A Study in Victory Red

by Allison Osborne

  While the detectives compared notes about the crime scene, Irene studied the doorknob.

  A small fingerprint on the outer edge, partially smudged.

  "Joe," she called.

  "Yes?"

  "Make a note," she said. "Small finger-"

  "I can't," he said. "I don't have a notebook."

  She turned and came nose to chest with him. Scowling, she looked up. "You didn't bring one?"

  "I didn't know I needed one," he said, defensively.

  "Next time, bring a notebook," she said. "If there's one thing that's improved my work, it's the use of notes. My mind keeps impeccable details, but notes on paper prove useful, especially if they could offer future insight."

  "I'm surprised you survived this long without an assistant."

  She caught the sarcastic tone of his voice and spun back to the door, expelling the guilt she felt away into the breeze. She tugged on her gloves and heard Joe do the same behind her.

  She carefully turned the doorknob, and the door swung open easily. Checking the hinges confirmed her suspicion. Freshly oiled to prevent the slightest squeak.

  The house was empty, as expected, the brick walls not yet covered by plaster or wallpaper. She bent and found traces of the same footprints in the garden lightly imprinted in the coat of dust on the floor.

  The erratic man, presumably the constable first on the scene.

  The pair, large and small, continuing to the back of the house.

  The same small-footed man in a hurry to leave.

  A counter jutted out from the kitchen, and she walked around, finding nothing of importance.

  The body lay in the back bedroom, and she tried to hide her smile as best she could. Eddy told her people were uncomfortable when she smiled at dead bodies.

  "Oh my," Joe whispered from behind her.

  Wood and brick adorned the walls of the dusty room. Crumpled blankets and a pillow occupied the far corner. An open box of biscuits sat atop the mantle. A half-spent log, ashy but intact, took up the fireplace.

  The man lay in the middle of the room. Mid-thirties, large and fit, military hair-cut.

  Dressed casual, a button-up shirt and creased trousers. Polished boots shone in the streak of sun coming through the window.

  The victim's vacant eyes stared at the ceiling, sunken into his swollen face, the skin puffed and bright red. A scar, a few years old, ran down his cheek to his neck, the scar tissue bulbous and stretched. Irene crouched and poked his cheek, watching her fingerprint blanch.

  Approximate time of death: Eight hours previous.

  She inserted her gloved finger into his mouth, sweeping from side to side before removing her finger. White foam coated her glove.

  Poisoned, from what, she wasn't sure.

  She turned his head and found an imprint on his temple, and a smeared, faint smudge of black dust.

  She swiped some onto a clean finger and sniffed.

  Gun powder, yet no bullet wound, and no report of a gunshot, that she was aware of.

  Ink peeked out from under his sleeve and Irene rolled the fabric up, revealing the tattoo on his forearm.

  A crude pin-up girl, covering her nude body with an American flag.

  She held the man's shoulder and shifted him, forcing him up half an inch. A silver pin embedded into the wood caught her attention. She grabbed the pin, letting the body fall back to the ground.

  A military pin. Silver parachute outlined by wings.

  She flipped it over. A series of numbers and letters were etched into the metal.

  N44.W74.30

  She handed the pin to Joe.

  "Set this on the counter," she said. "Please."

  He took the pin from her, and she continued with her inspection of the body. She searched the pockets but found nothing.

  "Traitor," Joe mumbled from above her.

  She craned her neck to look at him, but he stared at the back wall.

  She'd seen the words written on the wall when she entered the room, but the body took priority. Dead bodies changed so much within the first twenty-four hours of death, any time wasted could be critical.

  With the body stripped of crucial details, she focused on the wall. Cherry red letters were scrawled upon the brick.

  Verräter

  "Traitor?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

  He stared at the letters as if something possessed him. Sweat beads formed on his forehead and his fists clenched. Irene blocked his view, snapping him out of his trance. She took off her left glove and grabbed his right wrist, finding his racing pulse.

  "Joe?" she said. "You read German?"

  He focused on her and nodded. "Only a bit."

  His pulse slowed, and she released his wrist as Eddy and Thom wandered into the room. Eddy gave a low whistle.

  "Did you say German?" he said. "I didn't think any Germans would show their face in London so soon after the war."

  "They shouldn't," Thom spat.

  Irene walked to the wall and swiped off some of the red substance onto her glove. Chalky, but a rich pigment.

  Lipstick.

  Almost six feet in the air. Written carefully, not scrawled in a hurry or in a fit of temper.

  "I need tools to dig out two of these bricks," she said. "Look in the piles of construction equipment two houses over."

  When no one moved, she pivoted, hands on her hips, looking at the detectives.

  "Either of you two men shall do," she said. "Or both."

  Eddy gave Thom a small shove, and they both left. Joe still stared at the wall.

  "Did you encounter many Germans?" Irene asked.

  "Yes." Joe turned his attention to the body. "I wasn't in a lot of combat, but I met my fair share."

  He squirmed uncomfortably. Irene needed to distract him before she lost him completely. She pointed to the pin.

  "Do you know what that is?" she asked. "It's military, but my knowledge of military pins and badges of the various branches are still quite poor."

  The distraction worked, and he removed the pin from the counter.

  "Paratrooper pin," he said. "American. I spent a few days travelling with an American soldier, as we were both lost, and I'm sure this is the pin he had on his lapel."

  He turned it over and noticed the etching. "What are these?"

  "I don't know," she said.

  Eddy and Thom returned with tools, and she and Joe got to work. They chipped away the brick with a chisel and hammer, while the detectives crouched over the body.

  "Traitor," Thom said. "Perhaps the victim is German? Maybe he wrote this before he was killed. Betrayed by a friend, perhaps?"

  "An artistic friend," Eddy pointed to the red writing. "That certainly looks like pastel. Or perhaps the victim's last confession before taking his own life? I noticed the foam around his mouth, Irene. Possibly self poising?"

  "Well done," she replied, keeping the grin from her face. Though people agreed that Thom and Eddy were an equal match, Eddy could out-smart Thom by a fair margin. Irene took credit for some of his brilliance by guiding him in the right direction of deductions.

  She hit the chisel again and chipped away a large portion of the brick, gathering a sample of the red letters. Joe had better luck than her, his surgical skills apparent. He artfully moved his chisel around the brick, as if performing a delicate procedure.

  "Who discovered this scene?" she asked, collecting another sample of brick.

  “Constable Drebber,” Thom said.

  "Give Joe his address," she said. "I'd like to have a little chat with him. Eddy, may I borrow you a moment before we go?"

  Eddy stood as she approached him with the samples.

  "Will you take these back to Baker Street for me?" she asked. "Also take a few loose bricks from the next house over? Take them all to Miss Hudson, but tell her not to clean the red off."

  "Yes," he said, taking the samples from her.

  "Before I leave," she said to both Eddy and Thom. "The victim was American, and he was
here with a tall, thin man, who walked out of this house, alive. The message was written in lipstick with careful purpose. Take care, gentleman, and play nice."

  Joe handed his brick over to Eddy, shook both the detective's hands, then caught up to her.

  "Did you get the address for the constable?" she asked, as they walked through the house toward the front door.

  "I did."

  Irene breathed in the fresh air as they stepped outside, and remembered her promise to herself about taking a walk every day.

  This counted, right?

  She tried to stop herself from bouncing with excitement down the street toward the main thoroughfare. Eddy had been right, this was an intriguing case.

  "What do you think of your first murder, Joe?" She asked, pulling her gloves off.

  "Unsettling, but, I am intrigued." He hailed them a cab.

  She thumped his arm with her fist. "Exactly. Intrigue is always key. Now, let's get something to eat, then off to interview Constable Drebber."

  Chapter VI

  A Cab Ride of Compliments

  Joe glanced at Irene as the cab drove them across the city to Constable Drebber's residence. She stared out the window, still as a statue, only moving her finger, twirling a bit of hair that had come loose from her scarf.

  He rolled his shoulders back, easing the tension in his muscles. Fortunately, he'd stopped the episode at the crime scene before it overtook him.

  "It's remarkable that you knew that was lipstick," Joe said.

  "Not quite," she said. "That was the simplest deduction for me to make."

  "How so?"

  "I apply lipstick several times a day," she said.

  "Then why did you take a sample?"

  "The colour." She pried her eyes away from the passing scenery and looked at him. "I have a theory as to what the brand is, but I need to find the exact match."

  Joe sat back in the seat as the cab careened along. Admittedly, he didn't have the foggiest idea of what he was walking into when he followed Irene into the crime scene. Except for seeing the panic-inducing German word, he didn't mind the mystery at all. Not even the victim, red face inflated like a balloon, caused him bother. He'd seen much worse during the war.

  He had no idea what Irene observed in the house, but in his mind, two people walked in, and the thin man killed the American, accusing him of betrayal, then walked out.

  As Joe pondered the crime scene, many questions presented themselves.

  "You have thoughts about the case." Irene pointed to his furrowed brow.

  "A few questions," he said. "How did you know the height of the thin man? How did you know he was thin? I've seen many plump men with tiny feet. Also, you mentioned the message was written with careful purpose. I would love further elaboration."

  "Do something for me." Irene wiggled in her seat, like a teacher eager to share an exciting lesson with a child. "Write your name in the air in front of you."

  Joe raised his hand and started his name.

  "Stop." Irene leaned over and took his raised hand. She moved his hand to his face until his fingers brushed the tip of his nose.

  "Your hand lines up with your eyes," she said. "Most people write at their eye-level. 'Traitor' was written at just under six feet."

  "Making the person around six feet tall."

  "Precisely." She released his hand. "And the letters were straight up and down as if someone wrote each one with care. The emotion of the word 'traitor' would usually cause a person to scribble the letters, or turn the writing uneven, with either a heavy or light hand. But not our word. This murder was premeditated, each step thought out."

  "That does make terrible sense," Joe said.

  "As for the rest of your queries," Irene said. "Do you remember our conversation about shoes last night?"

  "That they are important," Joe said.

  "Exactly," she said. "You are a quick learner, which I would expect from a doctor. Did you observe the footprints?"

  "I only saw a small pair imprinted in the mud by the front walk," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't observe any inside."

  "No matter," she said. "The reason for a notebook, next time. The Thin Man's shoe prints in the garden were not nearly as deep as his American companion, and they didn't leave as heavy an imprint inside the house either."

  "All of this sounds so elementary." Joe made a mental reminder to get a notebook as soon as he could. "And yet, there were three of us in that room that I'm not sure gleaned that much information."

  Irene sighed, exasperated. "Thom is brilliant when he has no distractions. He is excellent at the basics and has potential to become impressive. But he is so preoccupied with his stylish appearance and keeping that slick war persona intact that he falters. I've handed off a few cases of mine for him to claim credit to, only because he allows me into crime scenes. And dear Eddy, one of Thom's biggest distractions, could be the best in his division if he didn't have his family's legacy looming over him. It worries him, and he occasionally immerses himself too far into a case and can't see the forest for the trees."

  Joe couldn't argue with her. He obviously didn't know either man that well, but her summations of the detectives, like every other one, seemed spot on.

  "And you," she continued. "I saw your reaction to the German word. How can I expect you to notice such minute details when you have no training, and still have a war raging inside your head."

  His mouth went dry at her unexpected insight. The word at the crime scene had made him nauseous and threatened to evolve into one of his episodes. He was still fighting a battle inside his mind. Thanks to Irene, this trigger was gladly prevented. Focusing on her fingers around his wrist kept him from flipping over the edge.

  The implication of what could have happened caused almost more discomfort than his inner demons.

  "Oh damn," Irene said. "I went too far with my assessment, didn't I? I'm still figuring out what is appropriate to say to people before they retreat into themselves. Most people don't matter to me, and I don't give heed to what offends them, but you are becoming a friend."

  Joe laughed, negative thoughts dispersing, pitying poor Irene. "I have not stopped becoming your friend because you spoke truthfully about me. Perhaps calling me out on certain things is just the therapy I need."

  She nodded, but looked out the window, twirling her hair around her finger again.

  "If I may say something else?" He tried to redirect the conversation and end their chat on a positive note.

  She looked back at him.

  The compliment he wanted to give her ended on the tip of his tongue. Irene blinked at him with those big doe eyes of hers, and his words evaporated in his mind.

  He cleared his throat, cursing himself for reducing Irene to a pretty pair of eyes that would steal words from him.

  "Thank you for forcing me to tag along," he said. "Otherwise, I would've just sat with my novel and worried myself into re-evaluating every choice I've made in my life."

  Initially, Irene appeared taken aback by his words. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but she clamped them together, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  "And," he continued before the nerves made him sick. "I rather enjoyed watching you work. I read crime novels and to watch one play out in real life is fascinating. Your skills are truly remarkable."

  The small smile stayed, and her cheeks blushed, the colour moving back to her ears, turning them a soft pink.

  "That's kind of you, Joe." She looked back out the window, the smile still on her face.

  As he gazed out the window, he realized they'd taken a detour. They were still several streets from their destination, and yet the cab pulled over to the side of the road in front of a three-story dark brick house.

  "I'll only be a minute." Irene flung the cab door open and hopped out. She cut through the small alley between the dark house and its neighbour. Curtains covered all the windows, and the front steps needed serious repair. Joe stared after her as s
he disappeared through a side door.

  Who lived here that she was so desperate to visit?

  This particular part of London wasn't great, but the buildings held up during the bombings. Joe was shocked when he returned to London after the war and found almost every corner touched in some way. Some buildings were completely gone, others were missing bricks or windows, and some needed repairs even before the war, but the supplies were rerouted to the front lines. The wonder he'd felt when he'd come to London for school vanished quickly after the war, and the city resembled a beaten man on his last legs. Despite the destruction that London went through, every day another building repair finished and a new coat of paint dried.

  Within minutes, Irene appeared out of the alley, and she slipped back into the cab. Several fragrances swirled around the cab as Irene climbed in.

  "What were you doing?" he asked.

  "I left a list with my experts," she said. "A request for recent information on poisons and theories for the code on the back of the pin."

  "Both of those you can find in there?" He asked.

  "Yes," she said, finishing the conversation with a nod of her head. "Now, onward."

  Chapter VII

  The Interrogation of Constable Drebber

  Irene and Joe shared a couch in Constable Drebber's small, dingy living room, the cushions worn and sinking toward the middle, tilting both of them into each other. The doughy constable sat in a chair opposite them, waiting for them to speak, reluctant to answer their questions. He only agreed to talk to them because Joe mentioned DI's Lestrade and Gregory sent them, and even then, he barely acknowledged Irene.

  "I want to know," she said. "What you saw, from start to finish."

  "Check my report."

  "Yes," Irene said. "But I want to hear your own words."

  He hesitated, and Irene frowned. If she knew Drebber would give her this much trouble, she would've just read the report.

  "This is a direct order from DI's Lestrade and Gregory," she snapped. "Speak."

  Drebber glanced at Joe, but he waited as well. Resigned, Drebber started on his story.

  "I was walking my route and saw the lamplight out the side window just past midnight," he grumbled. "Thought someone might be squatting in the house, so I went in-"