by Jack Grochot
Just then we saw two police cars coming up the driveway. The officers got out and started walking towards us. One of them asked the guard who we were and why we were here. The guard pulled one of the officers aside and told him what we had related to him about our being here and explained what he had found at the scene when he got there. The officer told the guard to find out where we left our bag and to get it and bring it to him. More officers arrived and were going into and around the perimeter of the house. The guard came out of the house and walked over to the first officer, who we found out was actually a detective, and spoke to him briefly before they both walked over to us.
“I’m Detective Ryan and said the security guard just told me that he didn’t find a bag where we said we left it. Are you sure you left the bag at the foot of the stairs, Ms Simms?”
Audrey and I both looked at each other wide-eyed and not really knowing what to think.
“Yes, I’m sure of it. Are you sure it wasn’t there?”
The detective told us to stay there with the guard while he went inside to look around for himself and get an update from the officers inside.
When he returned, he said, “I’ll need to see some identification from both of you.” We handed him our driver’s licenses which he took over to his car. We assumed he was doing a criminal check on us to see if we had any records.
When he came back, we both asked together “What’s going on?”
But before he could answer, another officer came up and said, “We checked out the two cars in the driveway and one belongs to the owner of the house, and the other belongs to the owner’s real estate agent, Marsha Roberts.”
I was so flustered by all that was going on that I didn’t think to tell him that there had been three cars in the driveway when we left.
“I’ll need both of your tour tickets. I see that you live out of town, but I’d like you to stay here for a few days while I investigate this a little further and I’ll need a number where I can reach you.”
Audrey spoke up as I handed him my business card with my cell phone on it. “What is going on? Are we being suspected of something?”
“You’re not necessarily being suspected of anything, but you were at a crime scene and seem to be somehow involved.”
“What’s the crime? I think we should at least know that?”
“There was a murder here and I believe that it may have occurred during the time you were on the premises. I’m going to need a written and signed statement from both of you, stating exactly what happened the first time you were here, from the time you arrived until the time you left. I’m going to want to talk to you both again later because, so far, I can’t find any information on there being a home tour here or at any of the other houses listed on the tickets that my officer already picked up.”
Audrey and I were escorted back to the gate in a state of shock. Audrey looked puzzled and simply asked “Murder?”
As we neared the gate, we saw an officer gathering more tour tickets from the group outside the gate and writing down information on everyone. We guessed they had been told that there was never a tour and that they had probably been scammed because there were looks of shock and anger on a lot of their faces. We also spotted reporters and camera crews arriving from the local newspapers and TV stations.
By this time, it was early afternoon and we were starving, so we drove up to a small sidewalk café for some lunch and a much desired glass of wine. As we sat there eating lunch in a fog-like state of mind, not believing what we had just experienced, I asked Audrey “Do you know just how lucky we were to have gotten out of there when we did? Do you realize the possibilities of what could have happened if the murderer had seen us?”
As we talked about the possibilities of what could have happened if the people that were arguing knew we were there, I remembered that the security guard said our bag was not where we had left it. What if the murderer picked up the bag that had my address tag on it? If he or she did, that means he/she may know that someone else was in the house while they were there and they now knew where that someone lives. Suddenly, I felt sick to my stomach as I told Audrey about my realization.
Audrey assured me, “You’re just letting your imagination run rampant. They’ll probably find it in the house in another location.” She was probably right and I was just worrying for nothing.
Audrey added, “It’s too early to go back to the hotel just to sit around and wait. What do you say we find the Real Estate office that sponsored the tour and see if anyone else in the office knew what was going on?”
The café we were in offered internet connection, so I went to the car to get my laptop. I did a search and easily found the office location, which was only a mile from where we were.
When we arrived at the office, the only one there was the receptionist.
“Hi, come on in. My name’s Becky Jones. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Becky! We purchased tickets for a Celebrity Home Tour that was sponsored by your office and we were wondering what you might know about it.”
Becky suddenly became very nervous and teary-eyed. “The police were here asking the same thing and told me not to talk to anyone, but I don’t know anything about it, anyway. All I do know is that a man kept calling for her yesterday and he was extremely angry about something.”
“Did you tell that to the police when they were here?”
“No. I actually forgot about it until just now, but I should probably call and let Detective Ryan know.”
“We’ll be talking to Detective Ryan later today and we can let him know for you.”
Before we could get back to our hotel, I got a call from Detective Ryan asking to meet with us in the hotel lobby.
As soon as we met, he started in with the interrogating. “I’d like you both to tell me in detail everything that happened after you arrived at the house. I’m going to record our conversations, but I still need to get everything in writing. Okay, so let’s just start with your arrival at the house.”
We both told him everything we could think of. Then I remembered about the third car. “I was in such shock when we talked at the house that I neglected to tell you that there were three cars in the driveway when we left the first time.”
He said he wasn’t aware that there had been a third car and immediately got on his phone to have the crime scene investigators check for tire marks from a third vehicle. I also told him about our visit to the Real Estate office and what Becky had mentioned to us about the angry man who had been calling.
As he was walking out the door, he mentioned, “We still haven’t found any travel bag, but before you head back home, I’ll contact the police where you live to have them keep an eye on your house.”
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well that night. I phoned in to our assistant at the office to let her know we would be gone a few more days than we had anticipated.
“Hi, Jenny. I just wanted to call to let you know that we are going to be staying a few more days.”
“Okay.” Jenny responded. “By the way, some man keeps calling here asking for you, but won’t leave a message or give his name. Maybe you have a secret admirer.”
I had a bad feeling about who it might be and he was, definitely, no admirer. I turned to Audrey and said, “I just talked to Jenny at the office, and she said a guy has been calling there for me, but won’t leave a name or message. This is really starting to worry me.”
After breakfast, I called Detective Ryan to see if they had any new information and to tell him that we would be able to stay a few more days. He said they haven’t been able to locate Joseph, the security guard who had called in sick, and that they traced the information from the tour tickets to the real estate agent’s website and it seems there was indeed a scam going on. At that point he let us know that it was the real estate agent
, Marsha Roberts, who had been killed.
He then asked if I thought I would recognize the voices that I heard at the house if I heard them again.
“I think I might be able to recognize them, but when I heard the voices at the house they were almost yelling, so I don’t know if they would sound the same at a different pitch. I’ll be happy to try, though.”
He asked us to come down to the police station. When we got there, he played a tape and asked if the voice sounded familiar. The female voice was loud and angry and I told him that it was, in fact, one of the voices that I had heard. He said that was the voice of Marsha Roberts, the Realtor who was killed, and she apparently had a bit of a temper. Then he played another tape of a voice that I didn’t recognize and that was the voice of the owner of the house. He laughed and said he was surprised that I didn’t recognize the voice because it was that of a well-known celebrity that they were still trying to contact. He didn’t say who the celebrity was, but we were sure it was probably all over the morning paper (which we hadn’t seen yet). Reporters have ways of finding things out who lives where. An officer opened the door and interrupted us saying they just brought in Joseph Stallworth, the missing security guard, who they found at the airport. He asked if we could wait there while he questioned him.
After about an hour, he returned and told us it was okay for us to go home now. He said they thought they had things pretty well figured out.
I asked, “Was it the missing security guard who picked up my travel bag and did he have it on him? I won’t feel comfortable going home not knowing if someone else has that bag and knows where to find me.”
He said, “I don’t know yet and I have a few things to check out, but I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I have something substantial to tell you.”
We were relaxing by the pool at the hotel when he called and said they found my travel bag, but needed to send it to the lab for fingerprinting. He said he would have to send it to me when they were done. He also summed up for us what had happened.
“In a nutshell, Joseph Stallworth, the security guard who we picked up at the airport, had befriended Marsha Roberts because she was very well known as an outstanding Realtor in the community and had listed and sold a lot of properties that he kept watch over. His car was the third car that you saw at the scene. He and the owner of the house left in it before you got back to the house the second time. I’m not sure where the idea originated, but Marsha put an ad on her website promoting the Celebrity Home Tour, figuring no one would question it because she had such a good reputation in the community. They knew things had to be kept quiet and done quickly. Apparently you, as well as the other people who were scammed, were on some sort of email list that linked to her website. Everything was set up to ensure that the tour appeared to be legitimate. Anyway, the plan was that they would split the money that was made from selling the tour tickets. That simple plan was changed when Joseph found out that the owner of the first house was going to be out of town, at which point the plan changed to include robbery and an escape out of the country. We found airline tickets on top of his bedroom dresser for him and Marsha. The celebrity-owner, who was supposed to be out of town walked in on them and confronted the guard, who told her everything and said it had been Marsha’s idea and that she had planned it all. The owner and Marsha got into an argument which turned physical and that’s when she was killed. To keep the guard quiet and from turning her in, the owner promised to take him out of the country and treat him to a life of luxury, which is why we found him at the airport. We still haven’t located the owner, but we will. At this point, we’re not sure about his involvement, if there even was any. So, you’re free to go home now and can read the details in the newspaper and the police report that I’ll send you. I figure you deserve to get a copy after what you’ve both been through. Don’t worry, I’ll have constant security around you and your house until this is all cleared up.”
They looked at each other with relief and knew this was one business trip they would always remember. When they returned home and their friends asked them how the home tour was, they were really going to have a story to tell them!
THE PECULIAR ADVENTURE OF THE PARADOL CHAMBER, by Jack Grochot
Sherlock Holmes was engaged in a complicated discussion with our tobacconist about the distinctive ash of an imported Virginia and Latakia mixture, while I was casually examining the briar of a new Peterson pipe. “It is the combination of these colours that separates this blend from others,” Holmes remarked, referring to an observation in his monograph on the topic of the various ashes. Soon he purchased eight ounces of his favourite shag tobacco, and with a sweeping motion toward me announced that it was time to go. “The hands of Big Ben have crept forward while we were stationary in this aromatic shop,” said he, adding: “If we are not to be late for our rendezvous, we must depart the premises immediately.”
We were outside moments later in the bitter cold of a February afternoon in the year 1890, my long astrakhan topcoat buttoned at the collar to keep the scarf tucked against my neck. Sherlock Holmes wore his plaid frock coat without a scarf and seemed comfortable enough, but while we waited for a hansom at the corner he bounced up and down rapidly to aid his circulation. The cab came toward us with a lurch, one wheel striking a rut in the frozen mud. The horse’s shoes clanked on the hard earth, as if the animal were trotting on cobblestone pavement. “Aldgate Station,” Holmes barked to the coachman. We would connect there to the Underground and arrive at Howe Street, a block from the Diogenes Club, where we would meet up with Mycroft Holmes, the older brother of Sherlock Holmes and the person who would introduce us to our three o’clock appointment.
* * * *
Sherlock Holmes knocked at the club’s main door with five minutes to spare, and we were ushered in at the mention of Mycroft Holmes’s name. The doorman being new, he did not recognize Sherlock Holmes as a repeat visitor and guest of his brother. I, too, was admitted after the doorman was informed that I had been invited by Mycroft Holmes as an assistant in matters of importance.
We could only assume this was an occasion of great import because Mycroft Holmes was about to introduce us to Martin Yant, a deputy Home Secretary with whom he served under the Prime Minister.
We entered the Stranger’s room, furnished with modern sofas, soft armchairs, and mahogany desks. Sherlock Holmes’s brother was seated with his legs crossed on a settee, his fidgety colleague next to him. They both stood as soon as we went in.
“Well, Sherlock, you are prompt as usual—and a fortunate thing it is, because Mr Yant cannot be kept waiting today,” began Mycroft Holmes, noting that Yant was engaged in a timely project that demanded much of his attention. Yant wasted not an instant in broaching his problem.
“Mr Holmes,” he addressed Sherlock, with a voice hardly above a whisper, “our country is depending on you to solve a rather perplexing international mystery.” Yant’s bow tie bounced on his Adam’s apple as he spoke. “The Empire is engulfed in a dispute between two of our valued trading partners abroad, China and Japan, both struggling for regional dominance in East Asia. The conflict could result in a catastrophe, war, and to avert such a devastating blow to Britain’s economy, we at the Home Office sent a seasoned mediator to negotiate a peaceful settlement between the Qing Dynasty and the Meiji.
“When he returned to London, sooner than we thought possible, the man reported to us nothing about any negotiations. Rather, he talked of his childhood, of a woman he loved, of a book he was reading, and of other nonsense. In short, he came back a blithering idiot. At first we thought he had simply lost his mind, and we found him a therapist. But the story does not end there, regrettably.
“We culled through our personnel files and located a suitable substitute for our agent. We sent the second mediator on the same mission, and when he returned, he was in the identical condition!
“Mr Holmes, we
are at a standstill and the clock is ticking toward belligerence. We suspect espionage by a hostile government to prevent our efforts from succeeding.”
Sherlock Holmes wanted to know who would profit from a failure, and Yant was bereft of an answer. “That is what we were hoping you would discover,” Yant told him.
“But why me and not one of your own operatives?” Holmes asked, acting as if he were expendable but inviting a flattering response:
“We fear our own people are under surveillance and would meet with unfavourable results, where you, Mr Holmes, possess the cunning and stealth to wrap this package into a neat bundle while preserving your anonymity.”
“I would never risk disappointing the Crown, so I willingly take on this challenging assignment, no matter how deep the waters,” Holmes said humbly.
With that, we exchanged pleasant adieus and went our separate ways, Holmes to Baker Street and I back to my diggings in Kensington.
* * * *
The next day, at about one o’clock, a messenger delivered a terse note from Holmes. He was summoning me to the Home Secretary’s headquarters, where he had set up consecutive interviews of the two curiously confused mediators who were now confined to inside duty. Holmes wanted my medical knowledge to influence the questioning. The pair still had no recollection of any official functions or endeavours, but each used an unfamiliar word when referring to their experiences in China: the word Paradol, they recalled, had special meaning, in the context of something terrifying.
Later, Sherlock Holmes and I ate dinner at Simpson’s—broiled chicken, baked potatoes, and baby peas—and before the succulent meal was served, we briefly discussed the case over a glass of muscatel wine. Holmes was intrigued by the puzzle of who might stand to gain from Sino-Japanese combat over control of Korea. He came to the conclusion, after careful reasoning and with me as a sounding board, that the culprit or unfriendly nation was likely to repeat the clandestine methods if the Home Office persisted in its efforts.
