Case of the Double Dipper Caper

Case of the Double Dipper Caper

         Spam picked up the empty donut box and shook the crumbs into the corner. The savvy P.I. didn’t miss the fact there were a couple of jellied pieces in the group. He then lifted the box to his mouth and funneled the crumbs in.

          “Good grief, Spam!” Cassidy retorted in disgust. “You’d think you haven’t eaten for a week!”

         Spam smiled and countered, “Why waste perfectly good donut crumbs. Don’t you know there’re starving children in Africa. I gotta do my part Cass.”

          “Spam, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; that’s a terrible thing to say.”

          “Stopped being ashamed of my self years ago, doll. It takes up too much of my time.”

         Before she could respond, the door of the one room office opened. Standing there, one step inside of the doorway was a knockout redhead. Spam gave her a scan from top to bottom, lingering at the top. Cassidy and Spam waited for the visitor to say something. When she did her voice was low and all business.

          “I’m looking for Spam Hummer.”

          “Why?” Spam asked.

          “I’m an investigator for Liberty Union Insurance; I’ve got a job for him. Are you Spam Hummer?”

         Spam took another look at the dish and concluded it was a waste of a perfectly good woman. She ought to be a cocktail waitress or showgirl, not some corporate PI.

          “Wait here,” Spam directed her, “I’ll get him for you.”

          “But, I thought you…”

          “There you go thinking. Thinking will get you in trouble, Doll. Now, you wait there and I’ll get Hummer for you.”

         Spam turned and walked to his desk. He wheeled his chair over and plopped down in it. He put his feet up on the desk and only then did he turn his attention to the redhead.

          “OK, I’m Hummer. Who are you and what can I do for you?”

         Cassidy rolled her eyes. The girl-Friday was still getting used to Spam’s theatrics. She figured she would become immune to them, given forty or fifty years. She rose from her desk, grabbed a spare chair, and wheeled it over to Spam’s desk.

          “Why don’t you take this seat, Miss …?”

          “Bright,” the redhead filled in as she took her seat in the chair. “My name is Bright—Scarlet Bright.”

          “You gotta be kidding me.” Spam grinned, “Sounds like a stage name--sure you're not a showgirl?.”

          “Let me assure you, Mr. Hummer, that is my real name. Seems as if my parents had an interesting sense of humor.”

         Then she smiled at Spam and it didn’t matter what her name was, he was smitten. The woman was a knockout and when she smiled it just underlined her perfection.

         Cassidy rolled her eyes and thought, “Geeze, he IS a sucker for a gorgeous woman. There goes our fee. I hope we come out with coffee money.”

         Spam smiled at Scarlet Bright and continued, “OK, Miss. Bright, just what is it you want me to do for Liberty Union Insurance?”

         The smile vanished as Scarlet fished in her briefcase, withdrawing a large envelope. She smiled slightly and tossed the envelope onto Spam’s desk.

          “It’s all in there.”

         Spam opened the envelope and poured the contents onto the top of his desk. A dozen photographs littered his desktop. Spam quickly fished through them arranging them so he could see the images.

          After a brief moment he spoke, “OK, who’s the guy and what’s his story.”

          “His name is Rutherford Biggs. He’s a high-steel worker.”

          “You mean one of those guys who walk the beams a hundred floors up when building skyscrapers?”

          “Exactly--Mr. Biggs has or rather had unusual balance and dexterity. You see, for the last year Mr. Biggs has been confined to a wheel-chair.”

         Spam picked up one of the photographs. “There’s no wheel chair in this photo. This guy’s walking around pretty good. What’s the story?”

          “That photo, Mr. Hummer, was taken last week. See the movie marquee in the background. Around the World In 80 Days just came out two weeks ago.”

          “OK, I see—the guy's a phony. How much money did he get out of Liberty Union?”

          “Mr. Biggs took out a disability policy--$500,000 lump sum payment if he lost the use of his legs.”

          “That’s a lot of money to insure his kickers for.”

          “Of course it is; but, if you’re willing to pay the premium you can get just about anything.”

         Scarlet shifted forward in her seat and skillfully crossed her legs. The flap of her dress slid down from her knee and revealed a profile of a pair of fair looking legs. The improved profile did not escape Spam—or Cassidy, for that matter.

         Spam nodded at the briefing and added, “Serves Liberty Union right for getting greedy. So how long after he took out the policy did our Mr. Biggs go before he wanted to collect?”

         Scarlet continued, “A few years ago we began to get letters from Mr. Biggs claiming the onset of Muscular Dystrophy. About a year ago, Mr. Biggs claimed totally debility, claiming he is now confined to a wheelchair. We paid the claim six months ago. Last week an anonymous envelope with those photos arrived at our headquarters in Phoenix. Apparently, Mr. Biggs has no problem walking. That’s what we want you to verify.”

          “I thought that stuff took a while to develop. Biggs’ case was sorta sudden; wasn’t it?”

          “Yes; however, Biggs claims he has suffered with the debilitating symptoms long before he counseled with a doctor. He has the Limb-Girdle form of Muscular Dystrophy. It can remain benign through his adolescent years and show itself in mid-adulthood, as Mr. Biggs is claiming.”

          “OK, so you want me to prove that Biggs is a phony and retrieve your money?”

         Scarlet flashed her smile. “That’s correct, Mr. Hummer.”

          “And, how much is Liberty Union willing to pay me to do this?”

          “Mr. Hummer, Liberty Union will pay you an initial investigation fee of $12,500. However, if you prove definitively that Mr. Biggs is not incapacitated, you will receive a ten-percent recovery fee. So, you will get between $12,500 and $50,000, Mr. Hummer.”

          “Doll, you can call me Spam--all my clients call me Spam. And, I’ll begin now.”

         Scarlet widened her smile, “Good—I look forward to working with you, Spam.”

         Spam rose and walked to the coat rack picked up his shoulder holster with his gun secured therein. He quickly strapped his holster on with the gun in place. Only then did he grab his trench coat.

          “Well Scarlet, we can begin now. Let’s get a bite to eat and discuss this a little more.”

         Scarlet rose from the chair. Spam placed his palm in the small of her back and ushered her to the door. “I need to know all there is about Mr. Biggs and we can grab a bite at Jocko’s. Cass, watch the store.”

         The two walked out the door, closing it behind them. Cassidy stared at the door and fumed. They wouldn’t get anything to eat at Jocko’s—that is unless all they wanted was chips and nuts. Spam just wanted to show off his new redheaded client. Cassidy walked to Spam’s desk and retrieved the photos. They’d have to have a file prepared and she might as well start with these. As she arranged the photos, she noticed a file card tucked in with them. Written in elaborate flair was additional information pertaining to doctors, dates, and places. Cassidy sat down and looked at the card, her mind began processing the possibilities.

****************************************************

         Spam walked back into the office an hour-and-a-half later. He tossed his coat on the rack but kept his gun strapped to his shoulder. He was working now; he felt more prepared with his gun on.

          “OK, Cass, what have you got for me, Doll?”

          “What makes you think I’ve got anything?”

         Spam smiled at Cassidy. He knew she couldn’t keep from going through the material left on his desk.

          “I know you, Doll. You learn fast. You probably have half a dozen leads laid out for me—don’t you?”

         Cassidy shrugged. “Well, don’t be so smug about it. OK, you've got an appointment with Dr. Howard Brewster at 2:30 this afternoon. He’s Biggs’ doctor. Be nice to the man, Spam. Oh, in the phone book he has a Bears logo in his add. He’s probably a big fan of George Blanda.”

         Spam walked back to his desk and retrieved an envelope from his middle drawer. “Hmm, Blanda, huh? Blanda just hasn’t been the same since ’54 when he was injured. What else, Cass?”

          “Well, I gave Lieutenant Frisco a call and asked him to look into Biggs’ past. He said he’d give you a call if he dug up anything. That’s about it, Spam.”

         Spam walked to Cassidy, bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a peach, Cass. What would I ever do without you?”

         Cassidy smiled at her boss and added, “You’d sink like the Titanic. How about a raise.”

         Spam winked at his girl Friday as he walked out the door saying, “Sure, kid, maybe tomorrow.”

*************************************

         Dr. Brewster’s waiting room carpet was thick and expensive. Spam considered, if you had to wait, this was just about as good as it got. He was convinced of the fact as he looked down on the seated receptionist. He didn’t know what skills she possessed, but they were certainly enhanced by the cleavage showing from the unbuttoned blouse. The receptionist took Spam’s business card and gave him a smile.

          “I’ll let Dr. Brewster know you are waiting, Mr. Hummer. Can I do anything else for you?”

         Spam returned her smile. “Doll, that’s a loaded question. I’ll just sit over here in the corner until the doc’s ready for me.”

         She widened her smile as she leaned forward and handed Spam’s card back to him. “It won’t be long, Mr. Hummer.”

         Spam found a seat and began rummaging through the magazines. In a very short while, the receptionist called him and opened the door to the medical inner-sanctum. She led him down the hallway past the exam rooms to an office in the back. He was pleased to follow her.

          “The doctor will be with you momentarily.” A flash of a smile and she was out of his life forever.

         Spam surveyed the room. It was a typical doctor’s office—bookshelves with medical books and journals, photographs of family rested on the credenza, diplomas and certificates were arranged on the wall, and in the corner sat a single file cabinet. The only item of interest was a football sitting in a holder on his credenza. Signatures covered the thing. Spam assumed it was the roster of the Chicago Bears. Cass had assumed correctly.

         The door opened and was quickly closed. Dr. Brewster walked around the desk and sat down with his hands folded together resting on the desktop.

          “Mr. Hummer?” The doctor waited for confirmation and Spam nodded. “What can I do for you?”

          “I need some information on one of your patients, doctor.”

         Dr. Brewster politely smiled and continued, “Why, Mr. Hummer, you know I can’t divulge any information about my clients. That’s privileged information.”

          “Cut the crap, doc! This guy is a bad-guy. He’s breaking the law and making a fool out of you and the system. His name is Rutherford Biggs and he’s been your patient for over two years now.”

          “Yes, I know of Mr. Biggs; but, nevertheless, I can’t tell you anything about his condition or treatment.” The doctor persisted.

          “I don’t need details, doc—just general information.”

          “That makes no difference; I still can’t help you.”

         Spam reached inside his trench coat to the pocket and pulled out the envelope he had retrieved from his desk. He tossed the envelope on the doctor’s desk and asked, “Does that help you remember some general stuff?”

         The doctor opened the envelope expecting to find money, which he intended to give back to Spam. He had plenty of money; Spam was handling this all wrong if he thought a little cash would loosen his medical values. As he pulled the contents out, he began changing his mind for there in his hand were four tickets to the Sunday Chicago Bear’s game. He looked closer at the stub and saw they were on the fifty-yard line about ten rows up. This was a different kind of currency. These tickets had real value to the doctor.

          “Is this a bribe, Mr. Hummer?”

         Spam looked wounded as he responded, “Of course not doc! Those are just a little gift for the stimulating conversation we are having. Do you think you’d like to just visit a little while?”

         The doctor grinned, “Oh, I don’t suppose a little conversation between friends would hurt anything. What do you want to talk about Mr. Hummer?”

          “Well, doc, I was just wondering if, in your distinguished career, you’d ever had a sudden onset adult case of muscular dystrophy? Maybe even someone who was particularly fit, like say a high-steel worker.”

          “Why, yes, not to mention any names, but I have had one of those recently.”

          “That’s interesting. What was so strange about it?”

          “Well, Mr. Hummer, it is odd in the rapidity of the progress of the disease. It usually takes years for this severity of the disease to incapacitate an individual. But in this case, it was different. On his first visit, a little over two years ago, the patient expressed verbally the symptoms of MD. The tests at that time were not conclusive, but we proceeded with treatment because of the patient’s verbal confirmation of symptoms. His second visit in six months found him having difficulty with balance and definite visual symptoms. Moreover, on his third visit, the patient was in a wheelchair. I was amazed at the progress of the disease and requested and received x-rays and blood tests to confirm the disease. The x-rays and the test were absolutely conclusive. Without a doubt, the man has MD and it is unquestionably debilitating. He’ll never walk on high steel again, Mr. Hummer.”

*********************************

         Spam’s next stop was to pay a visit to his friend Dave Frisco, Chicago’s most experienced and talented cop. Since Spam had learned not to drop in on Dave without gifts, which in Frisco’s case were a heck of a lot cheaper than tickets to a Bear’s game, he made a stop at the corner and got something special. As Spam tossed the box of jelly donuts on Dave’s desk, he heard him finishing up with a telephone call.

          “No, forget it, Cass. He just walked in to my office. I’ll tell him myself.”

         The Lieutenant hung up the phone and directed his comments to Spam. “How many times have I got to tell you, you just can’t barge into a police Lieutenants’ office unannounced?”

         Spam grinned, “I’m not sure, maybe a few more times will do the trick. Anyway, I brought donuts.”

          “To hell with those donuts!” Dave grumbled as he opened the lid, surveyed the crop, and snatched one from the box. “Just because I’m a cop doesn’t mean I always want a donut. But, these do look pretty good.”

         Dave took a bite out of his selected morsel and then drank a draw of his hot coffee. He nodded his head in approval and changed the conversation as if it was the natural thing to do, and to Dave it was.

          “I just got the word back on that fella you wanted me to check out. Seems as if your Mr. Biggs has been a busy boy in his past. He spent eighteen months in the state jail for fraud—a confidence scheme in fact. He was bilking little old ladies out of their pensions. He did his time and is clean now. Before that he had a number of run-ins for penny-ante crimes but nothing stuck. Spam, you and I both know that his kind don’t stay clean long. I got a feeling if you keep an eye on him he’ll screw up.”

         Spam rose from his chair and walked to the door as he was talking, “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to know. I’ll watch him for a little while. And, thanks for the information; it was worth the donuts.”

          “Where you going, Spam?”

          “Well, I’m gonna find out if our Mr. Biggs is really confined to that wheelchair.”

          “Yeah, and just how are you gonna do that?”

         Spam grinned and walked out the door. “I’m not sure yet—maybe I’ll just ask him.”

**************************

         Spam closed the lid of the donuts and spoke slowly to Cassidy, as they sat in the front seat of his Ford Fairlane.

          “OK, Cass, he’ll be here in just a moment. Every morning at 10:00 AM, his ride picks him up to go to his volunteer job at the rehab center. He’ll wheel himself down that ramp and be lifted by the hydraulic lift into the van. You gotta time this just right”

         Cassidy looked out the window at the brownstone apartment belonging to Rutherford Biggs. She had never before been a part of one of Spam’s capers before. She was excited and more than just a little nervous.

          “OK, Spam. I know what to do. I just wish he would hurry up and get here.”

          “Well, you got your wish, Doll; here he comes now.”

         Spam nodded up the street as a tan van turned the corner and pulled up to the curb. Cassidy waited in the Fairlane until she saw the door of Rutherford’s brownstone open. That was her cue to begin her walk down the street. She grabbed the sack of groceries in the backseat and quickened her pace to time the meeting with Rutherford. Rutherford had just wheeled out of his brownstone when he noticed her coming and slowed his pace to let her pass. Cassidy stopped to adjust her purse, fiddling with it as if it were giving her major problems. Rutherford, noticing her pause, decided to continue to the van. With a swift shove on the wheel, the wheelchair rolled into the sidewalk towards the van. At that moment, Cassidy decided to continue down the street. The inevitable conclusion was a collision of female and wheelchair.

         Cassidy cried in distress and dropped the grocery sack. At the same time, she fell to the ground across Rutherford’s path. The wheelchair teetered but did not turn over. However, Cassidy lay prone on the ground, sobbing in apparent pain. It was quite an act.

         Spam watched closely; he half-expected Rutherford to spring from the chair from instinct to assist Cassidy. However, he did not. Cassidy watched Rutherford from her vantage point on the ground. She took special note of his legs. They did not move. In fact, from her position she could see the malformation of the limbs. She was then acutely aware that Rutherford’s ailment was real. His confinement to the chair was real.

         At that moment, she heard the door to the van slam shut and was aware of the driver bending over her.

          “Are you OK, Miss?”

         She responded to the voice. “Yes, I think so. I am so sorry and so very embarrassed.”

          “Well, there is no reason to be embarrassed,” the driver continued. “But, you really should be more careful. You could have seriously hurt my brother.”

          “Your brother?”

          “Yes, he’s the one in the wheelchair.”

         Cassidy glanced at the wheelchair at Rutherford and then at the van driver. She stared in amazement; they were carbon copies. The driver began gathering her groceries and replacing them in the sack. Cassidy slowly got to her feet as gracefully as she could.

          “Thank you so much.” She gathered the sack from the look alike. “Again, I’m so sorry. I’ll watch where I’m going from now on. Thank you.”

         Cassidy walked off down the street towards Spam who was waiting in the car and watching with interest. She walked on past Spam and didn’t turn back until she saw the van pulling away from the curb. She then hurriedly returned back to Spam, tossed the groceries in the back seat, and jumped in the front.

          “Oh, my god!” Cassidy exclaimed. “Oh, my god!”

          “What’s the deal, Cass? Is Rutherford on the level?”

          “I’ll say he is. That guy is bona-fide disabled. But the other guy isn’t.”

          “What difference does that make?”

          “Well, I don’t suppose you could tell from a distance. But those two look exactly the same. I mean there are two Rutherfords. I’ll bet you the other one is the one in the photo. The Insurance Company is being taken but not the way we thought.”

          “I’ll be danged!” was all Spam could say. “I’ll just be danged! Come on Cass, we got some research to do.”

**************************

         Scarlet Bright handed the check to Spam. “Twelve-thousand dollars,” she shook her gorgeous head, “I thought for sure that he was a fake.”

         Spam tucked the check for the investigation fee into his pocket. “Scarlet, doll, this business makes us all a little too suspicious. Sometime folks are just on the level no matter what you think”

         Scarlet rose from the chair; with a toss of her head she rearranged the cascading auburn hair out of her eyes. “Well, I was looking forward to helping you spend that fifty-thousand dollars. It could have been quite a party.”

          “Maybe, next time.” Spam smiled at the corporate redhead and shook his head.

          “Well, later.” Scarlet smiled, turned and walked from Hannity’s Bar, leaving Spam, Jocko, and Cassidy sitting at the table.

          “Quite a doll!” remarked Jocko.

          “Yeah, she’s Ok, I guess,” answered Spam. “I’ve seen better.” He winked at Cassidy.

          “Oh, Spam--you never cease to amaze me.” Cassidy leaned over and kissed her boss on the check. “Who would have thought you were such a softy.”

         Jocko glanced at Cassidy and then at Spam. “Softy? What she taking about?” He looked quizzically at Cassidy.

          “Oh, Jocko, don’t tell me that all the years that you’ve know Spam, you never knew he was a softy.”

          “Well, I guess I never had the right opportunity. What’d he do?”

          “Why, Jocko, Spam was an accomplice to fraud, I guess you’d say.”

          “What’s she talkin’ about, Spam?”

          “Ignore her.”

          “Spam, it’s OK to tell Jocko; he’ll keep your secret.”

          “What the hell is she talkin’ about Spam?”

         Spam just shrugged, “I’ll let her tell it since she’s bustin’ to do so.”

         Cassidy, shrugged and continued, “Well, Jocko, it’s like this. You see Rutherford really was confined to that wheelchair--well, sort of. The thing was, it wasn’t really Rutherford; it was Reginald—Rutherford’s twin brother. After we saw the two of them outside the apartment the other day, we did a little checking. It seems Reginald has been out of the country for twenty years. Everyone kinda lost track of him. He was serving in the Congo with a missionary group. He lived with the natives and worked to make their lives better doin’ whatever it is missionaries do. The only thing is that recently he came down with that horrid disease. When he filed his claim for benefits, he was rejected."

         Spam picked up the story, "Jocko, it seems as if the insurance company, our very own Liberty Union, decided Reginald violated the terms of the policy. They treated him as if he had died. They weren't gonna pay benifits to a dead man since they hadn’t heard anything of him in twenty years--even though his brother Rutherford had kept up with the insurance payments for the both of them. You see, they both had policies--Reginald and Rutherford."

         Jocko interupted, "Wait a minute. If Rutherford was payin' for both policies, why the heck did they refuse to award the disability payment?"

         "Yeah, it's the pits, ain't it?" Spam agreed. "It's some small print clause that voids the payment if the insured is out of the country for more than ten years. You gotta read the small print. It was as if Reginald was dead. Crazy thing is the fine print didn't keep them from collecting premiums for ten years."

         "Can they do that?" Jocko quized.

         "Suppose so--they did it." Spam continued, "They simply refused Reginald’s claim. Rutherford has been taking care of Reginald since he returned from the Congo. Somehow, they determined to just swap identities--remember, it's a disability policy, not a death policy. Rutherford was content to remain dead as Reginald; and Reginald was content to claim the insurance as Rutherford. Five-hundred thousand dollars is enough to take care of both of them.”

         Cassidy continued, “The only thing is, we don’t know who turned in the photos to Liberty Union. But, Spam says it doesn’t matter now. His report will verify that Rutherford is really handicapped. Spam doesn’t think Scarlet will take it any further. No one would dream that a starving PI like Spam would turn down fifty-thousand dollars. They’ll think Rutherford has just got to be on the level. We’ll never know where the photos came from.”

         “But, Spam, Rutherford is nothing but a con man; remember, he did time for bilking little old ladies out of their life savings?” Jocko protested.

         “You’re right, Jocko.” Spam answered. “He is a con man; and he served his time. Only this time he was takin’ care of family—someone who couldn’t take care of himself—someone who got conned by a greedy insurance company. I guess it took a con-man to make things right.”

          “Well, I’ll be. And Spam turned down the fifty-thousand dollar fee he would have gotten if he’d turned them in.” Jocko smiled at his friend, “You old softy. I guess that’s worth a drink on the house.”