I walked over to the elevator and looked into it. There was nothing unusual about it at all. Just a perfectly ordinary elevator on a sidewalk. I scratched my head. Scratching my head made pieces of it come off and reminded me that I needed some bandages for about 90% of my body. So I resumed walking home. I’d come back and look into the elevator mystery again later.
I turned the corner and headed up a residential street, bumping into a half-knocked down mailbox. I straightened it. Then I noticed the name on the mailbox: Professor Groggins. That name rang a bell. I looked up at the house. The door was wide open and hanging on one hinge. The front window was broken, and there was a trail of valuables leading from the porch to the sidewalk. Looked like trouble at the old Groggins place. I headed into the house to take a look.
It was obvious that Professor Groggins’ house had been robbed very thoroughly. There were even empty spaces on the wall where it looked like some diplomas had been hanging. I remembered the diplomas on Small-Time Charlie’s wall. There was some connection there. I’d figure out what it was in a minute. I found the door to the basement and went down to see if anything was missing down there.
The basement was set up as some kind of a laboratory. It had been tossed pretty good too. All that was left were a lot of half finished inventions. It began to dawn on me that this guy Groggins must be an inventor.
I could see why the burglars would have left all these gadgets behind. Pawnshops and fences weren’t interested in unfinished merchandise, no matter what their scientific importance – they’d been burned by Einstein and his crowd before - so there was no easy way to turn these things into cash. But one invention had definitely been stolen from the room. A glass case had been smashed open and the contents had been removed. Above the case was a sign that said “Time Machine - Mark V”.
Mandible was still living in the gutter when I got there, but now he had a tramp butler. So I guess things were looking up for him. The butler stepped in front of me and asked me my business. I told him I came to see Mandible.
“I’ll see if he’s in, sir,” said the butler.
“I can see him sitting in the sewer.”
“I will see if he’s in sir,” repeated the butler firmly.
The butler announced me to Mandible, who waved regally for me to approach him. He was using a couple of stray dogs as a table, and had his feet up on some crud. I sloshed over into his august presence and told him he might not be so crazy after all.
He snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“All right. I’m not sure if it has anything to do with the loss of your figurine, but the criminals in this town seem to have a time machine.”
“What!”
I recounted to him some of the strange things I’d seen lately and what I’d found at Professor Groggins’ house.
“So that’s how it was done! Of course!” He gave me a look. “I see you’re finally beginning to believe my story.”
“Maybe some of it”, I said. “I don’t know. I still don’t want your autograph yet.”
“But you’re back on the case? Good. Now I want you to find that time machine, get hold of it somehow, then report back to me for further instructions. Here’s another blank check.”
He absently reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. I looked at it. It was a fast food wrapper. It was probably as valuable as anything else he’d given me, so I stuck it in my wallet. As I walked away I looked back and saw that Mandible seemed to be doing his best to rebuild his fortune, using what he had at hand.
“Turds for sale!” he shouted. “I’ve got turds!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Since I didn’t know what the time machine looked like, or where it might be, the first thing I did was check out a few places I wanted to go anyway; the ball game, the movie theater, I went ice skating. Then, acting on a hunch, I bought a new suit. It all goes on the old expense account. I mean, all the time I’m doing these other things, I’m thinking about your important case. However, I made a mental note not to overdo this sort of thing or next year I might be reclassified as a crook. I’m always making mental notes like that. You’ve got to keep improving yourself or you’ll go nuts.
I went down to Broadway & 4th to talk to the underworld characters who normally hang around there socializing with each other between crimes, practicing the various skills necessary to being a successful criminal; picking each other’s pockets, playing dumb at each other, and so on, and betting with each other who can talk the most like a Damon Runyon character.
I leaned up against a wall next to one of them and chewed a toothpick as he was doing until I felt we had formed a loose bond. Then I said: “How’s the life of crime going?”
“Not too good,” he said. “I been under the weather. I missed a bank robbery last week. Had to call in sick. The bank president didn’t know what I was talking about. I think it’s the climate that gets me. How are you?”
“Okay.” I chewed my toothpick for a thoughtful moment. “I’ve got a ten-spot here needs a home.”
“You interest me strangely. What are you asking for in exchange?”
“Information about a time machine.”
His face suddenly got wooden. He looked away from me and spoke in a stilted manner. “I - do - not - know - what - you - mean - sir.”
I tried again, saying the same thing using different words, spoken at different volume levels, but he didn’t bite. Finally I turned to another crook.
“Let’s play word games! How about ‘Word Association’? I’ll go first: TIME MACHINE!!! THEFT OF!!!”
He didn’t want to play. In fact, none of the crooks were interested in talking about time machines. The more I talked about time machines, the more they left. The last one to go was carrying a briefcase that said “Prof. E. Groggins” on the side.
“Professor Groggins? I asked.
“Yes?”
“There seems to be a lot of people in this town with that name.”
“Yes. We had quite a laugh about that, me and them.”
He followed the others, and I was alone with as many unanswered questions as I had had before.
I decided to talk to Handicap Harry, who had been known to have information for sale from time to time. That’s not his real name, of course. Good parents don’t give their kids gangster names anymore. Handicap Harry is more of a nickname the other guys in his social set gave him. And not because he liked to bet on the ponies, but because he had a wooden leg, a hook for a hand, a toupee, a glass chest, and all sorts of other replacement parts. He’d had a tough life, I guess.
He didn’t answer my knock so I put my shoulder to the door, gave it my trademark Burly Shove, and walked in. Harry was on the bed, just a bald head on a pillow, with all the rest of him carefully stowed around the room.
“Get outta here,” he said.
“I just wanted to ask you some questions, Harry. Then you can ask me some. There are probably all sorts of things you’d like to know about me. We can take turns. Back and forth, kind of fair like. I’ll get the ball rolling by asking you about time machines. Then you can ask me something. Then more time machine questions.”
“I said get outta here. Or I’ll bite your brains out.”
Well I didn’t want that to happen, that would be awful, so I left. But I was a little peeved that he wasn’t more civil to such a welcome guest as me so, and maybe I shouldn’t have done it, I put my mouth to the keyhole and yelled “Fire!”, trying to give the impression that the building was burning. I could hear consternation and thrashing around inside, then I heard a head roll off the bed and thump on the floor. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have done that.
Then I tried something I always try at least once in the course of an investigation. I put on a ten gallon hat and adopted the persona of my alter-ego Billy Bob Burly, a loudmouthed Texas oilman, and tried to con some useful information out of a crook I saw hanging around outside a cigar store.
Like alw
ays, my impersonation wasn’t perfect. My accent kept slipping from Texan to Swedish, and my cowboy hat kept falling off. But I kept plugging away. You’ve got to give the scam a chance to work. But I wasn’t conning much information out of this particular mark. In fact he wasn’t saying anything. He was just looking at me like I was a train wreck. Pretty soon, as usual, I was forgetting my lines and having to start over, until I finally just tore up my script, jumped up and down on my cowboy hat and sat down on the curb to brood, telling the mark to get away from me or I would shoot him.
Now I’ve seen detectives on TV work that same con with 100% success. It works every time for them. I’ve tried to talk to statisticians about my unbelievable 0% success rate - I mean what are the odds of that? - but they say they’re not interested. Even though it’s their specialty! That’s what’s wrong with America today, I guess. Something like that. I know something’s wrong with America. Maybe that’s it.
Next I tried a good old-fashioned stakeout. I like these because they’re easy. You’re not trying to outwit anybody. In fact you’re not trying to do anything. You’re just sitting quietly and comfortably for hours at a time waiting for some other poor slob to do something. I’m great at that. And all the time you’re sitting there you get to quietly listen to your car radio, and eat all kinds of stuff: donuts, salted snacks, you name it. Anything goes on a stakeout. I didn’t know what to watch for exactly in this stakeout, so I just parked where I had a good vantage point of things in general. When I couldn’t see out of my car anymore because of all the parking tickets that had been slapped on my windshield, I figured it was time to call it a day. It was another failure, intelligence-wise, but like I said, I like stakeouts.
On the way back to the office I stopped and questioned a burglar who I happened to see robbing a house.
After a half dozen questions, the burglar became impatient. “Hey look, Burly, if you’re going to keep asking me questions, at least give me a hand with some of these bulkier items.”
I helped him carry a stereo out to his getaway car and tie up and gag the homeowner, while I questioned him some more. He said he didn’t know anything about any time machine. He said I should ask H.G. Wells. I wrote down the name.
By the time I got back to my office, I was dog tired. I’d put in a long day and found nothing. I asked my secretary if she’d seen either a figurine or a time machine lately. You never know. It doesn’t hurt to ask. Maybe she was sitting on them or something.
“Just get away from me,” she said. “You make me sick.”
Normally, I wouldn’t let an employee talk to me like that. But she’s quit so many times neither one of us remembers whether she’s working for me right now or not. Since I wasn’t sure of her current status, I changed the subject by asking her why I couldn’t get into the office this morning. Where was she at 11 am?
She bristled. “Look, do you want me to show up on time, or do you want me to do my job right?”
“Either one, I guess. I’ll take what I can get at this point.”
“Stop shouting at me. My ear hurts. I’m going home.”
I guess I should treat my employees better. If she is an employee.
CHAPTER SIX
That evening an elite group of the city’s most influential criminals met to decide what to do about me. I’d been asking too many questions, they felt, and not giving them enough time to think of witty answers before moving on to the next question.
After various solutions to the so-called “Burly Problem” had been advanced, they finally decided to just try warning me off the case first. It would be the simplest, cheapest way. The organization’s ammo bill last year was through the roof. Things had gotten so bad that they had to let some pickpockets and rapists go just before Christmas. So, since threats are cheaper than bullets, they decided to go that way.
Not long after this decision was made, my doorbell rang. I went to the door and opened it. Two men were standing there. One was pointing a gun at me.
“Oh no!” I said.
The guy with the gun sneered at me. “Aren’t you glad to see us?”
“Of course not.”
The criminals came into my apartment. One was very tall, the other was very small. Actually, they were both about average height. I was using artistic license there. I’m told this is the thing to do, as it makes the story more interesting. If one guy is the size of a refrigerator and the other one is the size of a thumbtack, this conjures up a vivid picture in the mind. It’s like you can see the one guy being smaller than the other, and this interests you. Readers get bored if everybody’s the same size. Anyway, these two guys came into the room in their various sizes and looked around. I hadn’t expected visitors, so the room wasn’t looking its best.
The smaller crook said: “Geez, what kind of guy would live like this? It’s like a pig lives here.”
I frowned. “I’m already mad about you breaking in and pointing a gun at me. Don’t make it worse.”
The smaller crook covered his mouth with his handkerchief. “I gotta get out of here, Boss. The dust and the mold is getting to me.”
“Have you taken your medicine?
“Yes, but it’s not helping.”
The guy with the gun turned to me. “I’ll have to make this short. We just stopped in to give you some friendly advice, Burly. There are some things going on around town right now that don’t concern you, things involving time machines and other advanced scientific concepts understood by few. Our friendly advice to you is that you keep your nose out of these things, or you and your nose are dead men.”
When guys get tough with me like that, I usually try to make some kind of tough sounding wisecrack, but tough sounding wisecracks aren’t as easy to think up as you would think. I mean, if I was good at wisecracks, I’d be working for Milton Berle, not you.
They waited for a few minutes for me to come up with a wisecrack, while I just stood there thinking and staring and sweating, then they left. I would have thought of one.
I had another group of unexpected visitors the following morning. They were in my office waiting for me when I arrived. Detective Sgt. Dodge and his merry men from the 4th Precinct.
My secretary, Elizabeth, looked at me accusingly. “What have you done now?”
“I don’t know.”
“If they want me to testify against you, I’ll do it.”
“You are a gem,” I said.
I wasn’t particularly happy to see Sgt. Dodge. No one ever was. He had a disconcerting habit of pinching your face between his thumb and forefinger when he was talking to you, so he could be sure you were paying attention to him. I didn’t like that approach. Nobody did. Not even the Mayor.
I walked over to Dodge and asked him to what I owed the extreme pleasure?
“Just a friendly warning from your friendly local police department,” he said. “The friendly warning reads as follows: Dear Friend. If you continue your current investigations, we of the police cannot guarantee your personal safety.”
“What’s different about that?” I asked.
“I didn’t say it was different. I just said to watch out.”
“I see. Well, thanks.”
He let go of my face, pocketed a couple of items that caught his fancy and left. This was two friendly warnings I had received in one 24 hour time period. A personal best. But friendly warnings aren’t always as friendly as they sound. That night I wrote the word “yikes” in my diary.
Nonetheless, I went back on the streets to continue my investigations. It might seem stupid to you that I did this, but probably my whole job seems stupid to you. What it comes down to is the only way I know how to make a living in the detective business is to be tenacious, tough, and something else that begins with T. The three T’s. If I let people scare me off a case, word would get around and they’d scare me off all my cases. Then they’d probably scare me out of town. Maybe all the way to Germany. I couldn’t let them scare me that far away. It wouldn’t be good business.
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That evening I checked out a nightclub that was known to be frequented by criminal types, and was in fact run by criminals. It wasn’t the most pleasant place to spend an evening; the food and drinks were terrible, and the entertainment wasn’t much better. I guess it’s hard to find criminals who have really mastered big band instruments. But it was a place an investigator like myself could pick up some leads. I hung around the bar, listening to the various furtive conversations that were going on around me. A couple of guys near me were planning a big heist, apparently. After awhile, they noticed I was listening in, partly because I kept asking them to repeat things. I’ve got to quit doing that. That’s a real tipoff.
One of the crooks finally glared at me. “Do you mind? We’re trying to have a private conversation.”
“Not at all,” I said. I moved away, but then leaned back in so my ear was actually a little closer to them than it was before. Then I made the ear widen a little. They probably wouldn’t have noticed, except I lost my balance a little bit there and my ear went into one of their drinks. They picked up what was left of their drinks and went off to a table in the corner. I didn’t bother waiting for them to invite me to join them. I wasn’t picking up any information here anyway.
The next day, a dead turtle was left on my doorstep as a warning. I couldn’t figure out as a warning for what, and I guess whoever was watching me picked up on that, because the next morning there was another dead turtle, but this one had several sheets of paper glued to it’s back leg. The pieces of paper contained a long footnoted explanation of all the symbolism involved. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me. The turtle was the “turtle of inquisitiveness” and the cheese smeared on it’s shell meant something, and the little cowboy boots on its feet meant something. Everything about this animal meant something apparently to whoever sent it. I still didn’t get what it was all about. The next morning there was no turtle. Somebody just shot at me from the bushes.
The Time Machine Did It Page 3
