No Police Like Holmes

by Dan Andriacco

  “He had an argument with Queensbury?” I said. “When? Where?”

  “At the back of the room, right after Kate’s talk,” Chalmers chipped in.

  “What were they arguing about?”

  Chalmers shrugged his ignorance.

  “Eavesdropping is a loathsome habit,” Mac said. “Perhaps you should inquire of Dr. Queensbury as to the nature of the contretemps.”

  “In other words,” I said, “you couldn’t get close enough to hear and you’re annoyed.”

  He didn’t deign to answer. I let the subject hang there, hoping somebody would pick it up and enlighten me on what had happened between the surgeon and the lawyer, but no one did. The conversation drifted off into other channels.

  Somehow the topic got on to Sherlock Holmes in the movies. Names like Basil Rathbone, Arthur Wontner, Jeremy Brett, and Robert Downey, Jr., and somebody named Cumberbatch were bandied about, along with a bunch I don’t remember. I was familiar with Basil Rathbone - he looked like Queensbury - and I’d also seen a couple of the Brett TV shows and the over-the-top Robert Downey, Jr. movie. But the other names left me in the dust. It was like being on the outside of an inside joke. I was only half-listening anyway.

  While it was going hot and heavy Mac leaned my way again, hand over his mouth. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” he demanded in a low voice.

  “No,” I said absent-mindedly.

  My mind was on the dust-up between Queensbury and Hugh Matheson, a man who stopped breathing no more than an hour or so later. Lynda and I had been assuming that greed was the emotion behind the murder, a robbery gone wrong. But suppose there was some other passion involved - whatever had caused those two men to raise their voices in a public place.

  I watched for Queensbury to leave the table where he was seated next to Molly Crocker, determined to question him as soon as possible. When my bladder started crying for relief I ignored it, afraid I’d miss a chance to corner Queensbury if I left the President’s Dining Room. Finally the tall surgeon made a bee-line for the exit, apparently in a big hurry. I excused myself to Lynda and followed him.

  Into the men’s room.

  Now I was glad I had a legitimate reason for being there. Once I took care of that I met Queensbury at the wash basins. He greeted me as an old friend while he washed his long-fingered hands. Before I could ask a question he offered his solution to the book thefts.

  “It’s that Pfannenstiel fellow,” he said, a gleam in his gray eyes. “There was no sign of a forced entry because there was no forced entry. The thief used a key. Who had a key? The very person who set up the exhibit with the Chalmerses. Elementary, really.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said, holding my hands under the hot air blower. “Not Gene.”

  “As Holmes himself said, ‘when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ Something similar happened at the University of Pennsylvania in 1990. A part-time library employee was charged with stealing more than a hundred rare books with a total value of almost a million and a half dollars. I clipped the story for my scrapbooks.”

  I knew that Gene couldn’t be guilty because Matheson was - unless, of course, Gene had been Matheson’s inside man. But in that case why stop at three books? With Gene’s access they could have practically loaded up a truck and cleaned the place out.

  I shifted gears.

  “I understand you had a bit of a confrontation with Hugh Matheson this afternoon.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders, the surgeon pooh-poohed that description of the incident. “I guess you’d say we had a few heated words, as usual.”

  “What was it about?”

  “He accused me of spoiling the colloquium for him by insisting at every turn that Sherlock Homes was a real person,” Queensbury said as he pushed open the restroom door. “Apparently the last straw was when I stood up at the end of Kate’s talk to dispute her attribution of Conan Doyle as the author of the Holmes stories.

  “Really, Hugh was intolerably rude about it and totally lacking in humor. I particularly objected to his characterization of me as, quote, ‘a prissy piss-ant.’ However, I gave the fellow the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was having a bad day.”

  Remembering the sight of the lawyer’s blood-drenched body, I could confirm that. But I didn’t, of course.

  “The exchange was heated and rather loud,” Queensbury continued, “but it only lasted a few moments before Hugh said he didn’t have any more time for such foolishness. He was in a hurry.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Oh, yes. He was rather gleeful about it. He told me with a distinct leer that he had business with a lady.”

  Chapter Nineteen - Oscar the Grouch

  “A lady?” Lynda repeated later, almost hissing the words. “That was me!” she exclaimed ungrammatically.

  “Shhh. I know that - and you don’t have to tell everybody else.” We were standing at the back of the President’s Dining Room. Mac was at the front, saying something about the upcoming Reader’s Theatre. “The point here, Lynda, is that Queensbury might share that little tidbit with the police. And if he does, and if the police find out you were Matheson’s constant companion at the colloquium today, you can expect Oscar to land on you like a ton of bricks.”

  “Oscar Hummel is a ton of bricks.”

  “He’s a little overweight.” Maybe sixty pounds or so, not closer to a hundred like Mac. “He’s also made his share of high-profile goofs, but don’t underestimate him - especially his tenacity. That would be a big mistake.”

  “He has all the subtlety of a suicide bomber.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “and he could be just as destructive.”

  We reclaimed our seats as the Reader’s Theatre began. Some local acting talent, including a few students, sat on stools at the front of the room and took parts reading a Sherlock Holmes story, “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.” They wore only symbolic costumes - Holmes was identified by the ubiquitous deerstalker cap, for example. There were two Dr. Watsons - one the narrator and one the character - and both wore bowlers.

  The title character of the story, Milverton, is the Worst Man in London, Holmes tells Watson. He is trying to squeeze blackmail out of a female client of Holmes, who refuses to play ball. Instead, Holmes adopts the identity of a plumber and romances Milverton’s housemaid. Once he wheedles enough information out of her, he cons Watson into helping him burgle Milverton’s house late one night to retrieve a set of embarrassing letters.

  Holmes and Watson had just entered the grounds of the Milverton estate when Erin’s Finest came into the President’s Dining Room.

  The beer belly alone might have been enough to make me recognize him out of the corner of my eye, but the headgear eliminated all doubt. Who else in Erin, Ohio, would wear a Panama hat? It had to be Oscar Hummel, a man too vain to show his balding head in public and yet too cheap to buy a wig. He always covers his pate with some tasteless hat or cap.

  He sidled up to Mac, who was standing at the front of the room in his role as director of the Reader’s Theatre. After a tête-à-tête of no more than thirty seconds, the two left the room together, going past our table on the way out.

  “What do you think Oscar wants with Mac?” Lynda asked in a low voice.

  “You can bet they aren’t talking baseball,” I said. “Oscar probably found out from the Winfield that Matheson was in Erin for the colloquium. Mac organized the colloquium, so he might know the guy, right? Remember, Oscar has a keen perception of the obvious.”

  That’s what had me worried. Of course Oscar would have his men scour the hotel for witnesses, just as any big-city force would do. How long could it be before somebody remembered seeing a man and woman leaving the hotel or maybe even Matheson’s floor around the time of the killin
g? Hours, not days. I had visions of Oscar throwing Lynda and me in his basement cell and shining lights in our eyes. Suddenly it was hot in the President’s Dining Room.

  The actors on the stools in front were winding down their presentation of “The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton.” Holmes and Watson, nearly caught in the act of burglary, watch as Milverton meets with one of his blackmail victims, a mysterious woman. She pulls out a gun and plugs Milverton repeatedly. With the rest of the household awakened by gunfire, Holmes and Watson run for it. (I kind of knew how they felt.) The out-of-shape doctor barely makes it over the wall and then-

  I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  My body twitched and I sucked air.

  “Man, Jeff, you got a guilty conscience or what?”

  “Oscar!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tell you in the hallway.”

  Oscar Hummel is forty-seven years old and looks older, never been married and it shows. Sometimes I worry that he’s what I could become in another few years of bachelorhood, minus the belly, but then I remind myself that I have better clothes sense. He was wearing a plaid sport coat over hound’s tooth pants and a pink shirt, no tie.

  I followed him and Lynda followed me. Mac was a few yards outside the door, sitting in a blue plastic chair and making a half-dollar appear and disappear in his oversized hands.

  “Cut out the damned parlor tricks,” Oscar growled at him. Turning to say something to me, he finally caught on that Lynda was part of the entourage.

  “Oh, joy,” he said. “The press. Just what I need at nine-thirty on a Saturday night when I oughta be popping a beer and watching the Reds in spring training.”

  “The game was this afternoon,” Lynda said. “They played the Cubs. I don’t know who won.”

  Oscar didn’t seem to be particularly cheered by this information. He sighed. “At least you can give me a cigarette, Teal.” His mother disapproves of him smoking, so Oscar never buys cigarettes. But that doesn’t stop him from smoking them. This time, however, Lynda shook her head. “Sorry, Chief, I quit.”

  He favored her with a sour look. “In that case, get the hell out of here.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked, just as if I didn’t know.

  Lynda, ignoring Oscar’s order to leave, silently offered him a stick of Big Red. He took it without thanks.

  “Murder,” he said, putting the gum into his mouth. “Hot-shot lawyer from Cincy. Hugh Matheson. I’ve heard of him - who hasn’t? - and Mac knew him.”

  “Indeed,” Mac said, making the coin vanish with the slightest motion of his hand. “The news of Hugh’s passing in this unpleasant manner is most distressing.”

  “We weren’t friends,” I told Oscar, “but I met him this weekend.”

  “And I sat next to him during some of the lectures and at lunch,” Lynda volunteered. Very smart, pointing that out before somebody else does.

  Oscar grimaced and took the gum out of his mouth. “I hate cinnamon. Are you trying to poison me or what, Teal?”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I snapped. The murder had me about ready to jump out of my skin, and I certainly was in no mood for attempts at homicidal humor.

  “What happened to Matheson?” Lynda asked Oscar, another smart move on her part.

  “Shot in the neck. Hit an artery, spouted blood all over the place.”

  “Where did it happen?” Lynda persisted in her best journalist voice.

  “In his room at the Winfield. Somebody called 911 with an anonymous tip around seven o’clock. Enough with the questions, Teal. We already got enough of that from your man Silverstein. He picked up the dispatch on the scanner and got there even before my people did - made a nuisance out of himself as usual.”

  “That’s my Ben.”

  “Do you have any ideas about this anonymous caller?” I tried to sound only casually interested.

  Oscar shrugged. “The call came from a pay phone not too far from the hotel. I haven’t listened to the recording yet but the dispatcher said it was a man talking in a high-pitched voice, like Minnie Mouse on helium.” Smartass. “I figure it must have been somebody who was almost desperate to not get involved, maybe somebody whose wife didn’t know he was at the hotel.”

  Mac caressed his beard. “You are confident it was not the killer?” Thanks a heap, Mac.

  “That wouldn’t make a lot of sense from the killer’s point of view, Mac. The sooner law enforcement gets to the scene of a homicide, the better. It would have helped the killer if the body hadn’t been found until tomorrow. As it was, we got there less than half an hour after the shooting.”

  Oops. I’d unintentionally misled the police about the time of the murder, but it couldn’t have been by all that much; the blood was still fresh when we arrived around six-thirty.

  “Where do I come into this?” I asked.

  Mac said, “I persuaded Oscar that you should be involved in your capacity as public relations director for the college. The murder investigation is likely to spill over onto the campus grounds, given Matheson’s reason for being in Erin.”

  “He didn’t say anything about Teal tagging along,” Oscar added.

  “Consider me a bonus,” she said.

  Applause erupted from inside the closed doors of the President’s Dining Room. If I remembered the agenda correctly, Kate must have been announcing the winners of the costume contest.

  “As a working premise,” Mac said, “what do you think happened, Oscar?”

  “Well... this is strictly off the record, Teal, understand?”

  “Yes, massa,” Lynda said.

  “It must have been somebody who knew him, not a homicide committed during a burglary. There was no break-in, for one thing, and it doesn’t look like anything was disturbed.”

  Give Lynda and me points for neatness.

  “Besides,” Oscar added, “we have a witness, another guest at the Winfield, who saw the victim open the door for someone who may have been the killer.”

  Damn - just what I had feared. Somebody saw Lynda coming out of the room and me standing there. We must have given quite a show, the big hug. The pit of my stomach felt like a load of concrete had been mixed there. I shot a covert glance at Lynda. She swallowed hard.

  “A witness!” Mac bellowed. “Oh, Oscar, you are the sly one, holding that back. Tell us about this witness.”

  The chief allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk.

  “She’s rock solid - an IRS attorney in town to check out the college for her daughter,” Oscar said. “She came back to her room down the hall to take a shower around six and saw Matheson open the door to a visitor. She didn’t see the visitor’s face, but get this: He was wearing one of those funny Sherlock Holmes hats. What do you call them?”

  “A deerstalker,” I said in a choked voice, nearly limp with relief.

  Maybe it really was the killer this witness saw - it sure wasn’t Lynda. Aside from the chapeau she wasn’t wearing, the timing was off by half an hour. We weren’t even finished with Post by six o’clock.

  “Yeah, that’s it - a deerstalker,” Oscar said. “I figure it should be easy to find this character. How many people can there be running around Erin in a deerstalker hat?”

  Chapter Twenty - What We Have Here... (Part Two)

  Mac’s answer to Oscar was a sound that started as a rumble in his stomach and burst forth from his lips as a hearty, uncontrolled laugh.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” Oscar demanded.

  “Deerstalker caps,” Lynda said, “are about as rare at this little confab as big ears on an elephant.”

  Standing between Mac and Oscar, no wonder she thought of elephants. Oscar glowered at her.

  “Surely you understand what this colloquium is all about, Oscar?” Mac said. Without waiting fo
r an answer, he added, “Unfortunately, this isn’t the only crime that has marred an otherwise delightful occasion. Do you suppose there could be a link between the theft last night of several rare Sherlock Holmes volumes and the murder of Hugh Matheson?”

  “Well,” Oscar said heavily, “there sure as hell seems to be some kind of connection to Sherlock Holmes.”

  But Oscar didn’t know what the link was - his officers apparently hadn’t found the hidden books in Matheson’s hotel room.

  “Obviously, you’re going to be conducting some interviews around here tomorrow,” I said. “I’d appreciate it if you would check in with Ed Decker, let him know what you’re up to. You know how touchy he is about turf issues.”

  Oscar grunted, which I took to be an affirmative response. “If you remember anything that might be important about the victim, give me a call. You have my cell.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be in touch,” Lynda said, earning a malevolent stare from the chief.

  “Good night, Oscar,” Mac said. “And thank you for the flower.”

  “The what?”

  Mac reached into Oscar’s plaid sport coat and pulled a carnation out of the inside pocket. He affixed it to the lapel of his Victorian suit coat while Oscar watched with an expression composed of equal parts surprise and chagrin.

  “You ought to stick to magic,” Oscar told Mac. “You’re good at it. Leave the detective work to law enforcement.”

  With a curt nod to each of us he disappeared down the escalator.

  “I’d better go, too,” Lynda said. “I’ve got to get to the office and help Ben with his story for the website and tomorrow’s paper.”

  Mac and I wished her good night. It was ten o’clock and I felt a deep weariness, as if I’d been up for at least three days. And, like Lynda, I still had work to do.

  “I’d better call Ralph and get it over with,” I told Mac with a sigh of resignation.

  “You have my sympathy,” he said.