly, but I resist the urge. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. And I definitely don’t want to give myself false hope.
The corridor is empty at this hour, but the moonlight trails behind us. From beyond the railing, the foyer is still visible, three stories below us, our footsteps echoing into the empty space. I glance over the edge as we near my apartment. That would be quite a fall. He peers down as well, but his thoughts are different.
“Nice view.”
Nothing could better illustrate the difference between us. See, it just wouldn’t work.
I fiddle with the key in the lock for a moment; the damn thing always gets stuck. I admit it isn’t the most upstanding of places, but the landlord is sweet on me and doesn’t mind when I can’t get him the rent on time. A girl’s gotta take what she can get.
Finally, the door creaks open. The apartment is small, but well kept, which is necessary to cast a good first impression. I admit it’s been awhile since my last case, but I’m always prepared.
In one corner there’s a little alcove that it would be a crime to call a kitchen, but can accommodate cooking when necessary. In another there’s a shabby wooden desk I rescued from the street, surrounded by bookshelves. A door leads off to my bedroom, but it remains shut. I’ve decorated rather sparsely; I’m plagued by enough distractions as it is.
I can tell that Mr. Wiltern doesn’t think much of the place. I’m sure he lives in a house bigger than he knows what to do with, because that’s the mark of success, isn’t it? A big house, a wife, and a couple of kids you get to call your own, literally. I can’t say I’ve ever been thrilled with the idea, myself.
“Have a seat, Mr. Wiltern,” I tell him, gesturing to the chair opposite the little desk. He sits, and I join him, settling into my own chair, crossing my legs, getting comfortable.
“So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, “Tell me about your business.”
He fidgets. I can tell he doesn’t spend much time talking about himself, which is the mark of a modest man. A soft smile finds its way onto my face without my consent. I feel at ease in his presence, even if he’s still somewhat uncomfortable in mine.
“I met George about fifteen years ago,” he begins; already we are off the subject of him. “I had dabbled in the jewelry business, but he was much more successful than I was.”
“What drew you to the business in the first place?” I ask, curious.
“I am smitten by rare and exotic gems,” he answers honestly. “I’m an avid collector. As boy, I collected marbles. I think that’s where it all stems from, initially.”
“Because I began to admire my mother’s jewelry from afar. I admit I come from a wealthy lineage and my mother had an eye for jewelry. As I grew up I started to accompany her when she would go to auctions and conventions. She taught me what to look for, to never settle for anything less than perfection.”
I watch him closely as he speaks. Already he’s lost himself in memory. He’s far more animated than he’s been all night, his hands illustrating his gestures as if the two were a duet, drawing me in.
“When she died she left me her collection as a parting gift. I suppose her memory is what spurred me to continue building upon it. I began to spend a lot of time traveling around the country, attending different auctions, frequenting different circles of collectors. That’s even how I met my wife, Marlena."
“Does she have an infatuation with precious jewels as well?” I ask, my fingers errantly toying with an earring, the only kind of jewelry I bother to wear.
“Oh yes, but every woman does,” he answers, thinking he’s made a clever connection. Presently he remembers his audience and realizes that I’m not so happy with the label he’s given me. In the very least he is not a stranger to subtlety. He can tell that he’s said something stupid.
“Forgive me Ms. Malone,” he pleads. There’s that sincerity again. I think he truly wants my forgiveness. “Women and jewelry go hand in hand in my mind; bewitching, elusive, multifaceted and, a precious few, flawless. A rare gem such as yourself would be that much more radiant in the company of so many others.”
Alright, so I admit that was a good save. I’m flattered, but I have the sense not to let it get to me. This is business, after all. I’ve been through this same old routine so many times that I just can’t play into it, although I can tell he means it.
And I wonder why I can’t get laid.
I quirk my brow to illustrate his failure to appease me. He gets the hint, looking flustered now that he’s fumbled, so I try to steer us back on course.
“Your partner is dead, Mr. Wiltern. We have bigger things to worry about. Please, continue.” I say, and he finds his way back into his tale.
“I also met George at an auction,” he continues, “He was already becoming well known in the jewelry business. I admired him greatly, because I’m not the best of businessmen myself. I just don’t have the head for it.”
“But you have an eye for precious stones?”
“I always have,” he answers, sounding confident for the first time all night. “And years of attending auctions and touring the world have given me a well of connections. George was as good a businessman as they come, but his knowledge of jewelry was rather limited, I learned. He just saw the potential to make money. It only took one conversation for both of us to realize that we each had an essential quality the other lacked.”
“You must have made the perfect pair,” I respond. “You’re the biggest names in the business.”
He sighs, rubbing his eyes momentarily. He can’t seem to shake the weariness from his bones. I’ve just gotten used to it.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do now. We had something great, George and I.”
“One step at a time, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, watching him stare dejectedly at the floor. “What else can you tell me about your partner, George.”
“He was a good man and a loving husband,” he says in response, as if we’re already at the funeral. “He was a shrewd entrepreneur; his determination was truly what got us through some rough times. Unfortunately, he was not the most even-tempered of men. He could be…a little hot headed at times.”
Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Hotheaded?” I wonder aloud. “How so?”
“He was very proud of his work, as all great men are,” he responds, unaware that he’s generalizing, yet again. Are women proud of nothing, then, or have they nothing to be proud of? I try not to get sidetracked. “He did not react well during the recent scandal.”
Recent scandal? I can remember now, when he first mentioned his name, that it had felt fresh in my mind.
“We had sealed a deal with a couple of Suisse collectors to obtain three alizarin rubies. I was intending to keep one for my private collection and then sell the other two on auction, and if there was enough buzz created, procure a large enough quantity to make an exclusive line of jewelry. The alizarin ruby isn’t too rare a gem, but it is easily flawed, so it can be a hard find to come by.”
“So it struck me a little strangely that they were willing to part with three practically flawless specimens. I even appraised them myself, just to be certain. But I figured myself lucky, I guess, little did I know.”
He sighs heavily, shaking his head. He’s definitely reluctant to talk about it.
“Turns out, we were doing business with scoundrels. When it finally came out that the rubies were stolen, the so called collectors were long gone and our money with them. We returned the rubies to their original owner as a gesture of good faith, but the damage was already done. A large portion of the public believed that our jewels were either fake or stolen and could not be convinced otherwise.”
“Our reputation is still soiled by the whole affair,” he remarks joylessly. “We lost a lot of loyal clients to our biggest competitor, and I can only imagine how many more we’ll loose, now that George is dead.”
“He must have been furious at the time,” I comment somberly, listening intently.
“He was,” Wiltern continues, his voice dropping in pitch. “More than I’ve ever seen him. He said a lot of things that the papers took and blew out of proportion. He made a fool of himself.”
The more and more of the story I hear, the more I remember reading about it. At the time it simply hadn’t been of much concern to me, since, unlike Mr. Wiltern is determined to think, jewelry is of little worth to me. And I tend to skim over headlines until murder is somehow involved. Theft alone is too petty to spark my interest, no matter how grandiose. It can ruin a man, but he still has his life. I’d much rather put a killer behind bars.
My thoughts are becoming unsettling, and so is the look on Mr. Wiltern’s face, drained with encroaching despair, as if he can see his life becoming a downward spiral. But what does it say about him that so much of his welfare depends on someone else? Isn’t that faulty logic?
I, for one, don’t depend on anyone else. But then again, where has that gotten me? Holed up in a tiny apartment on 23rd street, picking apart murders like they’re shoelaces tied too tightly together.
I try to hide the despondency welling in my chest. The truth is always hard to bear.
“I think we both need a drink, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, and before he has time to object, I’m already standing, reaching for a bottle of whisky I keep handy on the bookshelf beside me. I pour us two glasses, and this time, he accepts my offer without hesitation.
Similar to Mr. Wiltern, I see a comparison, except in my case, I think men and liquor go hand and hand. They loosen you up, show you one hell of a time, and then they turn on you, and you’re either sick to your stomach or you’ve got the worst headache of your life.
But I don’t tell him that. No need to make him feel any worse right now. I pour him a little more as I reach for my glass, still fresh as he devours his second helping. It doesn’t bother me, however. Maybe he’ll feel a little more comfortable.
“You mentioned a big competitor,” I continue, searching for the best place to start.
“Huxley and Co.,” Wiltern answers sourly. “Huxley is half the man that Wenton was. He’s just a hack, catering to the kind of people who can’t afford the real deal, who are content with a secondhand illusion.”
“Some people have to be content with a secondhand illusion,” I point out. This is why I hate people with money. They forget how privileged they are.
“Either way,” Wiltern continues, dodging my reprimand. “He’s a man who makes his business replicating the jewelry we work so hard to produce. After the scandal, many of our customers were convinced we were no better, and so they turned to Huxley and his cheaper prices.”
“I have a theory…” Wiltern begins to say, but he trails off. I send another lazy trail of liquor into his glass, which seems to spur him on.
“Call it a hunch, but I wonder if Huxley was somehow involved in all of this. They were more than mere competitors, him and George. They were rivals.”
Rivals. It’s just a sugarcoated way of saying enemies.
“Well that certainly is helpful to know,” I say, and that seems to reassure him. He’s beginning to look exhausted, however, but I understand. He’s up past his bedtime.
“Will you take the case, Ms. Malone?” He asks, far from hopeful, a little jaded with life at the moment, no doubt. It isn’t a question of yes or no, at this point; the case has already taken me. There are many more things I can ask him, but all in due time.
“I’ll take the case, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, and his eyes light up with relief, a welcome change to the anxiety that has taken up permanent residency there. “But I think you should go home now. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s rest in days. We’ll hammer out the details tomorrow, when we’ve both had time to sleep on it.”
“That sounds like a solid plan, Ms. Malone,” he says in agreement, rising unsteadily from his chair. I haven’t given him enough liquor to get him drunk, but he’s certainly not as sharp as he was when he walked in.
“My driver is waiting outside,” he says, while turning to face the door. “I told him to follow me, I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” I reply, as if it matters now, glad if anything that the man doesn’t have to wander back to the bar at this hour. I am compelled by some chivalrous desire myself, and I escort him out to the foyer. He offers his hand as we part, his grip firm. He must shake a lot of hands.
“I expect to hear from you tomorrow, Ms. Malone. Sleep well, and sweet dreams.”
He musters a smile for me before he leaves, which, much to my dismay, nurtures a tendril of loneliness I had all but forgotten. My mind swims as I return to the third floor, trying to piece together the frame of a puzzle I’m only beginning to see, while my heart teeters on an edge too hazy to define.
My key clicks smoothly this time, a momentary respite from everything else. I move toward my own room, gently pushing open the door and slipping in as if I might disturb something, although, unlike the portion I show everyone, my personal space is quite a mess. I grumble, annoyed at how apparent an analogy that is to myself.
And then, all in one moment, my thoughts are snuffed by a sound I definitely did not make. I freeze, but not with fear, simply with precaution, my fingers discreetly creeping toward the hilt of my gun.
I’m not alone.
(For anyone who cares, the first part is in the previous entry. This simply picks up where it left off)
I push past him, turning my key in the lock. The foyer is empty, but moonlight seeps through the glass doors, illuminating the elevator as it greets us on the ground floor. I gesture for him to proceed; he steps in hesitantly, already forgetful of chivalry.
The elevator groans as it brings us to the third floor. I ignore it, but the sound seems to put him on edge. I’m tempted to reach out in comfort, to pat him patronizingly, but I resist the urge. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. And I definitely don’t want to give myself false hope.
The corridor is empty at this hour, but the moonlight trails behind us. From beyond the railing, the foyer is still visible, three stories below us, our footsteps echoing into the empty space. I glance over the edge as we near my apartment. That would be quite a fall. He peers down as well, but his thoughts are different.
“Nice view.”
Nothing could better illustrate the difference between us. See, it just wouldn’t work.
I fiddle with the key in the lock for a moment; the damn thing always gets stuck. I admit it isn’t the most upstanding of places, but the landlord is sweet on me and doesn’t mind when I can’t get him the rent on time. A girl’s gotta take what she can get.
Finally, the door creaks open. The apartment is small, but well kept, which is necessary to cast a good first impression. I admit it’s been awhile since my last case, but I’m always prepared.
In one corner there’s a little alcove that it would be a crime to call a kitchen, but can accommodate cooking when necessary. In another there’s a shabby wooden desk I rescued from the street, surrounded by bookshelves. A door leads off to my bedroom, but it remains shut. I’ve decorated rather sparsely; I’m plagued by enough distractions as it is.
I can tell that Mr. Wiltern doesn’t think much of the place. I’m sure he lives in a house bigger than he knows what to do with, because that’s the mark of success, isn’t it? A big house, a wife, and a couple of kids you get to call your own, literally. I can’t say I’ve ever been thrilled with the idea, myself.
“Have a seat, Mr. Wiltern,” I tell him, gesturing to the chair opposite the little desk. He sits, and I join him, settling into my own chair, crossing my legs, getting comfortable.
“So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, “Tell me about your business.”
He fidgets. I can tell he doesn’t spend much time talking about himself, which is the mark of a modest man. A soft smile finds its way onto my face without my consent. I feel at ease in his presence, even if he’s still somewhat uncomfortable in mine.
“I met George about fifteen years ago,” he begins; already we are off the subject of him. “I had dabbled in the jewelry business, but he was much more successful than I was.”
“What drew you to the business in the first place?” I ask, curious.
“I am smitten by rare and exotic gems,” he answers honestly. “I’m an avid collector. As boy, I collected marbles. I think that’s where it all stems from, initially.”
“Because I began to admire my mother’s jewelry from afar. I admit I come from a wealthy lineage and my mother had an eye for jewelry. As I grew up I started to accompany her when she would go to auctions and conventions. She taught me what to look for, to never settle for anything less than perfection.”
I watch him closely as he speaks. Already he’s lost himself in memory. He’s far more animated than he’s been all night, his hands illustrating his gestures as if the two were a duet, drawing me in.
“When she died she left me her collection as a parting gift. I suppose her memory is what spurred me to continue building upon it. I began to spend a lot of time traveling around the country, attending different auctions, frequenting different circles of collectors. That’s even how I met my wife, Marlena."
“Does she have an infatuation with precious jewels as well?” I ask, my fingers errantly toying with an earring, the only kind of jewelry I bother to wear.
“Oh yes, but every woman does,” he answers, thinking he’s made a clever connection. Presently he remembers his audience and realizes that I’m not so happy with the label he’s given me. In the very least he is not a stranger to subtlety. He can tell that he’s said something stupid.
“Forgive me Ms. Malone,” he pleads. There’s that sincerity again. I think he truly wants my forgiveness. “Women and jewelry go hand in hand in my mind; bewitching, elusive, multifaceted and, a precious few, flawless. A rare gem such as yourself would be that much more radiant in the company of so many others.”
Alright, so I admit that was a good save. I’m flattered, but I have the sense not to let it get to me. This is business, after all. I’ve been through this same old routine so many times that I just can’t play into it, although I can tell he means it.
And I wonder why I can’t get laid.
I quirk my brow to illustrate his failure to appease me. He gets the hint, looking flustered now that he’s fumbled, so I try to steer us back on course.
“Your partner is dead, Mr. Wiltern. We have bigger things to worry about. Please, continue.” I say, and he finds his way back into his tale.
“I also met George at an auction,” he continues, “He was already becoming well known in the jewelry business. I admired him greatly, because I’m not the best of businessmen myself. I just don’t have the head for it.”
“But you have an eye for precious stones?”
“I always have,” he answers, sounding confident for the first time all night. “And years of attending auctions and touring the world have given me a well of connections. George was as good a businessman as they come, but his knowledge of jewelry was rather limited, I learned. He just saw the potential to make money. It only took one conversation for both of us to realize that we each had an essential quality the other lacked.”
“You must have made the perfect pair,” I respond. “You’re the biggest names in the business.”
He sighs, rubbing his eyes momentarily. He can’t seem to shake the weariness from his bones. I’ve just gotten used to it.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do now. We had something great, George and I.”
“One step at a time, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, watching him stare dejectedly at the floor. “What else can you tell me about your partner, George.”
“He was a good man and a loving husband,” he says in response, as if we’re already at the funeral. “He was a shrewd entrepreneur; his determination was truly what got us through some rough times. Unfortunately, he was not the most even-tempered of men. He could be…a little hot headed at times.”
Aha. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Hotheaded?” I wonder aloud. “How so?”
“He was very proud of his work, as all great men are,” he responds, unaware that he’s generalizing, yet again. Are women proud of nothing, then, or have they nothing to be proud of? I try not to get sidetracked. “He did not react well during the recent scandal.”
Recent scandal? I can remember now, when he first mentioned his name, that it had felt fresh in my mind.
“We had sealed a deal with a couple of Suisse collectors to obtain three alizarin rubies. I was intending to keep one for my private collection and then sell the other two on auction, and if there was enough buzz created, procure a large enough quantity to make an exclusive line of jewelry. The alizarin ruby isn’t too rare a gem, but it is easily flawed, so it can be a hard find to come by.”
“So it struck me a little strangely that they were willing to part with three practically flawless specimens. I even appraised them myself, just to be certain. But I figured myself lucky, I guess, little did I know.”
He sighs heavily, shaking his head. He’s definitely reluctant to talk about it.
“Turns out, we were doing business with scoundrels. When it finally came out that the rubies were stolen, the so called collectors were long gone and our money with them. We returned the rubies to their original owner as a gesture of good faith, but the damage was already done. A large portion of the public believed that our jewels were either fake or stolen and could not be convinced otherwise.”
“Our reputation is still soiled by the whole affair,” he remarks joylessly. “We lost a lot of loyal clients to our biggest competitor, and I can only imagine how many more we’ll loose, now that George is dead.”
“He must have been furious at the time,” I comment somberly, listening intently.
“He was,” Wiltern continues, his voice dropping in pitch. “More than I’ve ever seen him. He said a lot of things that the papers took and blew out of proportion. He made a fool of himself.”
The more and more of the story I hear, the more I remember reading about it. At the time it simply hadn’t been of much concern to me, since, unlike Mr. Wiltern is determined to think, jewelry is of little worth to me. And I tend to skim over headlines until murder is somehow involved. Theft alone is too petty to spark my interest, no matter how grandiose. It can ruin a man, but he still has his life. I’d much rather put a killer behind bars.
My thoughts are becoming unsettling, and so is the look on Mr. Wiltern’s face, drained with encroaching despair, as if he can see his life becoming a downward spiral. But what does it say about him that so much of his welfare depends on someone else? Isn’t that faulty logic?
I, for one, don’t depend on anyone else. But then again, where has that gotten me? Holed up in a tiny apartment on 23rd street, picking apart murders like they’re shoelaces tied too tightly together.
I try to hide the despondency welling in my chest. The truth is always hard to bear.
“I think we both need a drink, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, and before he has time to object, I’m already standing, reaching for a bottle of whisky I keep handy on the bookshelf beside me. I pour us two glasses, and this time, he accepts my offer without hesitation.
Similar to Mr. Wiltern, I see a comparison, except in my case, I think men and liquor go hand and hand. They loosen you up, show you one hell of a time, and then they turn on you, and you’re either sick to your stomach or you’ve got the worst headache of your life.
But I don’t tell him that. No need to make him feel any worse right now. I pour him a little more as I reach for my glass, still fresh as he devours his second helping. It doesn’t bother me, however. Maybe he’ll feel a little more comfortable.
“You mentioned a big competitor,” I continue, searching for the best place to start.
“Huxley and Co.,” Wiltern answers sourly. “Huxley is half the man that Wenton was. He’s just a hack, catering to the kind of people who can’t afford the real deal, who are content with a secondhand illusion.”
“Some people have to be content with a secondhand illusion,” I point out. This is why I hate people with money. They forget how privileged they are.
“Either way,” Wiltern continues, dodging my reprimand. “He’s a man who makes his business replicating the jewelry we work so hard to produce. After the scandal, many of our customers were convinced we were no better, and so they turned to Huxley and his cheaper prices.”
“I have a theory…” Wiltern begins to say, but he trails off. I send another lazy trail of liquor into his glass, which seems to spur him on.
“Call it a hunch, but I wonder if Huxley was somehow involved in all of this. They were more than mere competitors, him and George. They were rivals.”
Rivals. It’s just a sugarcoated way of saying enemies.
“Well that certainly is helpful to know,” I say, and that seems to reassure him. He’s beginning to look exhausted, however, but I understand. He’s up past his bedtime.
“Will you take the case, Ms. Malone?” He asks, far from hopeful, a little jaded with life at the moment, no doubt. It isn’t a question of yes or no, at this point; the case has already taken me. There are many more things I can ask him, but all in due time.
“I’ll take the case, Mr. Wiltern,” I say, and his eyes light up with relief, a welcome change to the anxiety that has taken up permanent residency there. “But I think you should go home now. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s rest in days. We’ll hammer out the details tomorrow, when we’ve both had time to sleep on it.”
“That sounds like a solid plan, Ms. Malone,” he says in agreement, rising unsteadily from his chair. I haven’t given him enough liquor to get him drunk, but he’s certainly not as sharp as he was when he walked in.
“My driver is waiting outside,” he says, while turning to face the door. “I told him to follow me, I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” I reply, as if it matters now, glad if anything that the man doesn’t have to wander back to the bar at this hour. I am compelled by some chivalrous desire myself, and I escort him out to the foyer. He offers his hand as we part, his grip firm. He must shake a lot of hands.
“I expect to hear from you tomorrow, Ms. Malone. Sleep well, and sweet dreams.”
He musters a smile for me before he leaves, which, much to my dismay, nurtures a tendril of loneliness I had all but forgotten. My mind swims as I return to the third floor, trying to piece together the frame of a puzzle I’m only beginning to see, while my heart teeters on an edge too hazy to define.
My key clicks smoothly this time, a momentary respite from everything else. I move toward my own room, gently pushing open the door and slipping in as if I might disturb something, although, unlike the portion I show everyone, my personal space is quite a mess. I grumble, annoyed at how apparent an analogy that is to myself.
And then, all in one moment, my thoughts are snuffed by a sound I definitely did not make. I freeze, but not with fear, simply with precaution, my fingers discreetly creeping toward the hilt of my gun.
I’m not alone.