A booming voice told me that I was at the right place. “Welcome, mystery fans. Welcome. It’s time once again for The Sam Solomon Mystery Theater, starring Peter Wentworth as Sam Solomon. And brought to you by Ipana toothpaste.”
The audio was a bit muffled and there was some occasional static, but I didn’t mind. The broadcast actually sounded pretty good considering that it was seventy-five years old. I had to sit through a commercial before the announcer returned.
“Episode number 60—‘The Fright to the Finish Caper,’” the announcer said.
The next words I heard were spellbinding.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR):
Good evening, folks. Sam Solomon here. Why don’t you sit back, relax . . . if you can . . . and join me for the next thirty minutes.
I couldn’t believe my ears. It was really Sam. Oh, I knew it was just an actor, but he sounded so real. And, you know, the voice was pretty close to what I had always imagined Sam might sound like. This was going to be outstanding.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
It was Friday night, about ten thirty. I had just finished up a plate of egg foo young and was about to wash it down with a nightcap when there was a knock at my door.
SAM SOLOMON
Go away. We’re closed.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
The knocking continued. The visitor was relentless.
SAM SOLOMON
Did you hear what I said? Take a hike.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
Then a muffled voice from the hallway called out.
WOMAN
Please, Mr. Solomon, I need your help.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
It was a dame’s voice. Now what did she want at this hour of night anyway? I got up, dragged myself to the door, and reluctantly opened it. Before my eyes stood a goddess—a red-haired goddess. She was in a white dress, and her tanned complexion made for a striking contrast.
WOMAN
May I come in?
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
My first inclination was to tell her to come back during business hours, but I was afraid she’d never return, and I couldn’t take that chance. I escorted her to a chair opposite my desk.
SAM SOLOMON
So, what can I do for you?
WOMAN
I need your help. My boyfriend’s in trouble.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
Now why did dames like this always have to have boyfriends? I couldn’t get a break. She proceeded to tell me about her boyfriend, Butch—Butch Kaminski—an up-and-coming prizefighter. The name sounded familiar.
SAM SOLOMON
Killer Kaminski?
WOMAN
So you’ve heard of him?
SAM SOLOMON
I follow the boxing circuit when I get a chance. And yes, I’ve heard of him. Supposed to have a promising career.
WOMAN
Well, not anymore.
SAM SOLOMON
I don’t understand.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
She began to tear up. I had struck a chord and I wasn’t sure why.
WOMAN
Last Friday night, Butch fought an East Coast boxer named Peter “the Prince of” Paine. Butch was an easy two-to-one favorite. He should have had no problem defeating his opponent. But shortly after he answered the bell in the eighth round, he got light-headed and dizzy in the ring. He couldn’t defend himself. An uppercut from Paine sent him to the canvas . . . and the hospital. He’s still in a coma.
SAM SOLOMON
I’m sorry, but how can I help you? I don’t understand.
WOMAN
He was drugged. I know it. Somebody wanted him to lose that fight, and they made sure he did. I want you to find out who did this . . . and I want them to pay.
SAM SOLOMON (NARRATOR)
The attractive redhead opened her purse, pulled out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and slid them across the desk.
WOMAN
How soon can you start?
This was incredible stuff. I couldn’t believe that I had never heard of The Sam Solomon Mystery Theater before. For the next thirty minutes, I was transported back to 1938 Chicago. I had a ringside seat for a heavyweight bout between the world’s greatest literary detective and every hood, con man, and mobster in the Windy City. I could feel my heart beating from beneath the covers. My hands were clammy. It was as if I was standing right next to Sam. I almost felt as though I could reach out and touch him. He seemed that real. To think that I would be able to experience this rush every Monday night for the next few weeks was dizzying.
The program itself was mesmerizing. Sam reluctantly agreed to take on the case. He knew in his heart that there were hidden dangers. He knew that every time a beautiful woman, especially a redhead, walked into his office, his life would soon be in peril. The mystery woman identified herself as Roxanne Wainwright. She and Butch were just about to announce their engagement when he was hospitalized. Their impending nuptials would have to wait. In order to solve this case, Sam had to immerse himself in the seedy underbelly of professional boxing. His investigation ultimately led him to the fight promoter, Anton Sawyer, an ex-con who had been banished from the sport ten years earlier but who had assumed a new identity to infiltrate the ranks.
Sam discovered that Sawyer had rigged dozens of fights in the months leading up to Butch’s match. When the promoter decided to bet against Butch, he had to guarantee his stable of bettors a victory for the Prince of Paine. In order to do so, he spiked Butch’s water bottle, the one that his manager would squirt into his mouth between rounds. And although the boxer would just swish around the water and spit it out, there was still enough of a chemical present to have an effect. When Butch returned to the ring, he experienced dizziness and light-headedness, and was easy prey for his opponent. Once Sam had collected enough evidence against Sawyer, he presented his findings to both the boxing commission and the police. The crooked promoter was soon KO’d by authorities—permanently. And I’m happy to report that within a few days, Butch emerged from his coma. His boxing days were over, but he began a new chapter with Roxanne. The program ended with the happy couple exchanging vows in a wedding chapel with Sam in attendance. Then the announcer made reference to next week’s show—something about baseball and blackmail.
I placed my hands behind my head, leaned back against the pillow, and savored the moment. It didn’t get any better than this. I thought that my devotion to the world’s greatest detective couldn’t get any stronger, but the bond now was unbreakable. We were brothers for life. In order to get my Sam Solomon fix each day, I would usually read a chapter or two from one of his many novels—novels that I had read countless times before. But a radio show? This was incredible. And although it was radio, the images in my head were crystal clear. It was all good.
From the hallway, I heard a sound. I slid the headphones off and jammed them, along with the radio, under my pillow. No one could know I was still awake. Someone was definitely out there. I heard footsteps getting closer. I pulled the covers over my head. If it wasn’t a family member, I didn’t want to know who it was. I kept perfectly still and hoped that whoever it might be would assume I was fast asleep and just go away. A second later, I heard someone flip on the light switch.
“I know you’re awake,” the voice said.
I sat up and decided to confront my accuser. I was unprepared for what stood before me. It was Gram in a robe. But not just any robe. It was the satiny kind of robe that prizefighters wear when they get into a ring. She had on black, high-top leather shoes, headgear, and boxing gloves. There was also a white towel hanging around her neck. She was in appropriate garb. It was almost as if she had also been listening to the Sam Solomon program.
“I could use a good cut man right about now,” she said, pointing to a ban
dage over her right eye.
Relieved that she hadn’t commented on why I was still awake, I was happy just to play along.
“Sure, Gram, what can I do?” I said as I threw off the covers and slipped out of bed.
“Gram?” she said. “Please refer to me as Bonecrusher.”
I smiled. “Sure, Bonecrusher, why don’t you let me see if I can close up that cut for you?”
Gram plopped down on the bed and started laughing. “You’re so much fun to play with, Charlie. Unlike your dad.”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to take sides. It had proven dangerous in the past.
“So, tell me,” she said. “Why are you still awake anyway?”
“Awake? I . . . um . . . woke up when I heard you come in.”
She grinned. “You can’t fool a senior sleuth, you know. You were listening to the Sam Solomon radio show, weren’t you? Eugene told me all about it.”
“Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?”
“As long as you don’t tell them what I’m up to most of the time. Agreed?” She held out her hand or, rather, glove.
We shook on it. “It’s a deal,” I said.
She jumped up and began shadowboxing. “How’d you like the show?”
“Gram, it was sensational. I couldn’t believe I was actually listening to Sam’s voice. It was just as I had imagined it.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “By the way, have you given any thought to those crimes the police are still investigating—the stolen Persian rugs and the burglary at the bakery? They haven’t been solved yet, you know. You might be able to help.”
I pulled out my desk chair and sat down. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been too busy.”
“Why? Did you take on a new case or something?”
“No. We decided to close up the agency for a few weeks. We have play practice every day after school.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’re a star now.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing like that. But you ought to see Scarlett onstage. Now she’s a star.”
Gram continued punching the air. “Maybe when the play’s over, if the police are still stumped, then you can help ’em out.”
“Works for me,” I said. But wait a minute. Did I actually mean that? Would it actually work for me? The play was going to tie us up for at least a month and a half. By that time, the police would have easily wrapped up this case. And I would have missed out on the chance of a lifetime. I hated the thought of it. But what could I do? I made a commitment and I had to see it through, no matter how painful. Right?
“Oh, well, gotta go,” Gram said. “I got a fifteen rounder with Lucy ‘Left Hook’ Lacy.”
“Good night, Gram . . . I mean Bonecrusher. Good luck.”
She winked and waved good-bye with one glove. “Sweet dreams, Charlie.”
And as I lowered my head onto the pillow and thought about Sam Solomon, I had some pretty sweet dreams that night.
CHAPTER 9
The His and Hearse Caper
Talk about rude awakenings. All I can remember is someone hovering over me . . . shaking me . . . yelling at me. I was in such a sound sleep that I wasn’t sure what was going on. Was I still in my own bed? Was I a captive in a Sam Solomon mystery? What the heck was happening? Then through the haze, I was able to make out a face and then a voice.
“Charlie! Wake up! You must have slept through your alarm. Your bus leaves in ten minutes. You’ll never make it. Let me see if I can catch your dad. He’ll have to drive you.” My mom was standing over me with her hands on her hips. She didn’t look pleased. “This isn’t like you. Hurry up and get dressed.” She scurried out of the room and pulled the door shut—loudly.
I sat up in bed and stared at my clock radio. What happened? I wondered. Was I in such a sound sleep that I never heard the alarm? I didn’t recall ever doing that before. And then it hit me. After listening to the Sam Solomon program and following the conversation with my grandmother last night, I had forgotten to reset the alarm. It was still set to 11 P.M. This one was on me. I had screwed it up. Although I’d rather have my parents think that it wasn’t carelessness on my part but rather a young man who should be forgiven since he was tired and overworked. Somehow I didn’t see that happening.
I jumped out of bed and threw on the same clothes I had worn yesterday. My mother would cringe when she saw that. I ran into the bathroom and washed and brushed. I grabbed my backpack and hustled downstairs. When I reached the last step, my executioner was waiting for me. My dad, his arms folded, was tapping his foot.
“So that you can be on time for school, young man, I’m going to be late. Does that seem fair?”
“Dad, this is like the first time this has ever happened. I’m sorry.” Then, of course, there was the response I was thinking but dared not speak: “Lighten up, jeez. Can’t you just chill out for once?” Every once in a while I worried that I would say something out loud that I was thinking but never intended to actually say. I had a dream once about that—where I was saying all these awful things to people and I couldn’t stop myself. I was so relieved when I woke up.
“Your mom’s making you something for breakfast,” he said. “I’ll be waiting in the car. You can eat on the way.” He turned and walked out the front door.
I stared at the floor as I entered the kitchen. I tried to look remorseful. It wasn’t as if I didn’t feel bad about my dad being late for work, it was just that he had made it seem like a capital crime. What was the big deal anyway?
“Here,” my mom said as she handed me a paper towel with two pieces of toast lightly buttered. She slid a banana into my coat pocket. “You’d better get out there. Your dad’s late as it is.”
I needed to make sure that my mom and I were still on friendly terms. I couldn’t afford to lose both of them at the same time. It always paid off to have at least one ally during a dispute.
“I’m really sorry about this, Mom. I won’t do it again.”
“These things happen. Don’t worry about it.” She leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “You’d better get out there now.”
Okay, that was a good sign. I knew I could count on my mom’s vote in a jam. Of course, no one made a better co-conspirator than my grandmother. She was always on my side.
I scooted down the hallway, through the living room, and out the front door. My dad was sitting in the car with the engine running. I threw open the back passenger-side door, tossed in my backpack, and hopped in the front seat. My dad didn’t say a word for the better part of the trip. Then at one point he flipped on the radio. It was on a news station. The anchor was reading the top stories from the previous night.
“Police are investigating a break-in early this morning at Pet World on West Lake Street. According to witnesses, shortly after three A.M., an alarm sounded and a car was seen speeding away from the scene. When police arrived, they discovered a broken window in a back room. The suspect is believed to have made off with two to three thousand dollars, along with several purebred dogs. This is the third major crime of this nature in the Oak Grove area in a little over two weeks. And each one has occurred, interestingly enough, on a Tuesday morning. And like the others, police found a business card on the floor of the pet shop with the familiar SS insignia.”
My dad reached over and flipped off the radio. “What’s going on here? It’s not safe to live in this town anymore. Let me tell you—these things weren’t happening around here when I was your age.”
I knew my dad was ranting about something, but I didn’t hear a word of it. I kept thinking about the fact that each of these crimes, three of them in total, had been committed early on a Tuesday morning. There was something about the timing that got me to thinking. The crimes had been perpetrated just hours after a Sam Solomon radio drama had aired on Monday night. It was almost as if there was a connection—like the
suspect waited to hear the program before striking. Was he somehow influenced by the subject matter of each drama? I only knew the story line from last night’s program—the crooked fight promoter. But what did that possibly have to do with a burglary at a pet shop? And then there was the mysterious business card with the SS crossed out on it that had been found at each crime scene. How did that factor into all of this? Was there any connection between the business cards and the radio dramas? And then it hit me. It was so obvious. I found myself thinking out loud, which proved to be a huge mistake.
“SS—that’s for ‘Sam Solomon.’ Of course. They are connected. They must be.”
“What are you talking about?” my dad said.
Oh no. Did I just rat myself out? Did I just say something about the Sam Solomon program to my dad? What was I thinking? I was getting careless. He couldn’t find out I was up late last night listening to it.
“No, I didn’t mean it that way,” I said. “What I meant to say was . . . well, um . . . what I meant was that . . . oh yeah . . . I was reading a Sam Solomon novel last night . . . and I just figured out who the bad guy is . . . I made the connection . . . that was all.”
“You’re still reading that stuff? I would have thought that you’d outgrown it by now.”
Did I hear him correctly? Why, that’s blasphemy. No one, and I mean no one, bad-mouths Sam Solomon and gets away with it. Not even my dad. I didn’t want to overreact or anything, but I placed my hands over my ears. I couldn’t listen to any more of it.
My dad nudged me. “What’s wrong with you anyway?”
“Dad, do you know who you’re talking to? You’re talking to a Sam Solomon fanatic. He is undoubtedly the greatest literary detective of the last century. Of course, I still read those books. And I can’t imagine a time when I wouldn’t.”
My dad shook his head. “Instead of rereading those books all the time, why don’t you try picking up something new? Maybe if you read something other than Sam Solomon, you’d forget about this silly little agency of yours. I blame him for all of this.”
The Copycat Caper Page 8
