Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #3

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  The mild sedative the nurse had given him was starting to kick in now and he pulled the thin prep room blanket up around his neck. Jeez, it’s so freaking cold. Maybe there’ll be some really good stuff in the satchel. When I’m better, he thought, I’ll give Connie a present, tell her to bring her younger sister and we’ll celebrate. Make the bimbos do each other, he smirked.

  The old man knew the power of money. It was almost as good as a gun.

  Almost.

  * * * *

  The silver Lexus pulled into the midtown parking garage and the driver got out and opened the rear door.

  “Will you be long, madam?”

  A tall blonde with fine expressive hands stepped out, shaking her head. “No, have the car ready to leave in a few minutes; I’m running late.”

  As the tall blonde walked into the jewelry store, a dark blue Crown Vic pulled up to the curb between two NO PARKING signs. The young kid in the front passenger seat checked the nine-millimeter he was carrying and then slid it into the Velcro holster underneath his silk Armani sports coat. He put on the pair of smoky sunglasses, their dark frames matching the color of the thin leather gloves he and his partners were wearing.

  The young kid had selected the two best from his crew: Perez, a young vet who spent the last fifteen months driving Humvees through the Iraqi desert, as the wheel-man, and Malloy, a baby-faced redhead very comfortable using a pistol and whose goal in life was to do a robbery for every freckle on his cheeks, as the backup.

  He had thought the whole thing through before he had decided to go to the old man and get his permission to do the heist. So what if he had to kick half the take upstairs? It was worth it. When this job was over, his crew would have respect from the world; they’d be with someone full-time, with real protection. No more existing on chump change between jobs; they’d be doing loan-sharking, bookmaking, even running legit businesses. Hell, he already owned one bar, which his crew used as their office. He smiled to himself. Jewelry heists would just be gravy on the steak.

  “Remember what I said,” he told Perez. “As soon as we’re in the back seat, peel out of here and don’t stop until we reach my Viper, turn on the lights and siren if you have to. Then take the Crown Vic to Flatlands and torch it. We’ll meet up at the bar.”

  Perez nodded, saying nothing. That’s why the young kid liked him, Perez never said anything.

  “I don’t see why we can’t come along,” Malloy said.

  “We have to do this the old man’s way,” the young kid said. “He didn’t get where he is by doing things the way other people want.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Malloy said.

  The young kid ignored the remark. “Let’s go,” he said, handing Malloy a large leather satchel.

  * * * *

  The young kid and Malloy entered the store and calmly looked around, knowing there would be few customers at that time of day. There was only one jeweler in the establishment and they waited patiently while he was showing a tall blonde woman some very fancy pieces. The young kid noticed that the woman was holding a diamond necklace that had a large sapphire dangling from it. He would make sure to grab that first.

  They browsed at the jewelry in the display cases, peering first into a corner case filled with men’s rings and then at the section containing wrist watches. The young man appeared to appreciate a solid-gold Tissot watch that had a small diamond set at each hour marking. But all the while, he was keeping an eye on the tall blonde and the jeweler.

  When the woman started posing with the diamond necklace in front of a mirror, the jeweler looked over at the young man and Malloy.

  “May I be of help?” he said.

  The young kid smiled and said, “I’d like inquire about the Tissot.”

  As the jeweler started to walk towards the watch display case the young man leaped over the counter and stuck his automatic under the man’s jaw.

  “Don’t even think about pressing an alarm button,” he said, prodding the underside of the man’s chin.

  The tall blonde turned towards them, drawn suddenly by the commotion.

  “Hand me the satchel,” the young kid told Malloy, who tossed it to him. Nodding at the tall blonde, he added, “Get that necklace.”

  “You’re not going to give us any trouble, are you?” he said, jabbing the jeweler with his pistol.

  The man shook his head no.

  “Good,” the young man said, opening the satchel. “Load this up, starting with the diamond rings, then the bigger pieces.” He poked the man in the side with the pistol. “Hurry up.”

  While the young kid kept an eye on the jeweler, Malloy walked over to the tall blonde and reached for the diamond necklace. She pulled her hand back and he grabbed at it again.

  “No,” she said, “I’m buying this, it’s mine.”

  “The hell you are,” Malloy said, slapping the side of her head with the gun barrel.

  “Now give it up.”

  The woman winced in pain and held her head with one hand but squeezed the diamond necklace tight in the other.

  “Faster,” the young kid said to the jeweler who was scooping watches into the satchel. “Get the damn necklace,” he said to Malloy, who was pulling on the woman’s hand.

  Stepping backwards, the tall blonde tried to kick Malloy in the groin. He twisted sideways, catching the blow on his thigh, but lost his balance and started to slip. As he fell, he grabbed at the blonde with his gun hand and a round suddenly went off.

  The woman slumped to the floor, blood pouring out of her upper chest.

  “Damn it,” the young kid shouted, firing two rounds into the jeweler’s head. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  * * * *

  The young kid pulled his Viper into an empty spot underneath the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. It was dark now and he could see the far off lights of lower Manhattan twinkling brightly in the distance. He hit the power button on the window and let some of the air from the harbor wash his face. What the hell had gone wrong? He tried to visualize the jewelry store. First Malloy shoots the woman, and then he shoots the jeweler. Two dead. Then they ran out with the satchel only half full. He rubbed his eyes. Maybe it was all for the best. The jeweler had seen their faces, so he couldn’t let him live. And it was still a good haul, even if he had to turn over half to the old man. So what the hell.

  The sound of gravel crunching under tires turned his attention back to the present. He looked out the window and saw a green BMW Series 7 parking next to him. Even in the gloom, he recognized Calvi’s shaved head behind the wheel. He grabbed the satchel and started to get out of the Viper.

  “Stay there,” Calvi said, opening the door of his BMW and walking over to the young kid’s car and getting into the front passenger seat. “Is that it?” Calvi asked, pointing at the satchel on the young kid’s lap.

  “Yeah, but we couldn’t get all that we expected.”

  “Open it anyway,” Calvi said. “Let’s take a gander.”

  The young kid did as he was told and Calvi put his hands inside and grabbed a few pieces of jewelry and looked at them.

  “Tell the old man I’m sorry that the take wasn’t as large as we anticipated but a problem cropped up,” the young kid said.

  Calvi dropped the jewelry back into the bag. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, “The old man wants you to have this.”

  The young kid was closing up the satchel as Calvi was speaking and never saw the pistol as Calvi raised it to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. He never even heard the sound of the gunshot that sprayed bits of his skull and brain matter against the car window.

  Calvi unclasped the satchel from the pair of dead hands and got out and closed the door. The old man is going to like the contents, he just knew it.

  And one less a
mateur to screw things up. The old man will like that even better.

  * * * *

  The old man opened his eyes when the surgical nurse entered the prep room.

  “How much longer I gotta wait?” he demanded. “I’m paying you assholes a lot of dough to take care of me.”

  “There has been a complication, I’m afraid.”

  The old man stared at the nurse, fury flooding his face. “Whaddya mean complications? I pay so things aren’t complicated.”

  The nurse kept her face expressionless.

  “One of the doctors will be in shortly to explain,” she said, walking to the door.

  “Get him in here right now,” the old man started to yell, his words trailing off to a murmur as the pain flooded into his head.

  * * * *

  “I’m afraid there’s not going to be an operation,” the doctor said.

  The old man looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Where’s Doctor Wachsel? I want to see her, speak to her right now.”

  “That will be impossible,” the doctor said. “There’s been a serious accident.”

  “Accident? What accident?” The old man tried to sit up in the gurney, but sharp pains stabbed through his head and he felt sick. The nurse eased him back down onto the gurney.

  “Take it slow,” the doctor said. “You’re a tough guy, but even you have your limits.”

  The old man shrugged the nurse off and tried to sit up again. “Answer me. What accident?” His face was red with rage.

  The doctor looked sadly at him. “Dr. Wachsel was shot in a jewelry-store holdup. Only a few minutes ago. The police just called.”

  The old man’s face drained of color. “Is she dead?”

  “No, but she was wounded in the shoulder and won’t be able to perform any surgeries for months.”

  “What does that mean for me?” the old man asked.

  The doctor’s face turned even sadder. “I’m afraid you’ll be dead in forty-eight hours.”

  The old man fell back onto the gurney and closed his eyes.

  “I really am terribly sorry,” the doctor repeated. “You’re a tough old bird.” He turned to leave the prep room but stopped and said to the nurse, “Please call billing and tell them that the operation’s cancelled and the patient doesn’t pay for today’s surgical preparation.”

  VACATION FROM CRIME, by Hal Charles

  Father still knew best, Kelly Locke admitted. The drive up to the fishing cabin with him had indeed helped lessen the stress. The bushes teeming with ripe blackberries and the mountain air so much cooler than the city in August supported her father’s argument that they both needed a vacation—he from being Chief of Detectives in a city with one of the nation’s highest crime rates and she from reporting it as NewsTeam 4’s chief anchor.

  Since her childhood, the two of them had journeyed to the lake every summer. After her mother’s death, she had accompanied her father, the local scoutmaster, up here to his summer camps. Then, a few years ago they had liked Lake Jewell so much they co-purchased the Walkers’ summer place from the heirs and continued their yearly pilgrimages as a way of reaffirming their sense of family.

  Stuffing her Katie-Couric-length auburn hair under her baseball cap as she exited the Trailblazer in front of the cabin, she had to laugh.

  “I told you a trip up here would make you happy,” commented Matt Locke.

  “I was just remembering those scouts we passed at the foot of the hill. The way they were lined up at the camp entrance beside their scoutmaster with three kneeling, three standing, and three kneeling made me remember all those summers up here with you and your troops.”

  “Back when a girl was one of the boys.” Her father chuckled in nostalgia.

  “With all their colorful neckties and merit badges, you used to call my scouts The Speckled Band.”

  “Dad,” she said, grabbing her favorite fly rod, “to be honest, I think that name was more because with all those ‘For Boys Only’ activities, I got stuck reading those Sherlock Holmes stories you bought me to keep my mind off being excluded.”

  “You could have joined the girl scouts,” returned Matt Locke, starting to unpack.

  “And missed all those stories of The Great Detective? Come on, Dad, we have time before dark to wet a line and see who catches that speckled band around the lake’s largest trout.”

  “The game,” said her father, “or in this case, the fish, are afoot.”

  Casting on the dock in day’s fading light, they saw a familiar Jeep pull up to the cabin. An angular man climbed out and ambled down toward them.

  “Grab your pole, Sheriff Wray,” Kelly called. “The lake’s stocked with enough for all of us.”

  “Matt, Kelly,” said the newcomer, “it’s great to see you two again, and I wish this was a social visit.”

  “There goes the vacation,” joked her father.

  The sheriff began buttoning his brown jacket as the cool breeze off the lake struck him. “I hate to tell you this, but there’s an escaped convict around here, and folks are re-feeling that old fear.”

  “Sounds like the opening of one of those ghost stories you used to tell around the campfire when I was a kid,” said the news anchor.

  “Sorry, Miss Kelly, but Villiers is real.”

  Suddenly a mountain lion’s early-evening snarl echoed across the calm face of the lake.

  “Not Reggie Villiers?” said the Chief of Detectives.

  “’Fraid so, Matt. Bludgeoned a guard at the state pen earlier this week. Got word last night he’d been spotted in Fairpoint.”

  “That’s not ten miles from here,” said Kelly, twirling a wisp of her hair, as she always did when she grew nervous.

  Sheriff Wray steadied himself against one of the dock’s poles and stared across the misty water. “Matt, you know why he’s headed this way. He’s after me. Gonna do what he promised at the courthouse.”

  “Come on, Porter,” said the Chief of Detectives. “How many men you caught who don’t promise to get you back?”

  “But you never met Villiers, never looked into his dead eyes,” said the sheriff. “He’s not your ordinary breed of criminal. He’s a lot like that lion out there, a real killer.”

  As long as Kelly had known him, Sheriff Wray was her friend—the tall, strong fishing buddy and storyteller who helped fill a little tomboy’s summers with adventure. He had been her protector when her father wasn’t around, but now, standing there and steadying himself with the pole, he suddenly looked old and strangely haggard. “What will you do, Sheriff?” she asked.

  “What can I do but wait? State Police have promised to have tracker dogs here tomorrow.” The lawman released his grip on the pole. “Well, it’s getting late. Got to go by Camp Cochipimingo, check on the scouts like I done for twenty years, and maybe tell them a story ’bout real ghosts.”

  “So you’re still doing that, Porter,” said Matt Locke. “Way back when I was a scoutmaster, you always managed to find time to drop by the campfire.”

  “Everybody knows it,” said the lawman, and they’ve come to expect it.”

  The two-way radio on the sheriff’s shoulder crackled. “Sheriff Wray, come in. Sheriff Wray.”

  The lawman punched his mike. “What’a ya got, D. W.?”

  “Disturbance out at Rhodes farm. Something’s got Byno’s cattle spooked. What’s your twenty?”

  “Less than five miles from there. I’m on my way. Ten-four.”

  Seeing his friend’s body tense up, Matt Locke volunteered to go with him.

  “Thanks, but those cows, and even old Byno, I can handle. You can do something for me though. Kelly, if you still remember some of those old ghost stories, I’d ’preciate it if in a couple of hours when it’s good and dark you’d wander down to the campsi
te. There’s only a small troop there this weekend.”

  “Be happy to,” she answered, remembering the path that ran from the cabin to the nearby camping area.

  “Tell ’em the one about The Hook,” said the departing lawman. “That always used to scare kids, especially red-haired little girls.”

  * * * *

  Standing beside the farmer’s sink, Kelly watched her father repeatedly scour the frypan that an hour earlier had cooked the first small-mouth bass of the summer. He seemed to be grinding a hole through the bottom. “Trying to wash away the past, Dad?”

  “Can’t be done.” He washed the soap from the pan. “You were pretty quiet during supper. Thinking about The Hook?”

  She knelt beside the hearth and began to lay a fire. “I’d bet we were both thinking the same thing.”

  “This cabin is the very place where Reggie Villiers killed his best friend, Frank Walker.”

  “And if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have been able to buy it from his daughters.” Kelly crisscrossed the crumpled newspaper with dry kindling, placing the larger sticks on the bottom as she’d been taught years ago. “You don’t feel guilty, do you?”

  “No, and I don’t feel afraid, either,” revealed Matt Locke. “But I do worry about Porter. Villiers was a strong man who would have choked Porter to death that day if the sheriff hadn’t shot him in the foot.”

  “Those tracker dogs will find him tomorrow.”

  “If it doesn’t rain tonight and wash away the scent.”

  “You really think Villiers is coming this way?” Kelly asked.

  “According to Porter’s testimony at the trial, Villiers and Walker got into a fight over the lion’s share of the money they took when they knocked over the Fairpoint Savings & Loan.”