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principiumindividuationis777 · 7 days

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Curtains Fall Lightly (Historical Noir)

Chapter I

At a leading manufacturer of aircraft, especially military aircraft, in the Summer and Autumn of 1963, events unfolded as described.

Philip Morris was a dying man, having received a dire prognosis from his physician. A leading contact between the firm and United States government agencies, he attempted to teach the much younger George Blythe to replace him, briefing Blythe on a situation as grim as Morris's own.

"Young man, you must understand that this company is under attack from within. It's not the Soviets primarily, but a woman named Rosalind Kerr, ostensibly a consulting advisor. Even I don't know who she works for, but she uses blackmail of our board and our employees to advance her own position, and what she wants, as far as I can tell, is an escalation of warfare, in any and all parts of the world, to increase sales of our aircraft, receiving a generous percentage in her own accounts of the resulting profits and cash flow."

"The compromising data is seldom obtained by Mrs. Kerr personally, you understand," continued Morris, "But by her mousy little male secretary, Joseph Wheedle, aptly named if ever anyone was. I have never seen anyone so good at a show of false humility, and he gains trust, and thereby ruins lives."

"Why does he share this information with Mrs. Kerr?" asked Blythe.

"Ah, that's the key. I have rumor and conjecture. I believe that Wheedle, some fifty years old and unmarried, may have homosexual tendencies, taboo to many, even illegal, and that most likely Mrs. Kerr knows this and compels him to share in her goals, and to share his ill-gotten gains with her."

Morris added a hint that perhaps Blythe should uncover proof of Wheedle's secret life, to leverage against him, and continued to explain the company's sinister cabal.

"Now, as you can see, Kerr is a woman, and not a young one, and Wheedle is a small man of little physical prowess. When blackmail is not an option, they have a man, Michael Pocius, though I am one of the few who knows Michael's real name. Nearly everyone calls him 'Clawboy'. He was born elsewhere, but by age fourteen, was a student in America, and at that age, did something so gruesome to the Principal of his school that the papers would not describe it, but the nickname Clawboy has been with him since. Do you remember the Cleveland murders of the 1930's? The ones even Eliot Ness couldn't solve? No? Well, such is your youth. I have every reason to believe Pocius was the culprit, though he deflected blame on to some mental hospital patient. Six foot three and never gave man or woman a quick death, he is as dangerous as they come, and he works for Kerr, who pays him well, though he will still hurt most anyone for sport."

"Why isn't he arrested?"

"Because Wheedle has compromising information on policemen and judges too."

"Surely, not all of this company is part of Mrs. Kerr's plot?"

"No, just those three, as far as I know. In this wing you will find Ramon Germanos, as he is legally known. It may be a poor translation of his Spanish name- he's from Mexico- but that is beside the point. He is a bitter bureaucrat who obstructs everyone in his path. His father died in a riot, I hear, and he hates the system for failing him."

"If he hates the system, isn't this company the essence of, well, the system?"

"Exactly, and from this very vantage point he can make life miserable for the people he quietly and, technically, law-abidingly hates, which is all of us."

"A job much like mine is done by the less experienced Leonard Collins. He is loyal, but much too impulsive for such secretive work, I believe. The one other person you'll need to know of is someone I know only as Three Eyes- never knew his real name. He's from India, I think, and every now and then you'll have to meet him at a planned location so he can give you the latest on Soviet aircraft, giving us, and the USA, a great advantage. Three Eyes is a spy, though I don't know who he works for- some say Britain, but I'm unsure, and now, if you'll excuse me, I am rather tired, so I'm going to rest in my office."

Chapter II

Morris had not considered Ramon Germanos's wife, Jayne (maiden name unknown), important enough to mention, and this is understandable. As far as the world knew, she was a bleach blonde imitation of Marilyn Monroe, but without the talent. Relying on Ramon's money, she had a résumé of only a few unprofitable films of the lowest quality, such as "Snake Women of Acapulco"… or so she wished the world to believe.

Morris also failed to mention Trenchcoat, often just called Trench. His existence was considered something of a legend. From the aeronautics firm up to governments around the world, many had heard the legend of Trenchcoat, but most disbelieved in it. The stories went that he was supposed to live in an abandoned building somewhere near this airplane manufacturer, and though some CIA agents initially took the stories seriously enough to search abandoned buildings around the city, no trace of this semi-mythical being was found.

No one had ever seen Trench's face, though some claimed to have heard his voice, either by telephone, or in person, in his pitch black lair, they said, though these supposed witnesses were often less than credible. No one knew Trench's agenda or loyalties, or if he even existed, at least not until Mrs. Kerr's schemes brought matters to a head.

Finally, in my attempts to keep the stranger than fiction nature of this report comprehensive, there is Linda Aeons (real name unknown), the only person in America who could openly assert being a Soviet agent and remain at liberty, because no one believed her. Supposedly a Romanian immigrant, she would hang around important government and corporate buildings, point her fingers like a hypnotist, believing that she was hexing passersby, mainly the employees, go into strange dances, have conversations with spirits (or so she claimed)… aside from several stays in mental hospitals, which generally found her to be harmless, as she never became violent, no institution took Linda seriously.

Having apprised the reader of those involved, the reader can now understand what transpired that fateful year. (Excuse the poetic touch, dear reader.)

Chapter III

George Blythe quickly became acquainted with the ways of Ramon Germanos. Blythe filed a report comparing American and Soviet aircraft, only to have Germanos interfere and claim it was "written unprofessionally". When Blythe asked how he should change it, Germanos replied, "You are supposed to be a professional. You should know." Thus, a report he could have finished in two days took four rewrites and three weeks to meet with Germanos's grudging approval.

Blythe once sneaked into Germanos's office, and found a treatise on anarchism. Confronting Germanos with it, Ramon explained it away as "understanding subversives- to defeat them, we must understand them." With what Morris had told him, however, Blythe doubted this explanation.

This soon became moot, however, as Germanos overplayed his hand attempting such obstructive tactics against Rosalind Kerr. Soon after this, photographs of a most graphic nature, proving what many already knew, became widely available within the firm, and to law enforcement, and to anyone else who wanted the information that they contained.

Ramon Germanos had married Jayne to keep up appearances, but much preferred men. His face was very recognizable in the photographs, but the other man's face could not be seen. Philip Morris, however, though by now like a walking cadaver, and straining to speak, insisted that the other man was Joseph Wheedle, and told Blythe that, to undermine Mrs. Kerr's schemes, Blythe needed to prove this.

"How could I prove it? We can't see his face."

"W-we [here a coughing fit interrupted Morris's speech]… we can see a scar on his ribs, near his left elbow… here. Prove Wheedle has this."

Blythe could think of only two ways of proving this: One would be to find some reason to have Wheedle throughly searched, but no such reason could be found. The other was far more distasteful to the very heterosexual, as some might later say, George Blythe, but he went through with it.

Not an unattractive young man from Wheedle's point of view, Blythe saw enough of Wheedle one night to be certain that yes, Joseph was the other man in the photo.

In the meanwhile, however, Ramon Germanos had done in himself, and Blythe, himself more than a little shaken over how he had to obtain the information on Wheedle, went off drinking at various bars during work hours, rather against regulations, and at one such bar, met with, it seemed, a grieving Jayne, but it was there and then that we would find that the sad-eyed blonde was a myth, and a cold heart and head lived beneath that façade.

Chapter IV

A less than sober Blythe had mentioned to Leonard Collins his encounter with Wheedle, and Collins thought that he might try the same, but with the more drastic aim of ending Wheedle's life, hoping this would put an end to Mrs. Kerr's hold over the corporation. Ransacking Wheedle's place to make it look like a robbery, Collins reported to an abandoned building, an old warehouse, devoid of any lighting, proudly boasting of what he had done.

"I did it Trench. Got that little scoundrel once and for all, and even if Mrs. Kerr has his info, she'll be too scared now to act."

An eerie, quavering voice replied out of the darkness, none too pleased.

"You foolish whelp. Kerr has ten times the physical courage of Wheedle. You should have killed her to frighten him. Employing you was my biggest mistake. This is an easier death than Clawboy would give you."

A dim shadow in the room's darkness flung a knife at Collins, hitting his target, and Collins was never found.

Chapter V

At the bar, Jayne, red eyes and running makeup, seemed to be the most pitiable sight Blythe had ever seen, until his vision began to blur, and over he fell, dead. Jayne looked confused and frightened. The bartender assumed that George had just been drinking too much, and would soon recover.

Jayne kept up her dumb blonde act for about three blocks, then her face set to stone, and she got in a car with an up-to-date telephone, calling the man Collins would refer to as Trench.

"Blythe was drinking on the job. I made the drink his last."

"You always were one for drastic action, but I suppose weak wills have no place in our line," replied the same strange, quavering voice, though distorted a bit by the phone.

"Say, Trench, aren't you concerned someone might bug our phones?"

"No, because the man they send to do that had a car accident, Jayne. They don't make brake lines so reliably in those foreign makes."

Needless to say, even when coroners found the poison, no one suspected the grieving, not overbright widow, as they reckoned her, but authorities were out looking for someone who fit their idea of a dangerous spy or criminal.

"One more thing before you hang up, Jayne: You must act against Mrs. Kerr now. Wheedle swore revenge if anyone got him, and something terrible is coming. Kerr would take full advantage of it. No time to explain. Take care of her. You know how."

Chapter VI

Jayne, seemingly an intoxicated mess, sobbing for "Ramon", went to Kerr's home, as if to seek a maternal figure. Kerr disdained the girl utterly, considering her, as she had once said to Wheedle, "a waste of hair dye", but did not want Jayne to make a scene outside her home, a home always watched by agents of more than one country.

Inviting Jayne, who acted as if she could barely stand, into her home, Mrs. Kerr sent Carlos, her servant, to get coffee for Jayne. By the time Carlos returned, Jayne had already dispatched with Mrs. Kerr, using Dim Mak, I am told. As an unfortunate witness, a petrified Carlos discovered that Jayne, like Trench, was an adept thrower of knives.

Rosalind Kerr being gone, Clawboy had no loyalties, but would continue to be the most physically dangerous criminal on the streets, for profit and sport, beginning with an armored car robbery in early November, 1963, an incident that left two guards dead.

What Trench said about Joseph Wheedle's threats was, according to the best sources, true. He had threatened more than once that if anything happened to him, he had a "Communist cell" that would "remove" the most important man on Wheedle's long list of compromised individuals, and the "cell" did so, on November 22, 1963.

Chapter VII

By the end of November, several more robberies and deaths, some too terrible to describe, marked wherever Clawboy had traveled, hitting several cities so that a pattern would not, by most, be noticed.

Some took notice, however, including Jayne. She was back on the car phone.

"I know Clawboy has no agenda anymore, but in a way, he is off his leash. Enough more of this, especially if he did too much in one city, and it would worsen the crisis in public trust that is already inevitable, after what happened to the President, and given what the new President is."

"You are correct, Jayne," said the by now familiar, quavering voice, "And I intend to act."

"You know better than anyone where he is, Trench. Just tell me and I'll do it."

"Jayne, have you ever read of Clawboy's idea of amusement back in Cleveland? You are a deadly woman, but if you and Clawboy ever met, you would go that way. I must insist. The only person alive better at violence than Clawboy is me, and I must do this one personally."

Chapter VIII

A limping, elderly hobo hobbled down a rural road not far from Baltimore. A blue Bel Air drove up behind him, driven by a grinning Michael Pocius, who thought he would play some games with the old man.

Clawboy drove the car directly at the hobo. There were no witnesses in sight, so it was just the two of them. The old man managed to throw himself to one side, but could not return to his feet. Pocius parked his car on a dime, and got out, strutting triumpantly and chuckling, pulling out a knife in his gloved hands, one with a finely carved handle.

The transient seemed resigned to his fate, smoking one last cigarette, as Clawboy, like Trench and Jayne, was about to practice his knife throwing skills, but suddenly, Pocius fell over, and was obviously no longer living when he hit the ground.

The "cigarette" had been a blowgun, and one assumes, the "elderly hobo" was an elaborate disguise of Trenchcoat.

Philip Morris passed away in 1964, and last I heard, Three Eyes and Linda Aeons had joined a commune in the vicinity of San Francisco, California.

Sincerely,

Trenchcoat

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