Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6

by Marvin Kaye

  “Alex,” said a woman’s voice.

  I looked up and saw Valerie, Tim’s sister, walking toward me. I stood and embraced her.

  “Oh, Alex,” she said.

  “Valerie, how is he?”

  “Bad, real bad.”

  We both sat down. Valerie took a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her bloodshot eyes. Her auburn hair was matted against her forehead.

  “I was just in there,” she said, gesturing to the door next to the information window. “They’re, they’re —” she took a deep breath, “— they’re doing all they can for him.”

  “They wouldn’t let me go in.”

  “Well, I gotta tell you, this is the only time being Tim’s sister ever gave me any special privileges.” She tried to smile, then dabbed her eyes some more.

  “On the phone all you said was —”

  “Yeah, he got hit by a car,” she said. “A hit and run, that’s all I know. He was walking on Ninth Avenue and Forty-fifth Street. He had the light. A car comes out of nowhere and bam, then it drives off. No one got a license plate number.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A black car.”

  “Well, that narrows it down.”

  “I’m just telling you what I was told. That’s all anyone saw. I was at work.” Valerie looked at her tissue and took a breath. “I’m so scared, Alex.”

  “Me, too.”

  Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. I hadn’t seen Valerie in months. She and Tim led very separate lives, only meeting occasionally.

  “You’re a good friend,” she finally said. “Tim’s lucky to have you.”

  I turned to look at the other people sitting in the room. They were young, middle-aged and elderly men and women. A mix of races. Everyone had serious expressions. Some clutched bloody arms or legs.

  Then I heard the door open. A man wearing green surgeon’s scrubs stepped out and held the door so it wouldn’t close. He pointed to Valerie and said, “May I speak with you, Miss?”

  Valerie stood up and I followed her through the doorway into a small alcove. The man eyed me, then looked at Valerie and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, “we tried everything. Your brother just expired.”

  Valerie burst out crying. I put my arm around her.

  “What was the cause of death?” I asked.

  “Massive hemorrhaging,” he said. “I’m really sorry. Now I’ve got to get back in there, we have a twelve year old kid with a bullet in his chest.”

  Valerie and I hobbled back into the waiting room.

  “Oh, God,” she said, “oh, God.”

  I wiped away a tear of my own and swallowed. “Do you need me to —”

  “No, Alex, I’ll be okay, I’m a big girl. I’m sure they’ll want me to sign papers and stuff. There’s no need for both of us to be here and …” A faraway look came into her eyes. “What about Fluffy?”

  “Fluffy?”

  “Tim’s cat.”

  “I know who Fluffy is.”

  “Someone’s got to take care of her now that …” she sobbed, then wiped her eyes.

  “I have a key that Tim gave me, I’ll get Fluffy and take her to my place.”

  “Thanks, Alex.”

  “Are you sure that —”

  “I’m fine. Besides, I think I want to be alone for a while.”

  I hugged Valerie and said, “I’ll call you later to see how you’re doing.”

  She nodded. Then I turned and walked out of the hospital.

  On the walk downtown I thought about Tim. Why had it happened? Why had some drunk driver mowed him down?

  And just when things seemed to be getting better for Tim. He’d always wanted to be an actor but had found little success. The odd job here and there, doing extra work or commercials or nonpaying gigs in dingy theatres downtown. Drifting from one temp job to another, often not even having enough money to cover the rent. I’d loaned him more than I cared to remember, never expecting to get any of it back and not being disappointed.

  I thought about the last few months. Tim had seemed more optimistic than he’d been in years. He’d gotten a new temp job that had been working out. But, unlike his other jobs, he’d been a bit vague about this one. Something to do with importing and exporting was all he’d tell me. Didn’t even want to give me the address or the telephone number, all he’d say was that it was located in Queens.

  I joked that he’d probably become a drug dealer to support his acting habit. He’d laughed but still wouldn’t go into detail. All I knew was that his new job was keeping him busy and that he was making money, which he said he was saving so he could take a few months off and go to auditions full time. Now he’d never go to any more auditions.

  It was getting dark when I turned on Forty-seventh and headed toward Ninth Avenue. I found Tim’s brownstone building and went up to his apartment on the second floor. I was about to put the key into the lock when I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. I pushed the door open and saw papers all over the floor. In addition, the dresser drawers had been opened and their contents scattered. Oh great, I thought, here the guy is killed by some drunk driver and now someone breaks in and trashes his place.

  Everywhere I looked were books and papers and dishes. All I could think about was how angry Tim would be. He always made it a point to keep his books in excellent condition. Oddly enough, I noticed that his TV and VCR had not been taken, nor had his phone answering machine, stereo or radio. I went into the bedroom. It was the same story as the living room. Stuff strewn on the floor, drawers opened.

  Fluffy! I thought. Had the cat gotten out? Was she okay? I went back into the living room and looked behind the couch, a favorite spot of hers. She wasn’t there. Then I checked the closets. They’d all been ransacked, too. I went back into the bedroom and found Fluffy cowering under the bed. Her long gold Persian hair was tangled and in knots.

  I picked her up and petted her. “Hi, girl, you okay?”

  She was still shaking as I held her. After a minute, I took her around the apartment and showed her that we were alone, then I opened a can of cat food and fed her.

  While Fluffy was eating, I wondered if I should call Valerie, then decided I’d tell her later. I also considered calling the police and reporting the robbery. But I realized I didn’t feel like talking to the cops. Hell, my best friend had died. I didn’t want to answer questions, besides, I didn’t know anything. I stepped around piles of clothing and files and did an inventory, or at least as much of one as I could do. By my very rough estimate, there wasn’t anything that seemed to be missing. I sat down on Tim’s old couch and thought about the events of the day as Fluffy came by and sat at my feet.

  “You saw the whole thing, didn’t you, girl,” I said. “Too bad you can’t talk.”

  She meowed.

  After awhile, I got up and found Fluffy’s cat carrier, her litter box and under some magazines on the floor, some cans of cat and a box of dry cat food. Then I coaxed Fluffy into the carrier, left the apartment and locked it.

  When I got back to my place, I let Fluffy out, petted her and showed her around. Then I set up her food and litter box.

  As I watched Fluffy eat her dry food, I thought about what an incredible coincidence it was that Tim had been killed and, on the very same day, his apartment was broken into.

  And then there was the fact that nothing of value had been taken. Why would someone go to all the trouble of breaking into an apartment and then leave empty-handed? The obvious answer would be, because they got interrupted before they could. But by whom?

  Fluffy rubbed up against my leg. I petted her. She looked at me with what seemed like sad eyes. Maybe she knew that Tim was gone. I’d heard of cases of cats mourning their masters.

  I called Valerie. “How’re you doing?” I said.

  “I took a sedative,” she replied. “It’s too bad my Mom and Dad are gone. I really feel like talking to them.”

  Tim and Valerie’s parents had di
ed a number of years earlier. Their mom from cancer, their dad from a heart attack.

  “Did you get Fluffy?” she asked.

  “She’s right here with me.” Then I told her about the break in.

  “Wow,” she said, “any idea who’d want to do something like this?”

  “I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”

  “How about calling the police?”

  “For a break in where nothing was taken? They’re not bringing in known murderers, what shot do we have?”

  “This isn’t the best night for me to have ideas.”

  “Me either,” I said. “Say, do you know where Tim has been working?”

  “No,” she said. “He said something about some kind of import/export business in Queens. He wouldn’t give me the number because he told me that his boss didn’t want him to get any personal calls.”

  “He told me the same thing.”

  “He had this job longer than any of the rest.”

  “Yeah, been there four months at least. A lot of his jobs only lasted a few days or a week.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “I guess not.”

  “His funeral is Friday,” said Valerie, and gave me the time and address.

  I talked to her for a few more minutes and then hung up. After explaining to Fluffy that I was going out for a walk, I left my apartment.

  As I went down the dark city streets, I thought about Tim. Had it all been just a coincidence? He’d been acting oddly since he’d taken the import/export job. Before that he’d talk to me every day, but after taking the job he’d often disappear for a few days at a time. Then he’d tell me he’d been working late. Also, I’d noticed that he’d been tenser, edgier than usual. And he’d seemed more secretive. Whenever I’d ask him about work, he’d try to steer the conversation away from it or just give me evasive answers.

  When I got to Tim’s apartment, I pawed through the debris and under a newspaper which had been under Fluffy’s litter box, I found his address book and then his bankbook. I knew I was just grasping at straws but at least I could satisfy myself as to what he’d been doing.

  I looked through Tim’s bankbook. Holy moley, I thought. What was he doing with seventy-five thousand bucks? He’d always told me he was broke! And, on top of that, he still owed me a couple of thousand!

  * * * *

  O

  n the way back to my apartment, I stopped at an all night supermarket, bought some more cat food and a cat brush, then headed home.

  Fluffy was hiding behind a chair, but eventually she came out. I brushed out her tangles, then looked through Tim’s address book. I found one listing in Queens and next to it the letter “W.” I assumed this meant “work.” There was no company name or phone number, just an address.

  I slept badly that night. In the morning I called in sick at the advertising agency I work for.

  Armed with Tim’s address book, I went out, found a cab and told the driver to take me to Queens. As we were going over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, I wondered if I was on some kind of wild goose chase.

  The cab let me off near Queens Boulevard then took off like a rocket. New York cab drivers don’t like to leave Manhattan except to go to the airport. I looked around. The buildings seemed like they’d been there forever. Dark factories on empty, cracking streets. After checking the addresses of a few, I finally concluded that I was standing in front of the one I was looking for. I’d come to this by a process of elimination since there were no numbers anywhere on the building. In fact it looked abandoned. The windows had been bricked up and the door had no handle on it. Maybe I’d reached a dead end. Maybe Tim had put down the wrong address or maybe the place he’d worked at had moved.

  I knocked on the door. Nobody answered. I knocked again, same response. I shrugged, then spotted a grungy looking coffee shop across the street and went over.

  An old man sat in a dark booth in a corner, another at the far end of the counter. I ordered a club soda and got onto a stool at the counter. A skinny guy, who I guessed to be in his sixties, with a one day old beard and a grease stained apron, brought the drink and set it in front of me.

  “You been working here long?” I asked.

  He gave me a fish-eyed look and said, “What’s it to you?”

  “I was just wondering if you knew anything about that building across the street?”

  He glanced at the window then back at me. “You don’t want to be asking questions about that place.”

  “Why not?”

  He wiped his callused hands on his apron and said, “It ain’t a good idea, that’s all.”

  “I just want to know what they do over there. Is the place even open? Would you happen to know the name of it?”

  “I don’t know nothing about nothing,” he said.

  “Okay, well, would you happen to have their phone number?”

  “I wouldn’t happen to have squat, young fella, and if you were smart, you’d pay for your drink and be on your way.”

  I slapped a couple of bucks down on the counter. As I did, I saw the old man who’d been sitting in the booth slide out and walk behind a beaded curtain, which apparently led to a back room.

  When I stepped outside the coffee shop, I stared at the factory building. As I did, I saw a woman walk up to it. Then the door opened and she went inside. I was about to run across the street when someone grabbed me.

  “Hey you,” said a man’s voice.

  I turned to see two dark haired guys with serious expressions staring at me. They were dressed in dirty jeans and leather jackets.

  “Leave me alone,” I said, trying not to show how scared I was.

  “What are you asking questions about that building for?” said one of the toughs.

  “It’s a free country,” I said.

  One of them held me while the other jabbed his finger into my cheek. “Get out of this neighborhood and don’t come back.” Then he punched me in the stomach and left me on the sidewalk.

  Two minutes later, I got up and started walking quickly. Eventually, I found a subway station and took a train back to Manhattan.

  That night, in my apartment, I pondered my options. I could either forget all about this, or try to find out what was going on. Had Tim been involved in something shady? Who had he been working for? Did where he worked have anything to do with his death? And why had his apartment been broken into? Were the two connected?

  At about midnight I got so restless I couldn’t stand it anymore. I went out and managed to talk a cab driver into taking me to Queens.

  The driver let me off a couple of blocks from the factory and then the taxi roared off into the distance. I’d tried to get him to wait for me but no amount of money would do that trick. I walked along the deserted streets cautiously. Street lights were broken. This time I went around the building and approached it from the other side.

  When I got there I saw a loading dock. A couple of trucks were parked in front of it and two men who looked like they might be drivers were standing around smoking cigarettes and talking. I snuck through the alley and hid behind a pile of garbage.

  Someone called out to the men. They tossed away their cigarettes and then they started loading boxes onto the trucks. This went on for about an hour and then one of the men got into one of trucks and drove away, allowing me a clearer view of the loading dock. While the second driver waited, I saw through the open doors and into the building. There were lots of boxes piled on top of each other on wooden pallets. Then I looked up and saw an open window on the fourth floor. It was the only window I had seen in the whole building that hadn’t been bricked over or boarded up. I heard someone call out to the driver and watched him go inside the building.

  I moved closer to the truck and then, on the elevated area of the dock, I saw a trash barrel. My heart was racing. I rushed from my hiding place and up to the trash barrel. I looked into it and found piles of stuffed toy animals. I grabbed a small blue dog and ran back to the a
lley. As I did, I heard footsteps and voices.

  Had they seen me? Yup, they had. I ran for blocks, finally stopping in another alley to catch my breath.

  Then, eventually, I ran to the subway station and got a train back to Manhattan.

  * * * *

  T

  he next day, I called in sick again at work, grabbed a pair of binoculars and went back to Queens. This time, I found a building a few blocks away from the factory. I went up the fire escape.

  From the roof of this building I waited for hours till someone opened the shutters of the fourth floor window I’d seen the night before. And then I saw them. Rows and rows of women working at sewing machines. Dressed in shabby clothes, their arms and hands moved almost mechanically. Their faces were hidden in the dim shadows created by the weak lightbulbs that lit their workspace.

  On the train back to Manhattan, I thought about Tim’s job at the sweatshop. It made sense now. Cheap immigrant labor working impossible hours to turn out toys. They probably paid the women almost nothing. And what had Tim done? Had he been a foreman or a supervisor? No wonder he was making money. They were paying for his silence as well as his work. How had Tim gotten himself involved with all this?

  I went back to my apartment and fed Fluffy. “What was going through Tim’s mind?” I said, as I watched her eat her canned food.

  I stared at the little blue toy dog I’d gotten out of the trash barrel and wondered what I should do. Then I put the toy into my pocket and decided to go out for a walk.

  As I headed east, I thought about Tim again. You’re convinced you know a person and then you discover that he’s someone else. It’s enough to make you reconsider everything. I passed a toy store and went inside. I took the blue dog out of my pocket and asked to see the manager.

  “Yes,” said a middle-aged man, wearing a jacket and necktie.

  “Do you sell toys like this?” I asked, holding up the dog.

  “Yes,” said the manager, “everyone carries this brand, it’s —” Then he gave me a strange look and and put on a pair of glasses. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.