O'Brien's Desk. Ona Russell

a word. A. von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letter Practical

      Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

      “Another glass, Watson!” said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay.”

       “I knew it!” Sarah beamed, although slightly ashamed of her own enthusiasm. Of course. Holmes was the American all along, his brilliant disguise once again halting the progress of evil. A little too predictably, perhaps. Much too tidily, she would have admitted. But in these uncertain times, indeed in the overall uncertainty of life, she found a measure of satisfaction in the mystery so unambiguously solved. She ear-marked the page and returned the tattered copy of the Strand to the shelf in the corner of her office. “Until tomorrow,” she said. Right now I need to call the judge. Where in the devil is he anyway?”

       Seated at his desk, Judge O’Brien O’Donnell gazed through the French doors at the leafless oak tree that in the summer would shade the entire backyard with its thick green foliage. He had always loved autumn, and this year was no exception. The colors of this season were made especially vibrant from the unusual amount of rain in July and August. But the splendor had ended far too abruptly. By the first of November, the limbs were barren, winter convincingly on its way.

      It should be spring! O’Brien picked up for the umpteenth time the telegram resting on the desktop. Today of all days buds should be on those branches. The tree’s skeleton, sharpened by the early morning sun, possessed its own austere beauty but simply didn’t fit the occasion. Glancing down at the rectangular, yellow piece of paper, he read again the message he had already put to memory: “Born to you a healthy, baby girl. Margaret Louise . . . stop . . . 7lbs. 6oz . . . stop . . . mother and child doing fine . . . Congratulations, Judge, Dr. Samuel Lathrop.”

      Fingering the paper with his sturdy, weathered hands, O’Brien gave silent thanks for what he could only view as a miracle. A healthy, baby girl. An act of God that he vowed he would spend the remainder of his days repaying in any way he could. Inconceivable. He, a father, at fifty-nine. It was too much to hope for, and yet there it was, clearly stated in the certainty of bold Western Union type. The only regret he had was that he could not join Winifred and his new daughter immediately. How he would love to see that newborn face, one that even in its swollen infancy he imagined bore traces of his own. Under normal circumstances, he and his new family would, of course, be together. But theirs were anything but normal, and with the election only a year away, he had decided to wait until Christmas in order to arrange a vacation without arousing too much suspicion.

      O’Brien gave the telegram one last look. He would have liked nothing better than to stay home and revel in his news, but he had an exceptionally busy schedule ahead of him and was already running late. Reluctantly, he folded the paper into a neat, small square, and slipped it into an envelope in the top drawer. He knew what he would do with it later.

       “Western Union? I’d like to send a telegram. To Mrs. Winifred O’Donnell. Mother’s Hospital, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Yes, that’s right. Here’s the message: ‘Well done, my dear . . . stop . . . Very happy . . . stop . . . Will phone on Sunday . . . stop . . . Love, Obee. O-b-e-e-.’

      Yes, that’s right. The bill? Send to Judge O’Brien O’Donnell. Thirty-four fifty-six Bancroft Street, Toledo, Ohio. Yes. Thank you very much.”

      O’Brien hung up his new rotary dial telephone and patted it as if it were an obedient pet. Ever since the courthouse had installed this technological marvel a few months ago, he was determined to own one himself. To make a call without the need of an operator, directly from one end of the country to the other. Amazing! And so stylish. The latest model became available in a variety of colors just as the forest green paint was being applied to the hall of his still unfinished new home, which, as he walked toward the stairs, he eyed with immense satisfaction.

      The brick and mortar structure, crafted in the Tudor style, befitted someone of O’Brien’s stature. How strange the way things worked out. He never thought he would own his own home, let alone have one built from the ground up. Nor did he ever think he would live outside the city, thriving as he had in its pace and energy. But, he’d gotten a good price on the lot in Old Orchard, and had come to believe that a rural setting would be a better place to raise a family. He wasn’t alone in this idea. Since he relocated to Toledo from Point Huron in 1906, most of his colleagues had moved to the suburbs, too, lured by subdivisions bearing such nostalgic names as Old Orchard. O’Brien smirked. The pamphlet on the area had promised an escape from escalating urban congestion and crime. So, too, did an accompanying photograph, replete with cows grazing on abundant, sunlit grass. He was suspicious of such advertising ploys, but over time had nevertheless come to agree with the premise underlying them.

      Although construction on his home was not complete, most of the work yet to be done was cosmetic, and so O’Brien took early residency. Aesthetic details were important to him, much more so than to his wife. As he started up the stairs, noting the fineness of the darkly stained, oak hand rail, listening carefully for any creaking he may have missed on his way down, he remembered that today the carpenter was coming to install the mantel in the study, the one room that would retain the independent character of his former bachelor’s quarters. With his books, desk, and other treasured belongings carefully placed, this would be a refined but cozy, personal retreat, and the Victorian mantel, which he helped design, would be the perfect finishing touch.

      The only room left completely to Winifred was the nursery, which he passed on his way to the bedroom. While only mildly interested in the rest of the house, his wife had expressed a strong desire to decorate this room, and O’Brien wanted to honor her wishes. Besides, reserving it for storage for the time being would avoid the inevitable questions of friends and family who would certainly want to take a tour.

       O’Brien quickly performed his toilet and began to dress. Normally, he prolonged this latter activity, treating it as a serious study in color and form. Today, he sacrificed art to time and hurriedly selected his grey wool suit and fashionable collarless white cotton shirt. The only item that he pondered with anything approaching his usual scrutiny were his socks, choosing, after limiting the possibilities to three, the dark grey French imports with pink silk thread.

      The telephone rang. Heaving a deep sigh, he glanced at the clock on the night stand and hesitated. No, he wasn’t going to get it. The ringing continued. It might be a call from the hospital. He ran down the stairs, his left sock still wrinkled around the ankle. “Hello?” O’Brien answered, with a note of concern. “Good morning, Obee.”

      Immediately he relaxed. Though not part of her official duties as Chief Probation Officer of Women, Sarah had taken it upon herself years ago to provide O’Brien regularly with any information she thought would prepare him for his day ahead. She expected in return only the courtesy of being informed of any delays. After all, she was one of his closest friends, and he knew how much she worried about him. “Morning, Sarah. How are you, my dear?”

      “Fine, Obee. I’m a little surprised you’re still there, though. I was just taking a chance. Are you all right?”

      “Yes, yes, I’m fine, I’m wonderful, in fact. Just overslept a bit.”

      “Hmm . . .”

      “Now, Sarah, don’t you worry. I’m not tired in that way. I was just up late working on the house, nothing more.”

      “Nonetheless, I’m glad there’s a holiday approaching,” Sarah said. “You’ve had more than your share of tough cases lately. You could use a rest. I’m rather tired myself, you know.”

      He heard slight irritation in her voice. “Well, perhaps you’re right. I, uh, was thinking, in fact, that I might go away this year, maybe down south, look over the new training site for the Mud Hens, or perhaps do some fishing