The Black Bird
Chapter 1
Damsel in Distress
It would have been easy to miss unless a person was looking for it. The address was 55 ½ Heywood Street. It was in between two benign storefronts, a dress shop and a bakery, in the upstairs office off a flight of stairs and a short, dark hallway.
For the past ten minutes, a young woman had been walking up and down that short, dark hallway, her shadow periodically cutting the light that came through the frosted glass of the window in the outer office door.
The receptionist had kept an eye on her. Tilly had seen this type of thing before. Usually, it was a timid client, someone who had never had the need to consult with a private detective and was unsure if they really wanted to go these lengths to get the goods on their cheating spouse. Sometimes, it was the cheating spouse who knew they'd been caught and wanted to negotiate for the findings. Sometimes it was an enraged girlfriend of one of the two detectives, usually Gary Gaston's, who was working up the courage to come in with a loaded pistol to threaten to blow his nuts off.
The figure paused and Tilly braced herself. The woman that came through was a petite, blue-eyed brunette, dressed in a stylish navy-blue suit with a pristine white lacy blouse. A dark mink stole shrug was wrapped around her shoulders. The skirt was too short, showing off trim legs set in high shiny black heels.
"Hello," Tilly greeted the woman. "How may I help you?"
"I . . . I think I need to see a detective. Do I need an appointment?" She was still unsure of herself.
"I think Mr. Weaver may be available," Tilly told her. She gave her a smile and dialed the inner office. "Mr. Weaver, there's a Miss. . . . " she looked at the young woman.
"Uhmm . . . O'Shaughnessy . . . Bridget O'Shaughnessy," the woman stammered out.
"A Miss O'Shaughnessy to see you." Tilly listened and nodded. "Of course, sir." She hung up the phone. "Mr. Weaver will see you now." She got up and led Miss O'Shaughnessy through one of the two doors behind her desk.
The young woman looked around nervously and her eyes fastened on the man behind the walnut desk. Middle-aged, with brown hair, a hint of grey, probably brown eyes, but it was hard to see for sure in the dim light of his office. He was dressed casually - a clean white shirt tucked into suit pants. He lacked a tie and the shirt was open at the neck. He gestured to one of the green leather upholstered chairs next to his desk.
She moved toward the chair, momentarily startled when Tilly closed the door behind her. The young woman hesitated, looking around anxiously, but then sat down in the chair. "Thank you," she said in a soft voice. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her jacket pocket and dabbed her eyes.
The man looked her over, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. "Now what can I do for you, Miss O'Shaughnessy?"
The young woman caught her breath. Obviously nervous, she broke eye contact with him, swallowed and looked aimlessly around the room again. She bit her lower lip. "I need. . . I thought . . . Could you . . . I . . . That is . . . " she stammered.
Mr. Weaver gave her a gentle smile. "Suppose you tell me about it from the very beginning," he suggested kindly.
"It began in New York . . ." the young woman began.
"Uh hum," Weaver responded.
"I don't know how she met him in New York. She's so much younger than I am . . . only seventeen. We don't have the same friends or associate with any of the same people. You see, our mother's dead. Our father is often away with his business. I'm actually glad about that. It might kill him to know . . . ." She looked up, tears in her eyes, her hands twisting the handkerchief. "Oh, I've got to get her back before he gets home."
Weaver nodded, as though everything she was saying made sense to him.
"He should be home the first of the month."
"Well, that gives us two weeks," Weaver told her.
"I didn't know what she had done until her letter came in. And then I was frantic, trying to decide what to do. I didn't know what to do. What should I do?" Her bottom lip was trembling and tears were pooling in her eyes. She dabbed her eyes again.
"Tell me about the letter. Do you have a copy of it?" Weaver encouraged her in soft tones like he might use with a child upset because someone had taken their favorite toy.
"Oh no. I guess I should have brought it with me. I'm sorry," she told him, her big blue eyes looking sorrowfully at him.
"It's not a big deal. Go on," he told her.
"I tried to write her back, but I don't know if she ever received my letter. It went to a post office box here in Charleston. I never got anything back from her. I tried to call her, but she didn't answer any of the numbers I had. I waited a week, hoping I'd hear from her again, but there was no other communication. She didn't write, she didn't call. I finally wrote her again to let her know I was coming here to get her." The young woman looked up at him. "I probably shouldn't have done that, should I?"
"It's not always easy to know what to do. I take it, you haven't found her?"
"I told her I would meet her at the Grand Bohemian, the big hotel in Francis Marion Village. But I've been waiting there, now it's been three days, and she hasn't been or left a message or anything."
Weaver nodded sympathetically.
"It's been horrible! The waiting . . . ! Not knowing what's happened to her . . . what might be happening to her! I keep trying to get in touch with her on the phone and through every address she's ever had . . . but nothing."
She wiped away more tears and sniffed.
"But then yesterday, I saw him. I . . . saw . . . Keith Nottingham." She shuddered. "Of course, he wouldn't tell me where she was. He wouldn't tell me anything, except that she was well and happy. But he would say that, wouldn't he?"
"Could be true," Weaver told her.
"I hope, I really hope, it is true. But. . . but. . . he told me that she didn't want to see me. I can't believe that. He promised to tell her that he'd seen me, and he would bring her to see me - if she would come, to the Hotel this evening. He said that he didn't think she'd come. He promised to come himself if she didn't."
Both the young woman and Weaver were momentarily distracted when the door to Weaver's office opened. It was a handsome, younger man.
"Oh, excuse me," the man said.
"It's all right, Gary. Come in. Miss O'Shaughnessy, this is Mr. Gaston, my partner."
Gary smiled at Miss O'Shaughnessy, shutting the door behind his back.
"Miss O'Shaughnessy's. . . " Weaver paused, "sister?" Miss O'Shaughnessy nodded. " . . . ran away from New York with a fellow named Keith Nottingham. They're here in Charleston. Miss O'Shaughnessy has seen Nottingham and has a date to see him again tonight. Maybe, maybe he'll bring her sister with him. The chances are he won't. Miss O'Shaughnessy wants us to find the sister and get her away from him, so she can take her back home." Weaver looked back at Miss O'Shaughnessy. "Right?"
Miss O'Shaughnessy nodded, enormously relieved that he had understood her ramblings, and looked down in her lap, "Yes."
Gary looked the young woman over with a keen, appreciative eye, his gaze lingering on her shapely legs.
Weaver continued, "It's a simple matter of having a man at the Hotel this evening to shadow this Nottingham fellow when he leaves. He'll lead us back to your sister. After we've found her. . . we'll see if she wants to leave him."
Miss O'Shaughnessy looked up. "You must be careful," her voice was shaking. "I'm deathly afraid of him . . . of what he might do. My sister is very young and his bringing her here from New York is such a serious . . . " her voice broke and she dabbed her eyes once again with her now soddened handkerchief.
Weaver gave her a reassuring smile. "You just leave him to us. We'll know how to handle him."
Miss O'Shaughnessy looked at him. "I want you to know that he's a dangerous man, very dangerous. I honestly don't think he'd stop at anything. I don't believe he'd hesitate to kill my sister if he thought it would save him."
Gary asked her the next question, "Can he cover things up by marrying her?"
"He already has a wife and three children in Chicago," she told him.
Weaver smirked, "They usually do, although not always in Chicago. Now, what does he look like?"
"Big man. Dark hair, dark glasses. He talks loudly and gives the impression of being . . . a violent person."
"Thin, medium, heavy-set?" Weaver continued getting a description.
"Strong-looking. He works out. This morning he was wearing a white shirt and dark green pants."
Weaver nodded. "Do you know what he does for a living?"
"Oh, I haven't the slightest idea," Miss O'Shaughnessy told him.
"Well, what time is he coming to see you?" Weaver continued to follow up.
"Eight o'clock," Miss O'Shaughnessy answered.
"All right, Miss O'Shaughnessy. We'll have a man there for you," Weaver promised her.
"I'll look after this myself," Gary spoke up.
Miss O'Shaughnessy turned to Gary, "Oh thank you, thank you." She opened her handbag, her hands shaking. She brought out three bills and laid them on Weaver's desk.
"Will that be enough?" she asked, her blue eyes wide and trusting.
Weaver nodded. He stood and came around to her, holding out his hand to her. She took it and rose, "Thank you. Thank you," she said.
"Not at all," he told her. "It will help us if you meet him in the lobby of the Hotel."
"I can do that."
"You won't have to look for me," Gary told her. "I'll see you"
Miss O'Shaughnessy nodded, and Weaver accompanied her to the door.
"Thank you," she said one more time before she left.
Weaver returned to his desk and examined one of the three bills she had left.
"These look all right," he told his partner.
Gary picked up one of the bills.
"What did you think of her?" Weaver asked his partner.
"Sweet. Maybe you saw her first, but I spoke first," Gary told him.
"Always game for a damsel in distress, I see."
"Well . . . yeah. You saw those legs, that face. I'm sure the rest of her matches."
"Watch yourself," Weaver told his partner. "I don't know what game she's playing, but she's sure as hell isn't looking for her sister."
After One
It was dark. The clock said it was just past one o'clock. His phone was ringing. Weaver swore, then fumbled for it and picked it up.
"Yeah? . . . . Yeah, that's me . . . . What? . . . Dead? . . . . Yeah. . . . I can be there in twenty minutes . . . Where? . . . . Sure. . . .All right."
Weaver sat on the side of his bed and ran his fingers through his hair. He sat for a moment before sighing and getting up to pull some jeans on over his boxers. He grabbed a shirt and an old Guernsey sweater. He then pulled out some socks, putting them on before slipping on his shoes.
The Scene of the Murder
"What do you want back here?" It was a police officer.
"I'm Weaver. Swan called me."
The police officer shone a light in his face. "Oh yeah. I didn't know you at first. They're back there," he pointed over his shoulder.
They were standing on top of a clay bank, off the road. It was cold, and the air was damp. Weaver glanced down the gully and he could see his partner's body, lying face down.
"Hey, Weaver." It was an attractive young woman, dressed in black pants topped with a worn leather jacket, her long blonde hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, her badge on her belt.
"Swan," he greeted her.
"I figured you'd want to see this before we took him away."
"Yeah, Swan. Thanks. What happened?"
"Got him right through the heart, close range. I'd guess a small caliber handgun."
"How'd it happen?"
"Preliminary investigation suggests he was standing where you are and the person that shot him was over there. Gaston was shot and then tipped over backward and fell down the gully."
"Who found him? Weaver asked.
"Some people called in when they thought they'd heard a shot. A patrolman investigating the area chanced on him. Do you want to look at him before we move him?" she asked him.
"No. I trust your work, Swan. Was his gun out?" Weaver asked.
"Nope. It was still tucked away on his hip. It hadn't been fired. There was a hundred dollar bill in his shirt pocket. Was he working, Weaver?"
Weaver hesitated a moment and nodded.
"Well?" Swan asked him.
"He was tailing a guy named Keith Nottingham."
"What for?"
Weaver put his hands in his pocket and yawned.
"What for?" she asked him again.
"Trying to find out where he lives." Weaver ran his fingers through his hair. "I can give Gary's wife a call. Might be easier hearing it from me."
"Sure, Weaver." She shook her head. "That's tough, him getting it like that. Gaston had his faults, I know, but he must have had some good points too."
"I guess," Weaver responded. He nodded and returned to his car. He drove back to his downtown apartment and called Tilly.
"Tilly, Precious, I'm sorry to call you at this hour . . . Yeah, honey . . . Listen, Gary's been shot. . . . Yes, he's dead. . . . Can you go over to Zelena's? . . . Yeah, I'm gonna give her a call and break the news. . . . I think someone should be with her. . . I knew I could count on you. And listen, please keep her away from me . . . . Right, I don't want to have to comfort the grieving widow . . . Thanks."
He poured himself some Johnny Walker then pulled off his Guernsey finding it too warm for inside wear. He sat on the side of his bed in his pants and undershirt and sipped his drink. He gave it twenty minutes before he made his second call to Gary's widow.
After Two
Afterward, he'd lain back down, knowing he wouldn't get to sleep, trying to sort through Miss O'Shaughnessy's case. She'd warned them that Nottingham was dangerous, and it appeared she'd been right. He didn't have a way to get in touch with her. He'd have to wait for her to contact him.
He also thought about Zelena's response to his news. She hadn't seemed all that surprised or upset when he'd told her. Tilly was there and Zelena had promised him that she'd be okay.
It was now past two o'clock, and he heard someone knocking at his door. He poured himself a second Johnny Walker before going to the door.
He opened the door partway, the chain preventing it from opening all the way. He was now looking at Swan and her second, Graham Wolfe.
"Hello, Swan," he greeted her, closing the door, sliding the chain and opening the door to let them in.
They sat in Weaver's small living room. There was a short sofa, two upholstered chairs, and a coffee table littered with newspapers, paper plates, and coffee cups. In another corner were a couple of chairs set about a table piled high with random papers.
"Did you break the news to Gary's wife?" Swan asked him.
"Yeah," Weaver answered.
"How'd she take it?"
"I don't know. I'm not good at reading women."
"Oh, since when?" Swan asked.
Abruptly her partner spoke up. "What kind of gun do you carry?" Wolfe asked.
"None," Weaver answered instantly. "I don't like guns. Of course, there are some at the office."
"You don't happen to have one here?" Wolfe asked.
Weaver shook his head.
"You sure of that?"
Weaver smiled "Look around. . . " He picked up his glass and emptied it. "Turn the dump upside-down if you want. I won't squawk . . . Oh, I assume you've got a search warrant."
Swan frowned, "We're not wanting to make any trouble, Weaver."
"But what? You think I killed Gary? You think I killed my partner?" Weaver allowed his anger to come through.
Swan shook her head. "It's possible. There's a rumor you were stepping out with his wife. You could've taken the opportunity to blow him away and blame it on this Nottingham character. Why were you tailing Nottingham?"
"I wasn't," Weaver responded. "We had a client who was paying good money to have him tailed."
"Who's this client?" Swan persisted.
"Oh no, sorry, can't tell you that."
"We know you didn't go to Gary's house to tell Zelena about the death. You sent Tilly, your girl. Now, I'm giving you ten minutes to call Tilly, then ten minutes to get to get to Nottingham's place," Swan told him.
"What?" What the hell was she talking about?
Swan explained, "Nottingham was found shot about half hour after you left Gaston's scene of death."
"Nottingham's dead?" This was unexpected. "Oh, now I understand. You think I went after Nottingham to avenge Gary. Hell, after I was with you, Swan, I came back here and then I called Tilly. Then I fixed a drink. Then I called Zelena. Then I lay down for a few minutes, you arrived and finally, I fixed a second drink. I can assure you I had no idea where Nottingham was hiding out, or even what he looked like or. . . anything. I somehow doubt I had enough time to take a side trip to kill the man. Somebody else took him out," Weaver seemed irritated.
Swan considered. "Yeah, I thought the timeline was a little tight, but you know, I have to ask."
"Well, I'm glad you're satisfied. You will let me know when you make an arrest for Gary's death?"
Swan chuckled. "Maybe. Depends what mood I'm in." She started out the door but then relented. "I will tell you that Nottingham had a stash of handguns – I wouldn't be surprised to find out that one of them was used in Gaston's death."
"Thanks. Stay in a good mood, Swan, and keep me in the loop on Nottingham's death, too, would you," Weaver suggested.
"Yeah, I'll see what I can do." She didn't sound particularly committed.
Next Morning
Weaver went into his office early the next morning. Tilly had beat him in. She looked up from her desk as he walked into the front office.
"She's in there," she whispered and nodded at his office.
"I told you to keep her away!"
"Yeah, but you didn't tell me how to keep her away. Listen, I had her all night, Boss."
Weaver relented, "Yeah, I'm sorry, Precious. I'll deal with it."
He entered into his office to find a black-clothed red-head with a tear-stained face. She rushed him, "Weaver, darling." And she kissed him. He gently set her back from him.
"Sorry about Gary," he told her.
"Did . . . did you kill him?" the woman asked him.
NEXT: 'Miss O'Shaughnessy' pleads for Weaver's help, but isn't forthcoming with what is really going on. Weaver meets another character who asks for his help.
A.N. For those of you who know film noir movies, this is obviously a re-mix of The Maltese Falcon. While an amazing film, the script is damn near incomprehensible and (unfortunately) Mary Astor's character (Miss O'Shaughnessy) isn't particularly likable or attractive. I've worked to make her smarter, sexier and a woman with her own agenda, so I will be deviating a bit from the plot line ('cause I just gotta have a happy ending). Enjoy - Twyla