"Not just the paper—the writin’ on it,” Old Red corrected me. “Holmes, he knew what kind of men he was dealin’ with just from the way that note was scribbled out."
My brother didn't sound awestruck, as he so often does when speaking of Mr. Holmes's abilities. He sounded miserable. And it wasn't hard to deducify why.
Seeing and thinking—those things Gustav can do as well as anyone (with the exception of Mr. Holmes, of course). But how could he make head or tail from someone's handwriting when he can't even read “A is for apple” printed plain as day in a grade-school primer?
"Maybe bein’ gentlemen is a luxury some of us don't have,” Gustav grumbled.
"Well, just you don't forget—even Holmes couldn't do everything by hisself,” I said. “Why do you think he always wanted Watson taggin’ along?"
Old Red made a neutral sort of noise—a growly “Hmmm.” Then he rolled onto his back again, his eyes pointed straight up. “Let's hear that story again, huh? And slow down when you get to the part about ‘the art of detection'..."
I obliged him by reading out “The Reigate Puzzle” again—and by dropping the question of what a proper detective would or wouldn't do. It was Old Red himself who brought the subject up again.
It was Sunday morning, and he was waking me with a shake.
"Time to go. Decent folks are in church by now."
I opened one eye. My brother was leaning over me, already fully dressed.
"So where are the indecent folks goin'?” I asked him.
"To work."
"Any chance I could talk ‘em out of it?"
"Nope."
I sighed. “Didn't think so."
I reached for my britches.
Once I was decent (or dressed, anyway), we followed Bloebaum's directions to the outskirts of Missoula, where we found the residence of The Lady In Question and her husband. The In Questions lived in a neighborhood that rode the razor's edge between well-to-do and flat-out stinking rich. The homes weren't quite “mansions,” yet they surpassed anything as unassuming as a simple “house.” Fortunately, there was no one around to wonder what undesirables like ourselves were doing there—the neighborhood was deserted. We passed no one in the streets, and even the dogs, cats, and squirrels seemed to have headed off to church.
Still, Gustav and I did our best to move with casual calm as we approached Casa In Question, affecting the unhurried amble of familiar workmen paying a call to inquire about new yardwork or a box of mislaid tools. Naturally, we'd left our holsters, spurs, and Stetsons back at the boardinghouse, as true tradesmen wouldn't visit a respectable home dressed for a roundup. And naturally, we walked around to the servants’ entrance and knocked politely on the door.
Less natural was what we did when no one answered: We retrieved the spare key hidden in a window box and we let ourselves in.
"Hello?” I called out as I closed the door behind us. “Anyone home?"
From somewhere deep in the bowels of the house there came a “Yip!” and the tappy-scratchy sound of paws scrambling across floorboards.
"Prince Buster sounds pretty perky today,” I said.
Old Red took a few uncertain steps deeper into the house. “Let's hope not too perky."
"Prince Buster” was the Dog In Question. We knew about him for the same reason we knew about the key. The Lady In Question's maid wouldn't stoop to thieving, Bloebaum had told us, but somehow selling information to thieves didn't violate her scruples. She'd given the detective the lay of the land, and he'd turned around and laid it on us. We could only assume the maid was praying for forgiveness at that very moment, for she too would be attending services that morning.
Which left it to Prince Buster to defend hearth and home alone. He wouldn't be much defense, we'd been assured, as he was a Great Dane of great, great age.
"According to the maid, he's nearly deaf—probably won't even wake up when you come in,” Bloebaum had said. “But if he does, don't worry. He's friendly enough with most people, apparently. He's more likely to lick your face than go for your throat."
Nevertheless, my brother and I weren't taking any chances with the prince: In my pocket was a bag of pemmican, which I took out and dumped on the kitchen floor. Hopefully, Buster would prefer dried beef to fresh cowboy.
Old Red and I braced ourselves as the sound of claws on wood came closer. From the high pitch of the clack-clicks, it sounded like Prince Buster had just had his nails sharpened to needle points.
"I swear to God, Gustav,” I said, my fingers hovering over the empty spot on my hip where my holster would usually be hanging, “if that dog kills us, I'll never forgive you."
The clack-clicks drew ever nearer. My brother and I clustered together by the back door, ready to turn tail and run at the first growl.
When at last the dog appeared, he didn't just growl—he raced forward and lunged at Old Red, practically foaming at the mouth. He sank his teeth into my brother and began thrashing wildly.
I looked down and laughed.
"Well, I'll be,” I said. “When Great Danes get old, they shrink."
The dog doing his best to tear my brother limb from limb—and not getting anywhere near succeeding—was all of eight inches tall. He was also a Chihuahua. His head was turned sideways, the better to clamp down on Old Red's boot with his little jaws. One big, black eye stared up at us, full of spite.
"Looks like you bit off more than you can chew, little feller,” I said to him.
"Grrrrrorrow,” the dog replied.
Gustav lifted up his leg and tried to shake him loose. The Chihuahua wriggled and writhed like a fish on a line, but he wouldn't let go.
"Give him a whiff of pemmican,” I suggested.
"Right."
Old Red hobbled over to the bits of jerked meat, the dog dragging along behind him, fighting his every step.
"Go on,” my brother said. “Get you some beef, you little bastard."
But the Chihuahua still preferred the taste of boot leather to pemmican, and he wouldn't let go. Perhaps I could've loosened him with a kick or two, but my brother and I share a soft-heartedness when it comes to all animals other than cows, sheep, chickens, and bankers. We'd no sooner kick a dog than we'd brand a baby.
"Look, you can still walk, even with that furry spur at your heel,” I pointed out. “Let's just move this along, huh? I wanna get outta here."
Gustav hung his head as if saying a silent prayer for strength.
"Grrrrorrowrrowrrow,” the dog said.
Old Red sighed.
"Come on."
He headed for the hallway.
It was a fine, fancy house decorated with fine, fancy things, but I didn't pause to admire any of the fine fanciness. I was mesmerized by that dog. He stayed stuck to my brother's boot all the way down the hall and up the stairs.
"That is one scrappy mutt,” I said as Gustav limped into the first room at the top of the stairs—the master bedroom, Bloebaum had told us. “He just doesn't know when to give up, does he? Kinda reminds me of you like that."
"Well, hell,” my brother grumbled.
I followed him (and the Chihuahua) into the bedroom.
"What's the...? Oh."
Before us was what you'd expect to see in a bedroom: namely, a bed. But we'd been expecting beds, his and hers, with a table in between them. The letter would be in a jewelry box in the top drawer.
With only one bed, of course, there's no “in between.” And there was no table, either. Not like the one Bloebaum had described.
"Sweet Jesus,” I said. “We're in the wrong house."
Old Red shook his head. “The key was where it was supposed to be. The stairs and the bedroom, too."
He took a few more steps into the room and started to bend down to inspect the floor on his knees, Holmes-style.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you.” I gave the seat of my jeans a pat. “I bet it's bad enough havin’ that pesky S.O.B. clamped to your boot."
My brother stared down sour
ly.
"Grrrrrrrrrrrr," the dog said.
"Grrrrrrrrrrrr," Old Red said.
"Look, the table's not here, so the letter's not here,” I said. “So why are we still here?"
"'Cuz the table was here.” Gustav pointed to the right of the bed, at the carpet covering the floor. The plush fabric had been dimpled here and there with small, circular grooves—the kind bed legs and a table would make. “Only question is, where is it now?"
He stalked out to the hallway as quick as he could with his little caboose. He checked the next room (a linen closet) and the next (an indoor w.c.) before he muttered the words that told me he'd found what he was looking for.
"Well, hel-lo...."
The missing bed and table were squeezed into what looked like a disused sewing room down the hall. My brother moved to the bed table, pulled out the top drawer, and produced a long, flat box of dark mahogany. The letter was inside, folded in thirds and perched boldly atop The Lady In Question's glittering gewgaws.
"Looks like we did it,” I said without much enthusiasm. “Bloebaum's got him a couple apprentice detectives now."
"Yeah ... I suppose,” Old Red mumbled. He picked up the letter gingerly, pinching one corner betwixt thumb and forefinger as if it was something he didn't wish to sully—or it was something that might sully him. “The lady sure ain't shy about her two-timin', is she?"
"Don't appear so,” I said. “Every time she went to pretty herself up with her baubles, there was that letter sittin’ there."
"Yup. Seems like the mister'd be bound to notice it sooner or later..."
My brother's eyes lost their focus, staring at everything and nothing the way they do when his gaze turns inward. Something didn't sit right. Something, in fact, jumped up and down very wrong.
Before either of us could say just what, though, our resident ankle-biter let loose of Gustav and tore out of the room, barking at full blast.
Old Red grimaced. “That can't be good."
And it wasn't, for the next thing we heard was the jangling clatter of a key in a lock followed by the squeak of an opening door.
"...don't mind missing that idiot minister blathering away,” a man's voice rumbled down in the foyer. “And we left before the offertory, thank God. But couldn't you even wait till we were standing for a hymn or something? To just jump up and—"
A woman said something in reply, but she spoke too softly for us to hear her clearly over the Chihuahua's frantic yapping.
"Fine. Run off to your little hidey-hole, then,” the man snarled. “Stay there all day, if you wish. You'll be sparing me a ... Christ, Tubby! Would you please shut up!"
Tubby—the dog, presumably—went right on barking.
"A Chihuahua. A Chihuahua!” The man spat out an oath so foul I could practically smell it. “We finally get a chance to own a good, red-blooded American dog, but oh no! You had to have a Chihuahua! I swear, I don't know which is going to drive me crazy first, Cassandra—you or that little popeyed freak! Maybe that's what you want! It would explain so much! You're trying to drive me mad, aren't you?"
"Why should I waste my time, Orville?” Cassandra snapped back, the sound of her quick footsteps echoing up the stairway. “You've already done an admirable job of it yourself."
"Why, you miserable bitch!"
I'm sure there was more—and worse. Thankfully, my brother and I were no longer around to hear it. Instead, we were dropping one by one from the window in the w.c.
We had to hope neither Orville nor Cassandra heard the call of nature before we could make our escape, for of course there was no way to close the window behind us. We had to hope, too, that they didn't hear the thuds, oofs, and mumbled curses occasioned by our long drops into the rosebushes lining the back of the house.
"You know what I wish right now?” I whispered hoarsely as I peeled a long, thorn-covered stem from my posterior. “I wish we were goddamn gentlemen."
"We best get to runnin',” Old Red groaned, pushing himself off the freshly decapitated garden cherub that had broken his fall (though not, by some miracle, his ankles). “The lady might've worn some of her trinkets to church ... and ol’ Orville, he might be hungry."
The letter was in my brother's pocket.
The pemmican was still spread across the kitchen floor.
Our horses were stabled a half-mile away.
We ran.
Three hours later, we were sauntering—moseying into Bloebaum's office at the appointed hour, laboring to look as relaxed as a couple of swells out for a Sunday stroll in the park. Bloebaum was still in his church duds, hair slicked back, moustache freshly waxed. He goggled at us nervously as we came in but managed to wait until the door was closed to spit out his “So?"
Gustav brought out the letter and gave it a waggle.
Bloebaum sighed and smiled simultaneously. “I was worried. The lady in question and the gentleman in question attend the same church. Apparently, she was so upset when she saw him this morning, she left the service early."
"Not early enough to catch us,” I said.
"Excellent.” Bloebaum held out his hand. “And now, if you please..."
Old Red shook his head.
"We don't please,” I said. “Not without a guarantee, anyway."
Bloebaum's smile wilted. “A guarantee?"
I nodded. “In writin'. A month's trial employment for both of us ... at two dollars a day."
"That wasn't our agreement,” Bloebaum said coldly.
My brother slipped the letter back into his pocket.
"Well, once we gave it some thought, our old agreement didn't seem so agreeable anymore,” I said. “Your client'll be payin’ you when it was us who stuck our necks out. So we figure we've earned us a better deal. ‘Course, if we don't get it ... well, there won't be much to keep us around Missoula. We'll just slip that letter back under the lady's door and ride off to—"
"Wait."
The detective's eyes were so ablaze Gustav could've used them to light his pipe. All the same, he smiled, his grin bitter yet admiring—a bow to a worthy opponent.
"You two are a lot sharper than you look. All right. Why not put you on the payroll?"
He leaned forward and got to scribbling on a scrap of paper on his desk, reading his words aloud as he wrote.
"I agree to pay Arthur and August Amblingmayer...” (Neither Gustav nor I bothered correcting him.) “...two dollars a day each for a term of employment of not less than thirty days. Signed, William J. Bloebaum."
He completed his signature with a flourish and thrust the note out toward me. I stepped up to take it, then moved back a few paces to stand with my brother.
"Now,” Bloebaum said. “The letter."
Old Red handed it over—to me. I snapped the paper open with a flick of the wrist and held it up next to Bloebaum's “guarantee."
"What are you doing? Give me that at once!” Bloebaum thundered. “You have no right to read it! It belongs to my client!"
I looked over at my brother and nodded.
"Who just happens to be you," Old Red said to Bloebaum. "You're 'the gentleman in question.’”
"Except you ain't much of a gent,” I threw in. “Are you, ‘Billy Boy'?"
Bloebaum didn't answer—not with words, anyway. He just sank into his chair, going so limp it looked like he was about to drape himself over it like a sheet.
"It struck me as mighty peculiar, the maid not mentionin’ that the lady'd got herself a new dog ... and had moved out of the master bedroom to boot,” Gustav said. “It seemed like whoever was passin’ along the skinny on the lady's house hadn't actually been there in weeks. But why the lie about a tattlin’ maid?—unless it was you who'd been in that house. You who'd been carryin’ on with the lady."
Bloebaum had looked up, his eyes wide, when Old Red mentioned the lady's room switch. But as my brother went on, the detective hunched over and put his head in his hands.
"'Course, I couldn't be sure, so we took us a look at that let
ter ‘fore we came over here. You didn't sign your name to it, but I assume the lady's husband could piece together who ‘Your Darling Billy Boy’ was if he was to see it. Me, I needed some other kinda proof. I don't know much about handwritin’ ... hell, I can't even do it. But fortunately—"
"The l's in ‘Billy’ and ‘dollars’ and ‘William’ is what really gave you away,” I told Bloebaum. “Even when you're writin’ cursive, you make your double l's with just two straight lines."
Gustav gave me an approving nod. “Good eye, brother."
"Why, thank you, brother."
Bloebaum finally looked up at us again. “Cassandra ... the lady. You say she's in her own bedroom now?"
"Yup,” Old Red said. “I don't know if it's got anything to do with that letter, though. Maybe the husband noticed it, maybe not. I reckon she gave him every chance to see it, though."
"Oh yes. That she did,” Bloebaum mumbled miserably. “It's one of the ways they torture each other—leaving around little hints of their indiscretions. She showed me where she was keeping my letter. She thought it was funny. I didn't. If it ever came out that I'd betrayed a client—"
"Whoa,” I broke in. “Client?"
"Oh, Mr. Bloebaum,” Old Red said, shaking his head with doleful reproach. “The husband hired you?"
Bloebaum nodded reluctantly, shamefaced, like a schoolgirl caught passing notes. “He's preparing a case for divorce. He needs solid proof that Cassandra's committed adultery. He hired me to get it. It was the first decent job to come my way since I left the Pinkertons."
"'Left'?” Gustav said, cocking an eyebrow.
Bloebaum cleared his throat. “Was asked to leave,” he muttered.
"Well, I reckon you got the proof the husband wanted,” I said. “You just picked a hell of a way to go about it."
Bloebaum shrugged lethargically, as if he could barely muster the energy to lift his shoulders. “I couldn't help it. Following a woman, watching her ... it can bewitch a man. Eventually, I approached her, told her what her husband was up to. She...” He cleared his throat and shifted his gaze downward, to an empty spot atop his desk. “She made me a counteroffer. I broke it off last month, when I finally realized what a fool I'd been. But it's been eating me alive ever since. That letter—it could destroy me. I couldn't work up the nerve to get it back myself, though. Prince Buster hated me. It wouldn't surprise me if one of Cassandra's other beaux finally poisoned the big..."
EQMM, February 2007 Page 11
