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Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Nineteen

Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. The good guys let Cecelia in on the plot.
Inspector Tent and Bedelia entered from the ballroom, breaking up the conspiratorial atmosphere in the library. The fearless foursome huddled around the chaise lounge.

“Lady Snob-Johnson,” Tent announced, “I’d be more careful about the household help if I were you. Your butler turned out to be the Man in the Red Underwear.”

She fluttered her eyes ingenuously. “You’re quite mistaken. My butler is seventy years old and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“I didn’t mean your real butler was the Man in the Red Underwear. But the Man in the Red Underwear was masquerading as your butler.” He paused a moment, thinking of a pun and congratulating himself for being so clever. “A sort of red butler.”

“He’d have to use a lot of padding.” Cecelia didn’t catch the joke because she rarely read American novels that hadn’t been written yet.

“Has a packet been delivered for me in the last few minutes while I was dancing with Miss Smart-Astin?” the inspector asked.

The quartet exchanged knowing glances.

“No,” she replied, her eyes all aflutter again.

“May I pour myself a glass of wine? The dancing has made me quite thirsty, and the rum punch being served in the ballroom is a bit too sweet.”

Cecelia’s left eyebrow went up. She was not accustomed to her guests being so totally honest. Decent people lied about the quality of refreshments. Recovering, she managed a wan smile. “Help yourself.”

“Miss Smart-Astin, would you care for a glass wine?” Tent inquired as he pointed to the cabinet of beverages.

“Why, I think I would, inspector.”

“Do you mind if I pour out white?” His eyes strayed. “There’s been way too much red this evening for my satisfaction.”

“Certainly.”

After handing Bedelia her drink, Tent held up his own in a mild toast. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed our dance.”

“Thank you.” She blushed, like a shy rosé. “You’re much too kind.”

His crooked smile took on a predatory slant. “Do you know you’re even more beautiful up close?”

“Oh my. Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He leaned in to press his advantage. “I know our ages are vastly different, but there are such things as May-December romances.”

Taken aback from this tactic, Bedelia was left with no recourse but to break out in verse.

You don’t look old, dear Malcolm Tent. You have no gray hairs on your head.
You took care of that problem by applying dye on them instead.
You don’t look old, oh no not you, the fittest at Scotland Yard.
But when you look across the room your eyes are squinting hard.
Don’t mind that you are just a few years younger than my Dad.
And all your family members now are dying off, how sad.
But you’re not old, inspector dear, that’s one thing you can never fear.
So catch your breath, ignore that Mister Death is lingering near.
I can’t accept your marriage plea. I really need more time.
And is it wise to compromise to wed one past his prime?
In truth, I’m drawn to one who has more physical attraction.
I can’t deny he drives me to the edge of mad distraction.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the fact your character is strong.
It’s just that I can’t risk the chance your life won’t be that long.
But you’re not old, inspector dear, that’s one thing you can never fear.
So catch your breath, ignore that Mister Death is lingering near.

Andy, from his position near the lounge, noticed how intimate Tent and Bedelia were acting, and he felt compelled to cross the room so he could break up the apparent tryst. “Bedelia, darling! Have you seen the grenadine?”

Tent’s eyes wandered beyond Andy to focus on Cecelia, Millicent and the young shirtless prince. “What are they huddling about?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you join them?” He pushed the inspector in their direction. “I’m sure they’d just love your company.”

With his erstwhile competition now distracted by the others by the lounge, Andy smiled ingratiatingly at Bedelia.

“You wanted a drink with grenadine?”

“Grenadine?” He was taken aback. “I hate grenadine—I mean, I adore grenadine but not just right now.”

“You don’t want a drink?” Her instinctive skills to analyze bizarre situations left her for the moment.

“No, I’m afraid that was a ruse to talk to you.” Andy glanced at the inspector. “To keep you from that other man.”

“He proposed.” She took a quick sip, her head poised with confidence.

“Proposed what?” He too succumbed to dull comprehension.

“Marriage, sort of.”

Andy’s mouth flew open. “You turned him down, I hope.”

“And why should I?” Her tone was couched with a challenge for Andy to make a counteroffer.

“Because—because he’s old and has oodles and oodles of wrinkles.” Even though he knew that sounded ridiculous, Andy tried valiantly to disguise his embarrassment.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Two

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Stanton and henchman Baker clean up the mess.
Jessie sat at a small table covered by a red-and-white checkered cloth in the back of a small, busy café. She tapped her fingers awaiting Adam. He broke their engagement last night, and she was not happy. Jessie was in love, but sensed something terrible had gone wrong. As much as she cared for Adam, his honesty about what was going on at the Executive Mansion disturbed her.
Her face lit when Adam first walked through the door, but it darkened as she watched him weave between the tables. He had not changed his clothes, shaved, or washed. When he plopped down in the chair next to her, Adam tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
“Ye stink and look terrible.”
“I’m a man, a soldier.” Adam leaned back in his chair and looked ahead.
The waiter came up.
“What do ye crave for supper?”
“Whiskey.”
After the waiter pulled out his pad, Jessie leaned to Adam and said, “I want a bowl of beef stew and a glass of milk.”
When Adam did not respond, she looked up at the waiter who nodded.
“And for the gentleman?”
“Whiskey,” Adam demanded.
“We don’t serve hard liquor.”
“Nothing, then.”
“Very well, sir,” the waiter said and turned away.
“Me darlin’, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been given the awesome knowledge of life and death.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s terrible to give a young man the awesome knowledge of life and death.” Adam said nothing more because the waiter arrived with Jessie’s bowl of soup and glass of milk.
“Ye need to talk to a priest.” Her voice was soft. “Somebody who can help ye.”
“It’s too late.” Avoiding Jessie’s eyes, he shook his head. “The awesome knowledge of life and death changes a man forever. A woman will never know the awesome knowledge of life and death.”
“Will ye stop that ‘awesome knowledge of life and death’?” She pushed away her soup bowl. “I lost me hunger. Take me home.”
Adam bolted for the door. Jessie paid the waiter and scurried after him. He was already in his seat on the omnibus when she climbed on board and passed the fare slot.
“Sorry, miss, I need your coin,” the driver said.
“I’m with the gentleman,” she replied, motioning to Adam in the back.
“Oh. Him. He just paid for himself.”
Searching her reticule in frustration, Jessie finally found the right coin, deposited it, and walked to the back. She debated whether to sit next to Adam, who left her humiliated in his wake. The bus started with a jerk, causing her to fall into the seat by him.
“Where were ye last night?”
Adam stared into the night.
“I think your actions are despicable,” Jessie said in a low, intense voice. “And don’t give me any more of that knowledge of life and death foolishness. Ye are a better man than this, me laddie.”
Turning toward her, Adam smiled with a touch of the devil in its curl. Jessie shuddered. When her street came up, She stood to leave; Adam began to follow her.
“I don’t need an escort.”
Again he smiled like a devil’s slave, which caused her to hasten to the omnibus door, where she jumped to the road and trotted toward her boardinghouse. Not looking behind her, Jessie sensed Adam was staggering behind her. At the door, she rummaged through her reticule, trying to find the key, until she smelled foul breath over her shoulder.
“Adam, please go away before I tell ye to go away forever.” She did not look at him, but spoke in a soft yet solemn voice. “Now.”
Spinning her around, Adam planted a moist, open-mouthed kiss on her lips. His teeth smashed her lips against her own teeth, causing them to bleed. The taste of his tongue was acrid and repellent. His body odor crawled up her nostrils, making her gag. Finally her hand, still fumbling through her reticule, found the key. Grasping it tightly, she scraped the key on Adam’s temple. He moaned as his hand went to the bleeding gash. Jessie unlocked the door, rushed in, and locked it. Adam lunged forward, banging his hand on it.
“Jessie!” he screamed.

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Eighteen

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. The good guys let Cecelia in on the plot.
Just then the door opened and Andy entered performing his best tango moves in perfect timing with the music. He closed the door, took the picture of Lily Langtry from his jacket pocket and presented it with aplomb to Cecelia.

“Lily!” She held the picture to her breast. “Oh, I’m so pleased.” Cecelia returned it to its place of honor on the mantle and turned back to Andy. It was as though a light had gone off in her head. She pointed at the picture and then at Andy. “So that must mean you’re the Man in the Red Underwear!”

“At your service, Lady Snob-Johnson.” He bowed deeply.

“Oh good! I’ve always liked your family. So, you’re not—happy?”

“I don’t think thut’s the word—“ Eddie didn’t finished because Millicent put her hand over his mouth.

“Not even giddy,” Andy assured her.

“So what we want you to do is notify us immediately upon Billy Doggerel’s arrival,” Millicent instructed her mother. “We’re sure he will have the packet on his person.”

“And what a person.” She started swooning again.

“Please, Mother! This is important.”

“All right. But I think I’m in love. Oh dear, does this mean he’ll have to go to prison?”

“I’m afraid so,” Andy said.

“Oh well, this is my punishment for exposing Millicent to danger.”

“Shall we bring Bedelia into our confidence?” her daughter asked.

“Yes!” Andy beamed.

“No!” Cecelia glowered.

“Why not?” Eddie scratched his head.

“Mother’s lost her head over the fact Bedelia’s parents were never married.”

Millicent should have known better than give a logical explanation to Eddie about anything, because he immediately went to Cecelia and carefully looked at her face, both ears and the back of her head.

“It’s right thar.”

“What is?” Cecelia fluttered her eyes in annoyance.

“Yo’r haid.”

“Why, of course it is!”

“Millie jest said you lost it, but how could you lose it when it’s still on yo’r shoulders?” Yes, he was really that stupid.

“Shall we return to the business at hand?” Andy smiled, trying to overlook his friend’s irritating observations.

“Yes, please.” Cecelia was ready to move on also.

“If we let Bedelia into our confidence then she’d know I’m the same man who’s always loved her,” Andy tried to make his point.

“Unfortunately, I think mother is right,” Millicent offered as sympathetically as possible. “Bedelia has fallen under the chief inspector’s spell.”

“I don’t know what a fine young man like you wants with a girl like her, anyway,” Cecelia told him.

Andy decided the only way to express his feeling for Bedelia to Cecelia was through poetry.

She’s a flower, her petals smooth.
I want to touch and make her move.

“Oh, Andy.” Cecelia smiled sweetly. She finally caught it.

Eddie leaned over to whisper to Millicent, “Psst, Millie, that part about her bein’ a flower and him wantin’ to touch her petals and watchin’ her move, I think that’s kinda dirty.”

“Eddie, shut up.” There were even limits to Millicent’s patience.

“We must catch Tent with the packet tonight.” Andy circled the room deep in thought. “I doubt another merchant will cooperate with us if we fail.”

“So we must be very careful to see in which pocket the inspector puts the packet,” Millicent agreed.

The four of them recited in unison.

Let’s plan the plan as only we can plan to foil old Malcolm Tent,
We must catch him red-handed with that most incriminating packet
Completely filled with allegations and evidence to back it.

“What will he do with it when it arrives?” Andy asked.

“He’ll put it in his pocket!” Millicent replied with a snap of her fingers.

“So we must watch which packet in his jacket he will put the packet in.” Cecelia nodded.

“Then we must snatch the packet from the pocket in his jacket,” Andy said.

“Yes that is what we must do.” Eddie was so pleased he know what was going on.

“He has a charm upon a chain in his left front pocket,” Millicent remembered. “I felt it there when I jumped upon his back before the fencing match.”

“Well, you felt him up purty good, didn’t you?” For an amiable dumb guy, Eddie was capable of jealousy.

Cecelia put forth, “So he won’t put the packet in the pocket with the locket.”

“He carries a revolver in the right front pocket because all chief inspectors carry one in that exact same pocket.” Andy furrowed his brow retrieving information from his memory.

Cecelia shrugged. “So he won’t put the packet there—“

“For fear he might cock it,” Millicent said.

Eddie tapped her shoulder. “But in the ballroom I saw him lookin’ at a pawn ticket.”

“Then he may well have pawned away his company revolver,” Andy hypothesized.

“I didn’t feel it when I was on his back.” Millicent shook her head.

Andy looked at each member of their little cadre. “So he just might have put the packet in the jacket pocket that held the revolver—“

Millicent continued the thought, “Without fear he would cock it—“

“Because he had to hock it!” Cecelia completed their deduction.

“Oh please! I’m getting’ dizzy!” Eddie had to sit on the lounge to stop his head from spinning.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-Five

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. On their honeymoon they derail a train. Leon is now a spy par excellent.
Leon did not fulfill his promise to kill Pookah upon his return to Eleuthura from Nassau because the dead plant in his pot was already askew when he walked down the dusty path to his home September 1937. The organization worked fast, he told himself, and it found him more useful alive than dead at this point in time. He found the note which instructed him to take the next ship leaving Nassau to Montevideo, Uruguay, and to await instructions there.
Before he left he whispered in Jessamine’s ear not to speak to Pookah until his return. She wrinkled her brow at first but then nodded. She stepped aside so Leon could say good-bye to his son Sidney. Leon extended his arms to hug him, but Sidney stuck his hand out. Leon didn’t hesitate to take it. His son was growing into a strong young man and hugs were beyond him now. Leon did take comfort that the handshake was strong, warm and held for a long time.
As had become his custom on ocean liners, Leon spent most of his time in his cabin, meditating and exercising. Leon still intended on killing Pookah when he returned, but this mission promised to be a very profitable one. It would fill his family’s bellies for a very long time. He rested his head on the pillow and thought of a conversation he had with Sidney before setting sail.
“Father, you’re always insisting it will be my job to fill my family’s bellies,” Sidney began in slow tones as they sat on the deck of Old Jinglepocket’s fishing boat.
“Yes, I’ve always believed that, and you must believe it too.”
“But you mean more than just physical hunger, don’t you, Father?”
Leon took a moment to reply to his son’s question. He had never thought of it that way. All his life his thoughts had never risen above getting actual food into his family’s bellies. But he had to admit he had created a life for his son in which just eating was not enough.
“Of course, Son, that’s what I meant. More than food. Safety. Security. Happiness.”
Those words continued to echo through his mind throughout the rest of the journey to Montevideo. When Leon descended the plank at port, a half-dressed native pushed a small pottery bowl into his hand.
“Here, here, what you need.”
Leon reached for his wallet to pay, but the beggar disappeared into the crowd. Leon took a note jammed into the bowl.
Hotel Carrasco.
Hailing a cab, Leon instructed the driver to take him to the hotel. When he arrived, Leon paid the cabbie, stepped from the taxi and noticed a small boy sitting on the curb. Leon took a few pesos out of his pocket and dropped them into the bowl which he handed to the child.
“Here, fill this with food for yourself.”
“Gracias, senor.”
Leon entered the elegant lobby as though he owned it, approached the desk and signed in. A bellhop took the key and his luggage and went to an elevator. On the way up, he muttered to Leon, “You should see the sunset atop Fortress Carro. It is quite impressive.”
The sun had just touched the far horizon on the observation deck of the fortress when a man came up behind Leon.
“Don’t turn around.”
Leon recognized the American southern accent he heard when he was tied up on the Nassau wharf. At least this time he didn’t have a sack over his head.
“The organization doesn’t know what to do with you, Mr. Johnson. Your insolence merits instant assassination, but you are our best agent. The commandant selected you personally for this assignment. Beginning tonight, you are to roam the casinos of Montevideo until you find a man named Amleto Battisti. I won’t waste your time describing him. If he is at the tables, everyone will be saying his name. He is known as a mathematician with the memory of an elephant. He is also vindictive, so don’t cross him. Senor Battisti lost a million dollars at Biarritz on the Atlantic coast near the border of France and Spain eight years ago. He came home to Uruguay to lick his wounds and hone his skills. Next week he leaves for Biarritz to break the bank. The organization, for a sizable cut, is bankrolling his endeavor using a syndicate of Cuban, South American and French adventurers as a front.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Biarritz Hotel du Palais casino has paid Spanish guerrillas to kill him if it looks like he will succeed.”
“And you want me to kill them as inconspicuously as possible.”
“But of course.” He paused. “Damn, the sunset over the mountains is spectacular. Anyway, find him, learn his habits, keep him alive, but never let him know you exist.”
Leon had a light supper in the Hotel Carrasco dining room before hailing a taxi to take him to the nearest casino.
“No need for me, senor,” the driver said with a smile. “The best casino in town is just down the street.”
Leon pressed some coins into the man’s hand, tipped his hand and sauntered in the casino’s location. When he arrived he saw a line of cabs waiting to unload their passengers. He passed two elderly, well-dressed men getting out of their cab.
“Do you know if Amleto is here tonight?” one said to the other.
“I believe I heard it rumored, yes,” his friend replied.
“Oh hell, let’s go someplace else where at least I’ll have a chance,” the first man said, pushing his companion back into their taxi.
Once inside the casino, all Leon had to do was follow the excited whispers to a faintly lit corner where men in tuxedos sat around a poker table. Stylishly dressed women leaned over all the players except one slender man who sat apart from the others. Two large men with their arms crossed in front of them flanked him. Leon had been in the business long enough to know that the men were bodyguards, probably from the Mafia. The man himself was thin, unassuming, approximately forty-something years old. Balding. Expensive suite but unaccompanied by any jewelry except for plain wedding band. He neither smoked nor drank.
Leon settled into the bar across the room but still in good view of Senor Battisti. Nursing a glass of champagne for the rest of the evening, he wondered why the organization would be concerned for the gambler’s safety if he were under the protection of the Mafia. Battisti rarely moved his face as he reached for cards and then discarded them. His eyes were dark and never revealed any emotion. As the game progressed, other players threw in their cards until only one remained, a silver haired gentleman in a white linen suit similar to what Leon wore. Eventually the old man conceded, stood and extended his hand. Guards stepped forward. The old man withdrew his hand and stepped away.
When Battisti stood to leave, the crowds moved back. One guard walked in front and the other followed behind. Leon leaned into a shapely blonde seated next to him, smiled and began a conversation. He smiled and extended his hand to her knee, and she didn’t flinch. In a few minutes, Leon noticed the whispers in the casino had subsided, indicating Battisti had left the establishment. He winked at the woman, paid for her drink, glided off his chair and left.
Leon slept in the next morning. He wanted to be fully rested when he arrived at the casino that evening. Over lunch he decided to buy a black tuxedo. His white linen suit was his favorite. It made him stand out, but Leon knew he did not need to stand out on this mission. He must blend in, be invisible. Good bodyguards would notice if the same black man in a white suit appeared every night at the casino. Leon even took the precaution to hire a native Uruguayan lady, whose complexion matched his own, to be his companion. She wore a filmy chocolate brown gown slit low to display her décolletage. If anyone in the casino glanced at them, they would assume Leon was more interested in his escort’s bosom than the gambling.
Battisti and his guards arrived promptly at eight o’clock and the maître‘d showed them to their corner table. Leon realized that from his seat Battisti saw the entire room, the entrance, the door going to the kitchen and the fire exit. His guards filled the space behind him and the wall. No one could pass behind the gambler. Battisti never drank during the evening. That would necessitate a trip to the men’s room sometime during the game, and he didn’t move from his seat. As far as Leon could detect, the gambler had no discernible tells. The mercenary was not worried, however; he still had several nights to observe before they moved on to Biarritz.
When Leon returned to his hotel that night, he requested the desk to send him every morning newspaper published in Montevideo. He ate his breakfast in bed as he read every paper where he found several accounts about Senor Amleto Battisti. While he was indeed a native of Uruguay, Battisti now resided in Havana, where he owned the largest, most opulent hotel/casino in Cuba, and was close friends with the president. He held interests in the transport of liquor and in the entertainment industry. Taking into account the nature of the syndicate members who were financing his foray into Biarritz, Leon judged with confidence Battisti was a leader in the Mafia. He also speculated the Spanish guerrillas had more than one reason to assassinate the Uruguayan. As communist freedom fighters against fascist dictator Francisco Franco, they would considered any member of the Mafia as a mortal enemy.
Leon arrived early at the casino that night wearing ordinary street clothes and entered through the kitchen where he bought a waiter’s uniform from an employee. It consisted of black tuxedo slacks, white linen shirt, black bowtie and red silk vest. As he moved from table to table, Leon concentrated on habits of the body guards.
Both were wide at the shoulders and thick of waist. One was as dark as Leon, but the other looked more Latin, perhaps from Cuba, Italy or France. The Latin was stolid, rarely moving his head either way. About halfway through the evening, The Latin motioned to his partner he had to make a trip to the men’s room. The darker guard’s face showed every emotion he was feeling as he scanned the room. Once in a while he lingered over the figure of a voluptuous woman. As a test, Leon let a glass slip from his tray and crash on the floor. The guard jumped and his left hand went involuntarily to a concealed shoulder harness.
The fourth night Leon returned in his white linen suit and sidled up to a blonde at the bar. Neither guard noticed him. Battisti used a handkerchief several times during the evening, but Leon couldn’t make out a pattern to his behavior. Perhaps he just had a cold. On the last night, Leon arrived in his tuxedo and the woman in the chocolate gown. Toward the end of the evening, as another experiment, he accused a man of brushing up next to his lady friend. The man was startled and stepped away, but Leon continued his loud, aggressive accusations. Battista and his Latin guard ignored the confrontation, but the black guard stirred and began to move in Leon’s direction when the gambler discreetly touched his sleeve. The accused man exited without a word, and the room resumed its normal atmosphere.
As a final test, Leon stepped in front of Battisti and his entourage as they left. None of them broke their stride or glanced Leon’s way. He not made any impression on them, a good sign for the upcoming occasion in Biarritz. Leon felt satisfied he was ready for anything that might arise on the hot border between France and Spain.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-One

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Stanton and henchman Baker clean up the mess.
Sticking his head out from the darkest corners of the kitchen was presidential secretary John Hay. He had been hiding in there ever since his return from one of his frequent bar strolls. He slid into the blackness once he became aware a fight was going on. He saw Private Adam scurrying through the kitchen and out the door. Hay was too frighten to move. The atmosphere settled into dark macabre. What seemed like an hour passed when Christy returned with Stanton and Baker. He heard them talking. He heard Stanton coughing. He saw Baker walk out with Neal the butler slung over his shoulder. Stanton quickly followed.
Hay thought it might be safe to slink to the stairs leading upstairs. Entering the basement hallway, he heard a voice mumbling behind the billiards room door. In another room the cook Phebe curled on her bed crying. Most curious of all, Private Adam Christy stood holding a bundle tied up in a sheet in a dark bedroom seeming incapable of moving.
Hay raced up the service stairs, his wits shaken but still trying to compose his thoughts before he entered their bedroom across from their second-floor office. He lit the lamp on the table, then shook Nicolay’s shoulder until his eyes opened.
“Something terrible has happened.”
“What?” Nicolay rubbed his eyes as he sat up.
“I just saw something horrible.”
“What do you mean, something horrible?” Nicolay coughed and shook his head.
“I just came in through the basement. I heard an odd voice inside one of the rooms, saying, ‘Stop hurting people.’”
“What people?”
“Neal, the butler.” Hay paused to swallow hard. “I was hiding in the kitchen when I heard Mr. Stanton tell Lafayette Baker—“
“Stanton?”
“—that Christy had killed the butler, Neal, when Neal had tried to keep the private from raping the cook. She was whimpering. Stanton went in and spoke to her. I didn’t understand what he said.”
“Why was Baker there?”
“He took out the body.”
Nicolay leaned into him. “Was anyone aware you were there?”
“No.” Hay shook his head. “Maybe the cook.”
“She won’t tell.” He bit his lip. “Remember what I said about doing our jobs and ignoring everything else?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we can’t do that anymore.” Nicolay stood, went to the door, and cracked it to look out, then shut it carefully.
“So what do we do?” Hay asked.
Extinguishing the lamp, Nicolay sat next to him.
“I’ve friends in the State Department who can get me a post overseas. I know the Paris consul is open. Once I get there, I’ll find a job for you.”
“But shouldn’t we stay? Try to stop Stanton?”
“I never trained in the army. Did you?”
“No.”
“Could you overpower Lafayette Baker?”
“We have the law on our side.”
“Stanton and Baker are the law.”
“Lamon suspects something. He’d be on our side.”
“If they can abduct the president and keep it a secret for two years, they can make Ward Lamon disappear too.”
“We should try to do something.”
“Like the butler who tried to stop a rape? He’s dead, and no one will know he ever existed. Do you think anyone would notice if you disappeared?”
“Oh.” Hay put his hand to his neck. “Perhaps Paris would be good.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook.
Adam walked back to his room and collapsed on his cot, his mind racing. What to do? Collecting his thoughts, he decided to go directly to the metropolitan police station. Turning himself in to the police would be the right thing—but would it be what Stanton would want, he wondered. Going to Stanton for every decision was part of his nature now; he could not change. Adam went to the wash table to clean his flushed face and his sweaty arms and neck. On Pennsylvania Avenue he caught an omnibus to K Street. Night breezes cooled his heated face, but to no avail; his skin still burned from anxiety. Finally the omnibus stopped at the block of Stanton’s house. As he walked down the street, Adam noticed how slowly he walked. He mounted the steps, imagining that this was how it would be when he went to the gallows.
“Yes?” the maid said, answering the door.
“I need to speak to Secretary Stanton.”
“That’s out of the question,” she replied.
“This is an emergency.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“Tell him Private Adam Christy is here.”
“Very well.” The maid pursed her lips as she surveyed Adam.
Within a few moments, Stanton appeared in his dressing gown, his eyes glaring.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve killed someone.”
Stanton came out of the door, shut it, and hunched his shoulders against the cold night air. He stepped close to Adam.
“Say that again.”
“I killed the butler. He tried to keep me from raping the cook.”
“You’re a damned fool.” Stanton shivered as he looked out at the fog. “Damn you.” He paused. “Damn you.” He looked at Adam. “Flag down a carriage while I get dressed.”
In a few minutes, they were riding down the dirt street. Stanton barked an order to the carriage driver, who nodded and turned north at the next corner.
“Where are we going? The police station?”
“You’re a damned fool.”
Several minutes passed before the carriage stopped in front of a dark, two-story frame boardinghouse.
“Mr. Baker’s room is the first one at the top of the stairs.” Stanton narrowed his eyes. “Go get him.” He put a hand to his mouth to muffle a cough.
Jumping from the carriage, Adam bounded up the steps, entered, climbed the stairs, and knocked at the first door.
“What?”
“Secretary Stanton wants you.”
“Oh.”
Adam could hear a female voice complain and Baker calming her. Baker came out, buttoning his coat, and descended the stairs with Adam following closely. In the carriage Baker leaned into Stanton, who whispered to him as the carriage went to the Executive Mansion. Once they had arrived at the service driveway, Stanton motioned to Adam to get off with him and waved on the carriage with Baker still aboard.
“Where is he going?”
“To get a War Department carriage.”
They entered the service entrance and walked through the kitchen.
“Down there,” Adam said, leading Stanton to Phebe’s room.
Stanton walked in and examined Neal, ignoring Phebe, tied up on the floor. After a close study of the body, he crossed over to her.
“Young woman, if you keep your mouth shut, eyes closed to this, you’ll live. If someone should ask you someday, whatever happened to…” He turned to Adam. “What was his name?”
“Neal.”
“Whatever happened to Neal, you say you don’t know anyone by that name. I’ll have a new butler here tomorrow. He’ll be the only butler you remember. If you don’t, you die, and disappear as quickly as Neal. Do you understand? Nod if you understand.”
Phebe slowly moved her head up and down, her eyes filled with tears.
As Adam pulled Neal’s body into the hall, Baker bounded in from the kitchen. Baker lifted the corpse, threw it over his shoulder, and left as quickly as he had come.
“Go to his room, wrap up all his possessions in a sheet, and take them out to Mr. Baker.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stanton coughed deeply, turned, and walked through the kitchen to the service entrance door. Adam went to Neal’s room, lit a candle, pulled the sheet loose from the cot, and began tossing shoes, coats, shirts, pants, and underwear into it. He turned his attention a stack of books on the wash table. Holding them close to the candle flame, he read the titles—Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Constitution of the United States of America, On Civil Disobedience. There was also a diary. Adam turned to the last entry.
“‘I finally confessed to Phebe I loved her,’” Adam mumbled. “‘She rejected me. I won’t give up.’”
“No time for reading,” Baker said, snatching the book from his hand. Placing the last of the items in the sheet, Baker pulled the corners together and tied a knot. Before leaving he turned. “Don’t mess up again, or else I’ll make you disappear too.”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Seventeen

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. They fight over her.
Cecelia walked over to Inspector Tent and extended her hand so he might steady himself and finally make it to his feet. Once he was eye to eye again, Lady Snob-Johnson withdrew her hand and spoke in her haughtiest tone. “Excuse me, Chief Inspector Tent, but I wish to speak to my daughter and Prince Edward in private. So will you and Miss Smart-Astin kindly leave the room?”

“But of course, kind lady.” He gave her his best deep bow with a flourish, although by the time he reached the nadir of his gracious genuflection he observed her well-endowed posterior heading for the ballroom door.

As Cecelia opened it, a blast of tango music invaded the library which caused both Tent and Bedelia to brighten significantly. They quickly assumed their dance positions and proudly spouted in unison and slithered into the ballroom.

Let’s do the Russian tango! Let’s go as far as we can go!
Oh go girl go! Oh go man go! Let’s do the Russian tango!

Cecelia closed the door and crossed to the lounge. “My dearest Millicent, I owe you an apology. I let my emotions carry me away.” She stopped abruptly when she noticed the writhing on her furniture. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Oh, um. I was just giving Eddie a massage,” she explained as she leapt to her feet, straightening the wrinkles on her lovely gown.

“Is thut whut you wuz doin’? I thought you wuz tryin’ to turn me on. And you wuz doin’ a good job of it too!” Eddie raised himself on his elbows and displayed a crooked grin.

Millicent cut him off and turned to face Cecelia, feigning interest in her comment. “What were you saying, Mother?”

Cecelia looked back and forth from her daughter and Victoria’s grandson and decided discretion was the better part of valor; therefore, ignored the embarrassing activity on her chaise lounge. “I was apologizing for putting you in that unpleasant situation earlier this evening.”

“Think nothing of it. I found it quite exhilarating.” Millicent smiled as she attempted to return her hairdo to its proper manifestation.

“No, I shan’t forget it. I shall try to redeem myself. And I know exactly how to do it. I overheard something you might find interesting.” She took her usual posture when about to impart a particularly juicy bit of gossip. “Well, do you remember when that awful William Canine-erel came in to see Chief Inspector Tent? He was that terrible, dirty, hulking man.” She seemed to be fading into her own realm of erotic fantasy. “You know, just like those hairy, muscular animals that work on the streets. Those ignorant, filthy, sweaty, gorgeous men with their bulging muscles—“

“Mother!”

Her daughter’s shocked admonition brought her back to reality. “Oh. Well. Yes. Anyway, he spoke to the inspector and I happened to hear him say that a merchant in Soho—“

Millicent turned sharply to look at Eddie at the mention of the site of the recent crime wave. “Soho!”

“Ho ho!” Eddie stood as a flash of recognition crossed his dull face.

“–was going to make a payment to the inspector tonight and Mr. Canine-erel would bring the packet here.”

Millicent grabbed her mother’s hands. “Mother, this is very important. You must swear yourself to secrecy.”

“Must I?”

“Swear on your picture of Lily Langtry.” Millicent looked at the mantle and frowned when she saw that the picture was missing. “Where’s Lily?”

“The Man in the Red Underwear took it away so that nasty Malcolm Tent couldn’t steal it, “Cecelia explained. “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll return it.”

“I know he will.” Millicent nodded knowingly. “But for now, swear on the memory of the autographed picture of Lily Langtry that you will keep what I tell you a secret.”

“Is it that serious?”

“Yup, it’s thut serious,” Eddie assured her.

“Very well, then. I swear on Lily Langtry. So ahead.” Cecelia was almost drooling in anticipation. “What is it?”

“Queen Victoria has commissioned Eddie and me to investigate the recent robberies in Soho.”

“Ho ho!” Now why Prince Eddie thought it clever to repeat his nonsensical rhyme no one will ever know. It wasn’t important anyway.

“We have reason to believe Chief Inspector Malcolm Tent is forcing merchants to pay to keep his henchmen from robbing them,” Millicent pronounced.

“I knew there had to be a good reason why I didn’t like that man.”

“And Andy is helping us,” Millicent continued in a whisper.

“Him! I don’t believe it!”

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-Four

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Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Seventy-Nine

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive under guard in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary Lincoln talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk.
Entering the basement hallway, Adam had another thought. If nothing made a difference, then why the hell not go ahead and be bad? Adam thrust his head forward, pursed his lips, went to Phebe’s room, grabbed the knob and entered. As the door swung open, Adam saw, in the light of hallway whale oil lamp, Phebe lying in bed. Her smooth black skin, lithe figure, full lips, and large eyes—now wide open, startled by the sudden shaft of light—drew him into the dark room. Instinctively, he unbuttoned his shirt.
“What? What is it?” Phebe mumbled, putting up her hand to shield her eyes from the light.
“It’s me.”
“Oh.” She sat up. “What was that noise? It sounded like yelling and banging about.”
“It was nothing.”
“Anything you say.” She yawned and fell back. “Just let me sleep.”
“You still smell of soap.” Adam shut the door. Walking toward the bed, he paused at its edge, breathing deeply. “So clean.”
“You’re scaring me.” Phebe sat up and pulled the covers up to her chin. “Please leave.”
“You don’t want me to leave. I know. Your eyes tell me you’re happy when I walk in. You always have something to say.” He sat at the bottom of the bed. “You want me as much as I want you.”
“You’re drunk.”
Adam leaned forward to grab Phebe, but she rolled out of the bed onto the floor. Grappling with the sheets, he found them empty.
“Dammit! Come back here!”
Adam scrambled from the bed, and by the time he was on his feet, Phebe opened the door, allowing him to see exactly where she was. Lunging, he caught her by the crook of her elbow and swung her around.
“Help!” she yelled. “For God’s sake, somebody, help!”
“Shut up!” Throwing her back on the cot, Adam put his hand over her mouth as he planted his sweaty body over her.
“Help! Help me!” Phebe bit his hand, causing him to pull it back in pain.
“What the hell is going on?” Neal stood in the doorway wearing his nightshirt.
“Neal!” Phebe frantically pulled her head away from Adam, her eyes searching for him. “Please stop him!”
“You sumbitch!” Neal raced to the bed and grabbed Adam’s feet to drag him off onto the floor.
Adam’s face bashed into the hard surface. The acrid taste of blood seeped onto his tongue, which only infuriated him. He jumped up, grabbed Neal by the armpits and threw him out the door, just as Lincoln had manhandled him earlier. Turning his back to Neal so he could focus on Phebe, cowering on the bed, Adam walked toward her.
“Damn you!” Neal screamed as he jumped on Adam’s back.
Instinctively, Adam did as he had done earlier when Gabby had attacked him; he fell backward with a great moan, trapping Neal under him. His head turned toward the door when he heard pounding from the billiards room.
“Stop that!” Gabby yelled. “Stop that hollering! And stop hurting people!”
Adam rolled over and pinned Neal’s shoulders with his knees. He struck Neal with his fists. His eyes were wide and glassy from the alcohol and his anger.
“Stop hurting people!”
Adam felt a sheet fall across his face and settle around his neck. He turned to see Phebe twisting the sheet with all her strength.
“Let Neal go, or by God, I’ll kill you!” she screamed.
“Stop hurting people!” Gabby repeated from the billiards room.
Adam jerked the sheet from her hands and knocked Phebe away. He tied a knot in the middle of the sheet, wrapped it around Neal’s neck, and pulled hard.
“Stop hurting people!”
Adam strained his muscles, pulling the sheet tighter into Neal’s neck. Neal’s veins were bulging, his eyes popping out of his head.
“You’ll never talk back to me again!”
“No, no,” Phebe whimpered from the floor.
“Stop hurting people!”
Neal’s tongue lolled out and spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth. Finally, Adam felt the body go limp.
Phebe crawled over to look at Neal’s blank eyes staring at the ceiling.
“Oh my God! He’s dead! You killed him!”
“Shh.” Adam turned to put his hand over her mouth. His knuckles were bloody, and he wiped them on his tunic. He glanced at Phebe who shivered and cried. “Don’t worry.”
“Murderer,” she said softly.
“Shh.” He looked down and grabbed the sheet.
“Oh my God! No!”
“Shh. I’m going to stick this in your mouth to keep you quiet.”
“Murderer…”
The knot went into her mouth. Adam took the lower bedsheet, tore it and tied her hands together. Slowly, methodically, he tore another strip from the sheet to tie her feet.
“Stop hurting people!”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Sixteen

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. She’s popular.
Bedelia stood and turned her back to Andy to avoid the incoming kiss. She was afraid she would like it too much. “No, we weren’t.” Before she could evaluate his situation and how to escape the outcome she actually wanted to happen, Bedelia felt warm, masculine breath on the nape of her neck. Her eyes fluttered.

“Yes, we were.”

“How impudent!”

Andy put his hands on her slender shoulder, turned her around and went in for the kiss. “And you love it!”

Again Bedelia stepped away, and Andy ended up kissing air. She decided to confront the Man in the Red Underwear with the cold hard facts. “Is it true you plan to steal a packet of important papers from Chief Inspector Tent tonight?”

“The only thing I plan to steal tonight is your heart.” He swaggered toward her.

“I dare you try! I warn you I’m quite proficient in protecting myself with this!” She held up her riding crop.

“Oh.” His voice dripped with drollness. “Do you really think I’d let that riding crop stop me if I wanted to feel those tender lips pressed against mine?”

“How dare you!” Bedelia raised her arm to strike but he grabbed her by the wrist. She struggled only a moment, then dropped her head back, ready to be kissed. “Be gentle, please.”

“Many women would willingly give me their kisses. Why should I struggle for yours?” The Man in Red released his grip, walked to the lounge where he stretched out seductively.

Bedelia looked at her crop, went to the door and shouted into the ballroom, “Does anyone out there want to buy a riding crop—cheap? No? Oh well. Without aiming, she tossed the crop into the crowd.

The same guest who earlier begged for something to eat was beaned in the head and screamed in pain. “I’m never coming to a party in this house again!”

“Sorry.” She closed the door and walked to the lounge. “And what makes you think I want to offer you a kiss?”

Before the Man in the Red Underwear could respond, Bedelia pounced on him and began kissing his lips with extreme ardor. He struggled to sit and up gently push her away.

“Please, please. As I would not steal your kisses, you should not steal mine. I give them to you willingly.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, slowly moving in for a kiss. It was quite tender but also smoldered with such intensity that their lips were in danger of third degree burns. When they finally came up for air, the lovers were ready for some more poetry. Bedelia started.

You are the stars that dot the night.
You sparkle bright, you are the light.
Like diamonds in a wedding ring,
A moon-lit pond that’s glistening.
These are the images I see
In dreams of lovers, you and me.

The Man in the Red Underwear, not to be outdone in the sizzling verse category, offer his own admiration for his love.

You are a candle’s flickering flame,
A gentle glow, always the same.
You give me warmth, you make me cry
For life with you forever new until we die.

They were going in for another kiss when the door to the ballroom flew open and Inspector Tent barged in.

“Aha!” he exclaimed as though catching some street urchin with his sooty hand in Queen Victoria’s cookie jar. He rushed to the mantel to retrieve a sword. After getting his weapon, he took a proper parrying pose.

“Aha!” the Man in Red repeated. For a person who created romantic poetry off the top of his head quite easily, he wasn’t much for riposte repartee. The sword practically flew from the mantel and into his hand.

“En garde!” Tent issued forth in a challenge.

“En garde!” Once again red boy went with the traditional reply.

Bedelia, still seated on the lounge, was aghast. “Oh no! Not that! Don’t hurt him!”

Each man stopped to look at her. “To whom are you speaking?”

“Um, both!” She shrugged and smiled in awkwardness.

“I thought I taught you a lesson earlier!” The Man in Red began with a lunge.

“You know what they say. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks!” Tent maneuvered as he deflected the incoming blows until he was facing the open doorway to the ballroom. “Look!” He pointed to the party crowd. “A woman is being mugged!”

“You can’t fool me with that one again.” The Man in Red refused to turn his attention away from the inspector.

However, Bedelia stood, went to the door and gasped. “But there is a woman being mugged in the ballroom!”

That observation stopped the duel in its tracks as the two men joined her at the door. “What?” For two people who didn’t like each other very much, they were learning to speak in unison quite well.

“Oh. No.” Bedelia shook her head. “My mistake. It’s only an extremely voluptuous woman trying to scratch her back. It’s nothing. Continue.”

“Hey! Another sword fight!” a random voice shouted out from the ballroom which ignited a stampede for the doorway, creating a logjam of sorts.

“Dammit! I can’t see!” another voice bawled.

The duelists pranced around the library as the crowd applauded more rounds of thrusting and blocking. The Man in Red abruptly stopped to point at Bedelia. “Miss Smart-Astin! Your pants are unbuttoned!”

“What!?” The dirty old man turned to look, his eyes filled with lustful anticipation.

His red-festooned opponent kicked him in the posterior, knocking the inspector down, causing him to drop his sword. Deftly the younger man swooped the weapon up and for only the slightest of moments held it beneath Tent’s chin.

“You fool me, shame on me. I fool you, shame on you.”

Bedelia double-checked her trousers. “Why, I’m buttoned,” she announced in amazement. Then she approached the Man in Red. “But you didn’t kill him.” By this time she was totally confused, astounded and sexually aroused.

Adroitly he put both swords in one hand, dipped Bedelia with the free arm and kissed her passionately on her pouty red lips.

“The Man in the Red Underwear is no villain. Remember that.” He stood her up and walked toward the open window. He paused long enough to add, “By the way, tell Lady Snob-Johnson I shall return her swords tomorrow.”

The crowd gave him a rousing ovation as he went through the window. The partiers returned to the ballroom where the band was belting out a tune with a syncopated beat. At the same time, however, Millicent led Eddie to lounge, threw him down and pounced on him, smothering him with kisses. Cecelia carefully closed the door and marched toward the inspector who was having quite a time of it getting to his feet. After all he was much older than he appeared to be.