Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #6

by Marvin Kaye

  “It belongs to a friend of mine.”

  “Well, tell your friend he’s been taken. This is a fake.” He glared at me and then said, “It’s a counterfeit. See, look at this label. The stitching is all wrong. And feel the material, it’s a cheap copy, a knock-off. These are sold on the street. It’s a shame, really. They’re brought into the country illegally and passed off as the real thing. Then the real manufacturer has to raise prices to compensate for lost revenue. It costs consumers millions. And it hurts my business, too.”

  I took the dog and shoved it back into my pocket.

  “Tell your friend to go to the police,” said the manager.

  “Yeah,” I said, “I’ll mention it to him.” Then I walked out of the store.

  At Tim’s funeral near Tarrytown, there were only ten people, friends of his from acting classes he’d taken over the years. All of them agreed that they hadn’t heard from him in months. After the service was over, Valerie and I took the rented sedan back to Manhattan, went to a restaurant and had some lunch.

  “Oh,” said Valerie, over coffee, “before I forget, Tim gave me something that he wanted you to have.” Then she handed me a paperback book.

  “How To Care For Your Cat?” I said, reading the title then flipping through the pages.

  “He sent it to me last month with instructions to give it to you the next time I saw you. Weird, huh? I thought at the time it was some kind of joke, but you know Tim, he was always a real joker.”

  “Yeah,” I said. Then I thought, he was also a sleazeball, a guy who would do anything for a buck. I wondered if I should tell Valerie what I’d learned, then decided that the news would keep for another time.

  That night, I fed Fluffy and looked through How To Care For Your Cat. Why would Tim want to give me this book? And then I wondered if maybe he’d been stealing from the crooks he was working for. That was the only thing I could come up with. That would explain why they had him killed. Murdered, so it would look like an accident. Then they searched his apartment to find what he’d stolen from them. But why hadn’t they found his bankbook?

  I was going through How To Care For Your Cat for the tenth or eleventh time when I noticed that one of the pages had a slight fold on top. Dog-eared. I smiled. Then I looked at the page. It was all about how to protect your cat from getting lost. The author recommended a microchip inserted by a veterinarian. This chip would have an identification code on it, so that if the cat were ever lost, a scanner could be passed over it so that the owner’s name and address could be read back. The book said that this method was much superior to a collar which could fall off or a tattoo which could fade. It went on to say that the chip could be surgically implanted by a veterinarian between the cat’s shoulder blades.

  I closed the book. Fluffy was an indoor cat; why would she need to have a microchip put in her?

  * * * *

  L

  ater that night, as I was mindlessly flipping channels on TV with the remote control, trying to dull my mind from the events of the last few days, something occurred to me that made me turn off the set. Tim was a neatness freak about his books. Why would he send a book to his sister with a crease on a page? I’d been with him many times when he’d returned books to bookstores for lesser problems.

  I went back to How To Care For Your Cat and looked through it again. “A microchip could be surgically implanted by a veterinarian between the cat’s shoulder blades,” it read. Once again, something wasn’t adding up.

  The next morning, I made an appointment with a veterinarian. I figured it was a good idea to get Fluffy checked out, anyway.

  At six o’clock on Monday evening, I walked into the vet’s office with Fluffy. He examined her and pronounced her to be in good health. I asked him about the microchip. He felt around and found one in Fluffy and took out a hand-held machine.

  “I’m going to scan it,” he said, as he aimed the gizmo at Fluffy. “Damn,” he said, looking at me, “there are three types of microchips, each one of which requires its own separate scanning machine. There’s been talk of standardizing them so there’s only one type of chip, but so far it hasn’t happened yet.”

  He took out another machine and ran it over Fluffy, who seemed remarkably unconcerned. You’d think she was scanned for microchips by veterinarians every day.

  “No,” said the doctor, “it’s not responding to anything.” Then he got out a magnifying glass and stared at Fluffy’s back. “Do you mind if I take this thing out?” he asked.

  “Will it hurt Fluffy?”

  “No, and it won’t take long.”

  “Go ahead.”

  In three seconds, he had a little chip between a pair of tweezers and was staring at it through a magnifying glass. “I’ve never seen anything like this before, not in a cat, anyway.” He put it under a microscope, then looked back up at me. “This is some kind of computer chip. I don’t think it has anything to do with cat ID.”

  I thanked him, he gave me the microchip, and Fluffy and I went to the waiting area, paid his receptionist for the check up and left.

  The next morning at work, I found a computer nerd who sent me to a friend of his who specialized in software design, who knew exactly what the chip was. After examining it, he soldered it into a circuit board and stuck it into one of his readers and printed out page after page of names, places, dates and a whole description of the counterfeiting sweatshop. There was also a letter explaining that Tim had decided to take the job with the intention of gathering information in order to turn it over to the proper authorities. He wanted to get the whole operation shut down and make sure the big fish didn’t get away. As to his job as foreman, he said that he looked at it as the greatest acting challenge of his career. After I got over the shock of it all, I sent copies of the pages to the Attorney General’s office, anonymously.

  The following week, I took Valerie out to dinner. She asked me if I’d consider keeping Fluffy for good. I told her I would like that. Then we traded stories about Tim and remembered him as he’d been. Then I told her all about her brother and gave her the bank book. It’s not often that any of us get to know a real life hero. I’m proud to say that he was my best friend.

  Cartoon, by Andrew Toos

  The Bank Job, by Steve Hagood

  T

  he bank was packed. What were all these people doing here? A security guard who reminded me of Barney Fife with his gangly build and uniform two sizes too big stood just inside the door.

  “What’s with all these people?” I asked him.

  “Payday at the factory across the street,” he said.

  I looked out the glass door. Sure enough, there was a factory across the street, belching smoke into the sky. I hadn’t noticed it.

  “Don’t they use direct deposit?” I asked Barney Fife.

  He shrugged his thin shoulders and said, “Don’t you?”

  I started to explain that I didn’t work a job that paid regularly and that the only reason that I was in the bank in the first place was because it was Friday afternoon, and I wouldn’t get back to the city before my regular branch closed, and I didn’t want to have to carry the check I had just gotten from a client around with me all weekend, but I let it go and tried to decide which line was the shortest. It didn’t really matter, I decided. Four lines sprouted from the bank of teller windows and whichever line I chose was sure to be the slowest; it always was. Clutching my deposit slip and cursing banking Gods, I wandered over to the nearest line.

  The old couple standing in front of me were easily in their eighties, if not nineties. A layer of skin, so thin a strong wind would have peeled it like an onion, filmed the old man’s head. The woman, I assumed was his wife, stood a head shorter than him. She clutched an oversized handbag. Large, disfigured knuckles testified to the arthritis that was surely a daily trial to the poor old woman.

  The line surged forward one agonizing step, then halted. I could see right over the top of the old couple, but the black kid in front of the
m had a huge afro that forced me to crane my neck to see if we had reached the same time zone as the teller. To my surprise, the black kid had just stepped up to the counter.

  “I can help the next in line.” I turned my head and saw another teller stepping to the open window, next to the one I was waiting for. Her sparkling blue eyes looked at the old couple expectantly.

  I wanted to jump to her open window, but resisted and tapped the old lady on the shoulder. She looked at me over her shoulder and I pointed at the new teller.

  “You’re next in line,” I said.

  “We’re fine here,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I shrugged and stepped toward the window. A pony-tailed factory worker wearing safety glasses, blue jeans, and work boots beat me by a fraction of a second. I sighed and thought, he who hesitates—

  “Oh my God!” someone screamed. “That man just robbed me!”

  It was my original teller. She pointed to the thick glass entrance door. Every head in the bank turned to follow her finger. Barney Fife jumped from his post and bolted through the door.

  A portly man in a plaid, wool three-piece suit, complete with gold watch chain, rushed from a glassed-in office to the teller’s side.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “He had a gun, tucked in his pants,” the girl explained. She was young, blonde, and obviously very shaken. Her voice trembled. “He showed it to me and demanded all the money in my drawer.”

  The man was the bank manager, I learned from reading the plaque next to the office he had come from. He looked in the drawer, running his fingers through the slots where the cash should have been. A beleaguered look lodged on his pudgy face.

  “Did you step on the silent alarm?” he asked.

  “I … I forgot. I was so scared.”

  “Dye pack?”

  The girl shook her head. Tears brimmed in her eyes.

  The manager looked to the door. Barney Fife had just returned. He shook his head; he had lost the suspect.

  “Lock it,” the manager said.

  The security guard ran the locks into the floor and ceiling, securing the building.

  To the patrons in the bank, the manager said, “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, folks, but we’ve had a bit of an incident. I’m going to have to ask for your patience until the police arrive.”

  A moment of stunned silence was broken by the wail of a hungry baby, followed by shouts of protest.

  A mailman said, “You can’t keep us here!”

  “I have to get back to work!” a business-suited woman said.

  “Unlock that door and let us out!” the factory worker said.

  The manager ignored the angry crowd and picked up a nearby telephone. Moments later, the wail of police sirens filled the air, followed by the screech of tires as several police cars surrounded the bank. What looked like an entire platoon of navy blue uniforms piled from the cars and descended on the bank.

  The relieved security guard unlocked the door and let them in. He would no longer have to face what was quickly becoming an angry mob alone.

  The mob turned on the officers as they assembled.

  “They won’t let us go!” the mother of the crying baby complained.

  “Make them let us go!” demanded a voice in the crowd.

  An older officer, graying at the temples, with crow’s feet marking the corner of his eyes, held up his hands. The crowd quieted at his gesture. In a rich baritone that would have made a gospel singer proud, he said, “The detectives are on the way. Once we get your statements you’ll be free to go.”

  “What statement?” the factory worker yelled, walking toward the cop. “I didn’t see anything!”

  “Just tell that to the detectives,” the cop replied, holding up his hands and stopping the factory worker’s progress. “Until then, nobody goes anywhere.”

  The mob quieted into a surly silence, broken only by the occasional gripe between strangers who had suddenly found themselves allies in an us-against-them dispute and the cries of the unhappy baby. I was not happy at the change to my plans, either, but having been a cop once myself, I understood the necessity of keeping everyone there. So I settled in to wait, leaning on the marble countertop in the open teller window.

  It was then that the old man in front of me started to gasp for breath. I turned to him and saw a sheen of sweat covering his liver-spotted head. He clutched his chest and staggered in a circle.

  “Help!” his wife screeched. “Somebody help!”

  I grabbed the old man to keep him from falling to the hard floor. An officer wheeled a chair over and we set the old man carefully into it. Another officer called for an ambulance. It showed up at the same time as the detectives.

  The paramedics attended to the old man while the detectives concentrated on the teller. She had calmed considerably. With the bank manager hanging over her shoulder, she again recited her story of the gun in the black kid’s waistband and his demand for money. I had returned to the counter as she talked. I realized that the high counter prevented me from seeing the watch chain that hung just above the bank manger’s waist. If I couldn’t see that, how could the teller have seen a gun in the black kid’s waistband?

  The paramedics wheeled a gurney, holding the ashen old man, toward the front door. An oxygen tube had been stuck in his nose and draped over his ears. His wife walked cautiously at his side, still clutching her oversized handbag. They were just feet away from the door. Why hadn’t they moved to the new teller when they had the chance? I wondered. They might have been out of the bank before the commotion started. And then it hit me.

  “Hold it!” I hollered.

  Every eye in the bank turned toward me.

  “Who are you?” one of the detectives asked. He wore an off-the-rack suit with heavy black shoes. His hair was slicked back and his eyes were hard, and focused on me.

  “I used to be on the job,” I said.

  “Humph,” he replied, not impressed. “What are you yelling about?”

  “Don’t let them leave,” I said, pointing to the paramedics and the old couple.

  “What is this?” the bank manager said. “That poor old man is having a heart attack. And my bank has been robbed.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “but not by the man your teller is describing.”

  The teller’s eyes darted between her boss and the old couple. I knew I had them.

  “Check the lady’s bag,” I told the detectives, pointing at the old lady.

  They both eyed me skeptically.

  “You can check the tape,” I said, pointing to the security camera mounted on the wall directly behind the teller, “but I bet she blocked the view of the handoff. If you let them leave, the money will be gone.”

  The detective looked from the teller, to the camera, to the old man on the gurney, and then decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. He nodded at the officer who had originally taken control of the scene.

  The old lady’s gnarled fingers proved amazingly strong as the cop tugged on the strap like a purse snatcher. Finally he succeeded in wresting the bag from her grip. He opened it, reached his hand inside, and brought out a stack of cash, still wrapped in bank wrappers, with the flourish of a magician. A collective gasp came from the assembled crowd.

  “What the hell?” the bank manager wondered.

  I let out the breath I had been holding, and then explained. “There never was a bank robber, at least not one with a gun. Your teller screamed and pointed toward the door, drawing everyone’s attention away from her. Prior to that, her accomplices refused to leave her line when the window next to hers opened. Why? Because they had to stay in her line so she could pass them the money while everyone was distracted.” I pointed at the very angry octogenarian. “I’m sure when the paramedics get her husband to the hospital, they’ll find that he did not have a heart attack. It was just a ruse to get the money out of the bank.”

  The teller stood with he
r mouth hanging open while an officer cuffed her hands behind her back and began to read her rights.

  “Who are you?” she asked with a sneer.

  “Parker Chase,” I replied. “Private eye.”

  Silent Victim, by C. E. Lawrence

  (Excerpt from the novel)

  PROLOGUE

  T

  here she is — just look at her with her chic little itsy-bitsy leather knapsack and her oh-so-hip camel coat and her CFM boots. Well, she wasn’t so approachable as those boots might suggest, now, was she? Too bad — if she hadn’t been so uppity and above it all, maybe she would live to see another day.

  But it’s too late for that. Even if she got down on those skinny, leather-clad knees and begged for mercy, we wouldn’t listen, would we? No, because bad girls must be punished, and she has been a very naughty girl. Very naughty indeed. She couldn’t be bothered with the likes of us — not even enough to be polite. Thought it was oh-so-funny that we would approach her, and wanted everyone around to know how amused she was by it.

  She’ll soon be laughing out the other side of her mouth — what’s left of it. She has to be taught a lesson in manners, one she’ll never forget.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  T

  he phone call was unexpected — unbidden and out of the blue. It took him so much by surprise that Lee Campbell found himself stumbling for words. The last thing he expected on a Friday night was a call from a former patient — and certainly not this former patient.

  “Is this Dr. Lee Campbell?” The voice was high and breathy, petulance lurking underneath the seductiveness, like a bad Marilyn Monroe impersonator. He recognized it at once.

  “Uh — yes.” Yes, Ana, he wanted to say, but some part of him still hoped that it wasn’t her.

  But of course it was.

  “This is Ana Watkins.”

  “Oh, yes—hello, Ana. How are you?” His professionalism clicked in automatically, keeping his tone steady and objective — or so he hoped.