CHAPTER FIVE
‘I don’t like loose ends, Larcombe,’ Ross said.
‘I know you don’t,’ Larcombe replied, mouth full of cold shrimp. The excitement of the night hadn’t allowed a moment of reprieve and, with Bambi in custody and Henri High currently at large, there was no real rush for Ross and Larcombe to leave the penthouse apartment. Dirty plates, half-drunk flutes of champagne and discarded napkins still coated the kitchen tabletops. A few of Chef Murray’s hors d'oeuvres had not yet been refrigerated, so the two sat at the island bench picking at the gala’s leftovers.
Larcombe ate another shrimp. ‘So, what are we going to do about it?’
Lost in thought, Ross plucked a meatball from a plate with a toothpick, absentmindedly inspecting it in the dim kitchen lighting before taking a bite. She swallowed, winced and put the cold, half-eaten meatball back on the tray. Larcombe leant forward with his fork, stabbed the meatball with rigour and popped it in his mouth. Ross observed this with mild amusement.
‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ she said, reaching for a large slice of pecan pie. ‘We have a missing painting, an A-list party, a murderous painter, a potential affair, the Clandestine Council, a missing husband.’ She took a bite and found the pie much more to her taste.
‘Don’t forget Mayor Bambino,’ Larcombe added, swallowing a bite of a chicken tea sandwich.
‘I never forget the mayor,’ Ross said. She savoured another mouthful of pie. ‘I bet she’s tangled up in this Clandestine Council. I’d bet anything she’s got something to do with the stolen painting—all five robberies for that matter. I bet that’s why she didn’t come here tonight.’
‘You think she knew?’
‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.’
‘Well,’ Larcombe said, ‘if we’re going back to the beginning, Ross, then I say we need to run our eyes over the library once more.’
Ross wiped her lips with the last clean napkin and stood. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’
Larcombe grinned. ‘I have them every now and then.’
***
With all the guests gone, an unnerving calm had fallen over the apartment. Ross and Larcombe felt the need to tread lightly down the corridor, entering the library in a hushed sombre and closing the door behind them.
A gust of wind from the still-raging storm rattled the library windows. Rain started to splatter against the glass. Not much was visible in the darkness outside.
The police hadn’t altered anything since they’d been in the library—only the fireplace had dwindled down, barely keeping the room warm. A few candles kept the space in an ominous glow. In the dwindling light, the outline of dust where the Lofty Robinson canvas painting once hung was still faintly evident on the mint wallpaper.
For a while, Larcombe and Ross paced the room, seeing if anything caught their eye. Ross eventually paused at the fireplace, underneath where the painting once hung, deep in thought.
Larcombe threw his hands in the air. ‘How does someone get a ten-by-ten canvas painting out of a penthouse apartment in the middle of Bambi Bomb’s Christmas gala?’ he asked.
Ross felt like she was looking at something important, but she couldn’t quite grasp exactly what. Earlier, she’d noticed peculiar fingerprints on the fireplace’s mantel. Just like before, she ran a finger along its edge.
‘Come here, Larcombe,’ she said. Obediently, Larcombe joined her. She positioned him to the far right of the fireplace. ‘Lean against the mantel.’
‘Like this?’ he asked, propping his elbow up and leaning back. In his quick movement, he accidentally caught the corner of a candlestick and it started to fall. ‘Oh no!’ he called out—a burning apartment flashing before his eyes—but, to his surprise, the candlestick wedged out at an odd angle. With a little ‘poof’, the section of wall that held the fireplace shifted away, exposing a large, secret door.
‘Huh,’ Ross said.
Larcombe took several steps back and ran a hand through his hair. ‘What in the world?’ He looked at Ross, who just shrugged. ‘I’m scared to ask.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking it over all night,’ Ross said. ‘You asked, “How does someone get a ten-by-ten canvas painting out of a penthouse apartment in the middle of Bambi Bomb’s Christmas gala?”. The answer is—they don’t.’
With dramatic flair, Ross swung open the hidden door.
The space behind the fireplace was slight, but big enough to store a few hidden treasures. A large burgundy cloth was draped over what looked to be a sort of bulky box.
Larcombe went to step towards it, but Ross threw an arm to stop him.
‘It might be booby trapped,’ she said.
Larcombe nodded and bent down, as if sensing the location of the hidden wire. Ross took a few steps back as Larcombe pulled a small pocket knife from his jacket. He inched back, using the wall as cover, and cut the line.
A small gun fired with a loud bang. The bullet lodged in the wall just above Larcombe. When he stood, the hole was directly in line with his face.
‘Well, that could have been horrific,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s the last time we’re shot at tonight.’
Ross stepped forward and put her finger over the bullet hole, the wood of the wall having completely splintered around it.
‘I doubt they’d set more than one trap,’ she said confidently, and delicately placed her foot on the threshold. She released the breath she didn’t realise she was holding.
‘What’s that?’ Larcombe asked. He had spied a small, locked box in the hideaway, tucked just out of view. Impulsively, he picked it up. Made of velvet with tiny gold detailing, it looked expensive. The gold lock caught the dim lighting from the library’s candles, appearing like glitter on its shiny surface.
‘I could pry that open?’ Larcombe asked.
Ross wordlessly took it from him. She reached up and removed a hair pin from her soft curls and picked the lock with ease.
The lid spurted open with a soft pop. Ross pulled out a series of photographs and what appeared to be a collection of roughly folded letters.
‘What do you think that is?’ Larcombe asked as Ross held the photos out for them both to see.
‘My bet would be the Clandestine Council,’ she said. ‘There’s Swayze Barkly. He was here tonight.’ She pointed at the picture. ‘So was Pickles Overland and Kizzi Cornwall.’
Ross flicked to the next picture. Politicians, musicians, high society members flooded the scene in what appeared to be an auction of stolen goods.
‘Is that Miki Bellevue?’ Larcombe asked.
‘Wouldn’t have picked that,’ Ross said.
‘Can you see Bambi?’
‘No.’ Ross flicked through the rest of the photos. ‘She’s not in any of these.’
‘The mayor!’ Larcombe said, pointing at the next photo. She was in the background, but it was definitely her. Mayor Bambino stood at the back of the Clandestine Council, eyes piercing even through the black and white image. Her two cronies stood behind her, arms crossed.
‘Interesting,’ Ross mused. She glanced swiftly at the letters and put them in her jacket pocket. She put the photos back in the box, along with the lock, and handed the box to Larcombe. ‘Keep this.’
He pocketed it immediately. His attention was now on the still covered, bulky unknown that had been hidden and booby trapped behind the fireplace wall. He reached forward and touched the silky fabric. Without much encouragement, the fabric fell away.
Five canvas paintings of various sizes stood against one another in the darkness. There was no mistaking these as the stolen paintings the police and the PIs were hunting. The first and smallest canvas was instantly recognisable as one of celebrated up-and-coming artist Puddles De Von’s—a detailed painting of an eye, with deep black lashes and a red iris. It was leaning against another, much larger, ten-by-ten painting. This thickly painted piece was of a nude man, his ankles crossed, arms outstretched wide, head thrown back in anguish. His chest had burst open, with a deep ruby red sprouting from within. This was Bambi’s missing painting.
Ross flicked through the others—from the description given earlier that night, Bambi’s best friend Trepheena Plum’s painting was there as well.
‘All five,’ Ross confirmed. ‘The thief stashed them here. We’ll have to call the Commissioner.’
She and Larcombe stepped back into the library and faced the painting with grave composure. The blood-red paint of Lofty’s work blazed throughout the room’s shadows.
‘Exquisite,’ Larcombe said.
Ross, bewildered, turned and slapped Larcombe on the shoulder with the glove from her pocket. ‘Ow,’ he winced.
‘It’s made of human flesh, Larcombe,’ Ross said, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Did you forget that chilling fact?’
Larcombe made a face. ‘Oh, I completely forgot,’ he said. ‘Completely. That’s bad.’
Ross looked back at the painting and then at Larcombe. She shook her head. ‘So bad,’ she said.
‘Is it bad that the painting’s so good?’ Larcombe asked, appearing mesmerised by the work. ‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’
Ross breathed a deep sigh. ‘So bad.’
‘So bad,’ Larcombe echoed. ‘So wrong.’
The two stood there taking in the painting, shaking their heads. A creak from the apartment made them both stand to attention.
‘Did you hear that?’ Ross whispered.
‘Just the wind,’ Larcombe whispered back.
Faint voices murmured down the corridor.
‘The wind doesn’t talk, Larcombe.’
The slow groan of a door sounded out through the apartment. Footsteps followed.
‘They’re heading this way,’ Larcombe said.
Ross grabbed Larcombe by the hand, ushering him into the secret hideaway. Gently, she guided the wall shut. The sliver of light from the library got smaller and smaller until the PIs stood in complete darkness. There was barely enough room for the two of them.
‘Is this a bad time to remind you I’m scared of small spaces?’ Larcombe whispered. He hastily loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Ross leant her ear against the door. ‘Can you hear anything?’ he asked. She waved an arm for him to join her.
The voices became clearer as the library door opened and the unwanted company entered the room.
***
Henri High wasn’t having the night he planned. He had underestimated the two private investigators and that annoyed him.
‘They’re not here,’ Mickey Pound said.
‘Maybe they’re not as smart as I thought,’ Henri said, feeling the tension in his shoulders release.
‘So, we got away with it then?’ Pound asked, walking over to the fireplace to warm his hands. ‘I gotta say, I was nervous for a second there, High. We could have been in some serious shit. Lucky the mayor’s office called in a favour—barely spent two minutes in that precinct. And Mayor Bambino’s gonna be real happy. Get that debt down for you, huh? Must be weighing on your mind, owing all that money. But you were right, stealing those paintings from your friends was so easy—’
Pound was still talking, but Henri’s attention had shifted to the fireplace wall. He held up a hand and Pound stopped mid-sentence.
‘Do you see that?’ Henri said, making his way over to the wall.
Slowly, he put a finger over the splintered wood of the bullet hole, its rough edges gently scraping his skin. Just as understanding dawned over the socialite, the wall swung open with incredible force, hitting him directly in the forehead.
***
Ross and Larcombe were standing over Henri as he came to. After knocking Henri unconscious, they’d emerged from behind the concealed wall—Larcombe with his gun drawn—and managed to subdue Mickey Pound into submission. They had then tied the two men to chairs. Currently, Pound was trying to pull against his restraints, without much success.
‘They’re forged,’ Ross stated, tossing the letters she’d kept from the velvet box onto Henri’s lap. They were multiple drafts of Bambi and Lofty’s love letters. ‘There was no affair between them.’
Henri tried to smirk, but it came out more like a grimace. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘We were under the impression that Lofty was your friend,’ Larcombe prompted.
‘Friend? That fool? No,’ Henri said, unable to help himself.
‘He was the perfect fall guy,’ Pound added.
‘Shut up, you idiot,’ Henri hissed at Pound.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Larcombe continued, ‘is why stage your own robbery? All the robberies, for that matter?’
Neither Henri nor Pound said anything.
‘A stolen original Lofty Robinson painting is worth thousands,’ Ross said.
‘Thousands more when you know what they’re actually made of,’ Pound replied. Henri threw Pound a dirty look.
‘You’re a bookie, not a private investigator. That’s correct, isn’t it, Mr Pound?’ Ross asked.
Pound nodded.
‘And you’re not Bambi’s stalker,’ Larcombe added. ‘You’re Henri’s bookie. That’s why Bambi wasn’t as concerned as everyone else when you kept showing up to places. Because you weren’t there for her.’
Pound paused, then nodded again.
The welt on Henri’s forehead was growing. He had a tiny cut from the impact that was starting to bleed. ‘You need to release me immediately,’ he said, shaking. ‘I’m going to have both your heads for this. How dare you accuse me of anything! Release me!’ he cried, jerking the chair back and forth as he did so.
‘Careful,’ Larcombe said. ‘If you topple over, I’m not picking you up.’
‘You two really don’t know what you’re doing. You’re going to make a big enemy,’ Pound added, voice low.
‘If you tell us the truth, we’ll let you go,’ Ross said.
‘Yeah, right,’ Henri curtly replied. ‘I know your reputation.’
Ross smiled. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘We’ve already called the police.’
‘The way we see it,’ Larcombe offered, ‘you have two choices. One, you don’t tell us anything and the police arrive, see the five stolen paintings in your possession, hear our version of what we think happened and charge you. Or, two, you tell us the truth, and we decide how much the police should know.’
Henri spat at Larcombe’s feet.
‘What’s your version of what happened, then?’ Pound asked. He looked at Henri. ‘I wanna see if they’re far off.’
‘Henri here,’ Larcombe said, slapping Henri on the back of the head, ‘owes you—and, therefore, your boss Mayor Bambino—money for his gambling debts. Bambi was aware you were broke when you first met, no?’
‘How dare you—’ Henri started, but Ross cut him off.
‘Lofty said you commissioned the painting two years ago and couldn’t afford to pay him until you married Bambi. You paid for it using her money.’
‘Although,’ Larcombe continued, ‘Bambi’s not as senseless as everyone thinks. You couldn’t keep spending her money so lavishly or gamble it away if you wanted her to keep funding your lifestyle. I take it that’s when you started racking up a debt.’
‘How much money does Henri owe Mayor Bambino?’ Ross asked Pound.
‘It’s sizeable,’ Pound said.
‘Is that when you decided to start robbing your friends?’ Ross asked. Throughout this exchange, Henri had kept his head bowed, but he looked up at Ross now with a coldness in his eyes.
‘I take it neither of you have ever been in Mayor Bambino’s debt,’ Pound quipped, laughing.
‘How did you two know the truth about Lofty’s paintings?’ Ross continued.
‘I always suspected something, so I pried it out of him when he was drunk enough,’ Henri finally said. ‘He wanted a place on the Clandestine Council.’
‘Funny you mention that.’ Larcombe pulled out the small velvet box. Henri’s eyes widened. ‘I take it this is collateral?’
‘What’s that?’ Pound asked, a shrill note entering his voice as he regarded Henri’s alarm.
‘You didn’t tell Mickey about your photos, then?’ Larcombe said, placing the box on the library desk. He slowly pulled out the images and started flicking through them. When he found the one he was looking for, he handed it over to Ross.
She brought the image of Mayor Bambino over to Pound and flashed it before him. His face turned a deep burgundy, visible even through his beard.
‘That’s the Clandestine Council,’ he breathed.
‘That’s what we thought,’ she said.
‘I’ll tell you anything you want.’ Pound was frantic. ‘Anything for that image.’
Ross dangled the photograph before him as Pound strained against the chair.
‘Did you help Henri steal the paintings?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Pound said. ‘I felt for him. But we were stealing things well before the paintings.’
‘Shut up, Mickey!’ Henri cried.
‘We were selling them at the Clandestine Council under pseudonyms—everyone uses pseudonyms—but it wasn’t enough to get his debt down. We decided to steal paintings from his friends. People who weren’t part of the council, but they had to be famous or rich enough for others to want their stuff.’
‘When’s the auction?’ Larcombe asked Henri, as Ross pulled out her notepad.
‘New Year’s Eve,’ Henri said. A bleak resignation settled over him. ‘I’m a dead man anyway,’ he whispered to himself, his blank eyes on the photo. ‘After Lofty admitted what the paintings were, I knew mine was going to be worth a lot. Enough to get me out of debt, even. Word spread quickly. We were going to have the largest international attendance in the council’s history.’ Defeated, he sat slumped in the chair, his slack arms still tied behind his back.
‘If it turned sour, we were gonna frame Bambi. Lofty was already a criminal, so it was a half-truth. We were doing a civil service,’ Pound said, as if this made his crimes any better.
The elevator to the penthouse apartment dinged and all heads turned to the door.
‘That will be the Police Commissioner,’ Larcombe said.
‘Where is he?’ a shriek rang through the apartment. They’d obviously brought back home a free Bambi. The PIs could hear Police Commissioner Loeman trying to convince Bambi to stay in the sitting room.
‘Jesus,’ Henri muttered. ‘Kill me now.’
When the Police Commissioner entered, flanked by four officers, he looked exhausted.
‘Do you know how much paperwork this night has been?’ he asked, rubbing at his now scruffy facial hair.
‘You promised,’ Pound said to Ross. ‘Give me the photo.’
‘I never promised you anything,’ Ross said.
‘If she finds out that I know the photo exists and didn’t get it for her, I’m as good as dead,’ Pound shrieked. He was still screaming as the officers carted him and Henri High away in cuffs.
Bambi’s furious cries joined Mickey Pound’s as they walked past her through the apartment.
The Police Commissioner turned to one of his officers. ‘Make sure Ms Bomb doesn’t murder those two,’ he said.
‘It’s been some night,’ he said to the PIs, taking an unexpected seat where Henri High was previously. ‘I guess I owe you both a thank you.’
‘Why so many police officers, Commissioner?’ Larcombe asked.
‘Don’t panic,’ Loeman said, wary. ‘Lofty Robinson escaped on his way to the precinct.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Larcombe said. He took a seat in the chair next to the Police Commissioner.
‘I don’t joke, Larcombe.’
The storm outside had subsided and a few bleak breaks of early morning light were flittering through the windows, slowly illuminating the library room. Loeman and Larcombe looked dishevelled. Ross looked great.
‘We’ve got more for you,’ she said. ‘I know you’re building a case against Mayor Bambino.’ She collected the photographs of the Clandestine Council and handed them to Loeman.
‘How do you know about that?’ Loeman cautiously asked.
‘I know lots of things,’ Ross said.
Loeman flicked through the evidence with a grim face. ‘I guess that’s tomorrow’s job.’
‘You mean today’s,’ Larcombe said, looking out at the morning sky.
The Police Commissioner looked up from the photographs. ‘No one likes a smart ass, Larcombe.’
‘Right,’ Larcombe said, running a hand through his hair.
Ross looked away and smiled.
THE END … for now
Flesh and Bone is a prequel to the Private Eyes novel series, Olivia Hides has previously published Orbitus and Clouds Behind the Moon on the Antithesis Journal Blog, and currently works as the Assistant Editor for The Local Project.