Treachery

By Philip J. Johansen

The protagonist, Charles Clifford, is a private detective who takes on a missing person case that turns into a murder. Through a bizarre twist of circumstances, he becomes framed for the murder of the person he was hired to find. There are several sub plots surrounding the murder and Charles Clifford tracks down each lead. As the story unfolds, he eludes capture from the authorities while working to find the real killer so that he can clear his name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481753449

Philip J. Johansen

Philip J. Johansen is a graduate of Penn State University. Philip has written articles that have been published in National and International Magazines. His other literary works of fiction include The Tournament, The Option, The Boardwalk Existence, and Treachery.

Book preview

ONE

It was raining in the city that evening, a hard rain… hard enough to wash the scum and dirt from the city’s filthy streets. I was sitting in my office hoping to make my back rent in the fourth race at Belmont. It was just before nine in the evening when she entered my office without knocking. I looked up to see a young woman soaked to the skin. She was a pretty young thing not more than twenty-five. Mr. Clifford? she inquired softly. I remained silent taking in all that she had to offer while sizing up her obscure body language. She was holding a damaged umbrella and wore her hat down over her eyes.

Are you Charles Clifford? she repeated.

Yes, I replied. How can I help you?

Removing her rain soaked hat she smiled and said I was referred to you by John Pemberton.

I see, I sighed knowing that if Pemberton had sent her my night had just become a little darker. Pemberton was my old partner who had retired after catching some lead from one of the mobs drug runners. A mere shell of himself, he needed a cane and plenty of rest to make it though each day.

Have a seat, I said as I rose from behind my desk and pushed a pile of magazines from the only other chair in the office. Tell me what this is all about Miss… Miss?

Hastings… Angela Hastings, she crooned. She had a soft voice and her now visible eyes were a muddy brown that matched her swept back hair.

You see Mr. Clifford, my brother Andrew is missing and so is one and a half million dollars from his employer’s bank account. He works for the city redevelopment commission as the firm’s treasurer. He disappeared last Wednesday, and the corporate officers are claiming that a cashier’s check was cashed by a man who represented himself as Andrew Hastings the following Thursday in St. Louis. The money was transferred to an offshore account. He’s wanted for embezzlement. I just know he is innocent. Can you help me find him?

St. Louis is over 1,000 miles from here, I replied. Perhaps you’d be better served by someone there, besides this sound like a matter for the authorities.

No, she exclaimed as she stood up and started to pace the floor. The police believe he is guilty and they have issued an all points bulletin for him. They’ve been to my house twice questioning me as to his whereabouts. I haven’t seen him since we had lunch two weeks ago. He did seem a little agitated, but I didn’t think much of it at the time.

What do you mean by agitated? I asked.

Well, he didn’t eat much and that in itself is unusual, and he couldn’t keep his mind on our conversation.

Did he mention anything about taking a trip or being in any sort of trouble, I pressured her.

No, he didn’t say anything. Please help me. I’ll pay double your rate and cover all of your expenses.

I sat quietly contemplating whether she was off her rocker and if there was any real cause for my services. I’ll look into it for you, I said, but no promises. She laid ten c-notes on my desk and asked if it would be enough to get started. I nodded and assured her that I would call her and let her know the result of my investigation.

The next morning I stopped by police headquarters to see my old friend Joe Manskee. Joe was not your typical police sergeant. Standing only five foot four with a slim built he looked more like an appliance salesman. Joe and I had been friends since childhood and for this reason alone I was able to take advantage of his position in the department. He was always my first stop in a case because I could obtain all of the details about a police investigation despite his reluctance to distribute confidential information.

It turned out that the lady was telling the truth. Everything about her story checked out and Joe told me if I turned up anything I was to share my information with the department immediately. With no leads I went downtown to the city redevelopment offices. I passed myself off as Corby Smith, an out of state developer, and I created quite a stir of activity when I asked to speak with Andrew Hastings. The secretary asked me to have a seat and then called for a company officer stating that even though Mr. Hastings was not available, Mr. Prescott and his staff would be more than willing to help. A few minutes later a tall stout gentleman led a parade of three others into the receptionist’s office. Follow us Mr. Smith, he said as he continued walking to a conference room located down a narrow hallway. Once in the room he invited me to take a seat.

Alfred Prescott stood about six four and was wearing a suit that looked like it cost about a month of my salary. He had wavy black hair and thick bushy eyebrows. The man carried himself with the air of a union leader or a mob boss. His associates ushered me to a chair at a long meeting table. Two of them seated themselves on either side of me while the third stood near the entrance. Prescott chose a chair on the opposite side of the table.

How do you know Hastings? Prescott asked, And what is your business with him?

I called him three weeks ago to discuss building affordable flats on Spring Garden Street, I replied. You know that two block section of boarded up row homes that are yet to be condemned? We spoke about the possibility of the redevelopment commission providing ten percent of the cost to build in return for three percent of each of the new units future rent.

When was the last time you saw him? one of his underlings asked. Turning to Prescott I said, I never met the man; we were going to meet today. Why do you ask? Did something happen to Mr. Hastings? Prescott placed both forearms on the table and leaned toward me and said, We won’t require your services. The commission currently isn’t lending any money. There’s a freeze in effect regarding any new projects. Good day Mr. Smith! Then he stood and started to leave the room. Before he could exit I jibed Money a little tight Prescott? What are you doing? Playing the market, or maybe you’ve got a little sugar on the side that you’re supporting. I fell to the floor after receiving a blow to my kidneys delivered by one of his flunkies. Alfred Prescott stood over me and looked down saying, It’s time for you to leave Mr. Smith.

When will Hastings return? I hollered. He promised we would work together."

The three goons pulled me from the floor and roughly escorted me to the receptionist’s office. Before Prescott disappeared from sight I yelled I’ll sue you and your thugs. You haven’t seen the last of me. But a shot to my solar plexus stole my wind and left me as lucid as a wet rag. The three henchmen shoved me into the elevator and I was able to recover my breath on the ride down to the lobby.

Once on the street I got into my car and headed for the office of city records. It was then that I noticed I was being followed by a dark blue sedan. I made a couple of turns and sure enough it stayed with me approximately two car lengths back. I decided to stop at my favorite watering hole just to annoy my new shadow. I pulled to the curb and walked into the Midtown Café. I said hello to Tom and ordered a drink. Tom was a genuinely friendly person and a great bartender. He knew just enough about any topic to carry on a conversation with anyone.

What brings you in so early Mr. Clifford? Tom asked while he dried a mug and hung it from the ceiling.

Just killing time Tom. I need to be alone, time to think I replied.

Anything you say Mr. Clifford, Tom said as he placed my usual on the bar in front of me and returned to washing his glassware. Nursing my drink, I figured I’d lead my shadow on a wild goose chase throughout the city and then return to the office. When I finished my cocktail, I left the Midtown and headed for my wheels. As I approached my car I was approached by two goons who ushered me into the dark blue sedan at gunpoint.

Who are you guys, and where are you taking me? I demanded. Shut up and just sit there, the one with the roscoe in my ribs answered. Then the driver turned around and asked Where’s Hastings?

That’s what I’d like to know I responded.

Don’t get cute, the driver said and nodded to the others. A sock in the jaw and a smack on the top of my head with the barrel of the gun had blood running down into my eyes.

Now, where is Hastings? repeated the driver.

Gathering my composure I told him I really have no idea, I was hired to find him.

The driver nodded again and this time the thugs blow knocked me unconscious. I awoke in the alley behind the Midtown covered in blood and my gun was missing. I returned to the office to clean up and was surprised to find Angela Hastings sitting in the chair outside my office door. She jumped to her feet saying, Are you alright?

I’ll be fine I answered, but you’re going to have to give me a lot more information if I’m going to continue to work for you."

When we entered the office, she proceeded to tell me that Andrew had recently met a girl who seemed to be really interested in his job. Her name is Sheila Farcus. She works as a waitress in the restaurant at the Belmont Hotel in center city. He told me she was always asking him questions about what he was working on and other shards of information that would bore most people. She works the day shift, Angela said, Maybe she knows something that can help.

Early the next morning I put on my best suit and drove to the Belmont for breakfast. I slipped the Hostess fifty dollars telling her I wanted to be seated at one of Shelia Farcus’ tables. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a beautiful woman about twenty-three years old. She had a fabulous figure and looked seriously out of place among the over weight middle-aged staff. Her well proportioned body and flowing blonde hair gave the impression she was a starlet shooting a dining hall scene. As she approached my table Shelia glanced in my direction and seemed to straighten her posture and fix her outfit.

Hello and good morning sir. Welcome to the Belmont, she greeted me.

Good morning, I replied. I’d like an order of eggs Benedict and some coffee. I’d also like to know when you last spoke with Andrew Hastings. A queried look fell over her face and she sternly commanded, Who are you?

I’m a friend, if you’re concerned with the whereabouts of Andrew, I replied.

An anxious look came across her face and she firmly asked, Why are you interested in Andrew?

I’m a private investigator hired by Angela Hastings to find her missing brother I replied.

Have you heard anything? she inquired. Not exactly, I mumbled.

Wait here, she spoke softly. I’ll get your coffee and be right back… after all I am working.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her as she strolled toward the kitchen. After waiting a generous 10 minutes I realized she would not be returning. I went to the kitchen and the cook informed me that she said there was an emergency at home and had left through the rear door. I went to the bar at the Belmont and asked to use their phone. I needed to get in touch with Joe Manskee. I explained what had transpired and asked him to do a little digging to see what he could find out about Shelia Farcus. The wound on my head was pounding and my entire body ached from the beating I’d received, so I returned to my flat on Arch Street, took a shower, popped two Anacin and went to bed to catch up on some much deserved sleep.

I was awakened when my phone rang. It was nine o’clock in the morning. I’d slept like a rock. I answered the phone with a gravely hello. Joe chided me about still being in bed and then said he’d found some interesting particulars about Shelia Farcus.

It seems Farcus is her married name, Joe began. Her maiden name is Prescott… as in Alfred Prescott’s daughter. She was disowned and cut out of her fathers will because at the age of seven-teen she ran off and married Harold Farcus against her father’s wishes. She is still married, and was living in West Philadelphia. We stopped by to pick her up for questioning, but the apartment was empty. And get this, none of the neighbors saw anything. On top of that, Harold Farcus quit his job three weeks ago. No one has seen hide or hair of him. We checked the airport records and discovered that last Wednesday evening Harold Farcus flew to St. Louis. We’re checking the Missouri airports for any record of him leaving the country.

Thanks Joe, I yelled into the phone that I had pinned to my shoulder while I struggled to pull on my socks. Catch up with you later, bye. After I finished dressing I phoned Angela and asked her to meet me at my office at one o’clock.

When Angela arrived I told her about Shelia being Alfred Prescott’s daughter and the circumstances behind her marriage to Harold. I also informed her that it was my opinion that she was using Andrew to find a way to get even with her father. In the middle of my discourse the phone rang. It was Joe Manskee. He told me to get downtown immediately because he had some crucial information about my case. I dismissed Angela telling her I would keep her updated on any new developments and headed for my jalopy to meet up with Joe. I was listening to the radio on the drive downtown when a newsflash came on telling how the body of Andrew Hastings had been discovered in the swampy area just east of the Navy Yard. The coroner determined that he had been shot twice in the chest, and that the murder weapon had been recovered at the scene. It went on to say that "the gun is registered to Charles Clifford, a local Private Detective who is being actively sought by the police for questioning." I pulled the car over, hopped out at a phone booth and called Joe Manskee.

What’s the idea of luring me downtown with some phony info story? I bellowed. Why didn’t you tell me about Hastings?

I’m just doing my job Chas. I thought I could bring you in without the department causing a scene. Your gun was found at the murder scene… you’re the number one suspect. I was trying to protect you.

Protect me, I screamed. You’re hanging me out to dry! They’ll put me away on some bogus murder charge. Well I’ll tell you one thing; I’m not coming in… I’m going to clear my name and find the real killer.

Don’t do it Chas. The department will set up a manhunt, Joe replied. But I hung up on him and jumped back into the car. I headed uptown to talk to Langley Grissom, a small time hood who used to run numbers in Atlantic City. Langley had relocated to Philadelphia and