The Baylor Family Murder Mystery

When I was a little kid, it was the mystery stories I wanted to read. And it was the mystery I was interested in. Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Perry Mason, Nero Wolfe. Not the gun-toting tough guy. I liked the brainy type.

But I never wanted to actually be *inside* all that mystery.

I just wanted to read about it and maybe write about it. I never once thought I might someday be a real-life detective.

However.

On my twenty-first birthday….

ONE

In downtown Waco there is a bar, on Austin Avenue. The name of the bar is “Pat’s Idle Hour.”

It was a place of no distinction. It was a bar. In downtown Waco. The bartender was named Woody, and he would not be at all surprised to see me. It was only six, but Woody always closed the bar promptly at eleven. Unless the District Attorney or the County Judge was there, drinking with the Sheriff. Waco was like that in 1962. I walked in past the really well done cartoon painted on the wall. It was a life-sized rendering of the old man from the New Year’s Eve cards. You know, the one that represents the old year going out. Bald head, white beard to his knees. (Only this one was wearing a zoot-suit and twirling a pocket-watch on a long chain.) That painting was mighty fine. The bar was just a bar. I stepped up to it and put my left foot up on the rail. Woody smiled, sphinx-like across the bar at me. “Hullo there, Billy-me-lad.”

“Woody,” said I. “My best and only friend. It pains me to have to say it but I am out of funding and out of a job and broke. I get one free beer because it is my birthday, but your tip will have to wait for later days.”

Woody polished a clean spot on the bar, swirling his little bar-rag with a characteristic flourish.

“Forget about the tip tonight. And forget about paying for your own drinks. Your drinks are all on-the-house tonight.” I looked quickly at his face. He was grinning from ear to ear.

Of course Woody knew it was my twenty-first, even though I had been drinking at the Idle Hour for almost two years. Waco was like that in 1962 too.

But drinks on-the-house? I wasn’t expecting that.

Normally I wasn’t all that thrilled about being in Waco. But there was something magical in the air that night.

Woody brought me Schlitz in a longneck bottle, and a little four ounce tumbler to pour it into and all was right with the world.

There were four or five customers in the place when I got there, and more were drifting in, slowly but regularly. The same crowd every night, of course. Not identical of course. The regulars were there almost every night, with one or two different ones missing at any given time. And a shifting crowd of irregulars that only came twice a week or so.

Sometimes Waco seems extra paradoxical. I always thought of it mostly like a big stagnant backwater of parochialism. Know what I mean? It was like the locals didn’t know anyone who didn’t go to their church. But in odd places at odd times you run into something almost exotically cosmopolitan. I had been tutoring Baylor undergrads in Algebra since the previous winter, so I knew some of the professors by sight. There was this one guy, he looked like a movie star. His eyes were intense. But he was always cool and affable. He was one of the Idle Hour irregulars, but he was there that night and he sat on a stool next to me. And he was maybe the most paradoxical cosmopolitan of all. A cubist at Baylor? Not a painter, but chair of the Drama department? This guy had been around. Iceland. Paris. Waxahache. Wait, what?

It all sounds so unlikely, but there was no doubt a lot of the stories were true. He DID hang out with movie stars on the Left Bank. He wrote and produced plays (like “Hamlet ESP.”) He was world famous. Baylor didn’t quite know what to think about him. His friends drifted in and called out jocular greetings like “Hey Prince, tell Woody what I’m thinking.” Or ”To be or not 2-D, ay Paul?”

Sitting there at the bar on a Thursday night I began to get a weird feeling that I can’t describe.

Thoughts were whirling through my head like boomerangs but I wasn’t really thinking. I was just like a disinterested observer. Little snippets of conversation buzzed around me:

“Fired from Cuba, they could take out the east coast…”

“Who?”

“Marilyn Monroe.”

“Oh my god. Poor thing.” Glasses clinking.

“Bay of Pigs… Telstar…”

At some point they started toasting me. They sang Happy Birthday.

You may think it was silly but somehow I was really touched by all the fuss they made. I hadn’t been expecting it. It was after eleven, and the DA had just left. The crowd that drifted in slowly earlier, drifted out a lot quicker.

Right then was when I looked down and saw the business card on the bar

DANMAC RESEARCH

Hobbs Court Waco

BL2-0884

To this day I can’t remember how that card got there or who left it. I just remember looking at it and thinking maybe I could get a job there. The students I had been tutoring were done with Math, and I had spent the last of my savings. I had no plans. I just kept telling myself something would turn up. Then someone slapped me on the shoulder and congratulated me and I slipped the card in my pocket— and forgot it.

The regulars were the last to leave, with a quiet chorus of bar-room blessings and goodbyes. Until it was just me and Woody standing near the back exit that went to Franklin Street. “You got a place to stay Billy?”

“Oh yeah,” I lied.

He shook my hand and gave me a one-armed hug. He put his hands on my shoulders and gave a little straightening squeeze. I turned around and walked out the back door without a cent in my pocket or anywhere to go.

I walked a few blocks. Finally I passed out on the ground between those two big squat silos on Sixth Street. I remember I had a silly dream about somebody named ‘Chip’ fixing up an old house so ‘Joanna’ could sell cupcakes and make us all rich. Life is weird.

* * *

“Are you interested in the job? Mr. Smith left word that there would be a call from a Mr. Robinson regarding employment in research.

You must come here to the office at Mr. Smith’s residence.”

I hadn’t lost any time calling the number on the card I found in my pocket the morning after my birthday party at the Idle Hour.

“Do you know how to get here?” she asked. Her voice was intelligent and businesslike, with a foreign accent I couldn’t place. I was so grateful that she asked me if I knew how to get there. Because I had no clue. I squinted at the business card. DANMAC.  Hobbs Court. “Where is Hobbs Court?” I almost squeaked it.

“Where are you?” She asked politely, if not kindly.

“Downtown,” I almost sighed.

“On Austin?”

“Yes.” I wondered, did she know I was calling from a bar at 10 AM? (Woody let me use the phone at the Idle Hour.)

“Come straight up Austin until you cross thirtieth, cross Karem, turn right on Mecca. Hobbs Court is on the left, between Novice and Oriental. Do you have that?”

“Up Austin, Right on Mecca. Hobbs Court on left between Novice and Oriental. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you very much Mr. Robinson. Just ring the bell at the front door.”

Walking up Austin Avenue I felt strangely optimistic for a change. For the past two months I had been saying “Something will turn up.” Well, maybe something had turned up.

I just had one big question. Who the hell was Mr. Smith and how did he know my name?

Up to that point I had no real inkling that I was in the middle of something super mysterious. Looking back, I realize that the DANMAC business card was the top step— of a dark stairwell I was about to stumble down.

I had never yet been that far up Austin. It was just after ten in the morning, and it was hot. But Austin Avenue was shaded on one side and I moved briskly without breaking a sweat. The events of the party at the Idle Hour ran through my mind, so I barely noticed the houses before I crossed 25th Street. I did notice some really beautiful stately homes then. I suddenly felt a little woozy, a remnant of the birthday booze still in my system. I looked up after I crossed 30th and blinked twice.

So help me, there was medieval castle up ahead on the left.

I looked around and realized I had walked past Mecca. I shook my head and refocused my eyes. Camelot was still there. But I was looking for Hobbs Court not King Arthur’s. I turned around and crossed the street heading for Mecca. Nothing seemed real. (I found out more about the real castle later.)

Now I was looking at a Moorish palace. With— so help me, a moat around it. I kid you not. My brain stayed out of it. My feet carried me towards it, until I looked up ahead and saw a street sign on the corner. Oriental.

So I had missed it somehow. I turned away from the Sultan’s place and looked back the way I had come. And there it was. Hobbs Court.

My first impression of the house… wow, from where I am now, it is hard to believe there was ever a time when I had never seen this house. I hope that makes sense. There was no street sign for Hobbs Court. Just a kind of gatepost with a metal plaque. There was only the one house. I wish I could describe my first view in painstaking detail but I wasn’t paying much attention. At first I thought it was a new building of modern design. But as I walked towards it, it started looking older. The only sidewalk led up to what looked like a side entrance. At first.

The building was set at an odd angle. Or, it seemed to be at first. There was a gorgeous set of steps leading up to the entrance. Thirteen steps, I noticed. The doorbell was a complicated mechanism that sounded like a combination liberty bell and Chinese temple gong. Bing, BONNNG.

That thought made me giggle and I was still giggling a little when she opened the door.

“Well hello Mr. Robinson I am glad you found us!” In the same foreign sounding voice from the phone.

As she stepped aside and I walked in, something tugged at the back of my mind— something I had just missed on the way in. I couldn’t imagine what it had been. Something spooky? I shook my head to clear it. The first thing I noticed was the cat. It was unusual. First of all it seemed slightly larger than normal. It looked like the largest house cat I had ever seen. And maybe just a bit larger than that. Also its fur was weird looking. Very beautiful, but unusual. I don’t know much about breeds of cats. This one reminded me of those big orange tabbies. But not orange. Soft brown stripes, with coffee and cream underneath with cinnamon and red-gold highlights. (Okay not a very good description but y’all know good writing is hard work.)

She ushered me into an office room. She was an attractive woman. Late thirties, I guessed. (I found out later it was a notch or two past the forty mark. You really never know do you?)

There was a fine polished oak library table that she used for a desk. There were some ultra comfortable Dutch Modern office chairs. She sat behind the desk and I swiveled my feet under the front side. Instead of a speech or a job application, she gave me a computer punchcard form to fill out. I filled it out. Name, age and Social Security Number. And Driver License Number. I passed it to her in silence. She received it in silence. Studied it. More silence. I had a million questions but the cat had gotten my tongue.

The cat strolled into the room and sat down on the carpet, tail curled around feet. “You have a beautiful cat,” I said. I expected her to come back with something about the cat, but she just kept her eyes on it, like she thought it might attack at any second or something.

The cat leaped quick as a flash straight into my lap and started purring. Loudly.

The woman addressed me quickly as if she had been waiting for a kitty cue.

“I have been instructed, by Mr. Smith, to ask you to have a meal in the kitchen, and examine the living quarters before you make any decision to accept or decline employment.” She said it like a memorized message. “Will you have breakfast now?”

I heard my stomach answer. “That would be wonderful,” it said through my mouth.

“Give me a few minutes,” she said. “You will occupy the top floor, if you wish to inspect it now.”

She was on her way through a nice looking swinging door into the kitchen. The cat didn’t follow me upstairs, only his eyes did.

From the outside it looked like just two stories with a cupola thing on top, but now I realized there was a third-floor attic room, with the cupola thing on top of that. It was a damn nice room. It took my breath away. It was old fashioned luxury with a sparkling clean modern bathroom. I could instantly see myself living there. But.

It was like in the old story. It all seemed just too good to be true. What was I being set up for? But at that moment something happened that drove every other thought clean out of my brain as if they never existed. I smelled something. Something good. I turned on my heel and followed my nose. The delicious scent grew stronger with every stride I took, down the stairs and to the swinging door to the kitchen. Breakfast? Sausage? Biscuits? No. Not biscuits. Cinnamon rolls. What else? Coffee. Hot chocolate? I pushed through. Coffee but no chocolate.

I sat at a gorgeous polished oak table in a plain kitchen chair. Very comfortable. It was air-conditioned. She set a small pot of hot coffee down with a warm mug. And a little glass pitcher of fresh cream.

“I get the coffee and cream from the Moat House chef,” she murmured.

It was outstanding, and I nodded my self-assured approval. She dropped some incredible smelling cinnamon rolls on a plate. She was back in a flash with a fluffy omelet that also smelled divine. I had no restraint. I tasted the omelette. It was heavenly. She dropped a plate of fried ham and bacon. There was more. Plain toast with real butter not oleomargarine. Jam, jelly, marmalade. Cream cheese. Honey. Fresh strawberries. Luscious grapes. Pineapple. I was just making up my mind to take the job, when I realized that other part of my brain— the one that takes care of bodily functions and works without supervision— had already decided for me. So all I did was make it unanimous. Something was still pulling at the back of my mind though. Something I had missed on the way in.

“If you will come back into the office Mr. Robinson I have had more instructions in regard to your application. Only a few details.”

“Uh-oh,” I thought to myself. “Here it comes. The devil is always in the details.” (That reminded me of what I missed coming in the front door, but I didn’t know why then.)

But all she did was wait until I sat down in front of the desk again to hand me an envelope addressed to W. Robinson. Inside the envelope were ten nice new twenty dollar bills and this letter:

Thank you for your time.The offer I make to you is this:

You will live in this house. You will do whatever research you wish.

However, you will have another job.

You will be appointment secretary and aide to Mr. Smith.

You will be required to report to Mr. Smith on demand.

Salary base $18 thousand annually plus bonuses.

If for any reason you decide not to accept employment with DANMAC at this time please keep the $200 without further obligation. If you do accept our offer the $200 will be your first bonus. The Housekeeper, Mrs. Baduhenna will pay you two month’s salary.

This letter is not a formal contract. You may have a formal contract later if you desire it.

I hope that you join our research team. Looking forward to working with you.

signed I. R. Smith Executive Director, DANMAC Incorporated

“I am instructed—“

“By Mr. Smith,” I interrupted her.

“Yes. By my employer, to tell you that you need not make up your mind right away, but if you do accept now your salary will begin immediately, retroactive to the first day of August 1962.

“Fine.” I shrugged. “I got nothing better to do. Shall we shake on it? But before we go any further I gotta tell you. As soon as I find out you are up to something crooked I am gone. And I may tell the cops what I know, depending on the racket.”

Oh brother! By the time I really found out anything about DANMAC, I knew I would never be calling the cops.

* * *

There was so much I learned in the next few days. And way more that I didn’t learn.

One of the things I did learn: The housekeeper’s name and country of origin. It was’t Iceland, it was Czechoslovakia.

Katerina Baduhenna.

Mrs. (husband deceased) Baduhenna served me breakfast lunch and dinner every day. Except Monday when she always had lunch in the kitchen at the Moat House. That was like the servants’ social event for the Castle neighborhood. Yes, there really was a castle. I know, right? Cray-Cray.

Unreal.

But first let me go back to that first day I took the job.

Mrs. Baduhenna was pouring it on with the soft-sell. ‘You don’t need to decide right away.’

‘You can keep the 10 twenties.’

‘Your salary begins when you say.’

I couldn’t very well say no. I just couldn’t. I didn’t.

I said “I want to look over the house some more.” Noncommittal.

“Very well Mr. Robinson.” Neutral. Deferential. “You do not mind Rex? He does not bother you?”

So I found out the cat’s name. “Of course not. I solemnly swear I will always render to Rex my kindness, courtesy and respect.” I swear that cat bent his head in Royal acknowledgement. Leo Rex! The King of Cats. It suited him well.

With a somewhat catlike gesture, the housekeeper faded away unobtrusively, the perfect servant. They knew they had me. They had me with the cinnamon rolls.

I wandered around the grounds all day. First thing, I wanted to stand in the center of the front hall and look all around and count the doors. But I never could figure out where the center of the front hall was. I gave up. There were five doors not counting the front door, the office door or the swinging door to the kitchen. I strode quickly to a door, grabbed and turned the knob, and jerked it open wide. I don’t know what I expected but it was a closet. I went upstairs for another look at where I was going to sleep.

King Rex was snoring royally from the middle of the bed. So at least I knew it was comfortable. I headed to the bathroom to make sure it was really as clean and modern as it looked. It was.

Walking past the bed towards the window I was able to see another part of the room I had not known was there. Every wall in the house seemed to be at an odd angle. In the farthest corner the walls did not meet. There was a column at the end of the wall and I walked around it and into an entirely different room.

A laboratory workshop.

I moved forward to look closer at an impressive expensive looking oscilloscope.

That’s when I saw the curtain, in another odd angle at the back corner. Behind it was a small spiral staircase. I went right up, through a trap door and I was in the little round cupola room right up on top of the house.

That room— that room was something else. It was fitted out to be an astronomical observatory. With a state-of-the-art twelve inch reflector telescope. I went back down the spiral staircase slowly, lingering over each step. The sense of unreality was still strong. Stronger than ever in fact. What kind of research did they expect me to do here? It felt something like being in a dream. I shook my head. I did a lot of head shaking that day.

Going out the kitchen door I found myself in an odd shaped backyard. There was a door in a wall. I opened it and looked inside. It was a garage. I had been feeling like I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, exploring a mysterious house. But when I saw what was parked in that garage, I was a kid looking at the ultimate toy. A dream toy. It was a 1927 Rolls-Royce. It looked brand new. You know that feeling? Just like an eight year old looking at the most expensive toy in the big store. Was this Smith guy a multi-millionaire? This was my kind of mystery! I walked around it in a state of ecstasy. There was a Jaguar hiding behind it. An XK-E. I wish you could see it. It looked like a spaceship. I slipped behind the wheel. No keys.

I looked around the place for a set of car-keys but I didn’t find any. I found something better. A brand new ten-speed Schwinn bicycle.

The ultimate toy feeling was back, but this time it wasn’t the most expensive toy. It was mine. My birthday present. I devoured it with my eyes. I caressed it. I hugged it. Mine.

I took the Schwinn for a spin. After being on foot in Waco for so long, it felt like flying. There was not a car on the road. The sun was setting and  the breeze was almost cool. Flying.

Dinner was on the table when I got back. There was no sign of the housekeeper or anyone else. I served myself from covered dishes. Piping hot comfort food. Fried chicken. Mashed potatoes and gravy. Corn on the cob. Fried okra. There was half a bottle of wine uncorked, and a glass. I poured a shot. I took a sip. Civilization had arrived.

I laid my head back on the pillow. What a day. The dreamlike unreality was still with me, but there was a difference. Real or not, I had a job. A dream job yes, but I wanted it. This house might not be real, but my Schwinn bike was real. I wanted it all. I closed my eyes.

My eyes popped open. It was pitch dark but I knew exactly where I was. It was after midnight but I was wide awake. I knew what it was I had missed before, when I first came in the front door. I got up and found the light switch.

I switched it on and off again. There was a heavy three-cell Ray-O-Vac flashlight on a table by the door. I had a job, a room, a Schwinn and a flashlight. And a whole lot of mystery. Hobbs Court? Or Hob’s? Hob was an ancient name for the devil. I knew that much. I gripped the flash and went downstairs to the front door.

I didn’t have to go outside. I could see it through the little window. The address on the outside wall by the front door that had not registered when I first saw it, but had stayed on my mind all day. Tarnished heavy brass, still glinting like polished gold. Three sixes. The number of the beast! My new address was 666 Satan’s Court. Who did I think I was working for?

Not that I believe any of that superstitious BS. But it made me wonder. Was DANMAC Corporation a front for some kind of Satanic Cult? (I had read detective stories like that.)

* * *

I had been 8 hours in my new home. All that time I was thinking about the attractive housekeeper. I am as sorry as I can be but I am just like that, period. She had great hair. Not red but sometimes almost. I just wanted another look at it. Just to settle the question in my mind. Was it red?

I headed for the kitchen.

I pushed open the swinging door, stepped in and let it close behind me. There was only a dim light, from a crack under a door.

I could see the snazzy refrigerator clearly reflecting the light from its gleaming metal front. I wasn’t a bit hungry but I couldn’t resist having a little peek. When I opened the door the little light was on as always. There was a lot to see. But I kind of felt like a stranger or a burglar in somebody else’s house. I stared inside for a minute, mind blank. The little electric motor in the refrigerator started up. There was a two-handled oblong tray on the top shelf at the front, with a transparent glass cover. I pulled it out and carried it to the table. There was a note stuck on the cover with a little piece of Scotch tape. It just said —For Mr. Robinson— in cursive. I took a bite of chocolate pie and thought about that. The tray was loaded with yummy stuff. A midnight snack. Enough for four normal adults. I thought about that. A shadow moved across the crack under the door, and I realized the light was probably coming from the housekeeper’s room.

The door opened and there she was. In a nightgown.

It wasn’t the door to her bedroom. It was a small anteroom. The light poured out from behind her and caught me like a deer in the headlights.

“You can eat anything you find in this kitchen,” she said as she stepped into it. I stared at her with a mouthful of pie. Her hair wasn’t red. Almost.

It wasn’t a sexy negligee like you see in the back of a dirty magazine. It was just a nightgown like any middle aged housekeeper might wear. Except it looked like expensive material. It covered her from neck to ankles. Not too loose and not too tight. But it was a nightgown. Stimulating. I swallowed my pie.

The cat had my tongue again. Right on cue the big cat followed her in. The almost redhead fetched milk from the Frigidaire. She gave some to the cat and some to me.

I found my voice and asked “Did you mean this tray for me?”

She nodded. “I thought you might want a midnight snack.”

“There is enough here for four.“ She thought about that. “Of course, if you prefer to have your own snacks, you can have a whole shelf in the icebox. And a cabinet.”

“That is exceedingly polite. But I prefer to be a guest in your kitchen, for now. If you don’t mind.”

“No,” she smiled, “that will be Oh, Kay.”

“I never had a housekeeper before.”

She picked a raw carrot stick off my tray and nibbled it. Her eyes were laughing at me. She looked right through me and her smile was a little bit evil. Moderately evil.

“I want to ask you something,” I began. She waited. “How did you know my name when I called?”

She simply said “Mister Smith” around her carrot.

“How did he know my name?”

“I do not know the answer to this question.” Then, sounding even more foreign, “I have sometime suspected that Mr. Smith can read minds.”

I was wondering if there was any romance going on between the housekeeper and the boss. I looked her straight in the eye, but she quickly looked away.

Looking at her nightgown again, I wondered if she knew what I was thinking. She answered that question.

“Yes I do read minds. Men’s minds,” she added. And she looked me straight in the eye. I quickly looked away.

* * *

Things got even weirder. MUCH weirder when I finally met Mr. Smith. Well, met isn’t the word— but that comes later.

I had been living at Hobbs or Hob’s Court— or ‘Seyton Place’ as I thought of it— for a week and a half. That Tuesday morning the Housekeeper seemed a bit more formal than normal. First thing I thought was the boss must be coming to town. I waited. Sure enough, she had an announcement to make. “Mr. Smith has communicated with me. I am instructed to inform you that Mr. Smith requests your presence at a teleconference today at four o’clock p.m. Today.” Redundancy included, she talked a little funny. Something odd was going on here. What was a ’teleconference?’ She went on. “We will meet in the conference room.”

She relaxed a little after she got the speech out.

I hated to spoil it so I just said “Thank you. Housekeeper.” And I smiled when I said it. She smiled back, so that was okay. I went up to my room to think it over. I pulled out the original letter-that-was-not-a-contract letter that was my only contact with Mr. Smith so far.

Did you ever get hired to a dream job, get used to the idea— and then have to meet the boss for the very first time? What the heck was this guy even like? I reread the letter. I thought I recognized the type. Some businessmen were SO much ‘all business’ they were more like robots than human beings.

By four o’clock I had figured out that a ’teleconference’ meant talking on the phone in the second floor office. I was wearing the suit I had bought two hours earlier. But there was no one there but Kat. I almost jumped out of my skin when a deep, resonant man’s voice said “Let us begin.”

I mean I almost had a heart attack. What the hell? But Kat was cool. Unperturbed. Damn it. She might have warned me. I had been wondering what Mr. Smith was like. Well, he was invisible. I felt like I was cracking up. (Not the last time I felt like that.) The Invisible Man spoke. “Mrs. Baduhenna, if you will make the formal introduction.”

She was embarrassed I could tell. But she fought it off and did it well. “Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Robinson.” That was her bit. She stood up and walked out without looking at me again.

That teleconferencing room was worthy of a good description. It was roomy, not cavernous. It was mostly neutral colors, browns, greens, olive and shades of gray. There was a framed eight by ten black and white photo of the President of the United States of America. The table was oval shaped and bare except for a black wooden box. There were three chairs on the side closest to the door. The other side just had one chair, larger and different from the rest. A throne for the Big Boss. I couldn’t help but feel the eery presence of the man in the empty chair.

“I have a few preliminary matters to address before we get to the main items on the agenda. If needed, could you operate an antique Rolls-Royce automobile or a new Jaguar XK-E?”

This guy wasn’t just a robot. He was from another planet! How could anyone ask that with a straight face? Every school-kid on earth dreams about driving those kind of cars. This guy had to be putting me on. I was starting to get mad. That was bad. In a voice smaller and flatter than I knew I had, I answered. “Yes. I think I could drive either of those cars.”

“Excellent.” He sounded as pleased as a chunk of granite. “Do you have any special needs of which you wish to make us aware at this time?”

“No.” That was all I could manage.

“Very well, let us proceed to business. Take notes. I need you to do primary general research on a number of topics. The Baylor Family.”

Like a big dumb fool I interrupted him. “What about the Baylor family?”

What an idiotic question. But he never missed a lick. He just said, "Please read the notes you have taken so far.”

“Yes sir. Primary general research re: multiple targets. Item one, the Baylor family.”

“Perfect. Well done. To continue, item, banking in Texas. Next item, forensics. Next, Cambridge university. Also, slant drilling. That is all. How much time do you need?”

I wanted to kill him, I wanted to smash his face so I guess it was just as well that he didn’t have one. “Sir-in-order-to-estimate-the-time-needed-I-must-first-have-more-information. About the scope and size of this project. Let me ask this, how much time do I have?”

Another dumb question. I tried a different tack. “I can’t do research instantaneously. Not here at this house. Not tonight.” Jeeze what was I even saying? The truth is I was in a ring-tailed panic. I kept seeing eighteen thousand a year slipping out of my reach. I took a deep breath. I looked the Invisible Man straight in the eye (metaphorically) and said “Sir I can prepare a written report in thirty minutes. I will need to use the telephone. For a reasonably complete preliminary report, thirty hours. For reliability, a longer time period of days and weeks will be needed.”

“Very well.  Thirty hours. For just banking and slant drilling. The rest can take longer. Days and weeks. Also please add one item to the list.

The practicality of compiling a personal private research library here in this house.”

“Very well. (He had me acting like the robot now. But I felt like I had scored somehow. The panic was over.) What subjects will the proposed library be most likely used for?”

“Use your judgement based on experience.”

I still wanted to kill him. I exited. With a bad sinking feeling. All this crazy crap was too much. A sneering sarcastic voice in my head was saying ‘here at Satan Place, we take our orders from a black box in an empty room.’ I stopped to bang my head against the wall. It was just too crazy. None of it made any sense.

I worked like a dog in a frenzy for the next thirty hours, and then I was right back in there with the Invisible Corporate Executive. Only he never showed up. Not even his voice. I waited one hour, reading my own report and making notes. Finally I left it on the desk and went to the kitchen.

The Housekeeper had hot soup and news. The boss couldn’t make it today.

On my way to bed I checked the conference room. My report was gone. I slept well. The next day I had time to think things over. So far so good. I had a job. For that kind of money I had to expect some challenges from the big boss. I could put up with a lot, for a lot of cash. Even crazy nonsense.

After all that sober reflection I hit the Idle Hour, to flash my bankroll. I tipped Woody twenty bucks. His eyes bugged and his jaw dropped.

Did you ever work really hard on some kind of puzzle, and reach a point where you knew you weren’t going to solve it and then just give up and quit? That is exactly how I felt. I quit thinking about it.

I ate in the kitchen and petted Rex. I rode the Schwinn.

I went to see a production of the late Eugene O’Neil’s “Long Day’s Journey Into Night” at Baylor.

Some Sunday school teacher was loudly raving and raging about the language in the show. I couldn’t quite follow it. Somehow he was outraged by the inclusion of the words “damn” and “hell.” I didn’t get it because I was pretty sure those words were in the Bible. My life is theatre of the absurd. No matter what else happens I always end up Waiting for Godot with The Madwoman of Chaillot.

Sometimes I think I must be the one from another planet.

TWO

“I have another project for you.” Followed by a pause in which I may have looked startled and apprehensive. I didn’t even know if he could see me. He went on. “For this one project you will receive a bonus of Five thousand U.S. dollars.”

“I want you to research and attempt to solve a murder mystery.”

“You are a detective?” I was dumbfounded.

“No. DANMAC is a research company. I want you to attempt to solve a murder mystery. Using research. As a research project.”

I got up and didn’t say another word. I just walked out, because my brain was on fire. It hit me like a ton of bricks. All this stuff was real. The mystery was all there. One problem: I was the one who had to do all the work to solve it. I had no reason to think I was capable. However.

I wanted to do it.

I walked downstairs and to the front door. I walked out on the top step. I looked up at the 666 on the wall. I stared. I saw what I had never seen before. The three sixes were shiny brass. But there was another digit. A 2. It was more tarnished than the others, and it had been in shadow before. Now the sun was on it and I could plainly see. 2666. Not 666 at all. So that had been a product of my overactive imagination. What else? I walked back upstairs into the conference room and sat back down.

“I’ll do it.” I said.

“Very well. Make note of an appointment. Tuesday September seventh. FBI Agent Brown. Conference Room. Ten A.M.”

I came right back at him. “Very well. What preparations do I need to make for the meeting?”

“Use your judgement based on experience.”

He spent about twenty minutes questioning me about my research. I had looked up the Baylor family and wow. There was some stuff there that would curdle milk. I was shocked. And amazed. Sitting there talking to the Invisible Boss, I felt the crushing weight of mystery. Why would DANMAC (whatever that was) pay me to learn dirt about the Baylor family?

He ran out of questions so I asked one, “Do you want me to continue or terminate this project now?”

“Use your judgement based on experience.”

* * *

On Tuesday September seventh I was calm but eager.

A car pulled up in the driveway out front at nine-thirty a.m. and I assumed it was the FBI agent. But it was a Dodge Dart. That wasn’t my idea of a Bureau-wagon, so when a little black guy with glasses got out wearing black dress pants, white dress shirt with a skinny black business tie that looked like a clip-on, I guessed he was a Jehovah’s Witness passing out Watchtowers.

I looked and he was holding something in front of the little window and it was a badge. I opened up.

“Hello I am Special Agent Larry Brown of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and I am looking for DANMAC. I have an appointment with Mr. Smith.”

“Yes hello Mr. Brown, I am so glad you found us,” I said.

Another circuit closed in my brain right then and some lights came on… But that comes later. For now I will just touch on the high spots of the murder mystery part of the story.

I took Special Agent Brown to meet the Invisible CEO. I wanted to see if an FBI Special Agent would jump when he heard that disembodied voice the first time. He did. Brown was okay. I liked him right away. I felt a little guilty springing the Invisible on him like that. Smith said “Let us begin.” For one second the FBI was in disarray and ready to run for it. If he had been carrying a gun he would have reached for it. His poker face stood its ground, but he must have almost pulled a few facial muscles maintaining it. My ‘formal’ introduction was golden (I thought.) “Smith, meet Brown. Brown, Smith.”

Like I said before, it would take a full book to cover the whole story. The mystery was deep and wide. I will just tell you that Mr. Brown had some questions about banking. Mr. Smith had some answers that satisfied Mr. Brown.

“Now,” said Mr. Invisible Smith, “Special Agent Brown. Do you have an unsolved murder mystery that DANMAC can research?”

“I actually do,” said Brown.

crime scenario:

At 2:29 pm May 13, 1962 the Ft. Worth Police Department received a call from the Hospital. Bank executive Thaddeus Scholtoe had been found dead in his office at the Haltom Building in downtown Ft. Worth.

Caleb, C.M.

Garry Auld

Lawrence Eade

Beau Ronn

These four suspects all had the opportunity to commit the murder. If it was a murder.

I asked Mr. Smith a jillion questions. He answered about half of them with this: “Use your judgement based on experience.”

The other half he didn’t answer at all.

September brought the rain and didn’t it rain?

Willie Mays and the San Francisco Giants couldn’t beat Yogi Berra’s Yankees in the World Series. Yanks won it in seven.

The fact that there were bankers involved in this murder case had not gone unnoticed by yours truly. No sir. I thought about the preliminary research topics Smith had dealt me. Banking was in there. And Baylor. Was there a connection?

Ninety-eight percent of what Agent Brown gave us was irrelevant to the solution, as it turned out. I guessed that. But there was no way of knowing which two-percent held the pay-dirt. Research is like that a lot of the time. For instance, there was a photo of Caleb, C.M. but it didn’t help to know that Cal looked just like Al Kaline.

C.M. had plenty money. He had a manufacturing plant. Location: CLASSIFIED (s-block) Office Number 20 Diamagnetics Corporation. Hmm. Earth metals. What other kind?

Garry Auld had far more money. But no manufacturing plant.

Garry was a Banker. The kind that does nothing at all, and can prove it. He said he had been in his office at the Haltom Building during the crucial time period, but he couldn’t prove it.

Some of the FBI file material was just cryptic. What the hell did Group 11 number 79 acid test mean? Code of some kind? My brain started to hurt.

Lawrence Eade

“Well well well,” I said to myself, out loud. Laurence’s

maternal grandfather’s name was Randolph Jackson Baylor. So there was a Baylor connection? Well well WELL.

The Baylor family murder mystery. That sounded like a good title for a story.

Beau Ronn.

Bo’s parents immigrated to Nevada from Turkey. Bo was born near Death Valley. He had a lot of money in [‘semiconductors’]?

Owned a nice four Bedroom suburban bungalow on Marco Polo Circle in the Rio Tinto development. Block Number 5.

It was Ronn that peeked through the mail slot on the door to see Sholtoe’s dead face grinning at him.

Larry Brown of the FBI became a regular visitor to Hobbs Court. I had never met any Special Agents before so I had no basis for comparison. But he certainly wasn’t like the G-men on TV. He didn’t carry a gun for one thing. He was black. He wore glasses.

But he had something. Something about him said do not mess with this man. I guessed he had plenty of big goons with guns to back him up if he ever needed it. He kept asking Smith questions about banks. Usually Swiss or Swedish. Smith would answer with questions about Hong Kong banks. Strangely enough, that seemed to satisfy Brown. He liked it. Then Smith would switch on to the murder case.

“Agent Brown can you summarize the events at Scholtoe’s office on May the thirteenth?”

I give you the notes I took.

[secretary at desk at 10am. boss comes in about 10:50.

sec goes to lunch. door to inner office closed but not locked. frosted glass. mail slot. boss gets regular phone call at high noon.

Mr. Ronn pops round to deliver a golf invitation. Sees Scholtoe at desk through frosted glass. looks through mail slot.

calls building manager. Sec comes and unlocks door with key. manager finds boss dead with syringe and rubber hose. spoon and candle. traces of heroin. hospital confirms overdose. The cops searched the place. It didn’t take long. There was only the one room one desk and a filing cabinet. There was a small closet with a few empty cardboard boxes.]

“Was the dead man smiling?”

“There are photos in the file. Ronn said he was.”

“He doesn’t look like he is smiling to me,” I said.

“Does it matter?” The FBI was asking me.

After Brown left I felt almost chummy with my robot boss. Until he said

“I will expect you to make a final report on the Scholtoe murder case by November first.” I wanted to kill him again.

“Do you have any specialized knowledge that might give a clue to the killer in this case?” I asked, not expecting any help. “There is Brontë. Mr. Rochester.” I made a note of that and circled it.

***

It was late October and the deadline my boss had given me to solve the Sholtoe murder case was coming at me like an ICBM. I was calm. I was calmly wondering if I would get fired if I didn’t solve a locked room mystery.

I was at the bar, with the thoughts whirling through my brain like boomerangs. Or was it bats in my belfry? Something clicked.

This time, for the first time, I felt like I was ready to tele-confer with the FBI and the Unknown. I held some pretty good cards to show.

I started out talking like Raymond Massey playing young Abe Lincoln. That was just my little joke. When I get nervous I make dumb jokes. Why is that?

“At our last conference, Special Agent Larry Brown of the Federal Bureau of Investigation summarized the events. Now it is my turn.” Dramatic pause.

“Before I begin my summary I wish to ask Agent Brown one question. Why was the secretary Flo not included in the original list of suspects?

“Because she had a clear alibi. She was not having an affair with the boss. She was a suspect. But not on the list for those reasons.”

“Nevertheless, I suggest to you that she should have been suspect number five. like this:

Miss Florence Ursula Rene.

“She had an accomplice. Or more specifically she was an accomplice to the actual killer. On May thirteenth Rene was at her desk by ten AM. Some time around then the killer entered the office. There was a closet. Nothing in it but some empty cardboard boxes. In one of those boxes the accomplice crouched.

Before leaving for lunch, Rene slipped the boss some kind of soporific drug. The accomplice waited until after the noon call, waited until the boss passed out, came out of the closet, tied the tourniquet around the bicep of the already unconscious victim, found a vein and made the fatal injection; walked out, leaving the door locked behind. The mechanism of the lock was of a kind that can be locked while the door is open and then pulled shut from the outside.”

The poker face was gone. The FBI was smiling.

“I don’t see how you did it,” said Larry, “but I think you have a very plausible solution there. And I have a prime suspect for the accomplice. Let me just make a call to my office.”

It had been passed over because of the Rene alibi, but a Tarrant County deputy had remarked that a subject of a different investigation was a friend of Flo’s and lived in the same apartment complex. One Mary Amper, formerly a native of Buffalo, New York, had some underworld acquaintances in Buffalo and in Fort Worth. Further investigation showed that she had access to heroin. The capper was that she was known to be an expert at mixing various knockout cocktails commonly known as ‘mickey finns.’  (Drugs to be slipped into drinks of rape or kidnap victims.) A locksmith confirmed that the door lock could be simply rigged to close and lock from the outside, using something like a playing card. A search of the Amper apartment found a deck of cards with one missing. An ace. Of Spades.

Flo Rene confessed, was charged but never went to trial. Voluntarily committed for psychiatric care. Mary Amper evaded the FBI and escaped to Mexico. Agent Brown told me she was murdered in Los Angeles six months later. Shot twelve times. Gang war heroin racket.

That pretty much wrapped up my first murder mystery story. (I would have to write a book to cover the rest of the mysterious stuff.)

* * *

At lunchtime on October thirty-first 1962 I was talking to an empty chair in the haunted house in Waco, Texas where I lived and worked..

“Do you have a U.S. Passport?”

I didn’t answer. I figured the robot spook from outer space already knew I didn’t have one. There was a very long pause. I mean we sat there in silence for maybe five minutes by the clock. Then he dropped the big one on me.

“To remind you. We have no written contract. I personally find your work for DANMAC satisfactory. If you choose to ignore direct questions I will simply assume that you have good and sufficient reason. I know you have a driver’s license. It may be necessary for you to drive one of the cars. If you need to travel outside the territorial USA you will need a passport.”

What could I say? They knew they had me. It was more than cinnamon rolls. I just said. “I will get a passport.”

“Very well.” There was a very brief pause that seemed almost human. Then he said. “I am learning from you.” Pause.

“I realize that you have been given an obviously small amount of data about DANMAC. You can yourself infer that there are security issues and protocols.” (I actually had inferred as much.)

“I also realize that you will eventually become aware of the true facts.” Pause. “So, in my best interests, and yours I have decided to just tell you. I am a robot. From outer-space.”

“HAHAHA.” I couldn’t help it. I absolutely guffawed. And the relief of tension was terrific. Laughter is the best medicine. That outer space robot stuff was so exactly like a cheap science fiction plot straight out of Doctor Who or something. To hear Smith say it was damned hilarious. All my dark fears pretty much vanished like smoke in the wind.

“I am afraid I don’t have a sense of humor,” said the ‘robot’ and I laughed even harder.

“Oh, meee.” I wiped a pretend tear from my eye. “Okay.” I chuckled some more. “Don’t mind me. Please, continue.”

“Very well. Excellent work solving your first case. The Housekeeper has your five-thousand dollar check.”

That almost brought a real tear to my eye. (I didn’t forget to thank him for the Jane Eyre Henderson tip. That put me onto the secretary. She wasn't fooling around with the boss. But she wanted to. He ignored her. Hasta la Vista, Bossman.)

Smith really set me up with flattery when he said “I still don’t quite understand the logical system with which you fictionalized the real life suspects.”

“No? But really that is quite elementary my dear Watson.” JFK on the wall seemed to grin appreciatively.

When I walked out of Smith’s room I felt like I was walking on new ground. I went downstairs.

I opened one of the five doors.

It was a library. I always loved libraries, and this one was very beautiful. Beautiful design, beautiful materials beautifully crafted. Chairs, tables and shelves. LOTS of shelves. And not one book or scrap of paper in the room. Not one. This cupboard was bare. The shelves were perfect. Polished cedar. Gorgeous. My youthful brow was furrowed. Who? Who built this room when and why?

The words from that first letter I got from DANMAC popped into my mind. “You will live in this house. You will do whatever research you wish.” Well, I wanted to research the history of this mystery house. I thought about that. I thought about the gang that hangs out in the old Cooper House. Maybe they would know some stuff.

The Housekeeper spent the day making candied apples. I carved a huge pumpkin into a Jack O’lantern.

I had assumed Kat would have a witches costume but instead she was a devil-cat.

I was a pirate. Yo Ho.

Halloween Night at the Idle Hour was a bit too much over the top for me. The joint was full of broads. There were sexy witches, devils and cats and princesses. Dracula was there. Frankenstein, present. There were Nuns and Nurses and Queens, and some of those needed a shave. Waco. 1962. What can I say? Don’t blame ME.

The Waco Times Herald that day had stated that the amount of police officers on duty would be doubled for Halloween night. I don’t know about that, but the rest of the force must have all been at the Idle Hour. As the Keystone Cops. Not kidding. The DA was costumed as the Captain with an oversize badge and mustache. And they all had rubber billy-clubs. And, the District Attorney’s billy-club was twice as big as the rest. I didn’t stay long.

There were still some little ghosts and goblins out on Austin, and parents with flashlights. The kids were loading up on candy at those big houses.

When I got home (yes, home) I found more ghosts and goblins there than anywhere. Word had gotten around about the Pretty Cat Lady with the candied apples.

I slipped into the shadows by the gate and watched the fun, until the very last goblin took the last apple and Kat blew out the candle in the big Jack O’lantern.

“Kitty kitty kitty,” I said coaxingly.

“ARR!” she answered in her best pirate voice. At that precise moment, the moon busted out from behind the moving clouds. Just like in the movies.

She walked up those gorgeous steps to the door, twitching her tail provocatively. I followed, purring deep in my chest.

It was that night in the kitchen when I finally got Kat to admit she didn’t know who we were working for.

“So. What you are telling me is that you have never seen the man who gives us orders.”

“He is a gnome, perhaps.” She said this with a definite amount of doubtfulness. I know now that I was already in love with her accent then. She pronounced it “gaNOmay.”

I accepted her gnome theory without comment, and maybe that encouraged her to say what she said next.

“I work for a voice from a box. The pay is good. I like living in this house, and I hope you like it here also.” She hesitated, then said “I worry a little about danger. But the pay is good. I worry a little that something may be not legal. I am afraid of police. But Mr. Smith is not at all afraid of police. And I feel, (she indicated the area of her heart) that Mr. Smith is not bad.”

She had spoken her piece and it was my turn. She was right about one thing. The pay.

“Well. I guess this is how otherwise honest businessmen get talked into drilling slant wells.”

She grinned. “Well. If I talked you into anything, I am glad.”

“I like living in this house too. I will stick around and draw my pay for a while,” I said.

“Should we shake hands on it?” She asked. But her face, her eyes and lips said no. So I kissed her. I mean, I didn’t just kiss her uninvited. I asked her first. She said it was ok. She hardly took any time to think it over which was nice, don’t you think?

*******

epilogue

By the way, I found out that Randy Baylor’s father was an illiterate Irish immigrant that had jumped ship in New York Harbor in 1901. His last name was Bailer. A county clerk misspelled the name on the marriage certificate. So the murder never had any actual connection to the Baylor family at all, which didn’t surprise me too much because that kind of thing happens in research all the time. I still thought it was a good name for a story.