Robert M. Munroe

by Richard Marsden

The man was hanging from the banister of a stairway. The rope hadn’t broken his neck, and his chin was slumped against his chest, while one foot was lacking a shoe. Tom Darmy figured the unfortunate had jerked about for some time before expiring. The photo was crisp, the grays and blacks were well defined giving him a clear view of the less obvious details of the photo. The banister was stout; it had supported the man’s fatal leap and not warped or splintered in the process. The rope had been tied in numerous knots to ensure it would stay secure when the deed was done. Whoever the corpse was, he had taken his time to make sure his fall from the second story wouldn’t end up in an embarrassing broken leg. It was a methodical, well-planned suicide. It was poor luck that the noose throttled the life out of him rather than cracked his neck. Tom couldn’t be too harsh on the fellow though; one generally didn’t get to practice suicide beforehand. 

“If you think it’s a murder, you’re wrong Mr. Grimbage.” Tom flicked the photograph upon his potential client’s desk. A fan hummed above them, while dim light from the late afternoon shone through one of the two windows. The other was half-obscured by blinds, but beyond Tom could see printing presses and scurrying workmen. The machines grumbled as they spat out copy after copy of cheap books. Grimbage and Son’s Publishing House didn’t look like much, just a single brick warehouse, but they wouldn’t have called him over if they didn’t have some money. He wasn’t a charity. 

Mr. Grimbage leaned back in his leather chair. He was a wiry fellow with a pair of silver Prince-Nez glasses perched atop his hooked nose. His desk was cluttered with stacks of manuscripts, slips, and several unwashed, empty cups of coffee stained pitch black around the rim. There was a war on and rationing was in full effect. Tom had the hardest time getting a steady supply of coffee and was mildly curious how Mr. Grimbage managed it. 

The publisher’s smile was a nervous one, twisting at the corner of his mouth. “Uh, no-”

Tom yawned. He tapped his broad finger atop the discarded photo. “I need work like the next guy and I’m too old for the draft, but I’m not gonna rob you, Mr. Grimbage. You called my office and said you needed someone to investigate a suspicious death. There ain’t nothing suspicious about it.” He rubbed his nose before wiping his hand across his frumpy, brown suit. “Your author there, he hung himself.”  

“Mr. Darmy, please if you take a seat and allow me to explain.” The thin publisher casually flipped the photo over and placed his hands in his lap. Another attempt at a smile was made. “The story is unusual. Far too unusual for the police and something more along your lines of work.”

“I investigate crimes, Mr. Grimbage.” Tom pulled a small wooden chair aside and looked it over. It would be a tight squeeze to fit between the armrests. He opted not to embarrass himself and kept hold of the chair’s back, leaning forward slightly, casting a shadow across the publisher’s desk. “Cheating wives, cheating husbands, men who had accidents, but it turned out some ex-lover knifed them in the back twenty times. That sorta thing. I’m all ears though.” 

“Good.” Mr. Grimbage lowered his gaze and took a breath. “Are you familiar with Robert M. Munroe?” 

“Beyond the photo you showed me, sorry.” He shrugged. “I read newspapers.” 

“Quite alright. Our readership isn’t broad, but it is enough, and Robert M. Munroe was a frequent contributor to our press. Our most successful author in fact.” A sigh left his lips. “His loss a month ago was difficult for us.” His gaze met Tom’s eyes. “His death is incredibly unfortunate. Financially you understand? What with the war on.” 

“Sorry for your loss,” Tom said dryly. It was hard to dredge up sympathy.  

Mr. Grimbage’s lips pursed. “Quite. Life goes on as they say. Our press has plenty of other authors and soon as our boys are home, readership will pick up and new authors will abound with exciting tales about the war.” He beamed a smile. “I was prepared to write off Robert M. Munroe as just another troubled author. It happens you know. Gertrude Bell, Henry Thurston Peck, Robert Howard.” 

Tom vaguely recognized the names. Maybe he had read them in the newspaper at the time of their deaths. He grunted in a non-committal manner.

Mr. Grimbage leaned over, opened up his desk and produced a stack of papers. “Then this came in.” 

Tom reached over to grab the thick stack. His eyes darted over the cover page. A brow rose as his interest was instantly piqued. “Curious Travels by Robert. M. Munroe.” Tom looked over at the publisher and saw the shaky smile dance across the man’s hawkish features.

“It seems our favorite is back from the dead.” Mr. Grimbage shrugged. “Or someone pretending to be him, or perhaps a relative who sent in a final manuscript.” 

Tom placed the manuscript upon the desk and flipped through a few pages. As he scanned it he said, “Was it done on the same typewriter? Your editors will have an idea.”

“It was.” 

“Return address? How did it arrive?” The story as far as he could tell was an adventure taking place in some fantastical and mystical land.

Mr. Grimbage shook his head. “No return address and the manuscript appeared on our doorstep. Normally we just throw such unsolicited material away. Luckily Mikey, our floor-boy had the brains enough to ope-”

Tom waved his hand. “Yeah.” He stacked the manuscript neatly. “You got my attention. What is it you’d like me to do?”

“We can’t publish without confirming who sent the manuscript. There are legalities involved. One in particular.” He dug through several papers on his desk and produced a lengthy contract. “We need the author to sign this, or next of kin, and failing that…” he looked away. “If there really is no claimant to the story, it could prove troublesome in the future. A signature is vital.” He glanced at him. “You understand, Mr. Darmy?” 

Tom understood. He would find the person who sent the manuscript and get a signature. If all else failed, he’d sign it himself in illegible handwriting. “I assume we are on a time-table here?” 

“Yes, Mr. Darmy. We are planning to print it in two days. My company would be delighted, three hundred dollars delighted, if you could make sure all the legal leg-work is taken care of.” He pushed the silver spectacles back up his bent nose. 

“Sure thing, Mr. Grimbage.” Three hundred dollars for two days of work was fine by him. “You have a last known address?”

“Yes, I have a friend in the police department who supplied me with the photo and permission for a private investigator to take a look. Since this isn’t really there specialty. You’ll find an address on the contract.” Mr. Grimbage smiled. “I hope to see you within two days.” He sniffed. “Oh, if you could be discreet, I’d be much appreciative.” 

Tom stuffed the contract inside his suit and gave a curt nod. “If the house doesn’t have clues, I’ll manage.”

“Excellent, Mr. Darmy.” Thin hands reached out for one of the many stacks of paper built Babel-like upon the desk.

“One last thing?” Tom smiled. “The manuscript? Curious Travels. Any good?” 

Mr. Grimbage grinned, looking up from his work. “It’ll sell, Mr. Darmy. It’ll sell.”

***

Tom turned the motor off and the lights from his Ford dimmed before sputtering out. The lonely house had a single streetlight giving yellow-tinted illumination to the walkway leading to a faded red door. The two story house was unlit, the broad windows blackened. On either side of the house a copse of Maples grew, though the leaves had fallen off them, giving the trees the appearance of skeletal hands reaching up from the earth. The silvery moon shone from above, obscured at times by passing, wispy clouds. Tom drew his overcoat tightly about his broad frame and absently patted his pistol, hidden in his suit jacket. The last time he had used it was on a case involving blackmail. Simply brandishing the weapon was enough to resolve the issue. He wasn’t sure why he might need the pistol, but the feel of it against his wide chest was a comfort. 

He walked up the steps and though the night was cool, he felt a sweat grow underneath his hat. He sighed. He really should eat less, but even war-time rationing couldn’t stop the inexorable swell of his waist. He sniffed as he reached the door and gave it a quick knock. He waited a few moments, but didn’t expect an answer. The resident was dead and buried; his house was probably shunned by the neighbors and wouldn’t sell for some time. He glanced either way. The nearest houses still had their lights on and small towns tended to keep to their own. Then again, small town police officers tended to take their time about things if anyone spied his illicit entry. Tom rammed his shoulder into the door, and his great weight revealed one of its benefits. The door burst open with a satisfying crunch. 

The room he stumbled into was musty and there was a stench of decay laced with it. He grunted and fumbled in his coat for his handkerchief and torch. He brought the white fabric to his nose while switching the light on. The beam cut through the darkness and a quick sweep gave him the same vantage as the photograph. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his nose and fall off the end. Swallowing, he panned the light up to where he knew the banister to be. He could see the polished beams, as well as scuff marks where the noose had been secured. 

The scent of death and the darkness played on his nerves. He felt his pulse quicken and he had a vague notion of perhaps coming back and doing the job during the day. 

“Hell, I’m here,” he growled to himself dismissing the notion. “Nerves is all. Nerves.” He chided himself for being nervous. He was in less danger in an empty dark house than he had been the time he confronted a pair of crooks in an alleyway over the issue of a woman’s purse. The house was dead, he told himself and pressed on. 

He stepped forward and coughed as the stench increased the further he ventured into the house. The main room was cluttered with furniture, paintings, and various curios he couldn’t identify. There were several doors and Tom didn’t have the desire or need to search them all. He was looking for paperwork on family. His light fell upon a glossy, black phone on a nightstand shrouded in contrasting white. He walked towards it and frowned as no phonebook caught his eye. Two days didn’t give him much time, if he didn’t find something useful to track down, next of kin, he would have to go the forgery route.

A sound from above jolted him. His light panned towards the stairwell. Nothing. A heavy breath left his lips and he shook. “Damn jitters.” He was about to pass the sound off to his imagination. Waltzing about a house thick with the scent of death at night wasn’t the best for his nerves. The sound came forth again. A tapping. 

Tom swapped the handkerchief for the pistol. Without the fabric, the smell made him gag and the three hotdogs he had devoured before leaving the city nearly left his stomach. The torch wavered in his grip and he shook his head to clear it. Tears leaked from his eyes. The tapping resumed, coming from upstairs. 

His finger coiled around the trigger and he moved with care towards the stairs. A red carpet rolled down them like a tongue, leading to the mouth-like darkness of the landing. 

“This is the police,” he stammered. The lie had saved his skin on more than one occasion and only ended up getting him arrested once. The tapping was interrupted by a sharper noise. A bell? 

“Hello?” He called up the stairs. He weighed his options. Run from a sound and lose out on three hundred bucks, or trust in his gun and investigate. The choice wasn’t easy; his heart was killing him, beating like a snare drum. Tom took the first step, the next and the next. The wood of the stairway creaked under his weight. His light speared the darkness like a lighthouse in a stormy sea. As he reached the top he could see the landing was as cluttered and ramshackle as the floor below. A single door was half open and from it the tapping could be heard. 

“I have a gun.” He pointed the weapon and waited far too long, hoping against hope that a squatter would emerge or perhaps a mouse with its paws up in the air. No such luck. The scent of decay twisted his stomach and Tom had to choke down a rising flow of bile before taking another step. He kept focus on the three hundred dollars which would pay for rent, his secretary and a night of pool. Even so, greed wasn’t enough to have him nudge the door. Considerable willpower was needed and the security of the pistol in his hand. He pushed the door open with the muzzle of his .38. 

“Jesus!” For a moment, he felt his heart stop. It simply didn’t beat. The sweat running down his face turned to ice-water and his vision swam. His light focused for a moment on the back of a man, sitting hunched over a typewriter. Decaying fingers tapped away. About his neck were the tight bonds of a noose, one end trailing upon the ground, like a dropped collar. 

 Tom fell onto his back and gasped for breath. He had seen plenty of terrible things in his day. He’d experienced his fair share of suffering as well. It was rare the two coincided at once. He saw a dead man writing while experiencing a heart attack.

He opened his eyes. Vestiges of corpse-light shone through the covered windows. Tom felt the pistol in his hand and the cold metal of the dead torch. The smell was still about, but he had lingered in it long enough that it was bearable. Coughing, Tom leaned up and stared hard at the wooden door, now shut before him. Something fell off his chest. He blinked in surprise and heaved himself to his feet. His eyes flickered to what had fallen off of him. It was a piece of paper. He turned to run at first. Trembling, he spun back around. He threw his torch at the shut doorway and scooped up the sheet of paper that had fallen off of his chest. Once it was secure, Tom hurried as best he was able back to his car. The sight of dawn coming over the mountains and cool, fresh air had never been more welcome.

***

Mr. Grimbage wrinkled his nose as his hired man entered his office. The balloon-like fellow looked pale as a fresh coat of paint, smelled like a sewer and had a look in his eye that Mr. Grimbage would label as, ‘unhealthy’. Mr. Darmy tossed the contract on his desk with a flick of his fingers. His overcoat was as rumpled as his suit, and he had lost his hat.

“There,” the investigator stated. Meaty hands planted on his wide hips.

His eyes roamed over the paper. A smile burst across Mr. Grimbage’s lips. He let out a sigh. How had he done it? “I knew you might not, well that is…” he didn’t want to out and out vocalize the forgery Mr. Darmy had committed, but he felt compelled to thank him. “This is identical to Robert M. Munroe’s signature,” he said by way of compliment to the skill of the forgery. “It handles all legal matters, very nicely.” He leaned over to open a drawer in his desk and produced a wad of bills. 

Mr. Darmy snatched the cash up and without counting stuffed them into his coat. He turned and waddled towards the door. The big man paused and glanced over his shoulder. “If any other manuscripts come by, you know, stuff that for some reason or another never reached you before.” He roughly cleared his throat. “And it will. I can help with getting the signatures for the contracts.” 

The thought of other hidden stories interested him. Mr. Grimbage nodded eagerly. “That’s very nice of you, is there a reason you think-”

The investigator cut him off, a habit he had quickly acquired since their first meeting. “It’ll cost double, but I’ll get you your signatures.” Mr. Darmy walked out of the office.

 

About the Author

Richard Marsden was born in Canada and currently is a resident of Arizona. He has been fencing with the rapier for fifteen years, dabbles in economics and holds a Masters Degree in Land Warfare courtesy AMU. 

©2009 Richard Marsden