Stan put a hand on Charlie's shoulder.
"Charlie? Didn't that seem just a bit—"
"—unfair?” Charlie jumped up. “Yes, it was unfair. I did all the work. I had to make the Web site that brought in all the money. I made it work. They,” Charlie pointed at The Bevy, who watched with wide-eyed horror, “they did nothing, except to play and fool around with each other. Sarah wanted to sleep with Geoffrey. Geoffrey wanted to sleep with Louise, but she wouldn't have him. Geoffrey got a promotion because he took the corporate bosses on a vacation. Robert thought he deserved that promotion. Mary quit sleeping with Robert when Geoffrey got promoted; she wanted to marry Geoffrey. All of them were so busy screwing around that sales dropped. But I did my part. The Web site worked exactly as it should. I stayed and stayed and stayed to be sure. Still, promotion of the Web site was down, so revenue went down. They failed and got promotions. I did my job and got nothing!"
Stan soothed Charlie, coaxing him to sit.
"What happened the night Geoffrey died?"
"I was trying to work, but couldn't because of the noise Mary and Geoffrey made in his office. It wasn't right. Then, Mary got mad because Geoffrey wouldn't leave his wife. That was wrong. No one else was around, so I went down to Romero's office. He's my friend. I got the elevator key and opened the door to the elevator. Then I shut off the power to this floor. I hid in the shadows, waiting for Geoffrey to come out and investigate. He did, and when he walked over to the open elevator, I shoved him down the shaft and threw the elevator key in after him."
Charlie sort of expected The Bevy to clap, to canonize him as they had Mary.
The Bevy gasped.
Dan swore.
Mary sobbed.
Stan sighed.
"Charlie, did you ever tell Geoffrey that it was wrong not to give you a raise? Did you ever insist?"
"Yes, of course I did."
"How did Geoffrey react?"
"He laughed."
"Just laughed?” Dan's eyebrows pulled together in scepticism.
"Did he say anything?” Stan coaxed.
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"He said, ‘Charlie, sometimes you get the elevator, and sometimes you get the shaft.’”
(c)2006 by Conrad Lawrence
DEAR DR. WATSON by Steve Hockensmith
Steve Hockensmith is an extraordinarily versatile writer: For his P.I. story “The Big Road,” he received nominations for three awards: the Barry, the Macavity, and the Shamus. The am-ateur detective series to which the following story belongs is one of the best to see print in recent years. “Holmes on the Range", the first book in the series, is out in paperback. The sequel, “On the Wrong Track", is due soon from St. Martins’ (hardcover).
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
Dr. John Watson
The Strand Magazine
George Newnes Ltd.
3 to 13 Southampton Street
Strand, London, England
Dear Dr. Watson,
"Better late than never” is one of those supposed truisms that's not always all that true. If you make chicken soup for a sick friend but forget to give it to him, let's say, you'd be ill-advised to serve it to him when he's up and about a month later—unless you're trying to get him sick all over again.
Nevertheless, my brother Gustav and I feel compelled to extend our sympathies to you regarding the loss of your friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Though Mr. Holmes passed more than two years ago, we only learned of it recently, so in addition to sympathies we extend apologies if this missive merely serves to reopen an old wound. Sprinkling on salt is the last thing we'd want to do. Rather, we think (or at least hope) that we can offer some small measure of balm.
I'm sure you've heard again and again that Mr. Holmes isn't really dead. Your remarkable accounts of his cases have graced him with an immortality of sorts, and so long as he's remembered, he's not truly gone. I can testify to the truthfulness of that—and take it a step further.
Mr. Holmes has attained more than fame. For some of us, he's become a way of life.
Not that Gustav and I could claim to be “consulting detectives” like your friend. Being cowhands in the American West, the only thing we're ever consulted on is which steer to rope and brand next. But my brother's determined to change that. And with the help of your stories, he just might succeed.
A stray copy of The Strand first introduced us to you and Mr. Holmes last year. Immediately, Gustav set about studying on the story inside ("The Red-Headed League") the way the college boys at Harvard and Yale study on ... well, whatever it is they study. My formal education lasted a mere six years, you understand, while Gustav measures his schooling not in years but months. To this day, I have to do all his reading for him. But unlettered though he is, my brother's far from unbrained, and he soon memorized “The Red-Headed League” and every other Holmes tale we could get a rope on.
Gustav's always been a gloomy sort of fellow—it's why he's known as “Old Red” in drovering circles. He may yet have the fiery-red hair of a young man, but he's prone to the black moods of a bitter, gray-bearded codger. He's still his old dark-tempered self most of the time, but that changes when he gets to talking about your stories. They light him up like a rusty old lantern that's been dusted off and fresh-filled with oil.
Old Red's even begun detecting, in an amateur enthusiast kind of way, and he's actually proved to be quite good at it—though I'm not always enthused about the danger his snooping can put us in. All the same, when Gustav set off in search of actual employment as a detective last month, I was riding right alongside him, bouncing from town to town across Montana and Wyoming. Some folks might ask why I'd be so willing to tag along on another fellow's crusade, but I reckon you're the last man on earth I'd have to explain that to.
Sadly, the first dozen or so detectives we encountered welcomed us not with open arms but with open contempt. The symbol of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency might be the great all-seeing eye, but it may as well be the great butt-kicking boot as far as we're concerned. When we weren't laughed out of town, we were simply ignored. Yet Gustav's determination never wavered.
"Well, that about does it for Montana,” he said as we walked out of the Pink office in Missoula.
"Idaho?” I sighed. I closed the door behind me, but I could still hear the Pinkerton men guffawing inside.
Old Red nodded. “Idaho."
I turned for a last look in at the Pinks, intending to do what they'd just done to us. Namely, spit in their eye—in this case, the eye painted on their office window above the words “WE NEVER SLEEP.” I saw one of the men inside headed toward us, though, so I thought it best to swallow my pride (and my phlegm) until we heard what he had to say. I poked Gustav with an elbow, and he turned around just as the detective opened the door and leaned outside.
"Hold on! I got a tip for you."
He was a portly man with the round, leering face of a little boy tormenting ants, and I was tempted to offer him a tip of my own—watch his mouth or he'd get it smacked.
"Oh?” I said instead.
The man nodded. “You two might not be fit to be Pinkertons, but I bet you'd make a fine couple of Bloebaums."
"A fine couple of what now?” Old Red asked, obviously unsure to what degree he should be insulted.
The chubby Pink grinned. “You wanna be detectives?” He jerked his big, hamlike head to the left. “Follow your nose."
Then he ducked inside and got back to laughing with his friends.
"You ever hear of a ‘blow bomb'?” my brother asked me.
"Nope. But I can tell you this much: It ain't a compliment.” I started toward the post where our horses were hitched. “Sorry, fellers—no rest for the weary. It's on to Idaho for the lot of us."
"Not yet, it ain't."
Before I'd even turned around, Gustav was clomping away up the clattering planks of the sidewalk.
"And just where are you goin'?"
&nb
sp; "Takin’ the man's tip,” he said without looking back.
"That weren't no tip—it was a kick in the teeth!"
Old Red kept going. I muttered a curse and set after him.
It didn't take many strides to reach Gustav's side: I'm “Big Red” to my brother's “Old Red,” and you don't earn a handle like mine with stumpy legs. But even little Tom Thumb himself would've caught up quick enough, for Gustav suddenly made the sort of stop you come to when walking into a brick wall.
He was staring at something ahead and to the left of us—another office window, I saw when I followed his line of sight. There was a large, pinkish triangle painted on the glass.
"Oh, you gotta be kiddin',” I said when I realized what it was.
The big blob was a nose. There were words printed both above and beneath it, and I read them aloud for Old Red's benefit.
THE BLOEBAUM NATIONAL DETECTIVE AGENCY
WE SNIFF OUT THE TRUTH
EST. 1892
This being June of 1893, of course, I didn't consider the agency's date of establishment much of an endorsement. I also thought its slogan and symbol, in a word, stunk.
None of that slowed Old Red down, though. He marched straight into that office. I followed, because ... well, I reckon fellows like you and me just kind of get in the habit, don't we?
There wasn't much to the Bloebaum National Detective Agency's Missoula office. Three filing cabinets—battered. Two wicker chairs for clients—shabby. One desk—cluttered.
And one man—surprised.
"Yes?” the man said, jerking his gaze up from a newspaper spread across the desk. He was fortyish, well-dressed and good-looking, but his suit and his features alike had a washed-out quality, like a pretty picture that's starting to fade. “What do you want?"
There was an edge of fear in the man's voice.
My brother may be the deducifier—and the elder of the two of us to boot. But I'm the talker. So Old Red took off his weather-beaten Boss of the Plains and nodded at me.
"Good afternoon, sir,” I said, sweeping my own hat off my head. “My name's Otto Amlingmeyer, and this is my brother Gustav. We'd just like a moment of your time to discuss any employment opportunities the Bloebaum Agency might have for..."
There was no point in continuing—not with the man laughing the way he was. It wasn't the scornful hooting we'd been hearing from the Pinks, though. It was a laugh of relief.
Old Red and I were dressed rough, for the trail. We looked like what we were—drifters, grub-line riders, saddle bums.
Or gunmen, maybe. Hired toughs.
It wouldn't rise to the level of “deduction” as Mr. Holmes would define it, but I could make a pretty decent guess just then. When we'd walked in, the man assumed we were there to stomp the stuffing out of him.
"You'll have to excuse me,” he said, choking off his chuckles. “It's just that...” He shrugged, his manner quickly turning cold and dismissive. “There's no work for you here."
I put my hat back on. We'd just doubled our daily quota of rejection, and I was eager to find someone who'd actually be pleased to see us—the nearest bartender, for instance. But before I could head for the door, Gustav moved in the opposite direction, stepping closer to the man's desk, hat still in hand.
"Doesn't look like there's much work for you, either, Mr. Bloebaum."
The man scowled at him a moment, then looked down at his newspaper. “That's none of your business."
"It could be."
Bloebaum (for obviously my brother had him pegged correctly) slowly brought his gaze back up again. “What do you mean?"
"I mean it must be hard for a man in your position—trying to compete with a big outfit like the Pinkertons all by your lonesome. Folks see a half-empty office, one feller sittin’ around readin’ the paper, they think penny ante, second rate ... and they just walk up the street to the Pinks. But it don't have to be like that."
Gustav's usually not one for blowing smoke, but he can be a regular chimney stack when he's detecting—or trying to land a job detecting, apparently.
Bloebaum smirked at him sourly. “So what I really need to do is pay a couple cowboys to run around in here pretending to be my busy staff?"
Old Red shook his head. “I ain't talkin’ about pretendin'."
The detective sighed, his smile turning wistful. “Look, I know times are hard. I'm sure you two really need the work, but I can't—"
"I ain't talkin’ about workin’ for pay, neither."
Bloebaum blinked at him. “You're not?"
"Yeah,” I blurted out. “You're not?"
"No. I ain't,” Gustav said firmly. “We got us a little nest egg—"
"Hummingbird size, maybe,” I cut in.
"—so we can put in a little stretch for free to show you what we can do,” my brother plowed on. “We might look like your ordinary, everyday out-of-work waddies, but believe you me—we know a thing or two about deducifyin'. All we need is a chance to prove it."
Bloebaum furrowed his brow. “'Deducifying'?"
"Just think it over. We'll be around."
Gustav put on his hat and headed for the door.
"Thanks for consultin’ me, brother,” I said under my breath as I followed him. “I do so appreciate the faith you put in my good judgment and—"
"Wait."
Old Red peeked over at me, lips twisting into his smug little “Ain't I smart?” smile. He turned to face Bloebaum again.
"Yeah?"
"Prove you mean it,” the detective said.
"How?"
Bloebaum held out his hands toward the rickety-looking wicker chairs.
"A test,” he said.
We sat. We listened.
We began our careers as burglars.
Not that Bloebaum described his “test” as burgling. It was “procuring a document that could compromise a client's good standing in the community.” Pilfering an illicit love letter, in other words.
"The lady in question knows the gentleman in question wants the letter back,” Bloebaum explained. “The lady in question is powerful—and vindictive. If the recovery of the letter is ever linked to me, she could strike back. It would be easy for someone like the lady in question to have someone like me squashed like a bug."
"Perhaps through the husband in question?” Old Red said.
Bloebaum nodded. “There is a husband, yes. An important man. Which is why the gentleman in question is so anxious to get the letter back. If the husband should stumble across it ... disaster."
"What about the thieves in question?” I asked. “Us. How exactly are we gonna steal something when we don't even know who we're supposed to be stealin’ it from?"
"I'll tell you how to find the lady in question's home,” Bloebaum said. “You'll be able to recover the letter from there Sunday morning, when the lady and her husband will be at church—as will I and the gentleman in question."
"Givin’ yourselves perfect ... whaddaya call ‘em? Allabees."
"Alibis. Yes. Very good.” Bloebaum offered my brother an insinuating smile. “You do have the mind of a detective, don't you?"
"Too bad he's completely lost it,” I wanted to say. But I held my tongue until Gustav and I were reviewing the day's events over nickel beer at a dive saloon.
"You wanna play Sherlock Holmes? Fine. I'm behind you,” I said. “But playin’ sneak thief's another thing entirely."
Old Red was hunched over our little table like he might just lay down his head on it and take a nap. “I know. But it's just this once. To prove we got the cojones for the work."
I took a pull on my beer, then prodded him with the mug. “How do you know it'll be just the once? You ever think about what detectives really do day to day? I know it's the puzzle-bustin’ that appeals to you—the Holmesifyin'. But that can't be all there is to the job. There ain't no coin in it. For all we know, snatchin’ mash notes back from womenfolk is a workin’ detective's bread and butter."
Gustav straightened up an
d glared at me. “Not for Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't."
I shrugged then—and I apologize to you now, sir, for what I said next.
"You sure ‘bout that, brother? We've read what? Eight of Doc Watson's stories? For all we know, ol’ Holmes was creepin’ into ladies’ boudoirs all the time to pilfer some—"
"Holmes didn't ‘creep’ and he didn't ‘pilfer,'” Old Red snapped. “He was a gentleman."
I nodded solemnly, knowing I'd gone too far.
"Sure. All right. But what about Bloebaum? What about the Pinkertons?” I shrugged again. “Hell, what about us?"
Gustav scooped up his beer and downed a big gulp.
"We're doin’ what we gotta do,” he growled, slamming the mug back on the table and wiping foam from his moustache. “Mr. Holmes would understand."
You'd know best if that was true, I reckon. Me, I kept my big mouth shut, except to guzzle a couple more beers. And I kept on letting the matter lie through most of the next day. We passed the time cleaning the trail dust from our gear, treating ourselves to shaves and hot baths, and taking a fine-tooth comb to a story in the latest issue of Harper's Weekly—"The Reigate Puzzle” by one John Watson.
"Well, you were right,” I said after reading it out for the first time.
Old Red had been stretched out on our creaky little flophouse bed, staring at the ceiling as he listened to your tale. He turned toward me looking both aggravated and befuddled, like a man who's been awakened from a nightmare by a kick to the head.
"Right about what?"
"Ol’ Holmes got up to a few tricks there, all right, but in the end he rooted out the truth without a single creep or a solitary pilfer,” I said. “Yup. I guess that is how a gentleman goes about his detectivin'."
"Yeah,” Gustav said peevishly. “But did you notice what cracked the mystery open for him in the end?"
I glanced back down at one of the illustrations in the magazine—a reproduction of a torn note from which Holmes claimed he could make twenty-something separate deductions (though he only ladled out a handful in the story).
"I'd say that little slip of paper was the nub of the matter."
EQMM, February 2007 Page 10
