CHAPTER ONE
NEW YORK CITY
23 DECEMBER
1930
It was late when the phone rang. Rinty Larcombe was sitting at his desk, his colleague Sashie Ross perched with crossed knees on the corner of the mahogany table. They both turned to look at the phone as a few harsh rings broke through the silence of the night. Their secretary Wilbur Etnam had already left for the evening. It was her job to answer the phones.
‘Aren’t you going to get that?’ Ross asked, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder. Larcombe knew better than to argue.
‘Ross and Larcombe, Private Investigators,’ he answered. Larcombe’s brow furrowed as he listened to the voice on the other line.
Ross hopped off the desk and searched her jacket pocket for a cigarette. She pulled one out and placed it in its holder, lighting the end with a quick flick of a match.
‘I see,’ Larcombe said into the receiver. Ross looked over at her partner, curious. He jotted something down in his notepad. ‘Well, we’ll be right there.’
As he hung up the phone, Ross stamped out her cigarette, throwing her jacket on in one graceful swoop.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘That was Police Commissioner Sparky Randall Loeman,’ Larcombe replied. ‘There’s been a robbery at West 103rd Street.’ He threw on his hat, scarf and duster. Somehow, he didn’t look quite as put together as Ross.
‘Sounds like a police matter to me, Larcombe,’ Ross said, despite holding their office door open for him.
‘I’ll explain on the way.’
***
Bambi Bomb never thought she’d see the day when she wasn’t the centre of attention, and yet, in the midst of her own robbery, people were not paying the actress any notice.
Lofty Robinson was doing his best impression of a tortured artist, his artwork having been stolen off the wall. Bambi’s wall, but not that anyone cares, she thought. There he was, wailing dramatically about his stolen painting to the party gathered around him. An extension of himself ‘ripped from existence’—his exact words. Bambi thought it was all a bit over the top, and that’s saying something coming from an actress whose latest film involved her being strapped half naked to a moving train.
‘My love, what’s wrong?’ Bambi’s husband, Henri High asked.
‘Aside from the obvious?’ Bambi gestured at Lofty’s dramatic performance. ‘We’ve also been robbed, Henri,’ she sighed.
Henri High was a New York City socialite, having made all his money off his daddy’s estate. Henri was in his late 40s now, bored, balding and bankrupt. On a whim in the previous year, he decided to marry the 24-year-old Los Angeles millionaire actress. He mistakenly thought Bambi Bomb might offer him a change of scenery from the usual intelligent and quick-witted New Yorkers he had previously encountered. Unfortunately for Henri, despite being blonde, vapid and quite literal, Bambi Bomb was no idiot–she was just very good at playing one.
‘My love, I’ll buy you another painting,’ Henri sighed, knowing quite well it was Bambi’s money he would be spending. He watched as his wife looked on in horror at Lofty entertaining a large group of her own friends.
‘Why did you even invite him, Henri? It’s not even about the painting. My Christmas party is tainted.’ She pointed at her husband’s watch. ‘It’s 10 o’clock now, see, and I was already meant to be performing. I do it every year, Henri. 10 o’clock and I perform a Shakespearean monologue. I’ve been practising all week. I was Lady Macbeth for Christ’s sake!’
‘Darling, what makes you think anyone would want to see that?’ Henri asked, taking a long sip of his vodka martini. But Bambi wasn’t listening. Instead, her attention fixed on Lofty Robinson.
‘Stolen!’ Lofty cried, grabbing the arm of an onlooker. ‘My artwork. My legacy. Gone. Poof! How? How?’
The ding of the elevator door interrupted his cries and Police Commissioner Sparky Randall Loeman entered the foyer of the penthouse apartment. He was flanked by two of his officers, Clive Faversham and Elvis Gillies. Bambi spotted them from across the sitting room.
‘Thank God,’ she exclaimed, rushing over to greet the three men.
‘Ms Bomb, my name is Police Commissioner Loeman. I’m here to personally assist with your claim. Might I just add, we are all big fans of your films down at the station.’
‘Charmed,’ Bambi smiled. She extended a gloved hand for Loeman to kiss.
Henri strolled over to them.
‘Henri High, Bambi’s husband. Come with me, I’ll show you where the painting was taken from.’
The group made their way to the private library. On the wall, a faint outline marked the mint green paint. Nothing else remained but ten-by-ten square feet of empty space.
‘Is this where the painting was taken, Ms Bomb?’ Loeman asked.
‘Yes, I mean, it was here when I gave the tour before the hors d'oeuvres at 8 o’clock. My friend Trepheena Plum came in here for a moment of reprieve and that’s when she noticed it was missing.’
Police Commissioner Sparky Randall Loeman glanced up from his notepad at Bambi Bomb and then up to where the painting once hung.
‘You’re telling me that someone managed to sneak out of a party in a penthouse apartment with a ten-by-ten canvas painting?’
‘Yes,’ Bambi replied. ‘Frame and all.’
Loeman tipped back his hat and thought long and hard.
‘Seal off all the exits,’ he ordered Officer Faversham and Gillies. He looked expectantly at Bambi.
‘Oh, yes, there are three—the elevator, the kitchen exit and the fire escape,’ she said, counting them off on her fingers.
‘How many people are here? I’ll need a guest list.’
‘There’s 25, including Henri and myself. I always invite even numbers. Only one person couldn’t make it.’
‘I’ll need their name too,’ Loeman said. He looked at his officers. ‘Nobody in, nobody out.’
***
When the elevator doors opened into Bambi Bomb’s apartment, the two Private Investigators were met by absolute chaos. Officer Faversham and Officer Gillies were holding back a group of angry guests who were trying to leave.
‘How dare you accuse me!’ one woman yelled. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Ross and Larcombe shared a look and stepped out of the elevator into the foyer. They inched their way past the two officers.
‘Doing a fine job, gentlemen,’ Larcombe smiled. Officer Faversham rolled his eyes. One guest grabbed Faversham by the collar and shook his uniform aggressively.
‘Ms Ross,’ Officer Gillies called over the fuss. ‘You look incredible as always.’
Ross smirked and, knowing exactly what she was doing, sashayed away.
‘Must get annoying,’ Larcombe murmured in Ross’s ear. The two reached the more composed group of guests in the sitting room. ‘He almost never comments on me.’
Police Commissioner Sparky Randall Loeman walked into the room, followed by an anxious-looking Bambi Bomb.
‘Ah, the cavalry has arrived!’ he said, reaching forward to shake Ross and Larcombe’s hands. ‘How is Ms Etnam? By God, what I wouldn’t do to have her work for me. I was hoping she would have answered the phone earlier when I called.’
‘No, we’re fine,’ Larcombe said, shaking his head.
‘She sends her regards, Police Commissioner,’ Ross replied, smiling at Larcombe’s obvious annoyance. ‘I see we’ve got some eager guests ready to leave.’
‘Well, the snow’s not helping anything,’ Loeman said, looking out to the navy night sky through the elongated windows. ‘Everybody wants to get home before the storm hits. These celebrities think they can dictate a police investigation. Ross, I take it Larcombe filled you in?’
‘He did. A very large canvas has disappeared from a very tall penthouse, ’ Ross said.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Bambi interjected, bothered that the two PIs hadn’t yet acknowledged her presence. ‘My canvas print has disappeared.’ The actress extended a gloved hand. ‘Bambi, Bambi Bomb.’
Ross and Larcombe looked down at it, back at Bambi and then back to the Police Commissioner.
‘Any suspects?’ Larcombe asked Loeman.
Bambi dropped her hand, huffed and waddled away.
‘Not yet,’ Loeman replied. He watched as Bambi headed to the kitchen. ‘We haven’t interviewed anyone. We got as far as escorting the group to the sitting room, before they rioted.’
Ross took note of the partygoers. ‘I gather we have a very unusual list of attendees.’
‘Yes, well, this is Ms Bomb’s annual Christmas gala,’ Loeman said. ‘Most of the people here are in the movie or music industry.’
‘Let me guess,’ Ross said. ‘You think this has something to do with the string of robberies that have taken place over the Upper West Side this month?’
‘At present, we do. Affluent celebrities, a mysterious painting vanishing. It fits the profile,’ Loeman replied.
‘How many paintings have been previously stolen?’ Larcombe asked.
‘There’s been five paintings so far. Five victims, including Ms Bomb. One victim happens to be here in attendance, by chance. She was the one who spotted the robbery. Trepheena Plum, the singer.’
‘Interesting,’ Ross mused, jotting something down in her notepad.
‘Well, normally we would just get on with our work, but with the sheer size of the painting …’ Loeman took his police hat off his head to scratch his bald spot. ‘I’m baffled, to be completely honest. I needed your opinion.’
‘What was the painting of?’ Ross asked.
Loeman’s eyes widened and he replaced his hat atop his head.
‘Well, Ross. I’ll get the painter to explain that one to you.’
***
Lofty Robinson was leaning against the library fireplace, staring longingly at the empty space where his painting once hung. He had a single tear rolling down his face. He looked ridiculous.
‘I know who you are,’ Lofty announced, standing taller when the PIs and the Police Commissioner entered the library. ‘I make it my business to know who’s who in town. And you two, well, you always make quite the splash wherever you go.’ Lofty paused, then dramatically announced, ‘I must paint you!’
Larcombe laughed, before realising that the painter was not, in fact, joking.
‘Right,’ Larcombe said and looked at Ross.
‘We want to pass on our apologies for your loss, Mr Robinson,’ Ross said. She circled the room, fixing her attention on the eclectic array of items Bambi felt the need to display along her bookcases—a silver unicorn statue, a tiny replica of Big Ben, two ceramic paper cranes and others were speckled along the shelves.
‘Thank you, Ms Ross. That means a great deal,’ Lofty said. He sat down in an elaborate armchair in front of the fireplace.
‘Forgive my ignorance, Mr Robinson, but what was the painting of?’ Larcombe asked, taking a seat opposite the painter. The Police Commissioner hung back, watching the two PIs at play.
‘No forgiveness necessary, Mr Larcombe,’ Lofty said. ‘But it was in fact one of my greatest paintings. It spoke to a contemporary understanding of our modern-day society, building upon the foundational and evocative truths of freedom, echelon and legacy. It was a twist on nurturing, a reinterpretation of what it means to be alive, an evaluation of humanity. Igniting and climaxing with a release of pain, torture and pleasure.’
The flames of the fire flicked shadows across the room; its crackles broke the silence that followed Lofty’s monologue.
‘Forgive my ignorance, Mr Robinson, but what was the painting of?’ Larcombe asked again, his face deadpan.
Lofty adjusted his tie and smirked. ‘I will not be mocked, Mr Larcombe.’
‘I think, what Larcombe meant, was a literal interpretation, Mr Robinson,’ Loeman contributed, observing with his back still against the wall.
‘Oh,’ Lofty said. ‘Well, in that case, it was a naked man, his chest bursting open to reveal an inner, red light. It spoke to deep truths–’
‘That’ll do,’ Larcombe interrupted.
‘That sounds like something similar to Mr De Von’s work, Mr Robinson,’ Ross noted, her back turned to the three men. Her attention appeared to be fixated on a translucent globe clutched in her gloved hand, watching the fireplace flames glint within it.
Lofty leant forward in his chair and looked back at her, jaded. ‘Yes well, I’m not as derivative as Puddles De Von, Ms Ross,’ Lofty said, quickly turning his attention back to the fire.
‘Did Bambi commission the painting, Mr Robinson?’ Larcombe asked.
‘I painted my masterpiece for Henri, two years ago. He had just met Bambi and asked for one of my pieces to woo her. He told me he would pay me once the two of them were married, which he did. Of course, I knew that he didn’t have any money. Bambi didn’t, it seemed. The young girl is sharp too, so I’m not quite sure how that one slipped past her. I mean, all of New York knows Henri High is as broke as they come. Spent all his father’s money on girls and wine. I guess Bambi can be forgiven–I mean, she is from the West Coast you know,’ Lofty sighed, as if this was the worst thing one could be.
During his speech, Ross silently observed the painter. Lofty continued to stare into the fire.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ Ross said, straightening. She walked over and tapped Larcombe on the shoulder. The detectives and Police Commissioner left Lofty alone to contemplate in the library.
The Police Commissioner closed the door. Ross looked down the short hallway, eyes narrowed in thought. The sounds of guests chattering wafted down the corridor. Ross didn’t move. The two men waited for her to say something, but she stood in silence. Finally, she spoke.
‘You said someone was missing from the star-studded attendance, Police Commissioner.’
Loeman nodded. ‘Yes, Mayor Bambino sent her apologises early this morning.’
‘The Mayor?’ Larcombe remarked.
‘Interesting,’ Ross said. ‘Very interesting.’
Private Eyes: Flesh and Bone is written by Olivia Hides and will be published serially throughout the year. Flesh and Bone is a prequel to the Private Eyes novel series. Olivia has previously published Orbitus and Clouds Behind the Moon on the Antithesis Journal Blog.