Young Writers Society

However, the walk to the front door was not so silent, as Reggie suddenly exclaimed, “Winslow, just tell me what’s the matter rather than giving me the silent treatment.”

The detective looked him dead in the eyes, silently mouthed “no”, and banged the knocker on the door. They stood, once more, in silence before the white door and grand pillars of the colonial styled mansion. Soon, to answer their request of entry, there was the sound of multiple locks being disarmed on the other side and the door pulled open to reveal the butler.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. O’Keefe. I hope we didn’t wake you?” Reggie asked the butler with noticeable bags under his eyes. The agent pretended not to notice as he continued his line of questioning by asking, “Do you mind if we come in for a few minutes?”

The butler opened the door with a yawn, barely inviting the two early morning investigators into the main entry way. Right before he crossed the threshold, Winslow wiped his shoe on the wooden boot scrubber beside the grand door. As he looked down, the detective couldn’t help but notice the regular appearance of caked blood on Reggie’s fine, Italian leather shoes.

This time, before Reggie had the chance to barge in further, Winslow asked, “Mr. O’Keefe, could we have a word with you in your private rooms?”

“What is this about, Detective?”

“It’s about a matter that you might not want the lady of your house knowing about.”

Reggie stood beside Winslow with his arms crossed, barring the butler from moving anywhere but up the staircase to the bedrooms. There was no exchange as they carefully climbed the staircase. Winslow watched the maneuvering that O’Keefe did across the floorboards and followed in suit. The butler unlocked the door to his room and asked, “Will this take very long?”

“That depends on how you answer our questions, Mr. O’Keefe.”

Winslow flipped open his notebook as he finished up his statement. Reggie remained by his side, keeping a surprising amount of silence as they watched the butler pace back and forth across his room. The detective had a silent thought about how differently Norton would be behaving compared to Reggie. Though, somehow Winslow always managed to get partners that were Chatty Cathys up until the moment he needed them to distract someone.

“I’ll answers your questions, sirs,” O’Keefe quietly answered through a sudden flood of tears.

The detective took his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, handing it to O’Keefe as he said, “We can wait a moment for you to calm down.”

He stopped to think about the right way to word his question. There wasn’t a need to accuse or shame the butler for being the dead man’s lover, but they did need to find out if O’Keefe might be a suspect. Or as Winslow recalled the many jaded wives he had known, if he had the potential to be another murder victim.

“I know it’s hard but we have to ask you about your relationship with Mr. Johnson. Did you love him?” Winslow quietly asked while patting the butler’s hand.

O’Keefe was choking on his own air as he answered the detective’s question.

“I still love him. I’ve loved him since the day I met him and my role as the butler was so I could immigrate after the war ended.”

Reggie came out of the corner to extend the line of questioning. He uncrossed his arms and asked, “How was your relationship with Mr. Johnson recently? Any domestic disputes among you or Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Johnson?”

O’Keefe looked between the two of them, crushed up handkerchief in his hand, gasping while asking, “How could you think that Queenie and I had anything to do with his death? Queenie and Danny were each other’s beards,” he paused and wiped another tear away from his eye. “Just as I am not simply a butler, Lillian is not simply a maid.”

Before Winslow had a chance to react to the shocking tidbit of information, Reggie responding by saying, “We already knew about Mrs. Johnson’s relationship to Ms. Scrabok, and it is a cause for concern. If you didn’t hurt Mr. Johnson, can you think of anyone else who would want to hurt him?”

The butler’s flood of tears had begun again as Reggie went on with the stream of questions. Winslow was trying his best to console O’Keefe, taking another dry handkerchief from the bed side table. He fell into Winslow’s shoulder, sobbing even harder with every moment that went on.

“Reggie, why don’t you step out into the hall and let Mr. O’Keefe calm down?”

The agent wasn’t budging from his position of standing over the butler. Winslow pulled the tear soaked O’Keefe away from his body, laying him gently down on the bed, and pulling Reggie with him as he walked out of the room. Once they were into the hushed silence of the hallway, Reggie whispered, “What the hell was that for, Winslow? I had almost cracked him and I would have gotten the answers we needed.”

“He was already cracked before we got here. The man has just lost his life partner - do you not remember what that feels like?”

“Of course I remember what that feels like, Winslow! I’ll never be able to forget the moment that they told me that he was dead. That my friends in London consoled me by telling me that he was a hero while I laid on their couch, screaming in pain.”

Reggie turned away from him, walking part of the way down the hall and slumping against the wall. There was a noticeable thud as his head made contact with the wall, and Winslow rushed back to his side.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. You meant what you said, Winslow, and you said what you meant.”

The detective sat down next to the spy, leaning back and listening to the butler still crying on the bed, and trying to console another teary homosexual.

“You don’t have to say anything to me, Reggie.”

“I know.”

“But you do need to go back in there and finish the interview.”

“I know.”