Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 9

by Marvin Kaye

  Mal goes ballistic in my ear, and Tommie isn’t much calmer. A lawyer’s mentioned and I think my old linemate is going to come across the table at me, but I shake my head. “I was the slowest man on our line,” I say. “No hockey superstar, but I stayed on the line because I noticed everything. Off ice, too. Getting into the cars, right? We sat with the doors open or leaned against the side to take off our skates. And I saw your left skate had blood on the tip.”

  “There was blood on the ice,” Tommie yells. “Blood on our hands.”

  “There was blood on the tip of your skate, not on the blade, not on the shoe, not on the laces. One quick kick and you were the star of the show and the big draft choice and the one all the scouts were dying to see.”

  “You’re crazy! We’re talking thirty years ago almost. If you’d thought that, you’d have spoken up, raised the roof, told the police.”

  “Thirty years ago I was nineteen and scared. Ten minutes later the skate was wiped clean—yes, I checked—and there was no way to prove anything, not with the biggest game of our lives coming up. Not when everyone expected us to win the Cup for Roman.”

  “And now what are you getting out of it, Andy, but a libel suit and a whole lot of flack?” He was himself again free of memory and bad ice, Tom Delacort, hockey icon and Hall of Fame resident.

  “Now I’m going to get proof,” I say. “The story about your Hall of Fame election got me thinking. You donated all your skates—every pair from junior to your final game for a special exhibition, Evolution of the Modern Skate, right? They can tell now, Tommie. Even after all these years, they can tell if it was Roman’s blood on the point of your left skate, and if it was—” I say, but I don’t get to finish.

  My old linemate has knocked the coffee table aside and gone for me. I’m on the floor and getting pounded, but I don’t care—I’ve owed Roman this for a long time, and I’ve accrued plenty of interest. Mal comes out of the booth and the second cameraman starts wrestling with Tommie, but Luis, bless him, is still behind his lens, and we’re getting all of this recorded. I feel blood in my mouth, and I’ll lose a tooth for sure, but this is one for Roman, and a Hot Stove League Show no one will forget.

  THE COIN AND THE CHEMIST, by Nijo Philip

  It was 2:50 p.m. on a Friday when I stopped to stare at the constellation Orion painted on the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal. The luminous windows towered stoically as crowds of commuters swirled across the Main Concourse like dry leaves in a chaotic October wind.

  “I think I lost him,” said Enzo, adjusting his blazer and scanning the pedestrians at the train station.

  “You sure his face was pink?” I asked. “Like a ham?” I didn’t doubt Enzo’s skills of observation, but a man with a pink face would stand out even in a large crowd.

  “I expect trouble,” said Enzo. “You still want to come along?”

  I nodded. “We’re partners, Enzo. Don’t forget it.”

  “Let’s move it, Jack,” he said. “If I’m right, a man named James Marshall is in a lot of danger.”

  The 3:01 p.m. Metro-North growled impatiently at the platform. Enzo and I found seats facing each other while a group of German tourists boarded and sat on the far end of the car drinking beers. Around us, people read newspapers and worked on laptops. The Metro-North beat against the tracks with a crescendo, hurrying us to our destination.

  Minutes went by as we listened to the clamor of the passengers and ticket collectors. After our tickets were punched, Enzo told me the details.

  “A woman named Emily Marshall asked me to check on her father, James Marshall, a retired chemist in the town of Chappaqua, in Westchester. She hadn’t heard from him in days, which is unlike him—at the very least, they call each other once a day—so she drove up to check on the house. Mr. Marshall never answered the door; instead, he opened the second floor window.

  “Hey, you listening Jack?”

  I was distracted by the Germans who started doing impersonations of De Niro, Brando, and Eastwood.

  “I’m listening Enzo. Keep talking.”

  “Well, this Marshall, usually a cheery man, pounded his fists on the window sill at seeing his daughter. She had never seen him look so angry. He said he was busy and she was disturbing him. She asked if she could go inside but he was so inflamed that he told her to go away, and shut the window.”

  “So her father sent her away. Big deal.”

  Enzo looked perturbed. “She did alert the local police, and Marshall had opened the door for them and they reported no problems other than Marshall’s cranky demeanor. Emily is a part-time nurse and she returned to Manhattan to make a home visit with a client.”

  I opened a notebook and tried to keep up with the facts of the case.

  “Doesn’t sound like anything is wrong,” I said. “What are you going to do, Enzo, win her father’s love back for her?”

  Enzo leaned forward. “Jack, you’re not seeing the point. All of this coincides with something else. Emily said for the past few days, she’s seen a man with a pink face following her.”

  Enzo leaned back into the cushion of the chair. He shut his eyes and I watched his Italian features relax.

  As Harlem flickered in the window, I pulled out the company papers, and reviewed our inventory. We needed more vermicelli and canned eggplant this month.

  Enzo and I had been best friends since high school. He became a cop after college while I fell in with the wrong crowd and got into some gambling problems. By the time we were in our late thirties, Enzo had a wife and he felt the pressure to leave the NYPD. As for me, I got into deeper trouble as I tried to pay for my father’s hospital bills. In the end, my old man cursed me—told me I was a no good son. I was left with a huge debt and a broken heart. I had no time to mourn, however. The mafia pressured me to pay up or disappear. On the night I was to disappear, Enzo showed up with eleven police officers and saved my ass. He even paid my debt for me and got me a job at a warehouse in Brooklyn. A month later, during a routine traffic stop, Enzo was shot by a repeat offender. Enzo retired after he got out of the hospital. He made sure I stayed out of trouble, and by the time we were in our forties, we opened a food import business together. As distributors, we had plenty to keep us busy, but once in a while, Enzo’s cop friends, actual detectives, would drop in to ask questions to get help on cases. The bloodhound in Enzo was very much alive. It had not been killed when he got shot. Enzo eventually advertised himself as a P.I. and took cases as a hobby—in between importing goods from Sicily and Tuscany. As the years went by, our lives became more exciting this way, and I felt that Enzo was the closest person to me, the brother I never had. I wasn’t Italian, but Enzo took me into his Italian family. It was a debt I could never repay. Enzo had saved my life, and on the more dangerous cases, I followed him—to make sure he got home safely to his wife.

  Enzo was alert forty minutes later as the train pulled into Chappaqua Station. The sky was ominously bright and clear; and the picturesque town below it was bustling with pedestrians and cars. A cold breeze chilled me as a young lady with freckles met us in front of a café on the main street across from the train station. Emily Marshall, I guessed. She looked like she was approaching thirty (and approaching it well). A yellow sheath dress wrapped her body tightly. She flipped a coin to Enzo, which he caught as he introduced me: “This is my friend, Jack Kamien.”

  I bowed my head and summoned my gentleman’s voice. “Hope we didn’t keep you waiting, my dear.” I tried kissing her hand but she pulled it away and patted me on the head like I was a dog.

  “I just got here,” said Emily.

  Enzo shook his head. “I would say you’ve been here for about twenty-three minutes. You parked your car, and then you went to the post office down the street and you just got back.”

  Emily’s mouth dropped. “Were you following me?”

  Enzo said matter-of-factly, “That white SUV belongs to you; it has your initials E.M. as part of the license plate number, and it’s the on
ly vehicle I see with a stethoscope on the dash, from your nursing job, of course. The spot you parked in is a half-hour meter and has only seven minutes remaining. So twenty-three minutes have gone by.”

  Emily looked at her SUV as if the truck had told Enzo all her secrets.

  “You’re holding a receipt for a money order, and a clean book of stamps, both newly purchased from the post office.” Enzo smiled.

  Emily bounced up and down, thrilled like a child by a magician. She was speechless and stared at Enzo and then looked to me as if I could explain his strange ways.

  “He’s always doing that,” I said. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

  Emily ignored my comment and clapped her hands. She looked Enzo up and down. “If the police did miss anything about my dad, I’m sure you’ll notice it.”

  “I’ve already noticed some things,” said Enzo. He studied the markings on the coin. “From the Nguyen dynasty, I think. At that time, Chinese and Vietnamese coins were used together.”

  “There’s a bunch more of these coins,” said Emily, unlocking the doors to the SUV. “The coins are actually from different historical periods. Some have a terra-cotta casting core and come in the shape of knives or spades. Some have circles or squares cut into them. All are valuable. You think this has something to do with my father’s behavior?”

  “Absolutely,” said Enzo. “I found an article from the American Numismatic Association about your father. James Marshall purchased one of the finest collections of rare Chinese currency from an unknown source back in 1975. Some cross referencing led me to a man named Armando Sutter, who, for a short time before your father’s purchase, owned an exotic collection of Chinese currency. Your father and this man worked together for a chemical company before you were born. I’m certain your father got the coins from this man, and now he’s come to reclaim it.”

  “But who is this man?” asked Emily.

  “Sutter was a world traveler and an enthusiast of treasure hunting. I couldn’t find a photo or an address of this Sutter, maybe if I had more time. But I called a contact of mine who told me that Armando Sutter is a man with a tainted record; dismissed charges of assault, fraud, theft, embezzlement; somehow, nothing ever stuck. Then in 2003, the man literally disappeared from the planet.”

  Emily bit her lips and thought for a while. “But none of this explains Dad becoming angry overnight,” she said. “He’s always open to me.”

  Emily drove us up winding hills, past antique shops, old bookstores, and cafés. The town of Chappaqua was painted red and yellow with fall foliage; Halloween ghosts and jack-o-lanterns loitered on the stoops of many houses.

  “We’re almost there,” she said. We turned onto a long uphill road, and Emily slammed the vehicle to a stop. Through the glass, we saw an enormous man standing on the side of the road by an old red car. He peered into our truck, and I’ll never forget those large black fish-like eyes. He quickly looked away, but not before I saw the rest of the horror that was his face; the features of his bald head were corrugated and pink, much like a burn victim.

  “Keep driving,” said Enzo. A moment later, through the back windshield, Enzo and I watched the man aim a gun at us, but as we made distance, he put his arms down. “That’s our pink-faced man who’s been watching you, Emily. He’s been tailing me too, since you got in touch with me. I have to get to your father’s house before this guy. Does your father have a safe?”

  “He keeps valuables in a wall safe in his study, behind a Luca Giordano painting,” said Emily.

  “Ah, Luca Giordano. My parents liked his work,” said Enzo. “I’m sure I’ll recognize it.”

  At the Marshall property, Enzo stepped out of the truck and pulled short range binoculars from his pocket and observed the house on the hill. Black crows landed near us and strutted in front of Enzo as if he should be bird watching. He put the binoculars away and the crows cawed. I could tell by his expression that danger was approaching again.

  Enzo moved to the window of the SUV, reached in, and touched Emily’s shoulder. “No matter what happens,” he said, “do not come to the house. Drive to the police station and tell them to come here. Make them understand—the situation is very dangerous.”

  Enzo ran up the driveway and the autumn wind blew fiercely. As I followed Enzo, orange leaves sailed along the ground like waves on the ocean. The Marshall estate stretched farther than the eye could see, covered by woods and surrounded by hills on the gray horizon. In the center of the land stood the immense Georgian-style house and garden, lonely and out of place.

  Enzo walked around the garden and came back to the front of the house and observed the windows. He rang the doorbell and whistled a tune.

  The door opened. A tall man who looked like a scarecrow peered at us from inside. The long white hair on his yellow skull fell to his shoulders.

  “What do you fellas want? Are you more police?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. My name is Vincenzo Morcelli. I’m a private investigator.”

  The old man grunted with disdain and nearly had the door shut when Enzo yelled, “We were sent by your daughter. Your life is in danger.”

  The door didn’t close, and the thin figure reappeared.

  “James Marshall,” said the old man offering a bony hand to Enzo. Marshall coughed; a full body writhing cough, for a full minute. Gross, I thought. He spit out a bolus of phlegm, wiped his lips and offered his hand to me, which I pretended not to notice. I occupied myself with observing the crows.

  Enzo explained the situation to Marshall. He invited us inside.

  Marshall’s house smelled as if a window hadn’t been opened in ages, but elegance was everywhere. The furniture held gently curving lines in the Hepplewhite style. Mahogany was the predominant color for display cases and tables, and decorative moldings of Rosette and Guilloché framed the doorways and even the balusters. Paintings hung on nearly every wall. And still, in the dim halls of the house, there remained the traces of its not-so-elegant occupant: chemistry books, leftover Chinese food, cigarette butts, a collection of Time magazines spilled on the floor; and coffee cups everywhere, some half empty, and others dry. I looked for a place to sit, but the sofas looked uninviting.

  “I’d like to have a look around the house,” said Enzo.

  Marshall felt around his waist and hips, and checked his pants pockets and then looked around the room.

  “Something wrong?” asked Enzo.

  “I can’t find my glasses,” replied Marshall. “I can barely see without them.” He searched the house for some time while Enzo examined a picture of the late Rose Marshall, which hung over a table that held a music box. Enzo opened the lid and the instrument played Schubert’s Piano Trio No. 2.

  Marshall gave up on the glasses, and he led us through the first floor of the house, to a brightly lit lab. In contrast to the antique nature of the rest of the house, the lab was very modern. The wall shelves were stocked with glass Erlenmeyer flasks, reagent bottles, stoppers, other volumetric flasks and pipettes. The table was overrun by vortex mixers, hotplates, and distillation units. Some of the burners were lit, and multi-colored liquids bubbled in various containers.

  “Big place,” said Enzo.

  “For big ideas to become practical,” said Marshall.

  “I guess this is what keeps you so busy that you ignore your daughter?” asked Enzo.

  Marshall wrung his hands and coughed, another wracking cough that shook his bony frame.

  Enzo’s gaze fell to the carpet and he followed his senses to the next room. “There’s more than one set of footprints in the carpet leading this way.”

  “The police were here today,” said Marshall. “Emily must have told you fellas.”

  We entered the study; a cold room lined with bookcases and wooden crates and a desk with more bottles of chemicals. A single painting hung on the walls; an oversized print of Luca Giordano’s Vertumnus and Pomona.

  Enzo peeked behind the frame. “What a work of art,” he said. “It
’s a model ninety-five.”

  Marshall squinted his eyes. “Did Emily—”

  Enzo nodded and lifted the painting down and whistled at the safe. “Amazing. The model ninety-five requires two sets of codes to gain entry.”

  Marshall positioned himself between the safe and Enzo.

  “You don’t have to worry about us,” said Enzo, “it’s Armando Sutter that you better watch out for.”

  Marshall’s body quivered at the mere mention of Sutter’s name. He sat down on a crate and I did the same, as there were no chairs.

  “Where is Sutter?” asked Marshall, clearly distressed.

  “You tell us,” said Enzo, also seating himself on a crate.

  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Yes, you have,” Enzo asserted. Enzo pulled out the Chinese coin Emily had given him and, shoving aside some books, placed it on the table.

  The old man opened his eyes wide and moved his mouth like he was thirsty. He slapped a hand to his forehead. “Listen fellas, I didn’t tell the police this. I was too afraid of what Armando would do. He came around here a few days ago and wanted me to give him the rest of my currency collection. My treasure.” Marshall’s growly voice worked to speak through a fit of coughing.

  “Sutter showed up on Monday evening, and I let him in to explain himself. He’d been hiding in Africa all these years without a dime in his pocket. He heard about the increased value of the treasure.”

  “Yes, you donated part of the collection to Princeton University,” said Enzo.

  “Unfortunately, it got publicized and revealed the true value of my collection. Sutter sold the collection to me for half a million dollars. The treasure is rarer than what anyone originally thought decades ago. The remaining coins in my safe now hold a value of eight and a half million.”

  Marshall coughed, and spit into a coffee cup. “Armando Sutter said he had a reasonable proposal—he wanted just half of what remains of the collection. I rejected the whole idea, and out of politeness offered him some brandy, which I went to get from the liquor cabinet. I was in the middle of work, so unfortunately, without thinking I led him to this room, and here he waited while I fetched the brandy. Well, fellas, what the hell do you think I saw when I returned?”