The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “What?” wondered Gertie.

  “This!” cried Rufus, and on a wild impulse he ran at the windmill. His momentum carried him up the side as far as the tip of one of the swooshing sails and he reached out and grabbed hold of it with one hand.

  Up he went, the pipe still between his lips, laughing.

  Or was he in fact screaming?

  It was difficult to tell. All five chorus girls watched him. The shriveled man too. He went up and came down, then he went up again. He was talking now, but because of the rotation his words were difficult to interpret, loud one moment, quiet the next. Then he bellowed, “I am the murder victim.” They all heard that clearly enough. He abruptly released his grip on the sail.

  He arced through the air, landed on a tree.

  There was a splintering sound.

  One of the broken branches had impaled his arm. His legs were at an unnatural angle. Blood dripped from his torn face. He was mumbling to himself. Not until the others had retrieved him from the damaged tree was it possible to work out what he was saying. “It remains unproven, but I think we have done our best. I am satisfied with today’s results, gentlemen,” were his words. They carried him to the road and waited for a bus going to Norwich.

  “No need for hospital, no need for doctors,” he muttered.

  It was unmanly to disregard his wishes.

  The bus came and they boarded it.

  Nobody laughed this time, not even the driver.

  As solemn as nurses, they bore his wrecked body along Livingstone Street and into the little brown brick house. They sat him on the sofa next to Jaspers. Then it was time to change back into their normal clothes. Beastly made a vague promise to return the following day to brew tea. Then they hurried out, all five of them, keen to make the most of the remaining day.

  Another case had been solved. The club was flourishing.

  Rufus and Jaspers were left alone.

  They sat in silence.

  The Mystery of the

  Missing Vermeer

  Eric Brown

  The moon-faced little man in the Harris tweed overcoat was acting oddly, which in itself was not remarkable. The Pig and Whistle was known for its eccentric clientele.

  I’d just finished a shift at New Scotland Yard and had nipped in for a quick pint before heading home. The tavern was one of my favorites in London; it was quiet, for one thing—no piped music here, or noisy gambling machines. The only sound was the murmur of drinkers and the somnolent tick of the grandfather clock.

  I was contemplating a second pint of bitter when I noticed my neighbor at the bar. He was staring across the room with an expression of intense concentration. From time to time, he muttered to himself and wrote something in a notebook.

  I cocked my head and listened.

  “Eleven feet seven and three-quarter inches,” he murmured, and applied pen to paper.

  He turned his gaze to the row of single malts behind the bar. “Three feet three and a half inches,” he said, and meticulously wrote down this figure.

  Next he gazed across at the grandfather clock. His face was rather bland and bookish—the mild countenance of a librarian, perhaps. “Nine feet seven and a half inches,” he said.

  He looked up and caught me squinting at his notebook.

  “Forgive my curiosity,” I said. “But what on earth are you doing?”

  Far from being annoyed, he seemed to welcome my interest.

  “Not at all,” he said, offering his hand. “James Henry Murgatroyd, by the way.”

  “Jeffrey Mallory,” I said.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mallory. As to what I’m doing… Well, sir, we all have our special and peculiar abilities, don’t we?”

  “Some more than others,” I allowed.

  “And I,” he said, “possess a talent which I refer to as ‘acute spatial estimation.’”

  “Acute Spatial Estimation,” I said, giving each word the capital letter it deserved. “And what’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Mr. Murgatroyd laughed good-naturedly. “Not at all,” he said. “I have the odd ability of being able to estimate, with extreme accuracy, the distance between any two given objects.”

  I stared at him. “That’s… quite some ability,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm from my tone.

  “Oh, it’s a useless talent for the most part,” he admitted. “I found it helpful when I worked as an estate agent—estimating room sizes, you see—before a weak heart enforced my early retirement. Now, though, it’s merely a hobby.”

  “A hobby?”

  “Or perhaps a better description would be a compulsion. You see, I cannot go anywhere without finding myself estimating distances. I find it most satisfying to estimate the precise measurement between myself and any given object, but I can just as well judge the distance between any two points, provided they are visible.”

  “Remarkable,” I said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Mr. Murgatroyd beamed. “A strange talent, and one for which I make no great claims. It is merely a freakish ability of the old gray matter.”

  I decided that a second pint was in order, and asked if my new acquaintance might like a drink.

  “Why, that’s very kind of you. A half of milk stout would be most welcome.”

  Our drinks recharged, I said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how accurate are you with these estimations?”

  “I don’t mind at all, sir. And I can report that I am accurate to within a hair’s breadth either way. And if you doubt that claim, then I can prove it.”

  “You can?”

  From the pocket of his overcoat he withdrew a small rectangular device resembling a mobile phone. He pressed a stud on its side and passed the device to me.

  “What is it?” I asked, examining the black box with a tiny inset screen.

  “A laser measure,” said Mr. Murgatroyd, “much used by estate agents these days. You merely direct it at an object across the room, press the stud, and the distance of that object will appear on the screen, in either metric or imperial measurements. I have it set to imperial because, as my friends like to point out, I am somewhat old-fashioned. Go on, try it.”

  I pointed the device at a painting on the far wall and pressed the stud. A wire-thin red line vectored across the room. Twelve feet six and three-quarter inches, the screen read.

  “Now, let me see…” Mr. Murgatroyd said, his gaze shuttling between my hand and the painting. “Twelve feet six and three-quarter inches.”

  “Astounding!” I said.

  I pointed the laser device at the taproom door and pressed the stud. The measurement came up (nine feet three and a half inches), and I looked at Mr. Murgatroyd.

  Instantly he said, “Nine feet three and a half inches.”

  I laughed in astonishment. “Spot on!”

  Mr. Murgatroyd beamed his delight. I guessed that he rarely had the chance to exhibit his peculiar ability.

  “It’s a talent that doesn’t, since my retirement, have much practical use,” he said, pocketing the measuring device. He looked at me and his eyes twinkled. “Until now, that is.”

  I was intrigued. “Until now?”

  “Now, you see, I very much hope that my ability will enable me to solve a crime.”

  I sat up, my professional interest piqued. “A crime?”

  “None other than the theft of Vermeer’s The Milkmaid from the Fortescue Gallery.”

  I smiled to myself. “And good luck to you, Mr. Murgatroyd. A team’s been working on the case since it was nabbed last week, with not a sniff of a clue. And I should know. I work at the Yard—Detective Inspector Mallory, in my official capacity—and I know the DI leading the investigation. Ballamy’s at his wits’ end trying to solve the case.”

  I looked at the little man, who was smiling in a ra
ther self-satisfied manner. “But what makes you think…?” I began.

  He took a prim sip of his stout and set the glass precisely upon its mat. “I visited the museum a month ago,” he said, “expressly to view the Vermeer. I am an aficionado of the arts, Mr. Mallory. I make a tour of the London galleries every month or two, now that I’m retired. Yesterday I returned to the Fortescue, and the room from which the Vermeer was stolen. I noticed nothing untoward at the time—other than the glaring blank wall which the painting had occupied. But I came away from the gallery with an odd sense of something not quite right.”

  “Not quite right?” I echoed.

  “It was only when I returned home that I began to wonder. I must admit that I spent a rather sleepless night, and this morning I decided that I would return to the gallery and find out if my supposition was correct. I came here for a pork pie and a half of stout, by way of fortification, before I set off for the gallery—which I think,” he said, draining his glass, “I will do now, if you will excuse me.”

  I quickly finished my own drink. “If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ll come along with you.”

  I couldn’t fathom how his strange ability might help to solve the riddle of the theft, but I was curious—and I must admit that I’d taken a liking to the little chap.

  “By all means. You can be my Watson,” he said, and chuckled to himself at the irony of having a detective inspector accompany him as his “Watson” to the scene of the crime.

  We turned up our collars against the biting January wind and left the Pig and Whistle.

  ***

  The Old Masters room was long and low, with a dozen paintings mounted on each of the long walls. Vermeer’s The Milkmaid had hung by itself, in pride of place, on the wall at the far end of the room.

  The museum was busy that afternoon with genuine connoisseurs of the arts, those wishing merely to escape the winter chill, and a sizeable contingent come to gape at the space where the painting had once hung. I found it indicative of the artistic appreciation of the British public that the bare wall was attracting more viewers than had Vermeer’s masterpiece.

  Mr. Murgatroyd stared around the room, examining the walls and ceiling with the attention of a short-sighted blackbird.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” I asked, as we walked to the far end of the room and halted before the empty wall.

  “Security cameras,” he murmured.

  I recalled what Inspector Bellamy had told me. “Apparently this room doesn’t have them,” I said, “though there’s one in the corridor outside.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Very interesting.”

  He examined the space where the Vermeer had hung, staring at the wall as if the masterpiece had still been in situ.

  After a minute or two, he nodded to himself and made his way from the room. He peered up and down the corridor, at last spotting the security camera situated high on the opposite wall.

  He tapped his chin, frowning. “It’s a pity,” he said, “that I don’t have access to the footage from around the time the painting was stolen.”

  “Bellamy’s team has studied every last second,” I said. “They didn’t see a thing.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Mr. Murgatroyd, “I would like to form my own opinion.”

  I had an idea. “Come with me,” I said, and escorted him to the director’s office.

  ***

  Director Amelia Shaw was a tall woman in her forties with a careworn face and a habit of worriedly running a hand through her long auburn hair. I showed her my police ID card, introduced Mr. Murgatroyd as a “specialist consultant” (he positively glowed at the accolade), and explained that we were following up various leads pertaining to the theft of the Vermeer.

  “Such a mystery,” she said, “and all the more embarrassing for the painting being on loan from the Rijksmuseum.”

  In due course, she led us to a tiny room in the basement of the gallery. A security officer listened attentively to Director Shaw’s instructions, then walked his fingers along the rack of DVDs until he found the relevant disc. He inserted it into the player and pressed “fast forward.”

  “The theft took place between closing time on the Friday evening, six o’clock,” he told us, “and seven the following morning, when the painting was found to be missing. I’ll stop it here, at a little before six p.m. There’s the last of the punters leaving the room.”

  I squinted at the grainy image. “You can’t actually see into the room where the Vermeer hung.”

  Director Shaw said, “As there are no windows in the room, all we need to survey is the entrance in order to cover all comings and goings.”

  “And no one came and went during the specified hours?” Mr. Murgatroyd asked.

  “Nobody other than a couple of porters,” said the director.

  The security officer fast-forwarded until the numerals at the top right corner of the screen indicated twenty-two minutes past six. The porters moved along the corridor, pushing a trolley bearing what appeared to be a big painting wrapped in a protective covering, and turned in to the Old Masters room.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “A painting that had just been restored,” Director Shaw said. “The porters delivered it just after closing time, to be hung first thing in the morning.”

  “It’s very large,” Mr. Murgatroyd commented.

  “The Vendramin Family by Titian,” she said. “Nine feet by six, but it appears larger because of the protective packaging.”

  The security officer fast-forwarded, then pressed “play” just as the two workmen were pushing the empty trolley out of the room and back along the corridor. I glanced at the digital clock on the screen: six fifty-four. They had been in there for just over thirty-two minutes.

  More than enough time, I thought, for them to have taken the Vermeer from the wall.

  The trolley they were pushing, however, was empty but for the folded bubble wrap and hessian sacking that had swaddled the Titian.

  “So the porters couldn’t have had anything to do with it,” I said.

  “Your lot looked into that,” the officer said. “They wondered if the canvas might’ve been cut from its frame and rolled up.” He shook his head. “But whoever nabbed the painting also took the frame. And they”—he indicated the porters—“obviously haven’t got the frame about their persons.”

  I had him freeze the image and examined it closely. There was no way the porters might have concealed the frame on the trolley or beneath their work coats.

  “Isn’t it unusual to take the frame as well as the canvas?” I asked the director.

  “That entirely depends on who is behind the theft,” she said. “An art lover wouldn’t want the canvas damaged by having it cut from the frame.”

  “And the porters were the last to enter and leave the room?” Mr. Murgatroyd asked.

  “That’s right,” the director said. “The museum was locked up at seven when most of the staff left the premises.”

  “Most?” I asked.

  The security officer nodded. “My colleague was in here for the night shift,” he said, “monitoring the cameras. He noticed nothing amiss until seven the following morning, when an attendant made the discovery.”

  He fast-forwarded until just after seven that morning, and we watched the image of a uniformed attendant enter the room, then rush out again seconds later, clearly agitated.

  I asked Director Shaw if I might interview the porters that afternoon, and she assured me that they would be only too glad to assist the investigation.

  ***

  She showed us to her office on the ground floor of the museum, then left in search of the porters.

  “As a matter of interest,” I asked Mr. Murgatroyd as we waited, “how old were you when you became aware of your odd ability?”

  “Now, that wou
ld be when I was just six years old,” he said. “My father was in the habit of making things for the house—shelves and cupboards and the like. He was always measuring up pieces of wood, and I became fascinated with his tape measure—it was one of those big retractable things in a leather case like a discus. Whenever he wasn’t using it, I’d borrow it and measure anything and everything—and the distances between things.”

  “Ah…” I said.

  Mr. Murgatroyd shrugged modestly. “I suppose I became adept at estimating distances from habitually measuring objects and the like.”

  “That might explain it,” I agreed.

  The door opened and the porters, William Evans and Douglas Wainwright, slipped into the room. They struck me as being dead ringers for Laurel and Hardy: Evans was slight and in his early thirties, while Wainwright was corpulent and in his fifties.

  They were, however—unlike the comedic double act—deadly serious.

  “Ten years at the Fortescue,” Wainwright said, “and this is the first theft we’ve known. Isn’t that right, Will?”

  The younger man nodded. “The very first. I was gobsmacked when old Bert rushed in and told us the daub was missing. I’d grown rather attached to the Milkmaid—pretty lass, she was.”

  “Now that Friday evening,” I said, “I understand you went into the room to deliver the Titian?”

  “That’s right,” Wainwright said. “Routine job. Just unwrap the restored painting, leave it to be hung the following morning, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “And yet you were in there for a little over thirty minutes.”

  Evans grinned. “Well, it’d been a long day, hadn’t it? We had a bit of a rest, like.”

  I nodded. “And you noticed nothing unusual as you went about your work earlier that day?”

  “Unusual?” the young man asked.

  “Did you see anyone acting suspiciously? Anyone who might have been casing the room, for instance—either that day or in the days preceding the theft?”

  They exchanged a glance and shrugged in unison. “No, no one,” Wainwright said, and Evans nodded his agreement.