It’s fortunate that Will Rogers never met Cyrus Calhoun. Otherwise, Rogers’ view of his fellow man might have changed forever. Calhoun was a prime example of a self-centred, obnoxious, cold- hearted banker with no redeeming graces. He liked to brag that he didn’t care one bit about his fellow man – just his client’s money. As the controlling stockholder of Manhattan National Trust, the nation’s fifth largest Savings and Loan, Calhoun made more enemies in a week then most men made in a lifetime. Not that it mattered to the multi-millionaire. He treated ordinary people like peasants. Or worse, like ants to be stepped on. Until one fine day when he learned that stepping into the wrong place at the wrong time can get anyone, rich or poor, into a lot of trouble.
An odd twist of serendipity crossed my path with Calhoun’s on his day of reckoning. My boss, Penelope Peters, relied on Manhattan National for all of her banking needs. Which means, since Penelope never left her home on Manhattan’s West Side, every Friday I drove to the bank’s main office and deposited the week’s earnings. Some weeks were better than others, but rarely was our deposit less than ten thousand dollars.
Penelope Peters is a genius and she knows it. She charges her clients accordingly. They pay her fees without complaining because by the time they reach Penelope, there’s no other choice left. She’s the final resort, and despite her astronomical fees, her schedule is booked months in advance.
While Penelope does the thinking, I do the chores. My name’s Sean O’Brien and I serve as Penelope’s connection with the outside world. I do most of the household shopping – except for food, which is handled by the boss’s chef, Julian Scapaletto – as well as keeping the books, paying the bills, and just about anything else Penelope requires. I’m thirty-five, stand six feet two, and weigh two forty. I have a degree in accounting, a private detective’s badge, and a black belt in karate. Sherlock Holmes has his Dr Watson, Nero Wolfe his Archie Goodwin, Timmy has Lassie. Penelope Peters has me. It’s strictly a business arrangement and I’m not complaining. Working for Penelope Peters is always interesting. Plus, she pays me a hell of a salary, more even than I think I’m worth.
My first and only encounter with Cyrus Calhoun occurred on Friday, August 20,1999.1 was standing patiently in line to make the weekly deposit. It had been a good week and there were cheques worth fifteen thousand dollars in my attache case. I was wearing a dark grey, double-breasted pinstripe suit, white shirt, and grey and black tie decorated with pictures of Bogart and Bergman from
Around the house, if I’m not working, I dress in casual slacks and a polo shirt. On business, I always wear a suit and tie. Since I represent Penelope everywhere outside her home, she insists I project a prosperous image. God forbid anyone should think she wasn’t rich. Her explanation was short and simple. “Rich people who never leave their houses under any circumstances are merely eccentric. Poor people who act the same way are thought to be insane. Considering the choices, I prefer eccentric.”
Anyway, waiting for a teller, I was reviewing the latest video releases in my mind. Friday nights Penelope preferred watching a movie on the large screen TV in the parlour. We’d been exceptionally busy during the past few months so had not seen anything since early summer. Since the boss likes mystery or spy flicks, I was debating the relative merits of
A shriek is different from a scream. Take it from someone who served two years as an MP in Germany. A scream blends loud and distressed. A shriek combines horror and fright. Screams are bad, shrieks are much worse.
Tucking my case under one arm, I leapt over the guide rope and sprinted in the general direction of the shrieks. The location wasn’t far, around a twenty-foot long wall of fine marble. I skidded to a stop five feet from the spot. A young woman, dark hair, dressed in a bank uniform, was frozen solid in front of an elevator door. Her hands covered her eyes while her mouth continued to howl like a police siren. One of the bank’s security guards, an old geezer with white hair, had his arms around the woman, trying to calm her down. Another five or six people, all dressed in business clothes, surrounded the elevator door. More were arriving every second. White faces were changing to vomit green. A man about my age, dressed in a three-piece suit that cost my salary for a year, stumbled hurriedly out of the crowd. He looked ready to heave up his breakfast. Wordlessly, I pointed to the nearest bathroom. Then, using my considerable weight and muscle, I shouldered my way through the growing crowd to see what had caused the ruckus.
The elevator was a fancy one. There were no mirrors like in most elevators. The rich prefer not to look at their wrinkles. Instead, the walls were decorated with fine mahogany panelling, highlighted with gold leaf. A large dropped light fixture on the ceiling provided bright white illumination. The thick green carpet seemed to be an expensive weave. A wall plate indicated that the elevator was for the private use of Cyrus Calhoun, the bank’s CEO.
As to Mr Calhoun, he was the cause of the woman’s shrieks. Or to be precise, his two parts were the cause of her distress. The body of the millionaire was sprawled in the rear right corner of the elevator, shoulders wedged tight against the walls. They were able to make such close contact because there was nothing between them to serve as a barrier. Calhoun’s head, a limp, bloody ball, rested on the green carpet in the middle of the car. The banker’s eyes were wide open, as if curious about the stir his appearance had caused.
Obviously, the decapitation had taken place in the elevator car. The walls, ceiling, and floor were covered with blood. Blood still trickled down his chest in a small but steady stream. I’m no doctor but I knew enough about killing to know Calhoun hadn’t been dead more than a few minutes. The scene was one of the most striking sights I’ve encountered in all my life. A man’s head and body, chopped apart, in what essentially was a locked room. From what I could gather from the babbling of the shrieker, she had been walking past the private elevator when the doors opened and she saw the corpse. One point she made perfectly clear. No one else had been in the elevator when it came to rest. The corpse had been all alone.
Sensing a mystery and perhaps some money, I flipped out my pocket phone and dialled home. Penelope answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello,” she said in that odd way of hers, making the word into a statement, not a question.
“No time for pleasantries,” I said. “I’m at the bank. Cyrus Calhoun, in two separate pieces, just arrived by his private elevator to the first floor. Head’s on one side of the car, body’s on the other. A witness who saw the door open claims nobody else was inside. Sound interesting?”
“Possibly,” said Penelope. “Manhattan National Trust can’t afford a long, drawn- out mystery. Notoriety is bad business, especially for banks. If there’s no rational explanation found, call me back when possible. Give my regards, as always, to Inspector Norton. I’m sure he’ll be there shortly.”
“Speak of the devil,” I said, as I switched off the phone and snapped it closed. Give bank security an
