Theda romanticized those years helping to assemble torpedoes to support the war effort, never imagining the horrors experienced by her husband and his fellow doughboys. Her walls were decorated with pictures of co-workers, memorializing the camaraderie that she remembered. The Finches had moved from West Virginia when the Torpedo Factory re-opened at the start of World War II. They were ecstatic when they won the lottery for one of the tiny duplexes at the “whites-only” Chinquapin Village set off on the edge of town. Built by the Navy to house the families of some 300 factory employees, Chinquapin was almost the equivalent of a company town with sports teams, a theater group and even Saturday night dances.
Some locals resented these interlopers from the hills of West Virginia and treated them like lepers. While they were not downtrodden, illiterate Okies, like the outcasts so poignantly described in The Grapes of Wrath, they were often disparaged and ridiculed. If they had to be here, let them be contained in their little village on the edge of town, it was argued. Theda was almost oblivious to their contempt and dutifully made the 3-mile ride each day to work on the factory bus while neighbors took care of the new-born Viola.
Theda was a thrifty sort, a habit borne of those days of deprivation back home. She put money in a jar every week and eventually saved enough to send Viola to secretarial school after her graduation from high school. While the Finches were poor but now respectable, it would never be enough for Viola to get more than polite notice, if even that, from the likes of Addison Bellows.
Theda had kept copies of the Torp, the employee newsletter that covered talent shows, bowling league results, war bond parties and other morale-building activities for the workers who labored in three shifts around the clock to make their deadly weapons, those “tin fish” as the torpedoes were euphemistically called. Now in her dotage, she never tired of poring over those old newsletters during the day and gazing up at the gallery of her fellow workers on the wall, waiting for Viola’s return from work.
“I hope you’ll bring that nice boy home for dinner one night, Viola. You keep promising me,” Theda said, her voice weak and pleading. Viola had not actually said that Bellows and she were engaged but had given her mother the distinct impression more than once that the archivist was her beau.
“He’s awfully busy with the move, Mother, but he told me just yesterday that he very much looks forward to meeting you,” Viola said reassuringly, as she put on her bright red coat. Of course, she would never dare invite him to their spare apartment with its threadbare furniture but Viola was determined to let Bellows know very soon how deeply devoted she was to him.
Perhaps today, I will summon the courage to do so, she said to herself as she sat on the bus for the short ride into Old Town.
LT. THORNE RARELY looked forward to seeing Det. Willoughby walk past his door. Despite all his false bravado, he was intimidated by the detective and was almost certain that Willoughby knew it. But today was going to be different and Thorne thought he might be adding that notch to his belt and puffing out his chest before long.
Normally reticent and cautious when confronted with a command decision, Thorne had acted boldly – for him – in approving the recording of the Bellows conversation and also allowing Willoughby to quietly pursue his inquiry regarding Scatcherd’s death.
Willoughby started the day repeatedly listening to the recording of Woody’s conversation with Bellows. He needed to convince himself that Bellows’ comments about Scatcherd’s death were spontaneous and believable, rather than practiced and contrived.
Thorne was getting antsy. He looked out and saw Willoughby at his desk and finally called out to him to come into his office. “So, what’s our plan, Hank?” Thorne asked, trying to make it sound as if whatever Willoughby pulled off, he was integral to its design and execution.
Willoughby scratched the back of his neck and manufactured a troubled look. When he saw Thorne’s nervous response, he smiled. He wouldn’t play with the lieutenant this morning with so much at stake.
“I’m heading over to the Torpedo Factory shortly, boss. I’d like to take a uniformed officer with me. If things go according to Hoyle, we should be bringing a murderer back to the station today.”
BEFORE WILLOUGHBY WALKED into Bellows’ office, he stationed the uniformed officer in the hallway, beyond the watchful eyes of Viola Finch. When she saw Willoughby, she immediately stood up, all five feet of her in a flutter, as she moved to guard her boss’ door. “Mr. Bellows is on the telephone, detective. Must you keep coming by here to bother him?”
“It shouldn’t take long today, Miss Finch,” Willoughby said gently, as he pushed open Bellows’ door and saw the archivist with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he looked out the window at the Potomac River as it continued its southeastern journey toward the Chesapeake Bay.
When he turned to face Willoughby, he had that look of a defeated man, resigned to his fate. The Dumonts had drained him of whatever self-possession he had and all he wanted now was to secure the photographs and put the drama and intrigue of this unwelcomed adventure behind him. He had not been looking forward to the move of the archives to a new facility in Maryland but now, notwithstanding his yearning to be near Lucy Dumont, he saw it as a means of escape.
Viola stood at the door only inches from the detective. “Not now,” he said firmly as he looked at her and closed the door. Willoughby pulled the tape recording from his pocket and waved it in front of Bellows. He was not surprised that the archivist did not understand.
“There’s not going to be any extortion payment to the bartender, Bellows, despite what you offered last night and what was duly recorded on this tape. We have the photographs and very soon they will be returned to top officials here at the Torpedo Factory. How much they learn about your involvement in this scheme depends entire on how cooperative you are today.
“Here’s how things can play out in your favor. Let’s say, hypothetically, that some concerned citizen found the photographs and gave them to the police. We wouldn’t have known what they were but this anonymous person left a note explaining that they had been stolen from the Torpedo Factory and were part of a classified file. Can you believe it? It’s possible that they have some historical significance but we’re not clever enough to figure it out so we return the photographs to the guardians of our secrets and leave it up to them to figure things out.” When Willoughby concluded his little speech, he saw that Bellows was looking down, stroking his forehead, his mind racing as he tried to fathom what had happened and how he could extricate himself.
Willoughby went to the door and motioned for Viola to join them before continuing. “There are still some loose ends with respect to the Scatcherd investigation that need to be cleared up, starting with the break-in to his apartment.” Willoughby paused and looked at Bellows, hoping it would prompt him to open up. Bellows regained his composure and said, “We’ve been through that already, detective, and you gave me reason to believe that it was no longer an issue. To repeat, I pressured Scatcherd for his key and he finally gave it to me. I still believe that he wanted me to search his apartment so he could say he was cooperating.”
“But he didn’t give you the key, did he?” Willoughby said, turning so he could see Bellows and Viola at the same time. “Scatcherd’s keys were stolen from his coat, conveniently hanging on a hook outside the clerical area. A duplicate was made of the front door key and the keychain was returned before he realized that it was missing. Now, the Lock & Load is only a few blocks from here and the owner is ready to identify the person who had the duplicate key made.”