All Sexual Activity In This Story Is Between Characters Who Are 18+ Years Old
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"Get me Uptown two zero eight one, please." Sgt. Flynn's gravel voice and gruff demeanor concealed the marshmallow heart he hid behind his police star and brass buttons. While the phone rang at the other end, he covered the mouthpiece and looked down at Henry Campbell. Trying to allay the citizen's clearly displayed concern, he smiled and said, "It's probably just a mix-up of some sort, sir. Let's see if the gentleman comes to the phone, eh?
Henry was agitated. "Eli Farragut may be seven-two years old, Sergeant," he replied testily, "but he's no dunderhead. Something's WRONG, I tell you. I feel it in my bones!" Silently hoping Eli had gone out of town, as he sometimes did, and that he, himself, was the fool who had forgotten, Henry worried that his friend had fallen and could not get up.
After twelve unanswered rings, Sgt. Flynn cradled the receiver and picked it up again. He dialed an internal number, then held up his right palm to Henry, signaling patience, and spoke quietly into the instrument. Hanging up again, Flynn looked at Henry. "Well, he didn't answer. An officer will be here in a minute, or two. He can take you for a pop-in on your friend." The sergeant did not advise Campbell that the dispatcher was also ordering up an ambulance. "There's no telling what shenanigans are going on," he thought to himself, while hoping there was none.
Twenty minutes later, Officers O'Rourke and Janssen arrived at 46 Garvey Street in their black-and-white 1939 Chevrolet Master four-door police sedan. As they stepped from the car, followed closely by Henry Campbell, Janssen said, "I'll scout around the back, Sean, while you and Mr. Campbell ring the doorbell."
"Right you are, Steve," O'Rourke replied. "Give a whistle if there's a problem." He started up the path from the sidewalk while his partner walked along the right side of the huge Victorian house toward the rear garden. On the porch, he stood back and suggested, "Go ahead and ring, Mr. Campbell."
Henry pulled a small metal dog-knob beside the frosted-glass and oak front door. A set of brief high, low and middle-note tones chimed in the hall as the slide activated the doorbell. The men stood for several moments and, when no one answered, O'Rourke tested the door. "Unless you have a key, we can't get in this way," he observed.
Just then Janssen appeared behind the glass and opened the door from inside the house. "Nothing particularly strange, Sean," he announced. "The backdoor was unlocked, but closed, and there's signs of cooking, with most of a chocolate cake left on the kitchen table." He grinned and said, "Maybe Mr. Farragut went to town for some ice cream."
Henry blurted out, "Did you see his green Cadillac in the garage, Officer?" While Janssen admitted the garage door was closed and he did not specially check for a vehicle, two ambulance attendants walked quickly into the hall and joined the party.
"What's up, fellas?" Asked the first medic.
"Don't know yet," O'Rourke replied. "Probably nothing, but stand by while we check the house. I'll go up. You look around down here, Steve. Mr. Campbell, could you wait here with these men, please sir?"
The police divided according to the plan. Less than a minute later, over the baritone bongs of Farragut's Sandiford clock striking the three o'clock hour, O'Rourke sang out, "JANSSEN! Get UP HERE!" Henry aimed for the staircase, but the second medic grabbed his arm and held him back while Officer Janssen rushed from the library and bounded to the second floor.
He found his partner standing in Eli's bedroom beside the huge canopied bedstead. Farragut, with his eyes closed and his mouth open, as if in mid-snore, appeared to be asleep. He was, however, obviously quite dead. Double-checking anyway, Sean laid his right index finger beneath the old man's nostrils, then shook his head. "You better get the white-suits up here, Steve... and keep Mr. Campbell company. This fellow's gone."
Janssen, noting the silk stockings strewn on the big pillow beside Eli's head, and remembering the cake in the kitchen, said, "Looks like the old geezer went out having had a good time... I'll call the sarge and report in while I'm downstairs."
O'Rourke nodded acknowledgement and noted Farragut's black-and-silver satin pajamas. The shirt lay tossed against the legs of the near end-table whereas the pantaloons had apparently been kicked off the end of the bed. Except possibly for the slightly askew lamp shade on the end-table, nothing indicated foul play or supported a conclusion other than the crass assessment by his partner.
Sean saw a glimpse of bright white in the pocket of a shiny gold paisley silk dressing gown which was piled on the Oriental carpet, between the pajama top and the mattress. Thinking it might be important, he reached down and retrieved a balled up pair of women's drawers. The 'Made in Paris' label in the narrow waist band explained, to his mind, the extremely naughty nature of their skimpy design. The slightly soiled, but otherwise snow-white, pearly sateen fabric gave further evidence of Mr. Farragut's final hours.
Looking again at the corpse, O'Rourke did not need to lift the covers to feel sure it was naked. He dropped the underwear onto the robe and said, under his breath as the medics entered the chamber, "Let the coroner do his job, and I'll do mine, but sure and begorrah, you left us soft in your sleep as a happy man!"
When Henry Campbell was walking from Riverside Park to the police station, Edward Trotter was sitting, naked and bow-legged, backed up against the sloping wall of Arlene Hart's oversized porcelain bathtub. Between his knees, reclined on his chest, lay Arlene's eighteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia. her legs were akimbo with her bare soles wedged on top of the tub's front wall against the taps.
Cynthia's eyes were closed and her jaw was slack, much the same as were Eli Farragut's, except that she was breathing. In fact, her breaths, though short and irregular, were very strong. Trotter, playing upon her body as if he were recording for RCA Victor, drew sweet melodic notes from her delicate throat. The crescendos were wonderfully damped by the thick steamy fog left from Arlene's shower and added to by the currently drawn bath.
