Henny and Lloyd's Biggest Cases: Henny and Lloyd Private Eyes, #2

By John Paulits

 

Henny and Lloyd, Private Eyes, solve some of the most baffling cases of their newly-launched careers.

Henny and Lloyd—private eyes. The young men get off to a solid start and solve some tricky cases, but now a few doozies loom. An innocent request to accompany a young lady on a trip to visit college friends; a seemingly easy assignment to guard a valuable Victorian music box; a fretful request by a grandfather to help separate his granddaughter from a man not worth her time—all lead Henny and Lloyd into frantic action to find three murderers. Then a boxer goes missing. Their job: find him. Join the boys in their off-kilter adventures and watch them succeed where few other private eyes could.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613098462

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Wings ePress, Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS 67114

Dedication

For Charlie Hegh

One of the Sanger-Anchor lads

RIP

One

Henny and I had made it through our first six months as tecs, gumshoes, shamuses—in other words, professional, online trained, private investigators—without causing any sort of mayhem that would have forced us to close our doors almost before we’d opened them. At twenty-six years old, we felt it quite an accomplishment—the fulfillment of our childhood dreams. In fact, we’d had a few notable successes—like recovering a priceless jewel (our client Mrs. von Schneiderhoven’s words), solving a murder (our high point), locating a lost and much-loved blackbird (the live, feathery kind, not the sleek, solid, Bogart-Mary Astor kind), things of that nature. Admittedly, we’d had some help, which sprang from me having the good fortune to meet Susan Denzler, a young reporter I’d run into on a political espionage case Henny and I had investigated. Attractive and quite friendly, she re-oriented Henny and me in the proper direction a couple of times on that particular case and subsequent ones as well (more often than I care to admit), and she and I continue to get along nicely.

Henny and I had finally acquired some decent glassware in the office, eliminating the need to drink our desk drawer stash of Boone’s That’s All Whiskey from rolled up paper. We hadn’t used the paper trick for long, only at the beginning of things. Our third-floor office on Centre Street in downtown New York City looked pretty much the same as when we’d started out: two scarred and scratched desks we’d picked up in a used furniture store, a wooden coat stand with metal, upturned prongs, an upholstered client chair, two desk telephones, a computer on my desk, a coffee maker, a microwave, and, like Boone’s Whiskey, that’s all. The room itself could have used some paint, and its walls were dinged here and there, but it served its purpose.

Henny still hadn’t managed to develop any talent for tossing his fedora onto one of the metal prongs of our coat stand above once in a blue moon. A word about my partner. Henny was noir. I hope that means something to you because it meant the world to Henny. Double-breasted suits, usually with pinstripes, featherless fedoras, a toothpick stuck in the side of his mouth (his other eccentricities I didn’t mind, but the toothpick I didn’t care for), certain lingo he parroted from those 1940’s detective movies with Bogie, Mitchum, Dick Powell, even William Powell (not as noir as Henny would have liked but always with a classy dame—Henny’s words). You get the picture.

So, there we were, sitting in the office one Tuesday in May, our two large windows open to the New York City breezes. Henny’s black fedora lay on the floor at the base of the coat stand where he’d thrown it—the fedora, not the coat stand. I sat at my desk reading something called The Deadly Dowager, which Henny had picked up for one dollar in a used book bin somewhere, probably the Strand on 12th Street. He frequently passed me these old, hardcover mysteries from the 30s and 40s he somehow came across, always saying, This one was pretty good. Usually, they were. They had a certain aura about them—an aura from an era, if you will.

We heard a knock on our door, a rarity that always attracted our keen attention.

Henny put away the pile of toothpicks he’d been doing something with—I have no idea what—and said, I’ll get it.

As I stuck one of our business cards into the Dowager to save my place and slid it into my top desk drawer, I heard Henny say, Come in. Certainly. Take a chair.

In walked a short woman, five feet tall the most, dressed in a light purple, lilac if you will, dress covered with white beads of some sort. She wore a round lilac hat which, though it didn’t have a veil on it, looked as if it should. Open-toed lilac shoes with a medium heel may have nudged her a smidge over the five-foot level. She took a number of mincing steps and settled herself into our plush, client’s chair, which today sat in front of Henny’s desk. We alternated the chair between our desks daily. Split the workload, so to speak. Whenever we had a workload.

How may we help you, ma’am? Henny asked politely, two seconds before he popped a toothpick between his lips.

Would you care for some coffee? I tossed in as Henny took the woman’s contact information.

No, no, no, the woman said, waving her hand in front of her face as if she were batting away flies. My name is Hortense Cabbington. You did work for my friend Mrs. von Schneiderhoven.

Yes, we did, Henny agreed. Very tricky case. Took a great deal of skill, but we managed it.

Mrs. von Schneiderhoven was the rich lady for whom we had recovered the priceless jewel.

She speaks highly of you. Quite highly. To me, Mrs. Cabbington asked, Can you hear me from where you sit, Mr....who is who?

I’m Lloyd, and Henny opened the door for you, I explained. Our first names but I knew she’d start calling us Mister, and she did.

Well, Mr. Lloyd and Mr. Henny, I do need your help...well...the help of any strong, young man who can render some control and safe-keeping over a young, impulsive woman.

I shrank back, happy the client chair sat in front of Henny’s desk today.

Perhaps you would explain, Henny said, leaning forward eagerly. I knew the William Powell/classy dame image was holding a Zoom meeting in Henny’s brain.

I have a daughter. Danielle. She’s twenty-two years old. I know you’re wondering how I could have a daughter of such an advanced age, but I married quite young. Very young, in fact.

Obviously, Henny agreed. I nodded my agreement, but the woman didn’t look my way.

My daughter has taken it into her head to go on some ungodly trip to visit people she knew in college and who, according to her, have moved away into the NYU diaspora.

I glimpsed over at Henny and saw what I expected to see—a blank look. I, of course, knew what a diaspora is—it’s when you...well it’s...it’s when you were in one place, and you moved somewhere else. Well, no, not exactly. When you belonged to something in one place, and you moved away from it like others may have done before you. Those who moved away are in the place’s diaspora. Or something like that.

Henny knew enough not to plead ignorance but sat nodding as if he were a bobble head attached to the back seat shelf of an old Studebaker.

Mrs. Cabbington went on. She’s made a list of places she intends to go—I’m afraid to even look at it.

I asked, Why are you so uncomfortable with your daughter traveling?

I...I know she’s twenty-two, but she’s a girl of no experience. She lived at home for college. I don’t recall her going out very much. She had friends, of course. But she’s so unfamiliar with the world. I would go so far as to call her naïve. Mrs. Cabbington gave a firm nod and resettled herself in the chair as if she’d made a pronouncement of mighty weight. I expected her to add a decisive, So there; I’ve said it, to her statement, but she didn’t.

Henny and I often thought alike in certain situations, and right now I presumed he thought like me. A naïve, innocent, twenty-two-year-old rich girl could open the door to a mighty interesting turn of events or become the biggest nightmare imaginable, one it might be difficult to awaken from.

Go on, Henny urged. What can the Henny and Lloyd Detective Agency do for you?

I would like one of you to accompany Danielle on her trip. Don’t leave her side for a moment... Here she looked embarrassed and cleared her throat. ...except, of course, at obvious times.

I understand completely, Henny assured her.

I made some quick calculations over whether I wanted in on this caper or not, since it appeared Henny planned to claim ownership of Danielle.

Mrs. Cabbington continued. I want you, Mr. Henny, to take complete charge of her and her trip. She said Henny, but she stared at me when she said it. I believe you would be the ideal chaperone, she went on, still looking at me. She turned to Henny and said, No offense, Mr. Lloyd, but I would like your partner to handle this for me.

You said...Henny...I’m Henny. He’s Lloyd.

Oh, did I? Sorry. You, Mr. Lloyd. I wish to hire you.

I knew how to handle the situation. Mrs. Cabbington, wouldn’t you like to have both of us watching over your daughter...so there will always be one of us awake and alert. We wouldn’t want her slipping out when I slept. I will have to sleep occasionally, you understand. And you’re aware from your relationship with Ms. von Schneiderhoven how well Henny and I work as a team.

Well... I saw I’d lit a candle in Mrs. Cabbington’s window.

Take some time to think it over. By the way, when does this trip commence?

I’m still trying to talk Dani out of it, Mrs. Cabbington said. But I doubt I’ll be able to. It will be soon, but I have no specific date.

Then do this, I suggested. Think over how much danger you believe your daughter will be in. The more danger—and you indicated you believe the danger level is high—the greater the need for two crack operatives to be on the case.

Yes, yes. I’ll think it over, she promised and stood. "Two men may be better than one."

Lloyd’s right, ma’am, Henny interjected. We’ll treat Danielle as if she were our own.

I didn’t think Henny used the proper phrasing there, but it didn’t seem to affect or offend Mrs. Cabbington.

I will be in touch with you, Mrs. Cabbington assured us.

Take one of our cards, Henny said, coming around the desk to escort her to the door. And call anytime, day or night.

Mrs. Cabbington glanced at the card before slipping it into her purse. You’re very kind. The little woman minced her way to the door and disappeared.

Henny returned to his chair and spun it toward me.

Good catch, he said. Rich client, two of us on it, double fees.

I didn’t believe the fees were the only reason Henny hoped to be assigned to travel with Danielle, but I let it go.

Henny and I sat quietly for a time until something nagging at me had to be addressed. What do you think? I asked.

About this?

Of course, about this. Is playing nursemaid a case any self-respecting detective agency should take on?

Henny shrugged and popped in a new toothpick. Why not? Mrs. Cabbington appears well-to-do. Any reason not to dive into that pool and come up wet?

I glared. Where’d you hear that one? TCM noir classics?

He waved a dismissive hand at me. I like the old lady.

I’m glad, because she likes you.

Henny straightened in his chair. What do you mean?

About the only time she looked at me was when she assigned me to travel with her daughter—and called me by your name, you’ll recall—leaving you to stay behind to give her updates...in person updates, most likely. A Freudian slip if ever there was one.

You’re crazy. You heard her say two of us on the job was a good idea.

No, she said she’s thinking it over. But I’m telling you—I noticed the way she looked at you.

Henny frowned and got out of his chair. He paced to the window and glanced outside.

Don’t jump, I advised.

You’re loony. She’ll call back and be damned glad there’ll be two of us protecting sweet, innocent Danielle.

We’ll see.

"Don’t give me ‘we’ll see.’ Look, call Danielle. The old lady left the home number. Invite her to the office. We’ll convince her she needs the two of us."

"It seems she doesn’t even want the one of us...and Mommy pays the bills, I presume."

Then let’s hope Mommy overrules Danielle, Henny argued, his volume creeping upward. She must be planning to, otherwise she wouldn’t have shown up here at all.

We’ll see.

Something like a growl came from Henny, and he threw himself back into his chair. After we take a gander at the daughter, we might not want the case at all. Make the call, why don’t you? The daughter’ll come in and... He stared into my eyes. "...we’ll see...her."

I punched in Mrs. Cabbington’s number on my desk phone.

Speakerphone, Henny said quickly.

Hello, yes? The sweet answering voice sent Henny’s eyebrows northward.

This is the Henny and Lloyd Detective Agency...

Oh, lord. Did my mother really go to your office? I thought it was another of her stupid threats. What did she say?

She hired... I winked at Henny. "...us. Hired the two of us to protect you on a trip we understand you have planned. Henny gave me an okay sign for pluralizing the appropriate pronouns. I went on. We’d like to meet with you to discuss things. We think it would be wise to get to know one another before..."

"Before nothing. I am not going to be babysat. I have things to do and with a detective along...? Not gonna happen."

Detectives, I corrected her. Two of us.

Oh, here she is now, Danielle said. I could tell she’d covered her phone, but I could still hear a very animated, though muffled, conversation going on in the background. The word mother in a scream came through loud and clear more than once.

Finally, the background noise quieted, and the soft voice of Danielle returned.

My mother’s insistent. I’m coming over now to get it out of the way. Don’t leave till I get there. I’m not making this trip twice.

The connection ended before I could respond one way or the other.

Henny shrugged. Things happen fast in the Cabbington household.

I sighed and dug The Deadly Dowager out of my drawer. Henny dumped a pile of toothpicks onto his desk and started doing whatever it is he does with them.

Twenty minutes later there came another knock on the office door.

Two

Danielle Cabbington was also on the short side, though not as short as her mother. Being shapelier than her mother went without saying. Blond hair hanging to her shoulders framed the cutest, most innocent face I had seen since I’d looked at my own baby pictures.

Henny, who’d opened the door for her, took her thin jacket to the coat rack, and I watched Danielle in her tight slacks and lace-fringed, silk top proceed to our client chair in front of Henny’s desk.

I’m Danielle Cabbington, but as crackerjack detectives you likely figured that much out.

Yes, yes, Henny said, having gotten back to his desk chair in record time. Your mother stopped in to see us earlier.

Danielle pursed her lips impatiently. I know she did.

I leaped to the rescue. We’re very glad you’re here. Now, not to waste time, it appears your mother is worried about you. She says you’re planning a trip to see friends, and she thinks you need...let’s call it, overseeing.

To prevent what, may I ask?

I shook my head slightly, not daring to venture into such unknown territory. I offered the spur-of-the-moment best I could come up with. To prevent the world from taking advantage of you.

Which one of you is Henny?

Henny would be me, he responded quickly, anticipation clear in his tone.

My mother would like you to go to the apartment for more ‘discussions.’ A glorious eye roll accompanied  discussions. She says you have the address. If you don’t, I’ll give it to you. She sat, hands in her lap as if waiting for Henny to grab his black fedora, which he’d picked up and hung next to her jacket, and bolt out the door to satisfy her mother’s request. Henny and I shared a quick glance, and through my mind ran the wonderful phrase I told you so.

I can call her later, Henny said.

No, if she wanted to talk to you on the phone, she’d have said so. If you want to get hired... Another eye roll. "...you better do as you’re told. I can tell you from personal experience, obedience is the only way to get any money out of my mother. And she wants you to leave now."

I cleared my throat and with as much gravitas as I could summon said, Perhaps it’s better you go, Henny. I’ll stay here and have our discussion with Miss Cabbington.

A soft smile came my way. Please, call me Dani. She rose and slid our client chair in front of my desk. Henny stared in amazement, which quickly morphed into disappointment.

Obedience, he muttered, then rose, retrieved his fedora, and headed out the door. I knew he was upset because he failed to grab a handful of toothpicks before he left, something a calm, composed Henny would never neglect. So, there I sat, alone with Danielle.

Maintaining a serious face, I said, Now, about this trip. Your mother didn’t say it openly, but I got the impression you needed her financing to make it happen.

"Oh, you are so right. But it’s not like I’m asking for a trip around the